CHAPTER 17

Henry shoved his way past the cameras and yelling re porters. The pretty, little one with the thick glasses had been following him everywhere. Earlier she had been at the bookstore, waiting for him as if she knew that he stopped by there every morning. Except now she had a camera guy with her and the camera was rolling. He could tell, because her thick, Coke-bottle glasses came off as soon as the camera went on. He wondered how the hell she had gotten into broadcast journalism with those things.

“Sheriff Watermeier, is it true there may be more than a hundred bodies buried in the quarry?”

“A hundred bodies?” He laughed. Not an appropriate response, but this was ridiculous. “Let’s hope not.”

“What about the rumors that some of the victims have been cannibalized? Can you elaborate on that, Sheriff?”

This time Henry avoided rolling his eyes. “We’ll try to answer some of your questions later today when we know more.”

He kept walking, not looking back, despite the questions that continued and despite the clicks of shutters and the hum of video cameras. He knew he would need to address the media, and soon. Earlier he had gotten a call from Randal Graham, the assistant to the governor, and good ole Randal advised him that he needed to somehow calm things down a notch. According to Randal, the governor was tremendously concerned about the national media calling these the worst serial killings in Connecticut’s history. Henry wanted to tell that weasel Graham that those reports were probably accurate, and if he wanted things toned down a notch maybe he should get his ass down here and tone them down himself. But, instead, he told the governor’s assistant that he had things under control. So, in other words, he had lied.

The tall grass was slick with dew, glittering in the morning sun. Once he got into the mouth of the quarry he couldn’t hear the reporters. The rocks and trees insulated the area. Henry took in the surroundings. The leftover, rusted conveyor system that hovered over Vargus and Hobbs’s shiny yellow earthmover looked out of place in this sanctuary. It really was beautiful, giant stepping stones all the way up the mountain, sheltered by thick evergreens alongside yellow-and-orange-leafed oak and walnut trees. It only now occurred to him that the killer had chosen wisely when he made this his graveyard.

He stayed back from the commotion and watched Bonzado with his students unloading equipment from the shell of his El Camino. The three students—one woman and two men—looked like typical nerds with none of the flamboyance of their professor, who today wore a pink-and-blue Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts and brown hiking boots. Henry managed a smile. He actually liked Bonzado. He trusted the kid, which was more than he could say about some of his own men. Most of these guys hadn’t seen a bloodied body outside of a car accident. He knew he could depend on the police lab techs, but his own deputies were another story. As if on cue he saw Truman screaming at a reporter. Shit! Henry recognized the guy from NBC News. Wonderful! That would look great tonight on the Nightly News with Tom Brokaw.

This really was a fucking mess. Even Rosie couldn’t put a positive spin on this one. What he needed was someone he could blame if things went south. Some expert that no one would second-guess. That certainly wouldn’t be Dr. Stolz. He watched the medical examiner making his way through the reporters. He was dressed as if for court again in his suit and tie and expensive leather shoes. Shoes that would send him—yup, sure enough, Stolz slipped on the wet grass, almost losing his balance and ending up on his skinny little ass. Henry wiped at his smile, almost breaking out into a laugh when he noticed Bonzado doing the same.

His cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket, and he grabbed it. Beverly had instructions to forward only the important calls. He hoped this wasn’t Graham again. He should have put him on the nonimportant list.

“Watermeier,” he barked into the phone.

“Sheriff Watermeier, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell with the FBI.”

“I don’t remember calling the FBI for help, Agent O’Dell.”

“Actually, I think we might be able to help each other, Sheriff Watermeier.”

“How do you figure?”

“I’m a criminal profiler and it sounds like you might have a serial killer on your hands.”

Henry stopped himself from automatically shrugging off this unexpected offer, another in a long list of know-it-alls wanting a piece of the action. Maybe this was exactly what he needed. The local yokels would have a tough time arguing with him about bringing in federal assistance, no matter how uptight they were about outsiders. He did need some help. And this Agent O’Dell might come in handy if he needed a scapegoat.

“You said we could help each other. What is it you want from me, Agent O’Dell?”

“I’m looking for a missing person.”

“I don’t have a whole lot of time for wild-goose chases right now. I’ve got my plate full, if you know what I mean.”

“No, you don’t understand, Sheriff Watermeier. I’m hoping I’m wrong, but I think you may have already found her.”