Body Farm 2 - Flesh And Bone Read Online Free PDF Page A

Motel Six. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I kick in the door of the motel room, flash him my badge, and say, ‘Hi, asshole, I’m Tiffany, and you’re under arrest.’”
    I had to laugh, in spite of the seamy subject. “But Sweetwater’s fifty miles south of here. Isn’t that a little outside your jurisdiction?”
    “Not anymore,” Art said. He picked up a badge from the desk and handed it to me. It was a five-pointed gold star encircled by the words UNITED STATES MARSHAL.
    I whistled. “U.S. Marshal? How’d a lowly KPD cop swing that?”
    “We’re working with the feds,” he said. “FBI and postal inspectors. I’ve got arrest powers anywhere in the state. Believe it or not, this”—he swept his arm in an arc that encompassed the dingy space—“is the headquarters of the Tennessee Task Force on Internet Crimes Against Children. Mainly me and a couple of stolen computers so far, but we’re about to get some serious money and manpower.”
    “Good for you,” I said. “Reminds me of my own job—the work stinks, but somebody’s got to do it. Can’t think of anybody who’d do this with more commitment and integrity.”
    “Not sure how long I can take it, though,” he said. “I’m only two months in, and already my blood pressure’s through the roof, I’m having trouble sleeping, and once I do get to sleep, I have awful nightmares.”
    Knowing what a decent guy Art was, that didn’t surprise me. “You’re on a rough diet right now,” I said. “Nothing but rotten fruit from the tree of knowledge.”
    “Isn’t there supposed to be some good fruit on that tree, too? Last time I read the Bible, it was called the tree of knowledge of good and evil.”
    “Yeah, but the good stuff ’s on branches neither one of us gets to pick,” I said. “Speaking of bad fruit, let me show you what I need you to print. You might want to glove up for this.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves for him, plus a pair for me. Then I opened the small cooler Jess had given me. Inside, propped on a bed of ice and sealed in a plastic bag, was the Chattanooga victim’s penis. A bloody thumbprint—bigger than the one Jess had planted on our research subject—showed clearly through the bag.
    If I’d known Jess was bringing this grisly piece of evidence with her, I’d have asked Art to meet us at the Body Farm. I didn’t mind playing courier, though, as I hadn’t seen Art in weeks and I welcomed the chance to catch up with him, even briefly.
    When he recognized the object in the baggie, Art’s eyes widened and he gave a low whistle. “Ouch, man. Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place,” he said, nodding toward the computer monitors. “Feels like we’re in the theme park from hell here. What’s the story? There is a story, right? I mean, it’s not every day somebody brings me a severed pecker on ice.”
    “Sure, there’s a story. We just don’t know what it is yet. The guy this belonged to was found tied to a tree in a state forest outside Chattanooga. He was wearing a woman’s wig, makeup, and leather corset. Head and face were bashed in pretty bad. And this was stuffed in his mouth.”
    “I can think of a few more guys that deserve the same treatment,” he said. Then: “Sorry—I don’t mean that this guy did. I shouldn’t let what I’m working on here poison my thinking about other cases.”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “Be tough not to.”
    “You thinking homophobic hate crime?”
    “Well, that’s sure what it looks like. First glance, anyhow.”
    Art switched on a small desk lamp beside one of the monitors; mercifully, he also switched off both monitors. Holding the severed organ gingerly in the palm of one gloved hand, he leaned close and studied the bloody print. “Not a bad print, considering,” he said. “If your killer is considerate enough to have prints on file, we might just get a match. I’ll need to take it back to the lab,