Carnosaur Crimes Page 8

  Billings was his home town. He’d been born and raised here. Once a frontier cattle town with five mountain ranges visible from its northern borders, it was now an urban sprawl of one-hundred thousand people. He knew the area like the veins on his hand, and this wasn’t anywhere near Montana State University College of Technology. This was a suburban area growing a bumper crop of five-acre ranchettes cooking in a dust-bowl dip carved out of the landscape.

  Dorbandt turned left, past a horse-shaped mailbox bearing the name BIRCH. That fit. He was supposed to hand over the head to a Doctor Birch. The sedan cruised down a long, dusty drive toward a split-level, wood house with Shaker shingles and a garage.

  He parked beside a blue Chevy Lumina Van. When he got out, a wall of heat hit him, but he staunchly grabbed his jacket and put it on. He retrieved the paraphernalia from the front seat and went to the door. A cathedral chime rang as he straightened his suit and continued the process of sweltering two notches closer toward unconsciousness.

  The door opened in a flash. After his cop’s gaze raked over a pretty lady with short, platinum-blonde hair, Dorbandt did a double take. His heart lurched into his throat. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The long auburn locks he’d once known were gone, but she looked just like... No. Surely he was mistaken.

  The woman stared back, blue eyes shocked with surprise before her face transformed into delight. “Reid? God, I can’t believe it. It is you.”

  “Hi, Chloe,” Dorbandt said like a tongue-tied teenager.

  Chloe didn’t stand on decorum. She moved through the door, wrapped her arms around his waist, and gave him a quick hug. Dorbandt nervously balanced the evidence box and thick envelope at the same time. He also enjoyed the tingling that the feel and scent of her produced.

  Sixteen years later, and he still remembered Chloe’s velvet touch and gardenia bath oil smell. A pang of deep-seeded regret jabbed him. It seemed only yesterday that she’d hugged him and told him without rancor that their relationship was over. At the time, he’d agreed with her.

  Chloe drew away. “You look wonderful,” she replied as she appraised every bit of his lean and well-toned stature.

  “Thanks. You, too. I’ve brought you a head,” he replied, then wanted to kick himself. “I mean, I’m supposed to deliver this to Dr. Birch. Is he here?”

  Chloe laughed. “That’s me. When we dated, I was using my step-father’s surname of Masterson. After my mother divorced him, I went back to her maiden name. I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Reid. It’s been a long time. Follow me to the studio, and we’ll talk.”

  He went eagerly. They crossed the parched front lawn to the detached garage, and Chloe motioned him through a heavy steel side door. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Between the rush of air conditioning and Chloe’s unexpected presence, Dorbandt was feeling better about this trip. He’d anticipated a hasty and dreary delivery job without any perks, not even time to visit close friends or relatives in the city. Instead he’d stumbled into a bonanza of opportunities to re-connect with a woman he’d almost married years before.

  He watched Chloe’s long legs stride beneath her ankle-length, corduroy skirt with appreciation as they entered the single room workshop. Chloe was tall and slender, what his mother had once described as willowy when he’d brought her home to meet his parents. He’d always liked that - dating a woman as tall as himself, plus athletic. Her white, V-necked blouse and tan, block-heeled leather boots complimented her curvy, agile physique quite nicely.

  “Let me put this someplace cool,” Chloe said, pointing at the box in his hands.

  “Good idea. Here’s the paperwork you requested; crime scene report with photos and drawings, clothing inventory--what there was of them--the postmortem photos, and the autopsy results. We weren’t on the case very long before the FBI took over so the forensics are nil.”

  “That’s what Sheriff Combs told me.” She took the box with folder into her smooth, long-fingered hands. “If I work fast, maybe I can give you a face to go with the remains.”

  Chloe headed toward a large refrigerator next to a stainless steel gas oven, short counter top, and a row of overhead cabinets – a functional mini-kitchen not meant for preparing foodstuffs but rather human body parts. There was even a long block table with stacks of old newspapers, surgical instruments, rubber gloves, and large plastic bags.

  Dorbandt looked away and took in the rest of the workshop which smelled heavily of artist’s paints, cleaning solvents, rubber, and clay. Several small tables with stools before them filled the room, each with a single wooden block with a vertical dowel upon which a human head was attached. All were in varying states of completion.

  Some busts had human skulls stuck with protruding rubber pins. Others were covered with pins and clay, half-completed faces, and craniums reminiscent of heads caught in the process of re-generating their skins and features all over again. Still more heads, fully completed, dotted the room on wall shelving, larger tables, and the floor. The studio reminded him of Ansel’s hangar where she created her dinosaur drawings or other paleosculptures. But there were differences.

  Ansel kept a neat and orderly workshop. Here everything was randomly dispersed. Surfaces were stippled with the rainbow hues of dripped paint or dust from colored clays and cluttered with duplicate sculpting tools strewn next to busts in progress. Unframed sketches of dead human faces of all genders, ages, and races were hastily tacked to the walls while Ansel preferred to keep stacks of preliminary sketches under tight control and her artistic milestones lovingly framed and displayed.

  The women definitely had different personalities, Dorbandt assessed. Though both were artistic and surrounded themselves with the bones of the dead - animal and human - he had to admit that Chloe’s chosen profession was more disquieting. A hundred human eyes stared back at him, giving the uncomfortable feel of being watched from every angle in an abattoir of the dead. He wondered what Ansel would think about Chloe.

  As he surreptitiously searched the room for personal mementos or pictures that might reveal if Chloe was married or had children, she said, “Your sheriff told me that the body was badly burned. A gas explosion, right?”

  Dorbandt didn’t see anything telling. “Yes. A propane tank from an industrial concrete saw. Probably accidental. The perp was poaching dinosaur tracks from a riverbed on BLM land.”

  “Sounds like a real bad character,” Chloe said as she sat down on a metal stool, crossing her long legs at the ankles. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” He sat across from her, his back toward a table bearing the gracile, re-created bust of a black child. He noticed Chloe had no wedding band. “When did you get into all this?”

  “I prefer to think that it got into me,” she corrected with a dazzling smile. “I suppose this is quite a shock for you. When we broke up, I was just a lowly dispatcher for the local sheriff’s department, and you were a trooper climbing the tin-plate ladder. Sheriff Combs told me he was sending a homicide detective, but I had no idea who it was.”

  “You ducked the question. What happened to get you into facial reconstructions?”

  “Oh, I decided that being just an observer of the criminal action wasn’t my calling. After you left, I quit the department and got a Ph.D. in physical anthropology at MSU Missoula. Next came enough forensic experience to get me certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology. Afterwards I went to the Scottsdale Artist’s School and got certified in forensic reconstruction. I worked in Arizona for quite a while but ended up in Billings a year ago as an associate professor with the College of Technology.”

  Dorbandt stared into her deep blue eyes. “Sounds very impressive to me, Chloe.”

  She shrugged. “It’s worked out all right. I teach some 3D computer imaging classes, get access to their facial reproduction and photo superimposition software, do research, and run my studio business helping police, coroners, and pathologists identify faceless people.”

  “You’r
e a miracle worker. It takes a focused intuition and lots of fortitude to make the conscious determinations used to re-create a human personality from nothing but cold bone. I’d never have the patience for it. Sitting for hours on a stool would kill me. I’m a mover.”

  “I remember,” she replied fondly, “but the real miracle is that I do what I love and manage to make enough money to survive financially. This is strictly a labor of love, Reid. There’s always some lost human soul calling out to be recognized and named. Their numbers seem endless, and I often feel I’m not working fast enough. Sometimes I have to be careful not to go plum crazy thinking about it. Now what about you? How do like Mission City?”

  “I love it. It’s a small town with big ideals. Of course, I like coming home once in a while so I can brush the cow patties off my boots and tromp around the Rimrock Mall, eat Greek food at the Athenian, or listen to live jazz at the Golden Pheasant. I haven’t gone native yet.”

  “Any family?”

  Dorbandt hesitated, though he was glad she’d broached the subject first. She seemed curious in an anxious sort of way. He took that for a good sign. “No. Not yet.”

  “Still haven’t settled down, huh? I’ve been married and divorced. No kids.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Chloe sighed. “Well, my career didn’t help. I’ve been obsessed about it. I was juggling a lot of things, and Cody got lost in the shuffle. How long are you staying in Billings and where?”

  “I’m bunking at the Motel 6 until the day after tomorrow. That should give us time to discuss the case in detail. How are you doing the reconstruction?”

  “Since this is a rush job, I’m going to do a completely computer-generated photo rather than the usual clay bust. Clay requires at least ten to fourteen days of very concentrated work, and is more labor intensive than digital work. Besides studying the skull characteristics, placing the twenty-one skin markers, and filling in with clay, I’ve got to make a mold of the completed head with synthetic rubber reinforced with fiberglass plaster, sand it, paint it, and retouch the bust. Your supervisor wants a quicker turnaround.”

  “How long will the computer work take?”

  “About a week. I’ve got classes to teach in between. When the photo is finished, it’ll give you the fastest shot at getting the face recognized from police fliers, newspapers, and TV spots.”

  “Got time to go to dinner tonight?” Dorbandt grinned. “Sort of a reunion celebration to the forces of serendipity.”

  Chloe cocked her head in consideration. “I’d love to, but I’ve got to macerate another skull before I start your reconstruction. That means first removing the skin and muscles with dissecting tools, scraping away tissue, separating the jaw and removing the teeth, boiling everything in separate pots with a bleach solution, and then carefully simmering the pieces again in water for up to eight hours.”

  Dorbandt looked at the watch. “How about a really late meal?”

  “Well, the trick is making sure I don’t boil and cool things too much, especially the teeth, or they’ll crack. And if I don’t get the tissues, grease, and odor out of the bone, leftover bleach can degrade the bone surfaces even after drying. Any un-removed grease will smell, seep through the bone, and attract dust and grime. I can’t risk careless processing which would damage the bone and obscure or remove morphological traits. Worse, I could create ‘pseudotrauma’ that could be mistaken for real perimortem trauma.”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Yes. I guess we can do a late super. I have to eat sometime.”

  “Great.”His cell phone rang. “Hold that thought, Chloe.” He grabbed it from inside his suit pocket. “Lieutenant Dorbandt.”

  “Reid, It’s Odie,” boomed the deep voice of fellow detective Oden Fiskar. “McKenzie told me to call. Get back here pronto. All hell has broke lose.”

  Dorbandt looked at Chloe, his excitement over having dinner at a five-star Billings restaurant, and maybe something else, with a charming, ex-girlfriend dashed to smithereens. “What’s happened?”

  “Chief Flynn has disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s gone. Dropped off the edge of the earth. Flynn was last seen leaving the police station at seven last night. He never got home. The city cops have been trying to locate him since ten last night when his wife called them. Now the search has spilled over to us. Sheriff Combs thinks it may be related to the poaching case.”

  “Hokay,” Dorbandt replied. “I’m heading back.” He replaced the phone.

  “Trouble?”

  Dorbandt nodded. “Always in this business. “Listen, I’ve got to leave. I’m sorry about tonight.” His eyes locked onto hers. He felt terribly cheated by fate.

  Chloe smiled. “I’ll accept a rain check. Don’t worry about it, Reid.”

  “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you.”

  She pulled a business card off a table and passed it to him. Then, she bent forward and pecked him lightly on the right cheek. “I’ll be waiting. Drive safely.”

  Dorbandt hurried from the studio and slammed into the summer heat again, but this time he was floating on hot air.

  Chapter 11

  “All who have died are equal.”

  Comanche

  The remote next to Ansel’s bed awoke her from peaceful slumber with brutal efficiency. She jerked upright like a marionette, eyes wide, heart pounding, and brain disorientated. Jesus, what was happening? Eight rings. Why didn’t her answering machine kick in? Nine rings. Ten.

  Groaning, she rolled toward the night stand, flailed her right arm, and snatched the device. “Hello,” she said, projecting the angry tone she intended.

  “Ansel, this is Permelia Chance. Sounds like your belly cinch is too tight. You all right?”

  Damn. She’d forgotten her promise to call Permelia. Ansel rubbed a hand over her face, then pushed back strands of tangled hair. The digital clock-radio blinked an erroneous twelve o’clock. There must have been a power outage. Everyone was maxing out their air conditioning, and Montana Power and Light was hard-pressed to match supply with demand.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Chance. I’m under the weather. I was going to call. What time is it?”

  “Only eight o’clock. I’m impatient but at my age the glass is three-quarters empty.”

  Gaining her bearings, Ansel knew she needed more sleep and she ached all over. “No problem. We should meet talk about your book cover art.”

  “How about today? Starr and I are free all afternoon.”

  Ansel mentally reviewed her schedule for the next few days. There was only one good time to make the drive to Permelia’s ranch. “I’m booked this afternoon. Tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure. Come over about ten o’clock. You know your way?”

  “Yes. See you then, Mrs. Chance.”

  Permelia said farewell through Starr’s yapping echo. Ansel clicked off and speed-dialed the ranch. Every day at the Arrowhead began at four a.m. She listened as Pearl’s affable, taped voice requested her to leave a message. Her stepmother of fifteen years was a no-nonsense, liberated woman who could draw straws of semen from high-strung Angus bulls for artificial insemination one minute, then turn around and speak in a guileless, lady-like voice that sounded as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  “Pearl, it’s Ansel. Ask Daddy to give me the name of a good attorney who handles land trust cases. Leave a message if I’m not here. Hope everything’s all right. Love you both. Bye.”

  Ansel pushed back the covers, her leg muscles protesting with bolts of fiery pain and reminding her of her night in the Badlands. Agent Outerbridge had revealed nothing more about his mysterious sting operation, and she’d made a helicopter trip back to Swoln with Standback.

  Agent Standback, she thought with a smile while rounding up Khaki pants, a beaded shirt, and basket-stamped belt from closet and drawers. The FBI pilot was an enigma.

  Standback had stuck to his routine of polite dialogue peppered wit
h provocative glances. It was obvious he liked her, but he’d never asked her anything personal. He’d promised to see her again, which was a given if Outerbidge was returning with a pep talk. Otherwise, she didn’t even know Standback’s first name. Nor had he given her any clues to his Indian heritage.

  That’s what stumped her. Indians usually conversed first about their family ancestry - what tribe they were from and their clan affiliations. It was important to know one’s relationship to clan strangers who could be tied to you by extended lineages as intricate as the strands of a spider’s web. She didn’t deal with such tribal customs daily, but was surprised that Standback hadn’t acknowledged they were Amerindian kinsmen in an Anglo-dominated world.

  Ansel put on her make-up and grabbed a bowl of cereal and a cup of instant coffee. As she ate, she pulled the neatly manufactured foil tab from her purse and studied it. Curious. The quarter inch foil circle with the smaller green square on the shiny side taunted her as it lay in her hand. If the FBI team had searched the area, how had they missed it? Maybe being under the toe bone had obscurred it or maybe somebody had left it behind after the land was combed for forensic clues.

  Pushing the tab back into a plastic photo wallet sheet and replacing the billfold in her purse, Ansel planned her day. She’d lined up a full schedule of chores, not the least was continuing to work on the Giganatosaurus drawing. First, she had some investigating to do.

  Within the next twenty minutes, she’d grabbed some things and primed the trailer security system. She was shocked by the broiling heat outside. Dust billows generated by northeasterly prairie winds and the crispy, straw-matted wasteland of what had once been a verdant spring-green landscape engulfed her. Even the Ponderosa at the end of her drive were turning sienna under the broiling sun. An end to the drought didn’t look anywhere in sight.

  Things didn’t get better as she drove toward the Big Toe Natural History Museum. Pastures withered, watering holes steamed away, and dirt-powdered stock animals cast skeletal shadows across a dying earth. Ansel had never seen a drought this bad, so fierce and unrelenting.