Dead mountain, p.6
Dead Mountain, page 6
Corrie had a degree in forensic anthropology, but her expertise was in the analysis of bones. These were not bones, but fully intact, naturally mummified bodies, and they would be engaging a medical examiner to conduct the autopsies. The Albuquerque FO did not have one on staff, and that meant calling in the state’s Office of the Medical Investigator, located at the University of New Mexico. But before an OMI pathologist could be contacted, she had to do the preliminary examinations and then get the corpses legally identified.
She went to the wardrobe and suited up in full surgical scrubs, gown, gloves, mask, goggles, and haircover. And then, with a certain trepidation, she unzipped both body bags and gazed at the cadaver of the person Sharp had informally identified as Paul Tolland. She had removed the wallet from his back pocket while still in the cave, and it was now in the adjacent evidence container. While that seemed to check all the ID boxes, it wasn’t sufficient for a legal identification. As she gazed at the mummified face illuminated under bright lights—withered cheeks, shrunken neck cords like a hangman’s noose, dark craters where the eyes should be—she knew there would be no point in asking the family to identify it. Which meant either fingerprints or dental records would be necessary.
She sighed again. Part of her was curious as to what she might find, but another part shrank from the gruesomeness and invasion of bodily privacy. She reminded herself she’d seen more than her share of cadavers: time to suck it up and get to work.
She turned to a small A/V console and started the video. A red light went on in the camera mounted above her head. She walked around Tolland’s gurney, commenting for the record on what she observed, focusing on the blade that was protruding from his breast. It sure looked like a fatal blow, having gone through the ribs and probably into the heart. The fingers clasped around the hilt of the knife looked like cheroots.
She took a step back. Wright was wearing boots on both feet, while Tolland had a boot on one foot and a valenki on the other. Wright was wearing gloves, but Tolland’s hands were bare. As she turned to lean over Wright’s corpse, she noted aloud that he had what appeared to be significant defensive knife wounds to his hands, cutting and slashing through the gloves. Tolland’s bare hands, clutched around the knife that was buried in his own ribs, showed no defensive cuts. His body showed no obvious cuts or slashes either—just the one fatal blow.
What had happened here? Only one knife had been recovered at the scene, and it was sticking out of Tolland’s chest. Had a third party attacked and stabbed them to death? Or was it possible they’d fought with each other? If the latter, the defensive wounds on Wright implied Tolland had attacked him first, cut the hell out of him, before Wright managed to wrest the knife from Tolland and kill him with it. Of course, that assumed the attacker wasn’t someone else. Corrie knew these questions couldn’t be answered until the autopsies were completed, but she couldn’t help pondering them as she walked around the cadavers, keeping her commentary strictly observational, without evaluation or speculation.
It took about thirty minutes to complete the anterior examination of the dressed corpses. Now she had to turn them over and describe the posteriors. The corpses were much lighter than they would have been if fresh, but they were still too heavy for her to properly roll over on her own. She’d have to get help. She was about to exit the lab to find Nate when the door opened, revealing Agent Sharp.
“Good afternoon, Agent Swanson. How are you faring?”
“Very well,” she said. “I’m in the middle of the preliminary examinations.”
“Interesting?”
“It certainly is, although it’s too soon to draw conclusions. Would you, ah, care to watch?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“In that case, sir, would you mind gowning up? And then I could really use your help flipping these cadavers.”
“Flipping them?” He smiled at the terminology. “Gladly.”
She watched him eye the two bodies for a moment, one eyebrow raised, then he turned to get gowned up. It didn’t surprise her in the least that he wasn’t squeamish.
He returned looking a lot less intimidating in the puffy white outfit than when dressed in one of his elegant suits. Above the mask, his eyes looked, as usual, sleepy yet disturbingly alert.
“Show me how to flip a cadaver,” he said. “I can only assume no spatula is required.”
“Put your hands underneath, here and here,” she said. “We’ll gently but firmly roll it over, then slide it back to the middle of the gurney.”
He nodded, placing his gloved hands where indicated. The body of Tolland was rolled over neatly, the posterior side now revealed. Since it had been lying on its stomach all these years, the back showed less deterioration, with the exception of rodent and insect activity.
“Turn the next one?” Corrie asked.
“There’s nothing I’d rather do.”
This body was more complicated because Wright was frozen in a semi-fetal position. But with Sharp’s help, she managed to turn him over with minimal trouble.
“Thanks,” Corrie said. “Now, I need to finish the preliminary examination under the watchful eye of that.” She pointed at the camera. “Then after the examination, I’ll have to cut off the clothing and do it all over again.”
“What about legal identification of the remains?”
“Since we already more or less know who they are, I think dental X-rays are the best way to go. We could rehydrate the fingers, but because of their youth and lack of criminal records it’s less likely their prints will be on file. As you can see—” she pointed to their mouths, gaping in profile— “they’ve both had dental work.”
Sharp nodded. “And you’ll X-ray them here?”
“Yes. We don’t have a dental setup, per se, but the new X-ray machine will do just fine. We’ll have to send the X-rays with the old dental records off to Quantico. Once we ID them, we’ll have to inform the families.” She hesitated. “Um, sir, I’ve not encountered that situation before. Who will do that?”
Sharp gazed at her. “The families will each be paid a courtesy visit.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t say who’d be making those visits. Perhaps he didn’t yet know.
“And the autopsies?” he asked, intruding on her thoughts.
“We’ll need to call in OMI.”
Sharp nodded. “Very good. Please carry on.”
He stood back while Corrie resumed her walk-around, once again describing what she observed. She was acutely aware of Sharp’s presence, and his evident interest made her nervous. The Dead Mountain case would of course be revived, and she wondered who would be put in charge. Certainly not her, an agent still on supervised probation. Maybe not even Sharp: there might well be other agents in the field office with seniority, or relevant experience from the original case. Reflecting on the pressure and exposure that would come with the assignment, she felt only relief.
She completed the second round of observations, then went to the supply cabinet and removed a pair of cloth-cutting shears. Sharp remained silent as she cut off the clothing, one piece at a time in methodical fashion, using tongs to remove each piece and lay it on an evidence table, where she tagged them and slid them into envelopes, sealing and labeling each. The process was long, tiresome, and unpleasant. A smell rose more insistently from the corpses, faint yet vile. There was something, Corrie thought, about the smell of decaying human flesh that was infinitely worse than any rotting animal.
Slowly she undressed the bodies, exposing the skinny, shriveled limbs, the skin wrinkled and colored like an old apple, the genitals shrunken almost to nothing. A lot of blood had come from the wounds and, drying, had glued the clothing to the skin in areas. Corrie had to gently work the clothing away from the papery skin, trying not to pull up flesh along with the fabric. Five o’clock came and went. Finally, two and a half hours after she’d followed the gurneys into the lab, the cadavers had been fully inspected and were ready for X-rays.
She glanced up at the clock.
“Six thirty,” said Sharp. “I would say it’s quitting time—what do you think?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Good. We can leave the building together. That should be a bracing experience.”
“Bracing? What do you mean?”
Sharp just raised an eyebrow and smiled.
12
THEY WALKED TOGETHER through the deserted corridors of the building, most of the staff having already left for the evening. As they went through the lobby toward the smoked front doors, Corrie could hear a muffled sound, which grew louder as they approached, and through the doors she could see what looked like reporters with cameras and mikes.
“What’s this?” Corrie said, halting.
“The media,” said Sharp.
“How the hell did they get the story so fast?”
“It’s their job. Police band radio, informants, pals in various nooks and crannies of law enforcement.”
“Let’s go out the rear entrance.”
Sharp turned agreeably and began following her back through the lobby. After a dozen steps, he said, “Are you sure?”
She stopped. “What do you mean? We don’t want to talk to them.”
“We don’t?”
She stared at Sharp. This was new. In her limited experience, the FBI hated to talk to the press and usually avoided them at all costs. Morwood certainly had drilled that into her. “Sir, are you suggesting we go out and engage the press?”
“What I’m suggesting is you weigh the pros and cons before making a knee-jerk decision. The media are not our enemies, and they serve an important role in our society . . . although, lest I sound like a PR flack, they can admittedly be a huge pain in the ass. We always have the opportunity for misdirection or even silence—where appropriate. But this is a high-profile case, with intense public interest. Might it not be worth showing our faces, saying a few words, and establishing that we’re in charge and moving forward with all possible dispatch?”
Corrie considered this. The last thing she wanted was to run interference through a media scrimmage. What if she made a mistake, said something stupid, or stumbled over her words and looked like an idiot?
“We don’t have anything yet to give them,” she said, a little feebly.
“Perhaps not. But I’m not sure that’s the impression we want to give the public at large. This case is still coming together . . . and you have an opportunity here.” Sharp gave her a thin smile. “So what’s it going to be, the hard-charging Eliot Ness or the secretive J. Edgar? I’ll leave it up to you to decide—exit here or sneak out the back.”
Sneak out the back. Corrie could sense he wanted her to deal with the press—perhaps to “toughen up her calluses,” as a guitar-playing friend at the Academy liked to say. Sharp was proving as enigmatic as the Buddha. She found herself wishing for Morwood’s straightforward guidance.
“Okay, let’s go,” she said, striding forward, pushing the crash bar, and opening the door. As they emerged into the portico, the crowd surged forward, boom mikes swinging toward her, video lights switching on, accompanied by the shouting of questions. Corrie was temporarily stunned by the activity, but took a deep breath and kept in mind that Sharp was beside her. They made eye contact and he gave her an amused smile, as if to say, You’ve got this.
She looked back at the crowd. On second glance, it didn’t seem so big after all, or so overwhelming. She held up her hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” she said. “If you could please quiet down, I’ll make a statement.”
It was amazing how quickly silence fell.
“I’m Special Agent Corinne Swanson, one of the initial agents on the scene.” She tried to muster a tone of gravitas. “First: I can’t answer any of your questions right now, because it’s far too early in the investigation for details. What I can say is that we’re fairly confident we’ve found two more victims of the so-called Dead Mountain incident of 2008. We are currently in the identification and evidence-gathering phase, and I can assure you that the FBI are devoting all necessary resources into solving this case once and for all—after fifteen years.”
She paused. The lights were dazzling, as was her growing realization that this was probably being broadcast live on TV. She ought to close it down. “My colleagues and I will supply you with additional information as soon as we are able. Thank you.”
This was followed by an upswell of questions, but Corrie braced herself and moved forward, the crowd parting reluctantly to let them pass. Some of them continued following as they walked across the tarmac toward their cars, but they soon melted away, realizing they would get nothing more. By the time she reached her car door, she and Sharp were alone.
“You have to admit,” he said in an undertone, “the walk from the back exit is longer.”
Now that it was over, she could feel her heart pounding, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. “Sir, did I establish that we’re in charge and moving forward with all possible dispatch?”
This wasn’t meant to be insubordinate, and a lazy crinkling around Sharp’s eyes made it clear he hadn’t taken it that way. “You gave them just enough to pick over, while respectfully representing the Bureau. I’d say it was just about perfect. When you get home, I would recommend treating yourself to a stiff drink.”
“I will. Thank you, sir.”
Sharp went off to his own car while Corrie climbed into her vehicle, drove across the lot and out onto Leucking Park Avenue, her pounding heart settling back into a normal rhythm.
13
NORA KELLY PARKED her Jeep in the increasingly muddy area beside the Forest Service road. She noted that the Torrance County sheriff’s Ford Explorer was also parked there, which meant Deputy Baca was still standing guard over the cave. The temperature had warmed to above freezing, and a chilly mist drifted among the black tree trunks.
A second Jeep pulled up alongside, carrying Darren Tenorio, a member of the Isleta Pueblo Tribal Council. They all got out, Nora and her assistant Stan Morrison hefting small daypacks with tools and equipment, Tenorio slinging a worn leather bag over his shoulder.
“It’s this way,” said Nora, indicating the now-established trail leading downslope.
Tenorio nodded. He was a middle-aged man with two long salt-and-pepper braids, wearing a down jacket over a traditional Pueblo shirt, jeans, and hiking boots.
They gingerly picked their way down the slippery terrain, finally arriving at the ravine. Nora was surprised to see someone she assumed must be Sheriff Hawley there with Deputy Baca, sitting in chairs, smoking and passing a thermos of coffee back and forth. All that was missing, she thought, was a beer bucket and a portable grill, and they’d have a tailgate party for a Jets game.
Hawley rose as they arrived. “What’s this?” he asked, looking at Tenorio and Nora. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Nora Kelly, Santa Fe Archaeological Institute,” she said. “I’m here at the request of the FBI.”
“That so? You got ID?”
Nora was surprised by the challenging tone of his voice, but she reached into her back pocket for her wallet and fished out her SFAI identification card.
The sheriff took it and scrutinized it, grunted, and handed it back. He turned to Tenorio. “And you?”
Tenorio handed him his driver’s license.
The sheriff took it. “What’s the nature of your involvement, Mr. Tenorio?”
Tenorio said, his voice low and calm, “I’m here to inspect the two burials, which we believe are ancestral to Isleta Pueblo.”
“And who authorized this?” the sheriff asked.
“I did,” said Nora sharply. “With the approval of Special Agent Swanson, who asked me to liaise with Isleta Pueblo over these burials.”
“Swanson?” he said, a note of disrespect in his voice.
Nora wondered what Hawley was doing there anyway: the cold, damp mountain was not exactly Monet’s field of poppies. She had a sense something was up.
“This is an active crime scene,” said the sheriff, returning the driver’s license to Tenorio with insolent slowness. “Ten minutes.”
Tenorio put away his license. “This is a burial ground of our ancestors, it is sacred to us, and for that reason I’ll take all the time I need.” He spoke in the softest voice, but there was an edge to the words.
Hawley stared at him. “I understand completely. Like I said: ten minutes.”
Nora pulled out her cell phone to call Corrie but quickly realized there was no service. She looked at Hawley and—after the briefest of deliberations—decided to call his bluff. “Like Mr. Tenorio said: we’re going up there for as long as necessary. If that’s a problem, Sheriff, then go ahead and take us into custody.” She stared at him. Why was he being so hostile?
Hawley stared back. “Don’t think I won’t make note of this defiance of a lawful order.”
Nora was on the brink of responding but, since it seemed they were going to get their way, decided against it. She gestured toward the ladder. “After you, Mr. Tenorio.”
They ascended the ladder, Nora following Tenorio, and Stan Morrison bringing up the rear. Nora switched on the lights, still set up within the cave’s mouth, and the interior jumped into illumination. After a moment of silence, Tenorio said a prayer in Tiwa, removed a small ceramic vessel from his bag, took out a pinch of what was evidently corn pollen, and sprinkled it around while continuing to chant. Then he put it away and turned to Nora. “Show me what you found.”
She and Morrison went over to the temporary wooden cover and removed it, exposing the two skulls, the fringe of blanket, and part of the micaceous pot. Tenorio came over and knelt. He removed a whisk from his leather bag and brushed away at the ancient blanket, gradually revealing more of the woven black border and a band of red. Then he cleared away the pot, eventually exposing an incised decoration along the side Nora recognized as a geometric lightning symbol.
