Razing the Dead Page 6

  I picked my way through the marshy grass, stumbling a bit in my too-big boots, until I came up beside him and looked down to see what had seized his attention.

  I should have guessed that things had gone a bit too well today and I would have to pay the cosmic bill.

  Before us bobbed the body of a dead man, facedown in the pond.

  For once, it seemed, the industrial titan Mitchell Wakeman was at a loss. “What the . . . ? Who is it?”

  “How on earth should I know?” I snapped.

  Lissa had finally made her way down to stand beside us. She looked at the pond, and said, “Oh.” Then she turned quickly, walked to the edge of the road, and threw up.

  I’d been through this before. I pulled out my cell phone and hit 9-1-1.

  The good news is, out in the suburbs, where there are lots of small towns, the police station is never far away. The bad news is, because these are small, peaceful towns, there are seldom police officers on staff who have much experience investigating deaths. In five minutes, a squad car arrived and two youngish uniformed cops climbed out. I’ll give them credit for doing things correctly, all by the book: they approached us and looked down at the body and nodded sagely; they asked us who we were and what we were doing there; and then they escorted us back to Wakeman’s car and told us to sit there and stay put. Then they walked away so that they were out of earshot, conferred briefly, and made another call.

  Five minutes after that, another car arrived, and two more officers climbed out. One was older and clearly had more authority. He spoke briefly with the first officers, then came up to Wakeman, who was leaning against the car with a thousand-mile stare on his face, and introduced himself. His deference suggested that he recognized Wakeman’s name if not his face. Then he turned to Lissa and me, and we explained again how we had come to be in an idyllic cow pasture on a fine summer’s day, staring at a corpse. Who nobody had yet identified. The cops had wisely left the body right where it was, presumably to avoid mucking up any potential evidence.

  “What happens now?” I asked. I had a passing familiarity with Philadelphia procedures, but I wasn’t about to assume they were the same here.

  “We wait for the coroner,” the officer said promptly. “That’s who decides if it’s an unnatural death and figures out who it is. He’ll be here any minute—the county office is right down the road.”

  For a brief moment I nursed the hope that whoever it was had fallen into the pond (which looked about a foot deep) and drowned. Or chosen a rather unlikely method of suicide, in plain sight of a well-traveled road. I couldn’t convince myself that either was likely.

  “Will you be handling the investigation?” I asked, more to make conversation than because I cared. I knew I had nothing to do with this death. I couldn’t swear to Wakeman’s innocence, but why would he have brought me all the way out here to witness his discovery of the body?

  “Depends on what the coroner has to say, and who it is.” The senior officer looked over at Wakeman, standing a dozen feet away sucking on a cigarette, and asked, “That’s the Mitchell Wakeman, right?”

  “Sure is,” I said.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.” I didn’t know what details of the project had gone public, and I wasn’t going to talk out of turn.

  The coroner arrived. The senior officer conferred with him, and then the pair of them went back to the pond, and the coroner took pictures of the body, the pond, the field, a pretty flower . . . well, probably not that last one, but it seemed that way. I was getting punchy. After the coroner had taken the appropriate photos, he enlisted the assistance of a junior officer and together they extricated the body from the pond, which, as I had guessed, turned out to be shallow but muddy. They laid the body on the grass at the edge of the pond and stared down at it. The coroner shook his head and said something, then knelt and fished a wallet out of the dead man’s hip pocket and flipped it open to look at the driver’s license. He looked up at the senior officer and nodded, then stood up again.

  This was beginning to feel like watching a television show with the sound turned off. Whatever conversation there was was drowned out intermittently by the sound of passing cars, some of which slowed to see what all the activity was about, only to be shooed on by one of the younger officers. I watched the senior officer walk over to Wakeman and exchange a few words, then the two of them went over to where the body lay, and looked down. Wakeman shook his head; apparently he didn’t recognize the man.

  Then Wakeman came back to where Lissa and I were still standing. “Sorry to have dragged you into all this,” he said.

  “Don’t be. You didn’t have anything to do with it. Did they tell you who the guy was?”

  “Local, according to the cop—he’s the zoning officer for the township. Which I guess makes it likely that he’s tied into the project, because that seems like the only reason he’d be here. Like I said, sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too. It’s clear this project means a lot to you, and this isn’t going to make it any easier. Can we go?”

  “Not yet. I think the local cops have decided they’re in over their heads, since I’m kind of a public figure, and they’ve called in some bigger guns, and I talked to some people, too. They should be here shortly, and they may want to talk with us. So we sit tight for now.”

  I nodded, then turned to Lissa. “You okay?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. I’ve never seen a dead body before, not outside of a hospital. It wasn’t quite what I expected.”

  “I know what you mean.” All too well.

  We sat for a while, saying nothing. It seemed to incongruous, to be sitting in the midst of the bucolic splendor of a Chester County summer while a body lay on the grass below, discreetly covered with a piece of plastic. We talked sporadically about insignificant things. At some point, Lissa said, “You know, you wouldn’t know it to look at it now, but a lot of history took place around here. As I said earlier, that road down there has been a major road since the late seventeen hundreds. Washington and his hapless troops were all over the place around here, and we’re not all that far from Valley Forge.” She stopped for a moment, then looked past me and nodded toward an approaching car. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

  A plain car pulled up behind the police cars and parked. The door opened—and James stepped out.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  CHAPTER 7

  We regarded each other across twenty feet of driveway. I felt I had the advantage: I figured the local cops had indeed recognized this death was beyond their scope and had asked the FBI to step in—which they had every right to do—so seeing an FBI agent here was not altogether surprising. What the odds were that James would pick up that case, and that he’d find me here in the middle of yet another murder investigation, I couldn’t begin to guess. For a brief, wistful moment, I wondered if this was where I was supposed to sob gracefully and fling myself into his manly arms and let him comfort me, but I stifled it. We were both here as professionals and should act accordingly.

  He made the first move. Wakeman and the senior cop were deep in conversation a few yards down the hill, so James approached me first.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said in a low voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting a grand tour of the proposed development site from the developer himself.” I nodded down the hill at Wakeman. “What are you doing here?”

  “The local police put in a call for help, but I’m pretty sure it was your developer pal who asked. Whoever caught the call thought a nice suburban death would be a soft entry back into the game for me, so I got sent. It never occurred to me that you’d be involved.” He leaned back, because Lissa had come up behind us.

  I made the introduction. “Lissa, this is Special Agent James Morrison, from the FBI. He’s been called in to help ou
t the local police with the investigation. James, this is the person Marty recommended to handle Wakeman’s research into this site. Although she may not be interested after today.” Dealing with dead bodies—recent ones, at least—had not been part of the job description.

  “Good to meet you, Agent Morrison. I take it you know Nell?” Lissa asked, her composure returned.

  “Uh, yes, we’re . . . we’ve . . .” James fumbled for an answer.

  I rescued him by saying, “I’ll fill you in later, Lissa. James, don’t you need to check in with the local authorities?”

  “I do. I assume they told you to stick around?”

  “Yes, since we discovered the body. And Wakeman was our ride, anyway.”

  “We’ll sort it out.” James turned away and started down the hill to where the main players were gathered, waiting.

  “I can’t wait to hear the story,” Lissa said drily as she watched him go.

  I was torn between admiration for her observational skills and an urge to swat her, and say, “Hands off, he’s mine.” Very mature of me. I settled for “We might as well sit down to wait—this may take a while.”

  We sat in Wakeman’s car, leaving the doors open, our feet pointing downhill, and watched the machinery of a police investigation grind along. “You said something about being involved in murder investigations? Do you know what happens now?” Lissa asked, indicating the police.

  “Well, I’ve only seen things from the civilian side, but I’ll tell you what I know. The coroner’s here and he’s identified the body and apparently declared the death a crime, since they called for reinforcements. That means there will be an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death and when it happened. Then they’ll start interviewing people. Apparently, the victim is a local guy, so they’ll start with his wife, if he had one, his colleagues and friends around here, and then anyone who might have wanted him dead.”

  “Sounds logical enough. Why did they call in the FBI?”

  “Manpower, for one—most police departments don’t have a lot of staff these days. Access to information, for another—the FBI can look at phone records, financial information, all that stuff, a lot more quickly. They’ve got better forensic facilities, too. And I’d guess that the fact that Mitchell Wakeman is involved means there’ll be more public attention to this, even if he had nothing to do with it, so I’m going to guess the locals are covering their butts.”

  “You think the project will go forward?”

  It seemed a little early to ask, but Lissa was probably worried about this job opportunity drying up. “I’d guess yes. Unless someone can prove that Wakeman committed the crime himself or had direct knowledge of it, both of which seem unlikely. He’s probably looked into most of the history carefully already. He just wants our official seal of approval—not that I’m suggesting you sugarcoat whatever you find. He seems very heavily invested in this project, and I don’t mean just financially.”

  “I agree—he seemed really enthusiastic when he was showing it off. I like his vision for this place,” Lissa said.

  I watched Mitchell Wakeman talking to the group of police and James; he was remarkably patient. “I’d like to think he’s honest and he really does care, but I can’t say that I know him well. Look, if you’d like to back out now, I’d understand.”

  Lissa smiled, more to herself than to me. “No, I’m good with it. It’s a shame about that poor man, but after all, it isn’t the first time people have died here, and we had nothing to do with his death.”

  We fell silent again. The shadows were lengthening and swallows were swooping above the meadow, snagging slow-flying insects. I watched James at work. He seemed to have things well in hand. He was talking to the officers, but he appeared neither too deferential nor too assertive. He knew he was on their turf and he didn’t want to create any more friction than necessary, but somehow he managed to make it clear that he was in charge without ruffling any feathers. It didn’t seem like his reentry into work was proving too taxing, I was glad to see.

  I just wished I didn’t have quite such an up-close-and-personal view of it.

  I watched as the coroner’s van loaded up the covered body and sped off toward West Chester, then James and the local police chief conferred with Wakeman. After a lot of nodding, the group split up, with James and Wakeman coming toward us. Lissa and I stood up.

  “Ladies,” Wakeman said, “I know you probably have questions, but I need some time to think about how this is going to proceed. I didn’t expect anything like this. Agent Morrison says he’ll see to getting you two home, so I’ll leave now. I’ll be in touch.”

  “I understand,” I said—and I did. “I hope everything works out for the best.”

  We stepped away from his car, and Wakeman pulled out. Thirty seconds later I saw his car on the Paoli Pike below, headed toward West Chester.

  “What now?” I asked James.

  “Have either of you eaten?” he said.

  “Uh, it’s been a while. I’d ask you both back to my place, but I don’t think I have any food.”

  “I hear the Iron Hill Brewery in West Chester is nice,” James said. “We can eat, and then I’ll take both of you home.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  It took us no more than five minutes to reach the restaurant, and we even found a parking space on the street. Inside, the place was comfortably filled, but we got a table quickly and ordered a locally brewed ale and exotic pizzas all around. When the waitress left to fill our orders, I asked, “How much can you tell us? Or can’t we talk about this?”

  “You were on the scene before I was, obviously.” James looked around carefully, but there were few people in earshot, and they all seemed deep in conversation with their tablemates. “How did Wakeman react when you all found the body?”

  “You mean, did he set us up to witness his reaction? I doubt it. As far as I could tell he was honestly surprised—he started out annoyed that somebody was dumping stuff on his site, until he got closer and realized what it was we were looking at. He seemed pretty legitimate to me.”

  “Did he recognize the victim?”

  “I don’t think so. I think the coroner told him who it was. Why? Is there some reason he should have known the guy?”

  “What was the man’s name?” Lissa asked.

  “George Bowen, a township employee in charge of land use and zoning, among other things.”

  Lissa and I exchanged a look. “Do you know if he was involved in Wakeman’s project?” I asked.

  “On some level, probably, though it seems highly unlikely that the head of a major corporation would be talking directly to a small-town local official—Wakeman’s probably got about eight layers of people to do that. On the other hand, we can’t dismiss it altogether.”

  “Are the police handling the local interviews?” I asked.

  “They were going to talk to Bowen’s wife—some of them know her, and they live close by. They’ll talk to his township colleagues in the morning. They’re better equipped to handle that than I am, but I may sit in.”

  “What was the cause of death?” I prompted.

  “According to the coroner, a blow to the head, possibly in combination with being strangled, and his best guess before an autopsy was sometime late last night—certainly after dark. And before you ask, we don’t yet know if it happened where he was found or somewhere else. We’ll be sending a couple of our forensic people over.”

  “So if this man was hit on the head and strangled, he was murdered?” Lissa asked. “How awful.” We all grew quiet. I surprised myself by reaching out and taking James’s hand; he in turn looked startled, then smiled and clasped it in his. We kind of lost a few moments looking at each other. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said quietly.

  Lissa was watching us with some amusement. “So, Agent Morrison, Marty tells me you’re her cousin?” she
said, shifting conversational gears. As well she should, for all our sakes.

  “Yes, but don’t ask me to explain how,” James said. We all laughed, then kept the conversation on lighter topics and away from murder.

  Our pizzas appeared and we dug in happily. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, but everything tasted good. It was full dark when we finally emerged from the restaurant, and we hadn’t worked out who was going where. I had said I wanted some alone time at my house—but that was before we’d stumbled into another murder. But now there was Lissa to consider. So I saw three choices: James took me home and deposited me on my doorstep, then took Lissa back to the city; the three of us crashed at my place, which would definitely be a strain on my hospitality; or we stuck Lissa on a late train and had some personal time together, which seemed kind of unfair to Lissa, who had seen the same body that I had and had every right to be upset. Why did all this have to be so complicated?

  In the end, James made the decision. “Let me take you home, Nell, and then I’ll take Lissa back with me. Where do you live, Lissa?”

  “Near Penn,” she said. “But I could take a train.”

  James brushed off her offer. “That’s near me, so it’s no bother. Nell, does that work for you?”

  What could I do but agree? I’d asked for space, and I was going to get it. “That’s fine.”

  Late in the evening, it took no more than half an hour to reach my house. I got out of the car and was surprised when James did, too. “I’ll walk you to your door,” he said.

  The door was ten feet away. But it was dark. I hadn’t been home in ages, so I’d left no lights on. James took my arm and guided me to it, and waited while I found my keys. Then he looked at me and said softly, “You all right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. It wasn’t . . . awful, and I didn’t know the man. Maybe I’m getting jaded, after what we’ve been through. But thanks for asking.”

  James leaned in and kissed me, the kiss gentle, warm. Then he broke it off, sooner than I might have liked. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”