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Chapter One

Detective Joseph Brewer appeared at the Hickory Hollow Forensic Psychiatric Center on a clear, Spring Tuesday morning. Slump-shouldered, he endured the required search and eventually was ushered into the Medical Director's office. Dr. Llewellyn Price studied Brewer with a flat and somewhat suspicious gaze.

"I appreciate your seeing me without an appointment, Dr. Price," Brewer began. "I know this is a long shot but we've had some cases in Philadelphia that I'm hoping might have been the work of one of your patients."

"Which patient?" Price asked uneasily.

"Hanford Wells."

Price gave Brewer a sharp glance.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I don't so much think it as hope it. My lieutenant thinks this is a waste of time. Actually, I'm on vacation. I had a hunch that maybe Wells might be able to tell me something I can use so I decided to give it a shot."

"You have victims who were subjected to surgical experiments?"

"No, not exactly."

Price's expression became quizzical and Brewer hurried to explain.

"We've had three disappearances, one of them a medical student and another a paleontologist."

"And the third?"

"Architect, but she could be unrelated. We did find one corpse, missing the head and both hands, but we couldn't conclusively prove it was one of our missing persons -- DNA isn't available for two of them and the third didn't match." Brewer shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Why do you think this has anything to do with Wells?"

"I did a VICAP search on the keywords 'MEDICAL' and 'MUTILATION' and your patient Wells popped up. No one's ever found Dr. Albert Mohan have they?"

"Not as far as I know," Price said without inflection, his face as blank as a plate.

"I admit it's a long shot but our med student disappeared before Mohan went missing. I wondered if Wells might have tried grabbing him first. The head and hands on the unidentified body were removed with surgical precision so that could fit Wells too." Brewer paused but Price said nothing. Brewer forced a weak smile and continued. "I was hoping Wells might be willing to answer some questions."

"That would be up to him."

Price turned his gaze to the paper bag which rested on Brewer's lap.

"Considering Wells’ obsession with surgery, I brought him a present."

The bag made a crinkling noise and Brewer held up a soft-cover copy of Gray's Anatomy.

"They x-rayed it when I entered," Brewer said, handing the book to Price who carefully riffled the pages.

"We don't like to encourage Mr. Wells’ . . . fantasies," Price said, hunting for the appropriate word then sighed. "But, I guess we can tolerate him having this if he locates one of your victims for you." Price handed the book back. "I'll take you to the Ward."

"You get all the nut cases here?" Brewer asked as they crossed the yard. Price ignored the detective's provocative choice of words.

"Until the early seventies most of these patients were locked up in the Dannemora Hospital for the Criminally Insane. When it went bankrupt in 1966 Hickory Hollow was a private institution. The State of New York bought it from the Bankruptcy Court, remodeled it, and transferred all the Dannemora patients here in 1973."

Price delivered his explanation in the practiced, flat voice he used on people he wanted to keep at a distance without being openly rude. If Brewer was insulted he gave no evidence other than a crooked smile.

Price unlocked the door to a five story tan brick building. A brisk climb brought them to the rooms comprising Ward 33/34.

"Hello, Dr. Price."

"Frank is the SHTA in charge of the ward. . . . Security Hospital Treatment Assistant," Price explained. "Frank, would you have one of the SHTA's bring Hanford Wells to the interview room."

"Yes, sir."

Chambers similar to college dorm rooms, except with windows, lined the corridor.

"No one is ever out of sight in this facility," Price said when he noticed the detective eyeing the windows. "Staff is never alone with a patient and no patient is ever alone with another patient. All rooms have either one, three or four occupants, never two . . . for obvious reasons. Don't have any physical contact with Wells of any kind. He scores forty out of forty on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist. For Hanford Wells there is only one human being in the entire world, himself. Everyone else is a thing. He would have no more empathy for a baby on a railroad track than you or I would have for a box of Kleenex. He will not help you unless it is in his interest to do so."

Price stared at Brewer, a strange light in the psychiatrist's eyes. He received only a blank gaze in return. A moment later Wells was let in.

Like most serial killers, Wells was Caucasian. He had sandy, brown hair above bright blue eyes. A slender but well muscled five feet nine inches tall, Wells wore an easy smile on a face that seemed too handsome to belong to a heartless killer. Most of the people who had met Ted Bundy thought the same thing about him.

"Hanford, this is Philadelphia Police Detective Joseph Brewer. He'd like to talk with you."

"What about?" Wells asked, his smile fading.

"He's working on some cases in Philadelphia and he was hoping you might be able to give him some help."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Perhaps you can't. If you'd prefer to go back to the day room, you can leave now." Brewer glanced uneasily at Price but said nothing. Wells paused a moment then smiled and pulled out the vinyl chair at the end of the table.

"Ask away," Wells said in a jocular tone.

"I'm trying to locate the remains of some missing people," Brewer said evenly. "I'm not here to point any fingers. I just want to find the bodies to bring some closure to the families."

"I've never been to Philadelphia," Wells said flatly.

"I'm not saying that you have. I'm not asking you to admit to anything--"

"That's good because I haven't done anything. The whole reason I'm here is a travesty. I should be--"

"Hanford," Price interrupted, "there's nothing that Detective Brewer can do about why you're here. Detective, what were the names of the people you're looking for, in case Hanford might have heard something about them."

"Margaret Ingram?" Wells gave his head a shake. "Samuel Poulson?"

"No."

"Edward Malta?"

Wells waived his hands in dismissal.

"I told you, I've never been to Philadelphia."

"None of those names mean anything to you?"

"I told you, 'No.'"

"Hanford," Price interrupted, "Detective Brewer has brought you a little gift if you're able to give him some help. Detective?"

Brewer slid the book from the glossy white bag and pushed it across the table. Wells grabbed it, happily turning from section to section, smiling as he studied the anatomical charts.

"Hanford, you'll have to give that back if you can't help the Detective."

"How am I supposed to know about a bunch of people I've never heard of who lived in a place I've never been?" Wells whined, his fingers caressing the book's slick cover.

"Do you want to hear the names again?"

"Ingram, Poulson, and Malta. I don't know anything about them."

"Well, Detective, I guess you've wasted your time. Hanford, give him back his book." Hunching over, Wells clutched the paperback to his chest. "Hanford, you don't want Frank to have to take it away from you."

"It isn't fair. I told him what I knew."

"Which was nothing, so you didn't earn the book."

"I have to stay current on my anatomy. What do you need it for?" Wells demanded. Brewer glanced at Price then threw up his hands.

"I'm sorry, but we have to follow Dr. Price's rules."

"But--"

"Hanford, give the book to Detective Brewer or things will get unpleasant." The SHTA took a step forward and Wells looked anxiously from Brewer to Price.

"What if . . . what if I could tell you something else, something you don't know. Then could I keep the book?"

"What is it that you know that's worth letting you keep the book?"

"What I know," Wells began slowly, staring at the flailed human figure on the Gray's cover, "is . . . . that I didn't tell the police everything."

"What didn't you tell them, Hanford?"

"I had a lot of work to do to make up for the medical school classes they wouldn't let me take."

"What kind of work?"

"You know, anatomy practice, surgical techniques. It's not the same, operating on a dead body. It cuts differently and you don't get to practice right with the clamps when the heart's not beating."

"You had another patient you didn't tell the police about?"

Brewer glanced up at the word "patient" instead of "victim" but didn't interrupt.

"Yes," Wells said, looking down at the book.

"What happened to this person?"

"He died."

"What did you do with him?"

"I buried him."

"Where did you bury him, Hanford?"

"Can I keep the book?"

"We need to know the man's name and where you buried him."

"I'd have to show you."

"Just tell me his name and where you buried him and you can have the book."

"I'm not a pirate, you know!"

"What?" Brewer snapped.

"I think Hanford means that he didn't draw a map with an 'X' marking the spot where he buried the body. Is that right, Hanford?"

"It was in the woods. Past an 'S' turn in the road. There's a big tree next to the highway and then a dirt road. I buried him at the end of the road, under a big tree like the ones in the yard."

"A hickory tree?"

"No, the other ones, with the flowers."

"A tulip poplar?"

"Yes, I remember because I saw the flowers while I was digging the hole and I thought how pretty it was and how happy he would be to have such a nice spot."

"What was his name, Hanford?"

"Something Walters, no Waters. I remember because it was like a fountain. Waters, fountain." Wells laughed at the play on words.

"What was his first name?"

"I don't remember. Can I have the book?"

"We need to know the name."

"It was like a musical instrument," Wells said, smiling.

"What's the name, Hanford?"

"Guess."

"Ahhh, Sax? Sam? Samuel?" Brewer blurted out.

"No, Hanford, we're not going to guess. Tell us the name or give the book back."

Wells looked at Price and frowned, then broke into a smile.

"Clarence, like clarinet, Clarence, clarinet, get it?"

"So, your patient's name was Clarence Waters?"

"Yes." Wells hugged Gray's protectively to his chest.

"We still need to recover the body. Where is it?"

"I'll show you."

"Hanford . . . ."

"I told you, I'm not a pirate."

"If you don't lead the police to the body, I won't let you keep the book. You understand that don't you?"

"Sure, no body, no book. I'll show them any time you like." Wells hugged the book and smiled.

A few minutes later Brewer was gone and Price was left to deal with the mess the detective's visit had created. Price reported the interview to Harley Glavin, Hickory Hollow's Executive Director, who immediately contacted the State Police. Over Price's objection they decided that Wells would be taken under guard to locate the body.

Two days before the excursion Price tried to convince Glavin to cancel the trip.

"Do you know, Dr. Price, what is the most important element in obtaining the funding this institution requires?" Glavin asked him.

"Public support?"

"Yes, Dr. Price, public support. When I testify before the State Assembly Health and Welfare Committee it will be very helpful if I can point out the excellent work we are doing in aiding law enforcement solve terrible crimes. On the other hand, how will I explain refusing to allow Mr. Wells to lead the police to a victim's body?"

"Mr. Glavin, there's something wrong about this whole thing."

"Something? Specifically, what?"

"Wells never buried any of his other victims out in the woods, why this one?"

"Maybe he didn't want the body to be discovered."

"Why not just stick it in the freezer with the rest of them?"

"When they arrested Wells wasn't his freezer was full to the top? Perhaps he just ran out of room."

"Then why not bury him in the back yard? There was plenty of land behind that house he rented."

"Dr. Price, the man is seriously disturbed. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity, for God's sake. Who knows why a person like that does anything."

"I know why he does what he does. It's my job to know."

"All right then, why did he bury this Clarence Waters in the woods?"

"That's just it. It makes no sense that he would."

"So, you're saying there's no body in the woods? Didn't the police check on this man?"

"There is a Clarence Waters who disappeared prior to Wells’ arrest."

"There you are."

"I just don't buy it."

"Well, he wouldn't be the first inmate who made up a story to get a trip outside the walls."

"All the more reason to keep him right where he is."

Glavin removed his glasses and ran a hand through his thin, black hair.

"Dr. Price, I understand everything you've said, but you don't seem to understand what I've said. If there's any chance of finding that body, we have to take it. Public support for the budget, remember?"

"What if something happens?"

"Something like what?"

"What if he escapes?"

"He'll be in handcuffs and leg shackles, guarded by trained, armed, police officers."

"At least let me and one of the SHTA's go along."

"Once a patient's custody is signed over to another agency, we cannot be involved. At that point he becomes the sole responsibility of the receiving department."

"But--"

"Dr. Price, I'm sure the State Police can take care of Hanford Wells. Now, if you'll excuse me . . . ."

Scowling, Price shuffled from the Director's office.

* * *

His forehead almost touching the glass, Price gazed across the hospital grounds, his eyes drawn to the sugar maples and American beech that climbed the ridge behind the Center. Now, finally, in full leaf, the forest textured the hillside in patterns of jade and emerald and bottle-green that Price found a pleasant distraction from the scattered intensity of his patients. Within the boundaries of the facility, but never close to the fifteen foot high razor-wire topped fences, grew the hickory trees from which the Hickory Hollow Forensic Psychiatric Center took its name.

Price usually took a quiet pleasure in the panorama. Pale yellow flowers had already begun to unfurl across the tops of the tulip trees and on most days their beauty would have brought a brief, soft smile to his lips, but not this morning. Below he watched the State Police lead Hanford Wells through the hospital's main gate.

Shackles secured Wells’ ankles. His wrists were fastened to a chain around his waist. The detectives placed Wells in the back seat of their cruiser and then drove through the gate. With a sick feeling Price leaned against the glass and followed the patrol car's passage north on highway 414 until it crested a gentle rise and disappeared.

Chapter Two

Detective Tom Dement stared lazily at the fields slipping past the cruiser's window. The drone of the tires had already begun to lull him into a half-stupor. Highway 414 ran north from Corning through a series of gentle, wooded valleys between Seneca and Cayuga Lake. Now, in late Spring, the trees were thick with leaves in a hundred shades of green, the forest broken here and there by isolated farms.

The driver slowed to thirty for a small village, barely more than a white-shingled church, a VFW hall, a Sunoco station, and a small grocery store sheltering beneath two ancient red oaks. Dement closed his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. The night before his wife had returned from a week-long visit with her mother in Albany and he had gotten up at five-thirty for the drive from Troop E Headquarters in Canandaigua.

"Sitting like this is killing me," Wells complained, jolting Dement from his doze.

"Just relax and enjoy the scenery," Dement's partner, Ed Foley, ordered. "We'll be there in about an hour."

"My muscles are cramping!"

"If you make any more trouble, I'll handcuff your arms behind your back." Wells glared at Foley but made no more complaints. Apparently sulking, he angled his body against the passenger door. Out of Foley's sight he gently pressed his wristwatch so that he could feel the outline of the plastic handcuff key hidden under the band. Wells let his manacled wrists slide back into his lap. The smell of grass and turned earth seeped into the car.

Wells noticed a boy driving a herd of Guernsey cows toward a barn. Had the boy ever had surgery, he wondered. An appendectomy? Perhaps he had torn his knee playing football. Wells admitted that he needed more practice on knees. He had much to learn about joint injuries having spent so much of his energies on thoracic surgery. Well, he was still young, Wells consoled himself as the boy slid from view.

Around 10:30 the driver, Trooper Al Cianfone, woke Dement from his nap.

"What?"

"I said we should almost be there." Cianfone reached across the seat and tapped the map. A red circle marked the general area where Wells claimed to have buried the body.

"Wells," Dement called, squinting at the prisoner through the wire screen, "keep your eyes open for that spot of yours."

"It looks different from this direction. I was driving south when I turned off the road."

"Just start looking."

Ten minutes later Cianfone pulled over.

"We must have past it."

"You'd better not be jerking us around, Wells," Dement called through the screen.

"I told you I'd have to find it from the north."

"Fine, just make sure you do or you won't enjoy the trip back very much."

Cianfone turned the cruiser around.

"Drive slower. I was going slow, looking for a good spot."

"Yeah, picking out grave sites for your victims is careful work," Dement said bitterly.

"Slower."

Three miles farther, just beyond a tight "S" turn, Wells suddenly pressed his face against the glass.

"I think we're almost there. I think that's the rock."

"We've passed a hundred rocks like that."

"Okay, that big tree . . . ."

"Which big tree?" Cianfone called, slowing further still.

"That big maple, just past it, around the bend, is the dirt road."

Cianfone slowed to a crawl and fifty yards ahead spotted a pair of overgrown ruts heading into the woods.

"That's it," Wells called excitedly. "Drive in as far as you can."

"Jesus," Dement cursed as they nosed into the trees. "This thing only goes in about thirty feet."

"It's been four years. I guess stuff has grown."

"You think? Christ, Wells, how far in did you bury the guy?"

"I drove until the car was out of sight of the road, down around that turn." Wells gestured with his cuffed hands toward a bend a hundred yards ahead. A screech sounded as the transmission housing scraped over a rock. Five feet further Cianfone pulled to a stop with the cruiser's front bumper against a two inch sapling.

"This is a far as she'll go."

"I guess we walk."

Cianfone called in their location then he and Dement unlocked the rear doors. Foley recovered his gun while Cianfone took a shovel and camera from the trunk then led them down the overgrown trail. Foley and Dement flanked Wells. The ground was covered in horseweed and pepper grass.

"Crap!" Dement swore.

"I told you to wear your sneaks." Foley pointed to his already muddy Nike's.

"Yeah, well, I was in a hurry this morning."

"Overslept, huh? Didn't Janet get home last night?"

"I had a lot on my mind this morning."

"You had a lot on something, I believe that."

"Gee, Ed, you're hilarious. Come on, let's just do this, all right?"

Wells’ shackles caught on a milkweed stem and he tumbled face-down into the weeds. "Fuck!" Dement pulled him to his feet. Stick-tights and dead leaves covered Wells’ denim shirt.

"I can't walk through this stuff with these chains."

"Try!" Foley ordered. Wells shuffled to the limit of the tether but stopped almost immediately. The chain had scythed a path almost a foot wide through the weeds.

"I'm fucking mowing the lawn here," Wells complained, pointing to the stems wedged into the chain. Dement and Foley looked from the shackles to the eighty yards of trail still ahead of them. "Just take it off one ankle," Wells whined. "Where the hell am I going to run in handcuffs with you three guys watching me?"

Dement stared at the line of broken stems. Foley nodded and moved the cuff from Wells’ right ankle to his left so that the two shackles rode one above the other.

"Don't get any ideas, Wells," Dement said, tapping his gun. "I'm not going to chase you. The phrase you've got to remember is 'Shot while trying to escape.' Do we understand each other?"

"Where would I go?" Wells raised his wrists toward the thick forest surrounding them.

Ahead the trail made a sharp bend to the right. Dement nodded to Cianfone to check it out. An instant later Cianfone shouted "Damn!" and they heard him fall. Dement jogged ahead and just beyond the turn he saw Cianfone lying face-down in the high grass. A bolt of fear tore through Dement's gut. As he reached for his weapon when he heard Foley shout, "Tom!"

Wells’ right wrist had come free and his left arm whipped the loose end of the cuffs at Foley's head. The Investigator stumbled backward just as the cuff cracked into his skull. Blood spurted and Foley tumbled into the weeds. Dement returned to the main trail and centered his Glock on Wells’ torso. From behind him, Dement heard a slight swishing sound then his legs flew out from under him and he found himself lying in the grass. His pistol made a muted thump and disappeared into the weeds. Dement had begun to struggle to his feet just as Wells grabbed Foley's gun. Frantically, Dement looked for his Glock then he heard Foley's pistol fire and a sledgehammer hit him in the chest. Dement fell and a black cloud exploded inside his head and then the world disappeared.

* * *

Cianfone had made his regular 10:30 check-in and called in again a when they reached the dirt road. His next report was scheduled for 11:00 a.m..

When Cianfone did not make the call, the dispatcher assumed that it had taken longer than anticipated to find the grave. By 11:15 people were getting worried. At 11:30 the alarm went out. At 12:10 they found the cruiser at the beginning of the rutted trail. A minute later Foley was found sprawled on his back, blue bottle flies feasting on the blood congealed below his temple. Dement had taken two wounds, one in his chest, the second through his forehead. They found Dement's Glock three feet to his right. Foley's nine millimeter Beretta was missing.

Foley had also been killed by a nine millimeter bullet, this one between his eyes. Ballistics later confirmed that all three men had been shot with Foley's gun.

They discovered Cianfone's lifeless body lying where Dement had first found him. A bloody rock lay near the Trooper's head but the cause of death was a nine millimeter bullet through the back of his skull.

It was speculated that Cianfone had tripped and hit his head and when Dement's attention was diverted Wells had somehow managed to grab Foley's gun.

Cianfone's pockets had been turned inside out and his ID and wallet were missing. Foley's and Dement's wallets were found near their bodies with all of the cash removed. The keys to the cruiser were also missing. Three hours after the forensic team arrived, an officer with a metal detector found the car keys in the underbrush ten feet from Cianfone's body. The investigators theorized that he had briefly regained consciousness and had tossed the keys to keep Wells from escaping in the cruiser. Of the entire horrible mess, the only positive aspect was that Wells was stranded in the woods.

It was the largest manhunt in the history of the Northern Tier. Hundreds of police officers backed by units of the National Guard combed the woods for three days before eventually finding Wells’ body lodged between two boulders at the bottom of Mohawk Glen. By that time the foxes and ravens and hawks and feral pigs had turned the carcass into something barely human. In the corpse's pocket they found Cianfone's wallet and ID. Foley's gun with four rounds expended was discovered six hundred yards up-stream at the base of a sixty foot shale cliff that apparently had disintegrated under Wells’ feet, probably on the night following his escape. Blood and bone on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff matched the shattered body downstream.

Those portions of the hands that were not smashed had been skinned by predators and no useable fingerprints were obtainable, but a comparison of the crushed jaw with Wells’ dental chart showed an almost perfect match. There were no samples of Wells’ DNA available because his acquittal by reason of insanity kept him out of the New York State violent offenders DNA database. Still, the dental match was conclusive.

Back at Hickory Hollow Llewellyn Price was fully vindicated but he was too smart to speak the name "Hanford Wells" to Harley Glavin. He did not mind. Price was sure that the need to re-open Wells’ file would never arise, but he was wrong.

Chapter Three

On an overcast, damp, April morning the year following Wells’ escape, the topic uppermost in Larry Manett's mind was fish. He tramped through the backwoods of Iroquois County thinking only of his rod, flies and the feel of a strike on the line. The Spring rains had filled Panhandle Creek to a gurgling rush.

Manett parked his Explorer fifty yards off County Road 52 and he and Chris Russell hiked half a mile through a forest of leafless beeches, red oaks, and mountain ash. Only the sugar maples and, near the stream, the willows, had produced any leaves and these were sparse and an off-shade of yellow-green.

Chris took the lead as they headed north along the east side of the stream. Emerging from the thick trees they reached their usual spot but a white birch had toppled filling the pool with a maze of line-fouling branches.

"You want to try Widow's Bend?"

"I guess."

A hundred yards up-stream the creek made a sharp turn and widened to about thirty feet across.

"Hell of a winter," Chris muttered. Floods had torn several feet from the embankment and half a dozen trees tilted precariously over the water.

"It looks clear over there." Larry nodded at a shelf thirty yards ahead.

"Boy, I'm glad I wasn't here when that bank gave way."

"Less talking and more fishing."

Manett made the first cast. Russell moved to the end of the shelf but when he snapped his rod forward he felt a tug from behind.

"Oh, geez." His leader had wrapped around a tangle of roots near the top of the bank. "Damned funny roots," Russell muttered as he squinted at the angular shapes.

"You got the extra flies in your bag?" Manett called. "Chris?"

"What do you suppose this is?"

Manett squinted at something that looked like a pale brown root just above eye level. Russell reached out to touch it, then changed his mind and began to dig into the soft earth. He stopped when he reached the bones of the corpse's ankle. Manett rubbed away the dirt a foot to the left and exposed the left foot's phalanges.

"I guess one of us better call the Sheriff."

"Flip you for it."

Ten minutes later, cursing his luck, Manett was back in his Explorer.

Iroquois County Deputy Sheriff Angela Paressi got the call. "See the citizen about some bones," was all she was told. A few minutes later she pulled in behind Manett's SUV.

"Hi, I'm the one who called you."

"You found some bones?"

"A human skeleton . . . ."

"Where?"

"Follow me."

Fifteen minutes later Manett was pointing to their discovery. Paressi placed a dollar bill along side the upturned toes and took a series of pictures with a disposable camera.

"Why'd you do that?" Russell asked, all the while thinking, Hey, she's pretty cute.

"A dollar bill is almost exactly six inches long. It's a good reference for the size of other objects in the picture."

"That's pretty sharp."

"You want some help digging it out?" Chris asked, wondering if Angela might be the next love of his life.

"I'll get a State Police forensic team out here. You know the owners of this land?"

"Sure, the Blondels," Manett said. "They let us fish here," he added defensively.

"I wasn't suggesting you were trespassing, Mr. Manett. Is their house around here?"

"They're in Arizona, Sedona, right now."

"Do you have their phone number?"

"No, but their lawyer's Jake Mills in Peaksville. He could probably give it to you."

"Okay, thanks." Angela waved at the exposed foot. "I'll need statements from both of you."

"I'll get together with you any time you like," Chris said, giving Angela his best smile.

"I'll let you know when they've been typed up so you can come by the station and sign them. Thanks for your help."

"Sure, any time," Chris called then hurried over to offer Angela his arm. She ignored him and scrambled easily to the top of the bank.

"She seems real nice," Chris said.

"Oh, put it back in your pants and hand me the flies!"

* * *

"We need a State Police forensic team," Angela radioed the dispatcher ten minutes later. "The Captain should probably call Troop E and find out if they have a team in Zone 3 or if they'll have to send one down from Canandaigua. Until then I'll go back on patrol."

"Wait one, 62, while I call Captain McCleary."

Angela laid the mike on the seat, frowned, and stared at the leafless trees obscuring Panhandle Creek. Wait one. Why was she surprised? Practically every suggestion she had made in her nine months on the force had been questioned, ridiculed, or overruled.

The Iroquois Sheriff's office consisted of twelve deputies, three plain clothes investigators, two Captains, and the Sheriff, Elias Nance. Only one officer, Angela Paressi, was female. None of them were African-American, Asian, or Hispanic. There was one Jew, reformed, Marc Roth. The average age of the deputies was 28. Of the twelve deputies only one, Angela Paressi, had attended graduate school. Two, Angela and Larry Grobard, had graduated from college. One more had graduated from a junior college. Seven had only graduated from high school and two had not even achieved that honor, instead qualifying by taking the GED exam. The pay was terrible, a fact only made tolerable by the county's low cost of living.

"And to think, I had to threaten the Sheriff with a sexual discrimination suit to get this job!" Angela reminded herself.

"62, the Captain wants to know the condition of the subject." For a fleeting instant Angela considered replying "Dead," but stifled the impulse.

"The right foot and the left toe are protruding from the bank. They're both completely skeletonized. The subject appears to be buried about two feet down." A long pause followed while the Captain passed further questions to the Dispatcher. The wimp won't even talk to me directly, Angela fumed.

"62, does it appear that the subject has been in the ground for a substantial period of time? Can you confirm that it is completely skeletonized?"

"How--, all I can see is one foot up to the ankle and the toes of the second one. As for the rest of it, I don't know. The ground above the location is fully overgrown so I'd guess he's been there at least six to nine months."

"Roger, 62. Hold your position until contacted."

A sour chill began to work its way through Angela's chest. Oh, hell, Nance can't be that stupid! she told herself, then remembered that before being appointed Sheriff to fill out Herb Prichards' term, Elias Nance had been a real estate agent and Chairman of the Iroquois County Republican Central Committee. The son of a bitch was handsome, in a fatherly, Warren G. Harding sort of way, and had been elected Sheriff largely on the strength of the word "Incumbent" on the ballot and the excellent photograph he took in his uniform and fully equipped Sam Browne belt.

* * *

Elias Nance was reviewing a lease for a Ford Expedition as the Sheriff's new Command Vehicle when Jack McCleary knocked on his door.

"Sheriff, Deputy Paressi has discovered a skeleton on the Blondel farm. A couple of fishermen noticed the foot extending out of the bank. I wanted to get your approval before I called in the State Police."

"Do we know who this is?"

"No, sir, it's just a foot."

"I mean do we have some missing person we've been looking for, some hunter or somebody who's disappeared in that area?"

"No, sir. We did have that bird watcher three years ago who never came home but we figured that he'd just left his wife and run off. I think there was a Girl Scout troop leader who left town about the same time."

"Is this near where he was doing his bird watching?"

"A couple of miles away."

"Are there any signs of foul play at this, . . . this location?"

"No, sir. The ground is undisturbed and the foot is fully sketelonized so he's been in the dirt awhile."

"Skeletonized--that means there's no meat on the bones?"

"Yes, sir."

"So why are we assuming this is a crime scene?"

"Sir?"

"We've got no freshly dug grave or anything. If someone was going to kill somebody and bury the body, I can't see them hauling it half a mile through the woods. Maybe this is our bird watcher. He tripped, broke his leg or hit his head or fell into a ditch or something. The animals got to him and three years later some fishermen have found his foot. I don't see why we need to make a Federal case out of this."

"Sir, the procedure is to treat anything like this as a crime scene. Usually, we call in the Troopers--"

"Are you saying that this department is incapable of handling a crime scene?"

"No, sir. But the forensic--"

"Are you telling me that your men are improperly trained? Because if you are, then maybe we need to re-evaluate things around here."

"No, sir. I have complete confidence in my men."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Jack, but we aren't required to call in the State Police, are we?"

"No sir, that's completely voluntary."

"So, it's up to me if I want to tell the citizens of this county that we can't do our job. It's up to me if I want to make some kind of public proclamation that if anything bigger than a stolen bicycle comes along, we can't handle it, that we have to go crying to the Troopers. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir, it's up to you. But--"

"But?"

"Nothing, you're the Sheriff. It's your decision."

"Do you think I've forgotten the story the Troopers planted in the Daily Messenger after I invited them in on that missing kid case? Do you think I've forgotten how they made it look like we botched the investigation, how we were responsible for her being raped by that psycho? How the hell do you think that looks to the voters? Elias Nance can't do his job so the Troopers have to do it for him! Well, let me tell you, if we can't dig up a few bones we may as well close up shop right now."

"What do you want me to tell Paressi?"

"You tell her to sit on her can until help arrives. Send a couple of your men out there with shovels and, I don't know, a camera and whatever else they need and have them dig up the bones and take them over to Doc Swanson, that's what the County pays him for. He can look them over and tell us if there are any signs of foul play. Then, if he finds a bullet hole through the skull or something, we can think about calling the Troopers. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

A minute later Paressi's radio squawked.

"62, hold your position. Deputies are on the way to help you recover the subject."

"Central, this is 62. Do you mean a State Police forensic team?" Angela tapped her fingernails on the wheel.

"Negative, 62. This department will recover the subject and transport it to Dr. Swanson's office for a medical examination. Central out."

Shit! The stupid son-of-a-bitch was refusing to call in the Troopers. Angela angrily grabbed the camera, extra gloves, crime scene tape, a small hammer, six wooden stakes, evidence bags, and a body bag from her trunk. She scribbled a note, "head through the woods to Panhandle Creek, then north," jammed it in the driver's side window, and jogged back to the scene. By the time Terry Jackson and Sam Watkins arrived Angela had already photographed the site, staked out the perimeter, and had begun to comb the ground for cigarette butts, buttons, keys and anything else that might have been lost when the body was buried. So far, she had found nothing.

During the excavation she paused every few minutes to measure the depth of the trench until they had gone down eighteen inches, at which time they switched to trowels and scoops. In spite of some good-natured grumbling, Jackson and Watkins followed Angela's instructions, content to let her take responsibility for the exhumation.

Finally, her trowel struck bone. She used her gloved hands to claw the dirt from the sternum, paused, and photographed the exposed bone. Once the top of the skeleton was fully revealed, the hole was enlarged two feet all the way around so that they could loosen the earth from underneath. It was two in the afternoon before the remains were fully excavated. Angela shot six more pictures, then they carefully shifted the bones onto a blanket which they sealed in a body bag.

Watkins and Jackson fastened the bag to a litter and headed back to their Cherokee.

"I'm glad that's done," Terry said as he closed the Jeep's rear door. "Seeing's how we did all the digging, you want to deliver the bones to Doc Swanson and write up the reports?" Jackson held up the Cherokee's keys.

"Sure. That sounds fair to me," Angela agreed and slipped the key ring into her khakis.

"Lucky you had us big strong men around to do the heavy work, a Angela?" Watkins said, laughing.

"I sure am. You guys are going to come in real handy."

"What do you mean 'are going to come in handy?' We're done."

"Except for the dirt."

"What?"

"I figure there's about 90 cubic feet of dirt back there that's got to be sifted for clues before it rains." Angela glanced at the thickening sky. "It doesn't look like you've got much daylight left. Thanks again, guys. I just love big strong men."

Angela tossed Terry the keys to her cruiser and, smiling, drove away.

Chapter Four

"I take it that's my patient," Doc Swanson said nodding at the black rubber bag.

Thin, white hair above a boney face, nose like the prow of a ship, Doc reminded Angela of an animated scarecrow whose laughter never quite made it from his lips to his icy blue eyes.

"Where do you want it?"

"Teirney's Funeral Home. They let me use their embalming room for autopsies. Do you want to do a little detective work?"

Doc gave Angela his best scarecrow smile. A few minutes later they were setting the body bag on a rolling embalming table. The zipper made a thrumming noise as she pulled it down.

"My, my, my, my!" Doc muttered happily.

"We were as careful with it as possible," Angela said. "I think we got them all, except for the lower jaw."

"What about those?" Doc pointed to the gap between the hip and the kneecaps.

"They weren't in the ground."

"Yessss," Doc said drawing out the syllable. "Hard to miss something that large. Was the skeleton fully buried?"

"Two feet down."

"Too far for animals to get them, at least not with the rest of our friend in such good condition. Ummm, ummm, ummm, look at that!"

Swanson waved his pen at the skeleton's right elbow.

"What?"

"The joint is partially intact. There's still some ligament left. Do you know how long this has been buried?"

Angela shrugged.

"There was full ground cover over the spot. Had to be at least six months, probably more."

"This is going to be more interesting that I had hoped! You want to stick around and give me a hand?"

"What do you want me to do?"

Doc was already studying the skull, his voice bouncing off the steel table in a mild echo. Almost lovingly he pulled out well used copies of Krogman and Todd's A Guide To The Identification Of Human Skeletal Material and Krogman's later The Human Skeleton in Forensic Medicine together with bound copies of papers by T. Dale Stewart and Mildred Trotter. His case yielded two sets of steel calipers, a ruler, a magnifying glass, several brushes, and a 15 by 8 by 12 inch hinged, wooden box.

"Okay, now where did I put the osteometric board?" Muttering, "board? board? board? board? board?" Doc slipped from cabinet to cabinet, finally retrieving a hardwood panel with a lip on one end and a sliding "T"-shaped block on the other. "Now we're cooking. Okay, first we photograph our subject."

Positioning the lights for a bright, flat illumination, Doc shot two dozen frames.

"Now, we wash her off. We'll save the dirt in case there's any trace adhering to the bones."

"Her?"

"Just a guess. We'll see."

They rolled the gurney next to the sink. Angela adjusted the skeleton's position while Doc washed the bones which were stained the color of weak tea.

"The first questions," Doc began pedantically, holding up his fist, "are Age," one finger shot up, "Sex, and Race, ASR." He waved three raised fingers. "In this case, we'll start with sex. The sex of a skeleton," Swanson continued as if to a class of first year medical students, "is most commonly determined by the shape of the pelvic opening and the features of the skull. In this case, notice the small brow ridges," Doc pointed to the ridge at the bottom of the forehead. "Now, look back here." Doc rotated the skull and used a capped pen on the pyramid-shaped promontories behind each ear. "These are the mastoid processes. Their reduced size indicates a female."

Next Doc pointed to the pelvis.

"The pelvic opening is wider in females than in males. Here we have a classic female pattern. Lastly, look here." Doc gestured to a small V-shaped indentation on the edge of each hip bone, the sciatic notch. "The angle is acute in the male and obtuse in the female. This indicates that this is a female. But, I know what you're thinking."

"You do?"

"'Can all this guesswork be accurate?' 'Is this the proper scientific method?' And the answer is --- 'No, of course not!' Get out your pad and take down the measurements I give you. Damn, I wish I had the femurs."

"Why?"

"If the diameter of the femoral head is less than 42 millimeters it's probably a female. Oh, well, we still have plenty to work with."

Using ruler and calipers, Swanson performed careful measurements of the pelvic opening, the sciatic notch, and the skull. Finally, after paging through Krogman's Human Skeleton In Forensic Science, he proclaimed: "It's a girl! Next, we'll determine the race, although I can tell you right now that she was Caucasian. Don't give me too much credit for my hasty conclusion. Even a random guess has a one chance in three of being correct as we can classify skeletons in only three ways: Caucasian, Negroid, or Mongoloid. But, of course, I'm not guessing."

"Of course."

Doc gave Angela a sharp look. After flashing him a contrite expression, he nodded and continued. "Notice the shape of the skull -- narrow with relatively small brows. That is one of the hallmarks of a Caucasian subject. Note also the narrow nasal opening and the wide rather than horseshoe shaped alveolar arch." Swanson's pen tapped the roof of the victim's mouth. The absence of the jawbone gave the skull an odd, incomplete look.

"Ahhh," Swanson exclaimed, then grabbed a magnifying glass and peered at the center of the skull.

"What?"

"The nasal sill, the ridge of bone at the bottom of the nasal aperture," Tap, Tap, Swanson's plastic pen sounded hollow against the skull. "Notice the raised margins. Classic indicators of a Caucasian subject. Well, enough fooling around."

Swanson retrieved his calipers and began a series of measurements, multiplied the numbers by constants from a table in Krogman, then compared the final score to another of Krogman's tables.

"Female," Doc announced, raising one finger. "Caucasian," the second finger shot up. "Now, for her age, in many ways the most challenging of the three questions. But, not to worry. I have my little helpers with me."

Doc nodded at the peculiar wooden case on the counter. "But first . . . ." Doc bent over and studied the humerus, the long upper bone of the arm. "The diaphysis has fused completely with the epiphysis," he announced.

"What?" Angela tried to follow Doc's gaze but saw nothing that made any sense to her.

"The knobby end of the bone has fused completely with the shaft. That doesn't happen until around age fifteen. Okay, let's go for the next plateau."

Swanson turned to the end of the collarbone where it joined the sternum.

"Okay, there's incomplete fusion here."

"What's that mean?"

"The end of the clavicle near the sternum completely fuses between ages twenty-three and twenty five. So, my initial estimate is that this young lady was between fifteen and twenty-three years old when she died. But there's no need for speculation. Would you mind bringing me my case?"

Almost reverently, Doc released the twin catches. Inside were four rows of five boxes each. Irregularly shaped pieces of bone occupied eighteen of the twenty compartments.

"What are they?"

"A complete set of pubic symphysises ."

"What?"

"The primary standard for determining the age of a skeleton is by an examination of the pubic symphysis bone which has three sections: the dorsal plateau, the ventral rampart and the symphyseal rim." Doc had returned to his lecture-hall voice. "Each of the three sections has six separate stages being represented by a number from zero through five, yielding a total of eighteen possible points. This box contains a set of eighteen pubic symphysises, one for each of the possible eighteen stages."

"Those are real bones?"

"No, they make them out of plastic. Give me a few minutes to compare these with our young lady here. Write down the numbers I give you."

Doc pulled samples from his case and compared them to the skeleton, periodically calling out a value. At the end he had Angela total the numbers.

"Five. According to Messrs. Stewart and McKern that puts her age at between eighteen and twenty three. But, since the clavicle was not completely fused, I would put her age toward the bottom of that scale. I would estimate that our subject was between eighteen and twenty-one at the time of her death."

Doc looked at the skeleton that once had been a human being and sighed.

"Are you tired?" he asked a moment later, glancing at the clock above the sink. "Are you able to press on?"

"I'm okay. What's next?"

"Let's start with something relatively easy, Jane's height."

"How do we figure that?"

"Again, we're a bit handicapped by the lack of the femurs, but we can make do with the tibia and fibula. This is where we'll use our trusty osteometric board."

Swanson removed the right tibia, slid the block firmly against the head of the bone, and read off the length in centimeters. "Multiply that by 2.52 then add 78.62 then divide by 2.54 to convert back to inches."

"Five feet, six inches, more or less," Angela announced. "Can you find out anything else?"

"Well, let's take a look at the scapula -- that's the shoulder blade. The area that surrounds the socket in which the humerus fits will become more beveled on the dominant side." Doc picked up a magnifying glass and examined the ends of the scapulas, occasionally mumbling a "hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmm."

"The boney build-up along the area of muscle attachment is more pronounced on the side that is utilized most. Look, here and here," Doc tapped the left arm with his capped pen. "Left handed," he announced. Angela made a note in her pad.

"I also noted a latticework of fine cracks in the surface of the humerus. That might be indicative of the bone having been frozen. This might confirm your suspicion that our Jane Doe was buried through at least one winter. My suspicion, and it's only a guess, is that she's been there a year or less. She would have had to have been buried before the ground was frozen and if she had been there for two or more winters, I think I would see a deeper and more extensive pattern of cracks from multiple cycles of freezing and thawing."

"Doc, that's incredible. Is there anything else you can tell from the bones?"

"Possibly. I can't be sure because we haven't carefully examined them yet."

"But, you've--"

"I've only measured a few specific bones and examined specific structures. I haven't yet examined Jane in detail. That's going to take at least two hours more. Then I'll x-ray her. You never know what may turn up, old fractures, fragments of metal, unsuspected weaknesses. I don't know about you, but I'm tired and my back aches and it's almost past my dinner time. So, did you learn anything?"

"Are you kidding? Can I come back tomorrow?"

"I like an enthusiastic student, but that's up to Elias Nance."

"In that case I have a feeling I'll be on road-kill patrol."

"A waste of your talents, but you did a good day's work. You'll type up the notes?"

"You'll have them before end of shift tomorrow."

"Well then, I suggest we say our goodbyes to Jane. "

Angela stared at the brown-tinted bones, gaping eye sockets, dangling limbs, and felt a sudden surge of emotion, the sick realization that this was once a living, breathing, young woman with her entire life ahead of her and now everything she had or ever would be had been taken from her.

"I wonder who killed her?" Angela mused.

"As yet, we don't know that anyone killed her. I haven't seen any signs of trauma, no bullet wounds, no marks from a blade, no impact to the skull. This is an almost pristine skeleton."

"She didn't bury herself."

"No, but she may have died of natural causes and someone buried the body because that was the easiest thing to do with it."

"Come on, Doc, you don't believe that."

"I'm a scientist. I need evidence."

Angela laid a gentle hand on the ribs, sliding her finger tips along their cool surface. The texture was peculiar, smooth but porous. Angela's fingers drifted over the sternum and up to the flat, gritty surface of the mud-stained skull, as if by her caress the dead bones might reveal some of their secrets. The texture of the forehead was rougher than Angela had expected. Rubbing harder, bits of dirt broke free.

"Doc, do you have a brush or something?"

Carefully she began sponge away dirt packed into a series of gouges in the surface of the bone. Twice Doc took the cloth and rinsed it, finally bringing her a fine-bristled brush and a bowl of soapy water. Five minutes later the last of the caked dirt had been scoured from a series of crevices etched in the skull.

Clicking his tongue Doc retrieved a high intensity light and a magnifying glass.

"What the hell is that?" Angela whispered when she saw the odd pattern of lines scored into the forehead. "Is there a disease that would cause something like that? . . . . Doc?" Swanson stared blankly at the skull. "Doc, what is that?"

"Well, you've got your evidence now," he answered softly.

"What?"

"This girl was murdered."

"Murdered? A minute ago -- Doc, what are those scratches?"

"They're a message," Doc said quietly as if his thoughts were a million miles away.

"What?"

"Those marks were made by a human hand. Someone removed this girl's flesh and carved a message into her forehead. What I don't understand is how he de-fleshed her without leaving knife marks. A skilled forensic anthropologist can sometimes tell what kind of blade was used based on the depth, angle, and width of the marks it left behind. Except for the inscription, these bones are almost pristine."

"What's it say?"

"I don't know."

"But you said--"

"I don't know what it says, but it means something to the man who carved it and, if we're smart enough to figure it out, it will eventually mean something to us."

"You said the man who carved it. Do you know who that was?"

"Know? I don't know anything except that the killer of a woman is almost always a man."

"There's more to it than that, isn't there, Doc? You suspect someone. Tell me who and I'll send an APB."

"The man I suspect was born right here in Peaksville, grew up here. I knew him as a boy and I saw him get crazier and crazier and I did nothing. Nothing." Doc's eyes were blank, unfocused.

"Who is he, Doc? We'll get him if I have to track him down myself."

"How are you going to arrest a dead man?"

"Doc, you're not making any sense."

"I'm talking about the only man I ever met who was crazy enough to etch a message in this poor girl's bones, the only serial killer who ever lived right here in Peaksville. How are you going to get Elias Nance to let you chase a dead man like Hanford Wells?"

"Who's Hanford Wells?"

"It was in all the papers. They caught him up in Rochester about three years ago."

"Three years ago I was in the middle of my first year of law school. Between studying and my part-time job we could have had a small war and I wouldn't have noticed. Tell me about him."

Doc leaned against the granite counter and motioned Angela to one of the folding chairs racked along the wall.

"They'd had a bad fire in Rochester, four or five people died. It started in a drug lab the tenants' had set up in the basement. You know they use ether and acetone to manufacture methamphetamine?"

Angela nodded.

"Anyway, there was a lot of publicity and a lot of pressure on the authorities. After that any report of a chemical odor in a residential neighborhood got an instant response. Bad luck for Hanford. The police got a report of a strong chemical smell emanating from Wells’ house. . . ."

* * *

1842 Genero Avenue, just off Henrietta Road at the southern edge of Rochester, New York did not stand out in any way. It was a white two and a half story wooden house with a sharply slanted blue shingle roof, fronted by an old fashioned porch on three quarters of an acre of farmland turning into suburbs. At three p.m. on an overcast February afternoon, the tenant, Doctor Albert Mohan, was at work at Strong Memorial Hospital and the house should have been empty.

Sergeant Brian Deeling checked his men, paused a second or two longer, then clicked his mike and shouted "Go, go, go!" Two Drug Interdiction Squad Crown Vics sped up the drive followed by Deeling and two more men in a faded green Chevy Suburban. Three officers raced to secure the rear of the building while two more carrying the battering ram headed for the front.

"Police officers! Search warrant!" Deeling shouted half a second before the ram smashed the door half out of its jam. A crash of glass sounded from the back door as the second team made its entrance. Deeling anxiously sniffed the air for the sweet, chemical reek of acetone. Meth labs made a fireworks factory seem benign and the thing Deeling feared most was getting blown up. He sniffed again. The air had a definite chemical stink but it didn't smell like the stuff used to cook crystal meth. It was more . . . . medicinal.

"First floor clear!" Halloway shouted. Four men pounded up the stairs. Deeling stayed below, trying to home in on the smell. The UPS driver hadn't been imagining things when he reported a chemical odor spilling from the house. A rented, isolated residence occupied by a single male and leaking an acrid chemical smell usually meant one thing -- meth lab.

"Second floor clear!"

A few moments later Deeling his men clustered around a scratched, brown plank door at the back of the kitchen. Deeling nodded to Stan Harper who jimmied the lock. Deeling flipped a switch and a flickering blaze of fluorescents filled the basement. A steel rail was mounted in the ceiling above the stairwell. The gray rails reminded Deeling of nothing so much as the travelers for the sides of beef at the Wegeman's plant where his brother was a union butcher.

Glock in hand, Deeling descended the stairs. At the bottom the ceiling rail turned left then curved past a stainless steel sink. At the end of the track was a massive Kenmore freezer, shining like an alabaster coffin. An autopsy table occupied the center of the floor. Above it was an operating room light. A four foot high, towel-covered rolling table stood next to the autopsy table. Deeling gently lifted the towel. Surgical instruments glittered in the harsh light. Deeling and Harper exchanged a wordless glance. Deeling looked at the freezer then pointed at the black cabinets along the walls.

Paul Hayes opened the nearest one. Inside were ranks of soft shapes in liquid-filled jars. He lowered one to the counter. A human heart floated inside. Deeling checked the cabinet nearest to him. Within, neatly labeled, were rows of video tapes: "Patrick McGraw, Kidney Transplant," "M. Shaw, Hernia, Splinectomy," "Unknown Male, Heart Bypass," and a dozen more. By unspoken agreement the men approached the freezer. Deeling slowly raised the lid.

A naked, wide-eyed man, his face frozen as if in mid-scream, stared up at them. The corpse's chest had been opened from the suprasternal notch to the pubic bone. The internal organs were missing, the empty cavity marked by a pathologist's Y-shaped incision. Dr. Mohan, taking his work home with him? Deeling stared at the corpse: male, Caucasian, approximately fifty years old, and not nearly big enough to fill the freezer.

"Stan, Paul, let's see what's underneath." The men nervously tightened their gloves then slid their hands beneath the corpse's head and neck. The body tilted up to reveal the remains of a mid-thirties black female with the top of her skull removed, her frost covered brain peeking out of the open skull.

"Jesus!" Harper hissed and they lowered the top corpse so fast it almost bounced off the victim below.

"There's enough room for one or two more people in there," Hayes volunteered, his eyes fixed on the gleaming freezer.

"Two," Deeling answered in an odd, throaty voice, and took out his cell phone. "You need to get a warrant and pick up a guy," he told the detective who caught the call. "Suspicion of multiple murder. . . .that's right, I've got two bodies here and I think we're gonna find at least one or two more. My next call is to Crime Scene. Another thing, we've got about twenty video tapes. . . . Yeah, I think he liked to watch himself at work. . . .Mohan, Dr. Albert Mohan."

Deeling clicked off the phone, took one last look at the pearl-colored freezer, then led his men back up the stairs.

* * *

Doc stretched, then walked over to the table.

"This is the same guy who killed those State Police officers last year?"

"They found his body at the bottom of a ravine a few days later. There was a perfect match on the dental charts, so this," Doc waved at the dun colored bones, "couldn't be his work, only . . . ."

"Only what, Doc?"

"Only I just hate coincidences." Doc pulled the plastic sheet over Jane Doe's bones.

Chapter Five

Files containing the histories of the seventeen patients under treatment by his team flanked the edge of Llewellyn Price's desk. For the past several minutes Price had been vainly trying to summon the energy to deal with them. His team meeting was scheduled for 10:30, more than an hour away. Sighing, he reached for the next folder then stopped when his phone beeped.

"Dr. Price? This is Doctor Philip Swanson from Peaksville."

Philip Swanson? Price remembered a boney, animated, older man carrying a secret guilt, Price suspected, over Hanford Wells’ untreated homicidal tendencies. Had Swanson found another budding psychopath? If so, there was little the State could do about it until the subject actually committed a crime.

"Yes, Dr. Swanson. What can I do for you?"

"Something . . . unusual's come up. I hardly know where to begin."

Price eyed the files, pleased to have an excuse to postpone dealing with them.

"I'm listening."

"Yesterday," Swanson began hesitantly, "the Iroquois County Sheriff's office exhumed a skeleton that had been buried near Panhandle Creek. I estimate that it was in the ground for six to twelve months, though that's the roughest sort of guess."

Skeleton? What did this have to do with him?

"Ummm, go on."

"The deceased was a Caucasian female, left handed, between eighteen and twenty-one years old, about five feet six inches tall." Swanson paused, obviously trying to organize his thoughts. "I've come to the conclusion that the body was de-fleshed before the skeleton was buried."

"De-fleshed? How?"

"I don't know. I'm puzzled by the absence of knife marks."

"Not a pretty picture, but shouldn't you be talking to the State Police?"

"It's not that simple."

"In what way?"

"There were marks on her skull."

"Marks?"

"Actually an inscription etched into the bone." No, no, no! a voice screamed inside Price's head.

"What did it say?"

"It's some kind of a code, like hieroglyphics, but not Egyptian. I've never seen anything like it."

"You're sure it's not--"

"Random marks? Gouges left by an animal's teeth? No, someone carved these characters into the deceased's bones, then buried her. You understand why I'm calling you?" Price's thoughts whirled one after the other.

"The dental comparison was perfect. Are you sure she couldn't have been . . ." Price paused. What was the correct word? Processed? Abducted? Mutilated? ". . . buried," he said finally, "before he was caught?"

"Three years of freezing and thawing? No, I would have seen much more patterning on the bones. He escaped not quite a year ago, didn't he? She could have been buried any time between when he got loose and late October, early November. After that the ground would have been too hard to dig the grave."

"The dental records confirmed the body was his. There's got to be another explanation."

"How many psychopaths have had ties to Peaksville, especially ones who enjoy this kind of mutilation?"

"What are you saying, Dr. Swanson?"

"Is it possible that Hanford Wells is still alive? Did he ever say anything, do anything that makes you think that this could be him, or that it couldn't?"

Could Hanford Wells still be alive?

"I. . . ." Price paused, remembering a session he had had with Wells a few months before he escaped. "I'll check Wells’ file," he answered finally. "Do you think you'll be able to identify the girl?"

"The upper teeth were extracted and, as I said, the mandible is missing. Clearly, he didn't want her identified."

"But you'll try," Price asked, more a plea than a question.

"Of course. I'm doing a full x-ray and Dr. Levine has agreed to try to generate a partial dental chart from what remains of her upper jaw. We'll try for a match through NCIC but the dental evidence is so fragmentary I don't hold out much hope." Swanson paused but Price said nothing, his mind already turning back to the sight of a manacled Hanford Wells being escorted by three officers who were now dead and dust.

"Dr. Price?"

"Yes, I'm here. I was just thinking . . . well, it doesn't matter. I'll call you as soon as I've checked the records."

"Thank you, I look forward to--"

"Wait," Price interrupted, "those marks -- can you fax me a picture?"

"I'll e-mail it to you as a JPEG file."

They exchanged email addresses and Price hung up.

"Helen, would you please call Records and have them send me Hanford Wells’ complete file, his test scores, all my interview notes, everything. . . . Yes, right away. . . .All right, then, as soon as they can then."

Price stared out his window, his patient folders forgotten. Absent-mindedly he placed his middle finger against the scar above his temple and rubbed the tip around in a gentle circle as he stared blindly at the almost leafless trees below his window.

In spite of the impression he had given Doc Swanson, Price did not need to consult Wells’ file to see if it contained any reference to symbols or codes. Price remembered a session with Wells two or three months before the psychopath's escape. It had been one of their weekly, fifteen minute interviews, at first no different from Price's weekly meetings with any of his other dozen and a half patients.

* * *

Wells’ clothes were wrinkle-free. Clean shaven, his boyish face smiled politely. At first glance he seemed anything but a conscienceless killer. Barney, the SHTA, motioned to the plastic chair then retreated to the far corner of the room. Price made a notation of the date and time then nodded to Wells.

"Hanford, is there anything particular you would like to talk about today?"

"Will it make any difference?"

"Difference to what?"

"In my getting out of here."

"That's up to a judge. I'm just a psychiatrist."

"You and the judges and the rest of them, you're all in this together."

"In what, together?"

"This conspiracy to keep me locked up."

"I understand why you feel that way, but let's try an exercise. Let's pretend that you're me. I'm a medical doctor. That shouldn't be too hard for you, should it?"

"Okay -- sure. Guards, release Hanford Wells! He doesn't belong here."

"No, that's how Hanford Wells might act if his brain found itself occupying my body. You need to ask yourself: 'Who am I?'"

"Who needs the shrink, now?"

"If you're unable to perform this exercise, just say so and you can go back to the Gomer Pyle re-runs in the day-room."

Wells glanced over his shoulder toward the half dozen patients staring glassy-eyed at the TV.

"Okay, who are you?"

"You're an intelligent man. You tell me."

Wells frowned but finally began to speak. "All right. You're a psychiatrist."

"What's my primary duty in this institution?"

"I don't know. Figuring out who's crazy and who's not, I guess."

"No. My job is to understand how my patients see themselves and then to figure out if that perception makes them dangerous to themselves or to others. So, you're me. You're meeting with a man named Hanford Wells who's been discovered with multiple cut up bodies in his basement. He's never graduated from college, never attended medical school, yet he's been grabbing homeless people off the streets, cutting them up, and claiming to be one of the world's greatest surgeons. You know that if you let him out, he'll go right back to cutting up people again. What do you do?"

"What I'd do is find out if he really was a brilliant surgeon, and if he was, then I'd put him to work helping people."

"Doing what?"

"I'd have him working in clinics for poor people, doing surgery the establishment doctors won't do."

"And when the people going to that clinic found out that the government had sent a mass murderer to work on them, what would they think? Would they be willing to let someone like be their doctor?"

"Beggars can't be choosers."

"Do you think that argument would work?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I'll let you think about that." Price glanced at his watch. "We have a few minutes left. Is there anything else you'd like to talk about?"

"I don't think I should," Wells said, suddenly suspicious.

"Why not?"

"You'll just use it against me," Wells nodded toward the pen in Price's hands. "I know what you're doing."

"What do you mean?"

"You're writing down lies about me so that I'll never get out of here."

"I'm just taking notes on our conversation. Would you like to see?" Price tore off the top page and slid it across the table.

"I'm too smart to fall for that. You're writing in a code that only people in the conspiracy can read."

"Code?"

"I know all about codes -- book codes, one-time pads, replacement ciphers, Enigma, Purple." Wells smiled broadly.

"Why is that?"

"I invented my own code, an unbreakable code."

"That's quite clever. Tell me more."

"You think you can trick me into giving you the secret to my code?"

"Could you show me a sample of your code?" Wells folded his arms and rocked back in his chair. "If it's truly unbreakable, I won't be able to figure it out, will I?"

"No one can break my code!"

"On the other hand," Price continued as if Wells had not spoken, "if I can decrypt it, then it can't be a very good code in the first place, now can it?" Wells stared fixedly at the space above Price's left shoulder. "Well, if you're afraid to let me try...."

"I'm on to that trick. 'If you're afraid--' That's just a trick to try to get me to show you my code."

"Did it work?" Price asked, smiling. Wells suddenly broke into a smile as well.

"I like you Dr. Price," Wells said warmly. "Let me have a pen." Instantly, the SHTA moved closer to the table.

"It's all right, Barney," Price said easily. "Mr. Wells is only going to borrow my pen. He'll give it back in a moment." Price tore two pages from his notepad and slid them across the table, the plastic Bic following behind. The SHTA placed himself two feet behind Wells’ chair.

Wells began to scratch out a series of characters. For almost a full minute, his tongue stuck in the corner of his mouth in fierce concentration, Wells scratched out lines of peculiar shapes then he slid the pen and paper back to Price. Was this really some kind of code or merely odd jots and squiggles, something that might be created by a preliterate child constructing an imaginary message?

"Most interesting. What does it say?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," Wells said, immensely pleased with himself.

"Hmmmm." Price looked from the scribbled lines. "I see that our time is up. I'll study these before our next appointment. Barney?" The SHTA tapped Hanford on the shoulder. Wells rose meekly and shuffled out the door. Price glanced once more at the page and stuck it in Wells’ file.

* * *

The wait for Wells’ file seemed endless, but, finally, at 2:15 it arrived. Price hurriedly searched for the sample of Wells’ code. A page topped with a few lines of blue hieroglyphics finally appeared. The first line still, as far as Price could tell, was just a mess of random strokes.

Price laid the folder next to his computer and opened his e-mail. There was a message from Dr. Philip Swanson, "RE: Unknown Marks." Price double-clicked the attachment icon. In a few seconds, a color image filled his screen. A couple of clicks more and the laser printer spit out a page covered in blacks, whites and grays.

The hen-scratchings continued for several lines but the first few characters were enough to confirm the similarities with Wells’ hieroglyphics. Perhaps this was a common alternative alphabet. If so, the girl's killer might be someone totally unconnected with Hanford Wells. Or, at least as likely, maybe the killer was someone who had met Wells and had learned the code from him.

Price squinted at the marks but could be sure of nothing. Here was a tantalizing similarity, there the strokes seemed vastly different. Doubtless the police would need to consult a handwriting expert as well as someone proficient in codes.

And if they decided that the marks on the victim had come from Hanford Wells? Could the examiner who identified Wells’ dental chart have made so colossal a mistake? Might he have been bribed? Neither possibility seemed reasonable, but, in hindsight, didn't Wells’ injuries seem oddly coincidental -- his face and fingerprints destroyed and no DNA comparison samples available. But how could Wells have found such a close physical match while tramping through the woods barely a step ahead of the State Police? Even to Price it sounded like a story concocted by the conspiracy nuts on the Internet.

If only he had been more persuasive in arguing against Wells’ field trip. He could have called Chuck Ceretto, the D.A. in Rochester who had prosecuted Wells, and enlisted his help in opposing Wells’ field trip. Not that Ceretto wanted to be reminded of that trial. It was one that neither he nor Price were likely to remember fondly.

* * *

The office of the Monroe County senior prosecutor was patterned in shades of brown -- a walnut desk, tan leather chairs, mahogany walls adorned with pictures of smiling police officers handing scrolls and plaques to Charles Ceretto in celebration of his tenure as the most successful prosecuting attorney in the history of the department. Price re-adjusted his torso in one of Ceretto's leather chairs.

Ceretto stood in front of his window and nodded in silent acknowledgment to the telephoned instructions of his boss, Theodore Honeig. A pale winter light outlined Ceretto against the glass. By dint of great concentration, the Prosecutor could just make out the broken line of the Genesee River where it spilled over the Upper Falls.

"Yes, Ted, I understand," Ceretto said quietly. "Yes, he's here now . . . . I know. I'd be a lot happier with a jury too, but Wells waived his right to a jury trial and, like it or not, we're stuck with Judge Rose. . . . Right, I'll let you know."

Ceretto turned back to Price. Dr. Llewellyn Price did not fit with Ceretto's image of a forensic psychiatrist. Price was too trim and athletic for someone in a sedentary profession like psychiatry. Ceretto found his eyes drawn to the peculiar asterisk-shaped scar above Price's right temple and he wondered how he had gotten it. Price watched Ceretto calmly with a flat expression that failed to hide the active mind behind his quiet brown eyes.

"My boss is worried he'll get off on an insanity defense," Ceretto said. "Legally, he's not insane, Lew, we both know that." Price stifled at the shortened use of his name. Ceretto seemed not to notice and continued. "Your staff did a thorough work-up on him. He knew what he was doing was wrong. He just didn't care."

"But. . . ?"

"But, I'd feel better if I could prove that Hanford Wells murdered the real Doctor Albert Mohan in order to assume his identity."

"You don't trust Judge Rose."

"Judge Meyer Rose is a fine man to decide a breach of contract suit, a mechanic's lien claim, an action for inverse condemnation, but he doesn't know the first thing about criminals. His basic philosophy is straight out of Father Flanagan -- there's no such thing as a bad boy. Hell, he'd let them all go if he could."

Ceretto raised his fist then, slowly, uncurled his fingers.

"Are you ready to cross examine?"

"Do you think Hanford Wells will take the stand?" Ceretto asked.

"You can count on it. Wells’ ego won't let him do otherwise."

* * *

"Mr. Riley, do you have any further witnesses?"

"Yes, Your Honor, the defense calls Hanford Wells."

Ceretto gave Llewellyn Price a brief nod.

"Mr. Riley, have you advised your client of his right against self-incrimination?"

"Yes, I have, Your Honor. I have here a written waiver of his rights which I have explained to Mr. Wells and which he signed in my presence."

"Very well. The clerk will swear the witness."

"Did you ever use the name, Albert Mohan?" Wells’ attorney began.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I have a great talent. I am, or could be, the world's greatest surgeon. Unfortunately, the cabal that controls the medical establishment has engaged in a conspiracy to prevent me from using my skills."

"And why is that, Mr. Wells?"

"Jealousy, spite and fear. They know that I'm more qualified than any of them and they know that I know about their secret conspiracy. They'll do anything to keep me from using my talent."

"Where is Dr. Mohan?"

"I don't know."

"How did you get his identification?"

"I found it."

"Where?"

"In a trash bin outside a Carl's Junior in Oswego, New York. I felt it was an omen that I should share my gifts."

Price flipped his notepad to a new page. Riley had done a good job coaching Wells. So far, Hanford had suppressed the petulant adolescent mannerisms that he had often displayed in his interviews with Price, but then a psychopath like Hanford Wells assumed personalities with the same ease that an actor changed costumes. From Wells’ point of view, life itself was a play and all the people around him were little more than props for his amusement.

"So," Michael Riley continued, "through the use of Dr. Mohan's identification you obtained a job as a pathologist at Strong Memorial Hospital?"

"Yes."

"How did you know that the real Dr. Mohan wouldn't show up and expose your impersonation?"

"I didn't, but if his identification had been thrown away it stood to reason that he was no longer using it. Maybe he committed suicide, or had been attacked, or maybe he just decided to start a new life."

"Mr. Wells, you know the police found the remains, or portions of the remains, of eight people in your basement. Did you kill those people?"

"No, I tried to save them, but I failed."

"How did you try to save them?"

"They were sick, homeless, abandoned. The regular doctors wouldn't help them. I tried to."

"They died under your care?"

"Yes."

"The prosecution has presented witnesses contending that unnecessary surgical procedures were the cause of their deaths. Is that what happened?"

"They needed surgery but they were too weak to survive. After they died, I used their cadavers for practice the same way that thousands of medical students do every day."

"Mr. Wells, did you do anything wrong?"

"No, I tried to save lives."

"Did you murder anyone?"

"No, I performed surgery on sick people and practiced surgical procedures on dead bodies."

"So, you didn't do anything wrong?"

"On the contrary, my actions were entirely proper. I was working hard, very hard, to become a better surgeon."

The definition of legal insanity was that as a result of mental defect or disease the defendant did not understand that what he did was wrong. Price studied the Judge's face and a sick, hollow feeling formed in his stomach.

"Thank you, Mr. Wells. No more questions."

The imbecile believes him! a voice screamed inside Price's head.

Ceretto approached the witness.

"Mr. Wells, did you hear the testimony of Dr. Amanda Stewart that Patrick McGraw, on whom you performed a kidney transplant, showed no signs of kidney disease?"

"Yes."

"Yet, you removed his kidney."

"In my best medical judgment, he needed a transplant."

"Where did you get the transplant organ?"

"I took it from one of my cadavers."

"Who was that?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know the identity of someone whose body you cut up for spare parts?"

"He was homeless. He was gasping his last breath when I found him in an alley. How was I to know his name?"

"So you just put his body in the trunk of your car, drove him home, and cut him up?"

"Mr. McGraw needed a kidney and the deceased wasn't using his any more."

"Did you perform a genetic match on Mr. McGraw and the 'donor?'"

"No. That isn't necessary."

"Genetic matching of transplanted organs is unnecessary?"

"That is merely part of the conspiracy engaged in by the medical establishment. It's a ploy to prevent the widespread use of transplanted organs. If people discovered how simple transplants were, the hospitals would lose billions."

"Didn't Mr. McGraw die because you cut him open and stuck in this homeless person's incompatible kidney?"

"No, he died of a heart attack during the surgery, a common cause of death."

"What about Melinda Shaw? What did she die of?"

"Cerebral hemorrhage."

"Is that why you removed the top of her skull?"

"I took her skull off after she was dead, to confirm the cause of death by a direct observation of her brain."

"Are you aware that Dr. Stewart found no evidence of this claimed cerebral hemorrhage?"

"That's what she said."

"And you doubt her testimony?"

"She's obviously part of the conspiracy against me."

Ceretto glanced at the Judge who wore a slight frown. Ceretto picked up an eight by ten photograph.

"Showing you People's twenty-six in evidence, Mr. Wells, please explain to the court the surgical procedures you performed on Andrew Wills which resulted in the conditions depicted in this picture."

Wells accepted the picture and, organ by organ, he led Ceretto through the catalog of his butchery. The D.A. handed him the photo of another of the corpses discovered in his basement and began all over again. It was almost five o'clock when Ceretto completed his cross examination.

"Any re-direct, Mr. Riley?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Any further defense witnesses?"

"No, Your Honor. The defense rests."

"Do the People have any rebuttal testimony, Mr. Ceretto?"

For a moment the D.A. paused. Should he re-call Price to comment on the Defendant's testimony? He had already put on four psychiatrists each of whom had testified that Hanford Wells understood the nature of his acts and that he knew they were wrong. For his part, Wells had called two psychiatrists who testified to just the opposite. By this point another psychiatric opinion was unlikely to affect the judge one way or the other. After a long beat, Ceretto turned back to the bench.

"No, Your Honor."

"All right, closing arguments will begin tomorrow morning at 9:30."

Price joined the D.A. next to a window overlooking a lifeless sycamore in the plaza below.

"You did the best you could," Price said softly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the Judge believed him."

"What are you talking about? You'd have to be a low-grade moron to believe Wells’ story."

"He didn't believe the story. He believed that Wells believes his story. The Judge doesn't think Wells knows the difference between right and wrong."

"Then why did he grab people in the middle of the night? Why did he hide the bodies in his basement?"

"When faced with butchery of this magnitude some people figure that the accused had to be insane because only a crazy person could do something like that. I think that before the first witness was called, based on nothing more than the nature of the crime, Judge Rose had decided, unconsciously at least, that Wells must be insane."

"I saw Rose frowning during Wells’ testimony. I know that look."

"If Judge Rose thought Wells was a thrill killer his face would have been an absolute blank. He was frowning because he decided that he was going to have to send Wells to me instead of to you."

"You can't know that."

"We'll find out soon enough."

* * *

". . . and so, it is the judgment of this Court that at the time of the conduct complained of in the indictment, the defendant, Hanford Wells, by reason of mental defect or disease, lacked the substantial capacity to know or appreciate either the nature and consequences of such conduct or that such conduct was wrong. I further find that the defendant, Hanford Wells, is a danger to himself or to others and I therefore remand him to the custody of the State of New York Office of Mental Health for detention and treatment in the Hickory Hollow Forensic Psychiatric Center pursuant to the provisions of Criminal Procedure Law 330.20. The defendant will remain in custody pending transfer to the Hickory Hollow facility. This court is adjourned."

The judge banged his gavel and hurriedly left the room.

"I guess he's my problem now," Price said to an outraged Chuck Ceretto.

"Unless he gets out."

"He's a classic pathological personality. Barring a miracle drug that does a complete brain wipe or a mass escape, the only way Hanford Wells will ever leave Hickory Hollow is in a hearse."

"Let's hope," Ceretto said, pausing to glare one more time at the door through which Meyer Rose had just fled the courtroom.

* * *

"But I was wrong," Price muttered, remembering Wells getting into the Troopers' cruiser. If he had called Ceretto and lined up the D.A.'s support, maybe he could have stopped Wells’ excursion. But he hadn't. Now this girl was dead and someone, Wells or some other psychopath, was on the loose. Price picked up his phone.

"Doctor Swanson, I've found something that might relate to the marks on your Jane Doe," Price began when Doc came on the line.

"Something that ties Wells to this?"

"Possibly. I think I should talk to the State Police investigator who's handling your case."

"There isn't one."

"I don't understand. In a murder case like this--"

"Officially, this isn't a murder case, just a set of unidentified bones. I don't have any evidence of the cause of death."

"She didn't carve those marks into her own skull."

"I said the same thing but the Sheriff doesn't care. Unless I give him an official report stating that death was caused by violent means he's refusing to consider Jane Doe as a murder victim. Right now she's only a death from unknown causes."

"But that's ridiculous!"

"You don't understand Iroquois County. Elias Nance knows as much about law enforcement as I do about nuclear physics. What he does understand is politics, and in that game image is everything. Nance hates the State Police because they know what they're doing and one of their officers was impolite enough to let it slip that they also know how incompetent he is. The last thing that Elias Nance wants in an election year is to have an open homicide on his watch."

"That's why you called me," Price said in a throaty voice.

"What?"

"You were hoping that if I could tie this skeleton to Hanford Wells the State Police would have to get involved. If I tell them that he's still alive they'll tear Iroquois County apart looking for him. And to do that, they'll have to take over your Jane Doe case. You don't really think it is Wells, do you?"

The line hummed faintly for a moment before Swanson finally answered, his voice flat and dead.

"The God's honest truth is, I don't know who killed this young woman, but God damn it, someone did! Some sick bastard grabbed her and killed her and used her bones like a post-it note and then stuck her in the ground, and he's going to do it again and again, and that son of a bitch, Elias Nance doesn't give a God damn, just so long as he looks good on his re-election poster."

"File a report that calls it murder."

"Nance would just get one of his buddies at the Coroner's Officer, people who know as much about medicine as Nance does about police work, to reject my opinion for lack of evidence, which in fact I don't have, and that would be that. Besides me, the only person who gives a damn about this girl is the Deputy who dug up her bones, and Nance hates her as much as he does the State Police. You were my last hope."

A second went by, then two.

"It might be Hanford Wells," Price said finally in a soft voice.

"What?"

"There were some sketches in my file that Wells created during one of our sessions. They look a lot like the characters etched into Jane Doe's bones. Maybe Wells isn't dead after all."

"Do you think you can convince the State Police of that?"

"Wells being alive won't look good in the papers. No one wants to wake up that sleeping dog."

"But you'll try?"

"My job is dealing with psychopaths. I know without a shadow of a doubt that whoever savaged that girl is going to keep on doing it until he's stopped. Of course I'll try."