Ding Dong Dead Part 18

The dogs were wonderfully well behaved, if Gretchen didn't count Tutu, until they got together. Then their primitive pack mentality got the better of them. The last time they were left unsupervised, the canines had run wild; the house looked like a war zone by the time Gretchen got home.

"Let's get started," Gretchen said since she couldn't do anything about the dog situation. "We're going to canva.s.s the neighborhood. With any luck, we'll find someone who has lived in this area for a long time, long enough to know the Swilling's family history and give us some background."

Caroline handed each of them a notebook. "Jot down the addresses you visit and the results. We don't want to waste time by repeating the same houses later. Make notes if you discover anything that could be relevant."

The women teamed up under Gretchen's direction. She watched her mother and April knock at their first house before she crossed to the other side of the street with Nina.

Six homes later, after four unanswered knocks and two occupied by owners too recent to be helpful, Nina started complaining about her feet, then about the task at hand. Gretchen glanced at her aunt's gold heels but didn't say anything.

"Phoenix, in case you haven't noticed," her aunt said grumpily, "is a transient city. Everyone living in the Valley of the Sun is from someplace else these days. We're wasting our time on a wild-goose chase."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"I could be spending the day with Brandon."

"Under the hood of your car? That sounds like a good time."

"You have a point."

Nina remained on the sidewalk holding her shoes and wiggling her bare feet while Gretchen knocked on house number seven. Again, there was no response.

From what Gretchen could tell, Caroline and April were having more luck getting doors to open but the same rate of failure finding longtime residents. April called over. "Nothing yet," she said. "We're turning the corner up ahead."

"Whose big idea was this anyway?" Nina wanted to know after putting her heels back on.

Gretchen couldn't tell Nina that she'd talked to her aunt Gertie. Something about her other aunt's name brought out the very worst in Nina. And she was crabby already. "We have to at least try," she said. "We'll finish what we started by circling the block."

"Wait," Nina screeched. "Don't tell me." Her eyes became narrow, knowing slits. "You've been taking advice from that woman again?"

Nina's intuition was sharpening, but Gretchen wished she would use it for a higher purpose than arguing with her. Why couldn't she use it to identify the killer?

"Aunt Gertie made a few suggestions," Gretchen said. "They seem reasonable."

"There isn't anything reasonable about her. She's dangerous. Practically everyone around her gets shot to death."

Gretchen couldn't help letting out a small chortle. Nina was close to the mark. Aunt Gertie didn't always think before she acted, sometimes creating more problems than she started with. But she always solved her cases. For her, the end justified the means. "You're exaggerating, Nina," she said.

As usual.

They stood in front of a house set slightly farther back from the street than the other homes. Gretchen thought it had an unoccupied look to it. Not exactly that its exterior hadn't been maintained, though it appeared neglected when compared to the others. She walked past it.

"Where are you going?" Nina asked from the sidewalk that led to the house. "What's wrong with this one?"

"No one lives here." Gretchen stopped and turned around.

"Really," Nina said.

"I don't think so, but I suppose we should make sure."

Nina had another "incoming message" expression on her face when Gretchen pa.s.sed her and started up the walkway. "Someone's inside," her aunt informed her.

Gretchen was on the porch about to ring the doorbell.

"Don't!" Nina shouted. "I have a bad feeling!"

What was the matter with Nina? At this rate, they'd be on this block for the rest of the day. Gretchen pressed the b.u.t.ton and heard the chime inside the house. "What's wrong with you?" she asked her aunt.

Before Nina could reply, the door creaked open.

A large woman loomed in the doorway, staring at Gretchen.

"I'm searching for information on a neighborhood family," Gretchen said.

"Come in," she said. "We've been waiting for you."

32.

Collectors are experiencing renewed interest in metal-head dolls. Since it is difficult to find an undamaged metal head, the Since it is difficult to find an undamaged metal head, the following instructions are useful for restoration. Remove all the following instructions are useful for restoration. Remove all the original paint with an oven cleaner. Have your local car accessory original paint with an oven cleaner. Have your local car accessory dealer mix a flesh-colored spray paint in a satin finish. Apply two dealer mix a flesh-colored spray paint in a satin finish. Apply two coats, allowing time to dry between coats. Use acrylic paints and coats, allowing time to dry between coats. Use acrylic paints and an airbrush to add cheek blush. Artist's brushes work well when an airbrush to add cheek blush. Artist's brushes work well when painting facial features. Finally, lightly apply antiquing patina painting facial features. Finally, lightly apply antiquing patina through an airbrush at a distance to give your metal head an through an airbrush at a distance to give your metal head an authentic old look. authentic old look.Metal heads are forgiving. If you make a mistake, simply start over.

-From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Terry Vascar and Matt Albright watch the start of the excavation while the noon sun beats down on their unprotected heads. Standing beside them is John Meyer, a forensic anthropologist, and Frances Castillo, medical examiner, professionals considered the best in their respective fields. They are also good friends, having shared more than a few drinks over discussions concerning unusual cases.

Terry swipes at a trickle of sweat running along the side of his face.

He feels adrenaline shooting through his veins and a growing impatience with the time it has taken to arrange the equipment and workers. Matt looks as frustrated as he is.

All worth it.

He fervently hopes.

Ground-penetrating radar, aka GPR, has detected an object under the surface of the Swilling's family plot. That in itself isn't notable, considering that this is a cemetery, after all. What makes this discovery unique, though, is that this object is near the foot of a buried coffin. It should be a patch of desert dirt through and through. No record exists inside the cemetery office of anything beneath this piece of ground. In fact, no records are available for this entire section of the cemetery.

Terry and Matt have finished watching the technician radiate high frequency waves into the ground. They have received lessons in electromagnetic energy and geophysics when variations are reflected in the return signal, more technical jargon than either needs or wants.

Their main focus is on the final results from the radar.

The buried object.

A man in gra.s.s-stained pants hurries toward them. The caretaker.

"See right here," he says, pointing, tapping the earth with the toe of his boot. "The ground's been disturbed. I knew I should report it after what happened the other night. The dead woman and all."

This red Arizonian dirt is brighter than it would be if it had remained untouched. Sun and air pales exposed earth. Someone dug in this spot recently. And their equipment proves that a metal object is below. Could it be the murder weapon?

"Careful," Matt warns. "We don't want it damaged."

Per Matt's orders, the team is digging wider and deeper than the GPR expert recommended. Better safe. Whoever placed the object at the base of the grave site wanted to keep it from discovery.

The cemetery is busy with visitors today, a typical Sat.u.r.day. Those tending the graves are fulfilling their obligations to the deceased. A few curious spectators have stopped to watch them work.

"Got something," one of the men says, digging his shovel into the mound of earth and bending down.

They all gather closer, anxiously waiting as precautions are taken, police procedures are followed to a T, not a single deviation permissible under the detectives' watchful eyes.

Terry stares at what the digger has unearthed. It's a human skull.

John and Frances go to work on it while the diggers continue to seek the metal object.

"Violent death," John the forensic pathologist mutters, confirming Terry's suspicions.

"Any guesses?" Matt asks the ME.

"It's possible," Frances says. "I won't know until I get it in and compare it to the other victim, but it could be from the skeleton, and killed by the same murder weapon." She studies the cranial material. Even Terry can see where the blows have crushed the skull.

John rises from his task. "Skull hasn't been in this shallow grave for long," he says.

Terry nods his understanding. Matt glances at him. "We found somebody's buried treasure," he says.

"Some treasure," Terry replies.

Frances had already informed them that the remains in the armoire had been in that location for years. "We can a.s.sume that she was killed in the house," she had said. "And hidden inside the wardrobe."

"It appears possible," Frances says now, cautiously, always hesitant to make statements prior to full investigation, "that we've got a match."

"So," Matt says, "at some point recently the killer moved the head, hid it here."

A van filled with a television news crew pulls up as close as possible considering the number of visitors' cars parked in the area.

"Trouble," Terry says.

"Like bloodhounds," Matt agrees. "If they make a connection between the two murders, they'll be screaming serial killer." He stalks off in their direction. Terry is confident that the team of media clowns won't get near them.

What kind of person did this? A sociopath, Terry thinks. Superficially, sociopaths are charming, pleasant, easy to like. But covertly they are hostile and cunning. Lies roll easily, smoothly enough to even pa.s.s lie detector tests. Terry sifts through the knowledge stored in his brain. Sociopaths harbor deep-seated rage, an inability to feel remorse, a view that other people are nothing but targets.

Terry would rather deal with a rabid dog. At least he'd know what he was facing.

The news crew is setting up near their van. Matt returns to the group, stands with his back to them, concealing as much as possible from the camera lens. Terry does the same.

"There's more," a digger says, exposing a white plastic bag.

Gloves, bags, pictures. Minutes elapse before the plastic bag is opened and the contents exposed.

Not a hammer, but oddly, a metal doll's head. The head is old, with painted yellow hair and blue eyes, chipped and fading.

Before the doll's head is completely revealed, Terry senses that Matt isn't next to him any longer. He is some distance away, talking on his phone. Terry approaches, notes that his friend has lost his composure. He is pale, shaky. Terry's never seen him this way.

"They're out of town," Matt says, ending the call, his voice ragged likes he's just run a five-kilometer race in record time. "They're safe."

"Who?"

"Gretchen and her mother. I just talked to Caroline. They're not in Phoenix."

Terry's aware of Matt's feelings for Gretchen. He knows about some of their personal conflicts, about the Birch connection to this case.

"What's wrong with you?" Terry asks, seeing that his friend is extremely agitated, pacing, sweating.

"I recognize the doll's head," Matt says. "It was in Caroline's car. After the accident, I pulled it out and gave it to Gretchen. Which means that whoever buried the skull and doll head was inside the Birch house yesterday."

"Are you sure?"

But Matt isn't listening. He's making another call.

"Send a car over to the Birch house," Matt barks into the cell phone. "I want twenty-four-hour surveillance. Stop anybody going in or coming out."

Matt is on a roll now, he has his composure back, but he's reactive rather than proactive, never the best place to be. Terry doesn't like defense, preferring to play his games offensively. Matt's the same way.

"We have to step up the search for Andy Thomasia," Terry says.

Matt agrees. "We also need to find the missing son," he adds. "Richard Berringer better surface soon, either as a live body or on a death certificate."

"We'll get them."

"d.a.m.n! The nerve to break into Gretchen's home and take the head."

Terry glances toward their team. "A doll head buried in a grave and a doll body in a wardrobe inside the Swilling house. Bet they're a match."

Yes, this killer fits another cla.s.sic sociopath characteristic.

They like to live on the edge.

Terry runs his eyes over the gravestones, suspicious of everyone, all the people coming and going, visiting the dead. He stares at the handful of spectators.

"If he touches her," Matt says under his breath, "I'll kill him with my bare hands."