Buried: A Bone Secrets Novel Part 19

"How many Twinkies will that buy me?"

Mason headed out to look at the bunker again. All the evidence had been collected. It'd been enough to fill a small U-Haul trailer. Mason was a bit overwhelmed by the huge amount of c.r.a.p that'd been taken from a bunker that, at first glance, had seemed spa.r.s.e and bare. But when it came to children, they overlooked nothing. Anything that could give them a hair or fiber had been pulled. The state lab was going to be backed up. Again.

He'd looked over everything the techs were removing, but he'd been focused on the big items. The kids' backpacks, the cameras, the pictures. The state crime lab would let him know if a grain of dirt yielded any amazing clues.

The scene beneath the big firs was quiet. One lone trooper held the a.s.signment to keep away the curious public. The OSP navy sedan with its distinctive gold swoop was parked in the shade but blocked the pathway to the scene. Its driver sat in the front seat. Mason saw him put down a novel as he pulled closer and then stepped out of his vehicle. Mason parked beside the sedan and pulled out his ID for the trooper. He didn't recognize the cop, but he figured Ray would have known him instantly. The trooper waved off the ID.

"Afternoon, Detective." He waved his wide-brimmed hat to fan his face. "I wasn't expecting anyone today."

Mason shook the trooper's hand. "Robertson," read his name badge. "I wasn't planning to come out. I just need to look around again. How long have they got you on guard duty?"

Robertson snorted. "Tomorrow should be it. Haven't had any Curious Georges to turn away since yesterday. You guys are done here, right?"

Mason nodded. "I think they took away everything but the bunker itself. And there were a couple of guys who wanted to do that."

"They're gonna have to do something with it. Fill it up with concrete or weld it shut. Don't need any other a.s.sholes deciding to make use of it."

"There's been talk of the welding idea. That's probably what they'll do. I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes."

The trooper gave an informal salute and went back to his book.

Mason used his own hat as a fan. The forest was giving off a dry, dusty smell that reminded him of a woodstove burning old wood. It was going to be a bad summer for wildfires if they didn't get some rain. In Oregon, usually you could count on rain off and on until July 5th, but this year had been hot and dry since April.

He strolled to the bunker entrance and stared at how the earth had been flattened and trampled around the hatch. So many feet over the last few days. The quiet of the forest was overwhelming. No sounds at all. Was this how it'd been for the children? During the investigation, the site had been crawling with people. Now it felt empty and lonely.

How long had the children been in there?

Mason looked up. The firs blocked his view of the sky. A few pieces of blue shone through here and there, but the dark-green ceiling felt ominous. Like it was smothering something, keeping something hidden from the rest of the world. Which was exactly what it'd done for twenty years. But it was still hiding one thing.

Where was the body of Daniel Brody? The forest hadn't revealed that secret.

Mason stared into the dense woods. Another boy was in there somewhere; Mason imagined the trees hiding his final resting place. Why hadn't Daniel been buried with the other children?

The cadaver dog and her handler had been through the immediate surrounding woods several times. Her amazing dog had found nothing. He'd had her walk the farm again, too. Daniel's final resting place was staying buried for now.

When Mason had a suspect in his hands, he was going to get that answer. No matter what it took. Cecilia Brody deserved to know the fate of her son before she died.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Ray was calling.

"Yep."

"Got a minute?" Ray asked.

"You bet." He hadn't decided if he was going back down in the bunker today. His previous two descents had given him emotional nightmares that he didn't care to repeat. He moved toward the pit and stared into the abyss where five bodies had been hidden for years.

"We've put together another ID on one of the bodies from the pit."

Mason stepped back from the yellow caution tape, slightly disturbed by the coincidence of his location. "I'm f.u.c.king staring into the thing right now. That's freaky. What did you get?"

"One of the females was reported missing fifteen years ago."

"Fifteen?" Mason pressed the phone tighter to his ear. "She was seen that recently?"

"Yes, she was reported missing by an aunt who'd seen her the week before."

"So our unsub brought vics here after Chris Jacobs escaped. What's her history?"

"One solicitation arrest. Eight years before she vanished."

"Nice. Let's hope our guy keeps sticking to the same MO. We'll pin him down."

"Even better. She had a previous address in the same neighborhood as the other victim we identified."

"They were neighbors?" Mason wanted to rub his hands together. Would the other victims come from the same fis.h.i.+ng pond? Enough dead fish from one area and they could start narrowing in on the common denominator. History had proved serial killers were creatures of habit. They liked routines. When something worked well for them, they had a tendency to repeat, trying to match that success.

"Dawn Henderson. She was thirty when she went missing. Had a decent job as a receptionist at a car dealers.h.i.+p, no steady relations.h.i.+p at the time, and no issues with past boyfriends that we could find back then. One day she was at work, and the next day she wasn't. Basically, she vanished."

"Basically, all these victims vanished. That's part of this guy's MO. He really knows how to take people without leaving a freaking clue. They vanish off the radar without a blip."

"I haven't gotten in contact with Henderson's aunt yet, but there's an interview with her in the file that the vic had been distraught in the past over the murder of her roommate several years before but had received therapy at some point and had been doing well. For a while, she'd been nearly suicidal."

Mason's Spidey-sense went off. "How many years before she vanished was her roommate murdered? Was that in the same neighborhood?"

Ray shuffled papers in the background. "Nine. Almost ten years. Ugly scene. And the address is close to where Dawn was living when she disappeared. The roommate was attacked in their home. Name was Sandra Edge. She was s.e.xually abused and then strangled. Dawn Henderson wasn't home at the time, but she found the victim after."

"They catch him?" Hope rose in Mason's chest.

"Yep. He's in Salem."

s.h.i.+t. "The state pen?" Mason asked. "He's been locked up this whole time?"

"I'm looking...yeah, he hasn't been out at all."

"Name?"

"Lee Fielding."

Mason's brain was working at full speed. There was something here...he could feel it. But the guy had been locked up the whole time? "I still want to talk to him. And would you run a search for the registered s.e.x offenders who were living around the residence...aww c.r.a.p! That's before they had to register with the state, isn't it?"

"The roommate's murder occurred a few years before state law had s.e.x offenders registering. And they only had to register for five years at first, but I'll see what history I can find for that area."

"Our tattooed man is plainly a s.e.x offender. Something tells me he's got to be in the system somewhere. And I still haven't heard back from the gang unit about his tattoos." Mason filed a mental note to follow up. "I'll call and tell the state pen I need to talk to Lee Fielding. Maybe I can get in this afternoon or tomorrow morning." Mason paused. "I've got a good feeling on this one, Ray."

"d.a.m.n it! Don't say that! You'll jinx it, Mason!"

Mason smiled into his phone as he strode back to his car.

Mason paced the small interview room at the state prison. The room was so stereotypical; he'd nearly rolled his eyes when he walked in. Painted cinderblocks, small window with bars, and a metal table fastened to the floor with two fastened stools. Impossible to budge. Or use to hit someone over the head. Mason hadn't had time to review the Sandra Edge murder case. Ray was digging through the files and would get him the highlights as soon as he could.

Didn't matter. He just needed to see Fielding. Get a feel for him. The right questions would come when he saw the murderer's face.

Two guards appeared with Lee Fielding between them. Fielding had handcuffs attached to his leg irons and shuffled as he walked. The prisoner looked about sixty years old, but Mason knew he was closer to fifty. He was soft everywhere. Soft face, soft hands, soft belly. It looked like the man hadn't attempted physical exercise since he'd been imprisoned. Mason instinctively sucked in his gut. This guy was too close to his own age, and Mason couldn't help but compare. He knew he looked decent for his age. The d.a.m.ned graying hair and lines on Mason's face announced his age, but he made sure his body stayed fit. A home gym and runs through the neighborhood kept away the middle-aged spread. He exercised more out of stress relief than anything else.

Fielding glanced curiously at Mason as he shuffled by and then plopped himself down on one of the stools with a sigh. His hair had grayed to completely white but had left his eyebrows black. The puffiness of his face kept away most of the lines men get on their face in their fifties, but his demeanor added invisible lines, aging him. He radiated old. He gave off the emotional waves of an old man who'd been beaten down. The guard attached a link to the big silver loop on the table and Fielding was fastened into place. A flash of anger crossed Fielding's face as he studied the fastener and then vanished, and his face took on the doldrums look again. Mason noted the anger.

Can't fool me, buddy. You just try to look lazy.

There was a p.i.s.sed-off man inside that soft body.

"Mason Callahan, I'm with OSP."

Fielding raised his gaze to meet Mason's. And shrugged.

Silence.

Mason internally rolled his eyes. You'd think the a.s.shole would appreciate the opportunity to see and talk with someone new. A break in his boring routine.

"Sandra Edge. It's been a while," Mason stated.

Fielding's puffy face didn't flinch.

"Why her?" Mason asked.

Mason saw a touch of surprise behind the lazy eyes. The directness of the question had caught Fielding off guard.

"Why not?" Fielding's voice was surprisingly high pitched for an older man. He sounded like a thirteen-year-old. A thirteen-year-old girl.

It was Mason's turn to be surprised, and he wondered if Fielding was gay. Dumba.s.s. Like a voice indicates s.e.xual preference.

"Did you know her before?"

Annoyance crossed Fielding's face. "Why are you asking questions that you already know the answers to?"

"Humor me. I didn't have time to read your case."

Fielding's gaze narrowed. "In a hurry? What's the rush?"

Again, Mason was treated to a glimpse of the person hiding inside the soft figure. Fielding wasn't dumb.

Of course he's dumb. He's sitting in prison for murder.

"Sandra's roommate disappeared nine years after she was killed. Dawn Henderson. Her body just turned up, and we're looking into it."

"Can't help you there. I've been inside."

"Again. Why Sandra?"

Fielding shrugged and looked away. "A lack of planning on your part does not necessitate urgency on my part," he stated as if reading from a rule book.

Mason's anger tightened his throat. He's f.u.c.king with me. He's bored.

"I saw that on a sign in a public health office once," Fielding said. "Seemed typical of public employee att.i.tudes. Roles are reversed here, aren't they?"

Mason leaned forward, his hands on the metal table.

"Why Sandra? Where'd you meet? And don't give me s.h.i.+t about wasting your time with information that's already in your file. You've got plenty of time to waste. Why don't you just enjoy talking to my pretty face and see it as a break in your boring-a.s.sed routine. All the other prisoners should be so lucky."

Fielding's mouth twitched at one corner. "Okay, Detective. I'll play. I met Sandra at a local bar. She was selling it. I was interested. I was stoned. Things got out of hand. The end."

"Local bar? You both lived close by?"

Fielding shrugged. "My buddy lived close by. I was in town and camped out on his couch for a few days."

"Where did you live?"

"Nowhere."

"Transient?"

"Sometimes."

"So you had no money to pay her. No money for a roof over your head and no money for the hooker. But you had money for the dope and beer. f.u.c.king typical."

The anger flashed through Fielding's eyes, and Mason knew he'd perfectly nailed Fielding's life at the time.

"You must be loving prison. Three squares a day, a roof, cable. And it doesn't cost you a dime. In fact, as Joe Taxpayer, I'm paying for your stay at the Ritz." Mason paused. "And you're very welcome. Anything to keep s.h.i.+t like you off the street.

"Your buddy must have been thrilled when you went to prison and got off his couch. I bet you weren't there for just a few days, you were probably sponging off of him for weeks."

"f.u.c.k you. He went in, too."

"Went in? Prison?"

"Yeah, he was there. You really should read the f.u.c.king file so you don't sound like an idiot. Gary and I both went away for Sandra's murder. He got off easy because they lost half the d.a.m.n evidence."

"And because you were the one who actually killed her. He was probably just there to party," Mason prodded. "You f.u.c.ked up his life, too. What was his name?"

"Who, Gary? You're coming off as a dumbs.h.i.+t because you haven't reviewed the case." Fielding's face reddened. "You're like a high school newspaper reporter who doesn't know what the f.u.c.k he's talking about."

"Gary what?"

"Gary Busey."

"Oh, for f.u.c.k's sake. Grow up."

"Gary Hinkes."

Mason wrote the name in his mental notebook. "Was that so hard?"