First of all, the eight-by-eight plot of ground had sunk into the earth, lower than the surrounding terrain by about an inch or so. There were also two big boulders on top. The environs supported many big rocks, but two in such close proximity was a little odd. Also the foliage on the plot wasn’t faring well: around a dozen drooping sage plants, straw yellow grasses, and scattered daisies with limp petals. It could be that these particular plants had wilted in the heat except that the flora that surrounded the area was erect and hydrated.
She walked over to the spot and pulled up a sage plant. It gave way with relative ease, and the roots were soft and dried out. She dropped to a stoop and dipped a finger in the ground. The soil was compact, and not easy to dig into. It was then she noticed that the earth had been scored by hundreds of little lines running in all directions. She stared at them closely. It was as if someone was hitting the ground, tamping it down with a shovel over and over and over.
A homemade grave?
She stood up and searched for shoe or tire prints, but found nothing. She called Marge on her cell phone and asked her how it was going inside.
“Still slogging through the muck. What’s going on?”
“I think there’s something here that you should see.”
While waiting for extra shovels and buckets, Marge assigned one of the CSI techs the official role of police photographer.
“Get all those little hash marks,” she told him.
The day had been long and fruitful … overly so. The evidence inside the main house included several types of shoe treads, a couple of bloody finger- and palmprints, a number of bullet casings, loose fabric and hairs, and that wasn’t counting the blobs and streaks of blood and massive tissue spatter. The identification of what belonged to whom was to be sorted out later. Marge was happy to take a break from the charnel house, and Pratt’s call was a good excuse for a breather.
Oliver, on the other hand, was probably much happier working inside because it was air-conditioned. He said, “Summer is upon us.”
“You can go back inside. I can handle this.”
“Nah, I’ll stick around.” He wiped his forehead. “We can work inside all night as long as DWP doesn’t turn off the electricity.”
They were both looking at the caved-in spot. Marge said, “It’s disturbed ground. That’s a no-brainer.”
“Big grave for just one man,” Oliver said.
“So maybe it’s more than one man,” Marge said. “I think it was predug. If it was done spur of the moment, it would take too long to dig.”
“Unless it’s shallow.”
“We’re missing two guards. If they’re in there, it can’t be all that shallow. Plus someone took the time to put plants back in the soil. This was a planned thing, Scotty.”
“But not planned too far ahead. Otherwise someone might have spotted a big hole in the middle of the property.”
Marge said, “It’s really far from the main house.”
Oliver said, “I don’t know … maybe.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Marge tented her eyes with her fingers and regarded the vast tract of land. Wynona’s search crew had scattered but was still in whistle-blowing reach. Most of them were sitting in the few tiny patches of shade available, roasting their butts while drinking tepid water and fanning themselves with their hands or sun hats. A flick of the wrist told her it was almost five. Sunset was around seven-thirty.
Oliver said, “Do you think we can dig this up in two and a half hours?”
“Depends what’s in there. If we find something, it’s a crime scene. Then who knows?” Marge took out her cell. “I think I’ll put in an order for lighting, just in case.”
Wynona walked over to them. She had taken off her sun hat, and her short blond hair was wet and matted. She took out a tube of sunscreen and started rubbing it into her cheeks. “How many people do you think you’ll need for the dig?”
“I could use maybe eight. Why? What do you need?”
“I still have a sector and a half left to comb. I probably won’t finish the last one, but if I get going now, I can finish the rest of sector four before twilight.”
“If I take six from your gang, how many would you have left?”
“Twelve with me. I can manage with that, but I’d like a few to be police officers.”
“How many cops do you have?”
“Eight.”
Marge said, “You take four, I’ll take four.”
“Sounds good.” Wynona stowed her sunscreen back in her cargo pants. After making the assignments, she said, “I’ll get started. Call me if you find something.” She tooted her whistle and her group stood up, wiping dust and dirt from their bottoms.
Just as the shovels and buckets arrived, Marge’s cell phone sprung to life. The boss was on the other end. He asked what was going on and after she explained the situation, Decker said he was coming down.
He said, “Take plenty of pictures of the area before you put spade to ground.”
“Already done,” Marge said. “Do you want to us to hold the digging until you get here?”
“No, start while you’ve got daylight. I’ve got to finish up something at the station house and it’s taking a while. But I’ll make it over.”
His voice sounded tense. Marge said, “Is Steel Strapp giving you a hard time?”
“I wish.”
“Yowzer, Pete! It must be bad. What’s going on?”
“I’ll fill you in later. It’s not bad, but it is complicated.”
Marge checked her watch. “It’s getting close to Sabbath, Pete. If we don’t find anything, it’s not worth missing Friday night dinner. I’ll call if I need you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but this case is too big for me to take time off. Maybe God could rest after six days, but we mere mortals just aren’t that talented.”
Marge’s call couldn’t have happened at a worse time.
Although Decker disliked being late for Friday night dinner, usually when it happened, Rina insisted on waiting for him. But tonight Rina had invited several couples, so Decker gave her the go-ahead-without-me speech, knowing in his heart of hearts that the Coyote Ranch dig was going to last into the night.
But the dig wasn’t the only thing on his mind.
His mother always told him that it was impolite to stare, but in this case, it didn’t make a difference. So Decker studied the man sitting across his desk, taking in his well-manicured appearance.
Brett Harriman was nicely appointed. He wore an unstructured natural linen jacket over a blue button-down and designer jeans. His sandals showed off his manicured toes, which matched his manicured hands. His hair was dark and shaggy, his face long and lean. He wore dark shades that not only covered his eyes but most of his eyebrows. The only giveaway to his visual impairment was a slight swinging of his head that helped his ears zero in on sound stereoscopically.
Decker tapped his pen on his desktop. “First of all, Mr. Harriman, I want to thank you for coming in and sharing your information with me.”
“It’s Brett and no thanks are necessary. It’s my obligation. If people didn’t do jury duty, I wouldn’t have a job.” A few seconds ticked by. “Well, that’s not true. When you’re fluent in as many languages as I am, there’s always work.”
“How many languages would that be?”