Jordan's Stormy Banks: A Body Farm Novella Read Online Free PDF Page B

late December morning, the sky swirling with low, ominous clouds. Then, on an impulse, I stepped back inside. As long as I was making the drive to Morgan County, I might as well get as much mileage from the trip as possible. No point showing up empty-handed.

 
    7
    Perimortem Revisited
    THE COURTHOUSE CLOCK READ 9:05 as I got out of my truck and headed for the door of the sheriff’s office. My wristwatch, on the other hand, read 11:45—the drive had taken an hour, and I’d made a thirty minute stop on my way into Wartburg. I smiled when I realized that the clock’s hands hadn’t moved since my prior visit. Come to Morgan County, I thought, composing an imaginary slogan for the Chamber of Commerce. A place where time stands still.
    “He’s not here,” the sheriff’s dispatcher told me.
    “How about Deputy Cotterell?”
    “Him neither. Nobody’s here but me. They’re all out with the posse.”
    “Posse?” Had the dispatcher actually said “posse”? “What posse?”
    “They’re after an escaped convict. They was out all night. A whole big bunch of ’em—a hunnerd volunteers, come from all over the place. Somebody called yesterday, sayin’ they seen the guy down toward Coalfield. So the sheriff ’n’ ever’body’s down yonder.” She looked me up and down, sizing me up, then asked, “Was you wantin’ to join up with the posse?” Her tone was dubious; evidently I did not look like posse material.
    “Heavens no,” I said. “I’ve been looking at the bones of the dead woman—the woman whose body was found in the park on Friday. I’ve just found another bone out at the scene, and I need to show it to the sheriff.”
    She looked startled, then puzzled, then a glimmer of understanding dawned in her eyes. “Oh, you’re that bone detective from UT,” she said, and I nodded. “Was you needin’ something? Anything I can do for you?”
    I shook my head, but then I thought of something. “Actually, yes, maybe you can help me. Who’s the best dentist in town?”
    “Ha! That’s easy. Ain’t but one, anymore, now that Doc Peterson’s passed on. Dr. Hartley. He’s a lot smarter’n Doc Peterson was. Younger ’n’ better lookin’, too.” She pointed. “Two blocks thataway, down Main Street. Big old house on the left. If the door’s locked, try ringing the bell. He lives right upstairs.”
    C losed until January 2, read a hand-lettered sign in the leaded-glass door of Dr. Hartley’s office, which occupied the ground floor of a two-story Victorian. Recrossing the wide front porch and descending the steps, I looked up at the second-story windows. The sky was surprisingly dark for midday; the swirling clouds seemed to be pressing down upon the house. Through wavy glass, I saw lights burning in two upstairs rooms, so I returned to the door and rang the bell. There was no response, and after a while I tried it again. Still no answer. Third time’s the charm , I hoped, and pressed the button once more, holding it down long enough to show I meant business.
    This time I heard rapid footsteps on a staircase, and then a light flicked on and an unhappy face appeared, fractured into odd angles and planes of anger by the beveled glass. A dead bolt snicked back and the door opened, the face unfractured now, but unhappy still. “The clinic’s closed until next Wednesday.” He tapped the sign for emphasis, and the panes rattled slightly within their channels of lead.
    “I know,” I said, “and I’m sorry to intrude, Dr. Hartley, but it’s important. I’m investigating a murder, and I’m hoping you might be able to help me identify the victim.”
    The annoyance on his face gave way to a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity. “Are you with the sheriff’s office?”
    “No sir. My name’s Bill Brockton; I’m a forensic anthropologist at the University of Tennessee. The sheriff brought me in to help ID the victim and determine the manner of death. I’m hoping you might recognize this dental