Burton’s case file described a good ol’ boy, as we called them in the South. He worked hard and played harder. He liked to fight and had been a boxer in high school, earning a partial boxing scholarship to a small college. He hunted and fished and owned the best bass boat in Woslee County, the finest shotgun. His Dodge Ram 350 dualie pickup boasted more chrome than any other truck for miles. He loved Vegas. When time was limited, he’d hit the gambling boats on the Ohio River. Burton gave to local charities. Bought ads in high school yearbooks. He drove his snack truck in the county’s Fourth of July parade, the white step-van third in line behind the honor guard, the fire truck and police cars, and ahead of the band, VFW marchers, and the winners of the “Cutest Baby” contest.
Burton had been married four times, each link in the marriage chain under two years in length, with one union lasting all of six weeks. From a psychological standpoint, serial marriage could mean several things, none of them attractive.
Cherry and I inspected the area as she detailed what she’d found upon arrival: Sonny Burton’s body beneath the truck tire, chest almost flattened, innards squeezed out through his mouth and lower opening. Lee McCoy – the first to notice the murder scene’s location on the geocache website – had been pacing beside the truck when Cherry arrived, frustrated by his helplessness.
I knelt beside a flat chunk of stone, three feet by five or so. Faint but fresh-looking scratches were inscribed in the stone, geometric, like something square had rested on the rock, scarring it.
“What are these, Cherry? The scratches on the rock?”
“I figured they came from the killer moving the truck around. Driving over the rock.”
I scratched at the stone with my fingernail. “It’s dolomite, a dense sandstone. Rubber tires wouldn’t scratch dolomite.”
“My, my, Ryder. You’re a geologist as well as a detective?”
On our hike McCoy had pointed out dolomite layers in the Gorge strata and demonstrated how hard it was for sandstone. I probably should have mentioned that fact. Instead, I patted the stone as if drawing secrets from it with my fingertips.
“Something hard rested here, metal, I suspect. The object would have been a couple feet from Burton’s head. That would place it beneath the forward section of the truck’s frame. Would you know if the frame is—”
“Don’t ask. I didn’t study truck design.”
I paced a circle around the stone, eyes not leaving its surface. “I’ve got a hunch about these scars. But we need to go to the Woslee impound and look inside Burton’s truck.”
“I got another idea.” Cherry pulled out her phone and dialed. Tossed the phone to me. “Tell Caudill what you need.”
The young officer arrived soon after, cradling a black cylinder and a two-foot metal pole beneath his arm. “A twenty-ton bottle jack,” Caudill said. “Bolted behind the driver’s seat in Burton’s step van. The handle was back there, too.”
The hydraulic cylinder was welded to a square steel base. I set the base on the stone. The scratches lined up with the base. Cherry studied the match-up and I saw the pictures enter her imagination.
“Oh lord, Ryder … the truck wasn’t driven on to Burton. It was lowered.”
I nodded and pushed the handle into the jack, marking the jack post with a pencil. I cranked it up, checked the distance traveled. Six or seven cranks moved the post an inch. I stood back and looked between the scene photos and the ground.
“Crank the truck up eighteen or so inches. Put Burton beneath the tire with his hands behind him, helpless. Lower the truck in one-crank increments. With each crank the tire dropped a fraction of an inch. Burton might even have been conscious to hear his ribs break as his chest caved in.”
“Tortured,” Cherry whispered. “Like Tandee Powers. And John Doe with the soldering iron.” She crouched beside the stone. “Why use his truck? There have to be easier ways.”
“The truck was symbolic to the killer. He was probably talking to Burton as he lowered the truck, getting off on the control. Making Burton beg and scream.”
Cherry grimaced. “What the hell would the killer say, Ryder? ‘Here comes the snack truck’?”
We turned to a roar of engines and crunch of gravel. Beale raced up in his SUV. Behind him was a second SUV from the sheriff’s department driven by a fat guy with stained teeth and the weasel-eyed look of a natural sycophant; every department had at least one. I saw outlines of two tall people in the second, figured it was more of Beale’s small force.
Beale skidded so close to my feet that I stepped back. He jumped out and strode to Caudill.
“What the fuck you doing here?” Beale spat.
“R-Ryder needed a jack from Sonny’s truck,” Caudill stammered. “He wanted me to bring it out.”
“Why are you taking orders from some fuckhead with no jurisdiction.” Beale swatted Caudill’s hat from his head. “Who you work for, boy?”
“Y-You, Sheriff.”
Cherry stepped forward. Though I’d seen the flash in her eyes when Beale slapped the hat from his hapless deputy, she was dealing with politics and needed to walk a thin line.
“It was important to get the jack out here, Sheriff. Detective Ryder made the phone call to Officer Caudill, but he made it for me.”
“Cuz you’re in charge of things, right?”
“A combined effort, Roy. We do a better job when we’re united.”
“You like being in charge, don’t you?” Beale sneered. “Makes you feel important.”
His voice was so condescending I was amazed Cherry kept her cool. “It’s a task force, Roy. I’m not specifically in charge.”
Three passengers emerged from the second vehicle. Two were men in dark suits and dark ties, the third a woman in the feminine version of the uniform, black pinstriped pantsuit and navy blouse. She was five eleven, maybe six feet tall, with the kind of blonde hair that doesn’t grow naturally, bright enough to shame a lemon. The hairdo truncated above her shoulders, curling forward into points like horns. She liked makeup, but needed more skill at blending face into neck, giving the impression of a mask with cobalt blue eyes and purple-pink lips. It was not an unattractive mask, the cheekbones high and features even. She looked fit. I put her in her middle forties, but fighting it tooth and nail.
The new arrival inspected the sudden-hushed scene while slowly unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. She popped the gum in her mouth and smiled without a touch of mirth.
“You’re right about not being in charge, Detective Cherry,” she said, displaying a gold shield with an eagle above. “I am.”
The Federal Bureau of Investigation had arrived. It appeared Bob Dray had missed the boat or had a sex change.
The Special Agent in Charge was named Gloria Krenkler. It turned out Dray’s case lingered into extra innings and Ms Krenkler had been placed in his slot.
“I’m happy to meet you, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said, hand out. “You’re a welcome addition to the team.”
The cobalt eyes studied Cherry like Hernán Cortés viewing the welcoming natives. “Team?” she said.
Time for the official meet’n’greet amenities. I pasted my most charming smile on my face and waved across the dozen feet. “I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Krenkler. I’m Carson Ryder and I’m sort of, uh, consulting on the case.”
The eyes studied me through a slow and silent five-count, like she was sorting items into boxes