Sleep Softly. Gwen Hunter
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family would be questioned by the police, possibly by the FBI. My house and grounds would be overrun by cops. And I had nothing to tell them that would explain how the body had ended up on Chadwick Farms property. Nothing to tell the parents, if I ever met them. Nothing to tell her family or mine.
I was trained to gather forensic evidence but my forte was nursing, gathering evidence on living human bodies, evidence that police would need in later investigations and trials. Such evidence was often lost during medical procedures, especially during emergency medical treatment where dousing the victim with warmed saline or Betadine scrub washed away vital clues to the perpetrator, and cleaning skin for IV sites, bandages, or application of fingertip epidermal monitors hid defensive wounds and damage—evidence that should have been preserved for standard and genetic testing.
I wasn’t trained to work a crime scene where the victim was dead.
A child. Dead in my ancestors’ family plot. And my dogs had surely rolled in her grave. I put my head on my knees and cried, trying to keep my sobs silent. An early mosquito was attracted to my position and I killed it as it punctured the back of my hand for a blood meal. A squirrel chittered at me from a low branch. Long, painful minutes passed. Finally, I took a deep breath.
I heard the sound of vehicles and voices in the distance and knew that the other investigators had arrived. Sheriff Gaskins had been keeping in touch with the men and they would know already that there was a body. They didn’t need help to follow the trail, and I didn’t especially want to be caught sitting on top of a pile of big rocks crying my eyes out, so I wiped my face, slid back to the ground and returned to the site.
Jim met me partway, his eyes tired, face drawn, his paper clothing left at the site to reveal the dress shirt, tie and slacks, his entire lanky frame speaking of exhaustion. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m lovely. Just hunky-dory. You?”
His smile was crooked. “I’ve had better days. But I need your help.”
“What for?”
“I need you to tell me about that homestead and grave plot.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured would happen.” I turned my back, shoulders stiff and angry. “You’re going to have to question all my family, aren’t you? My nana, my daughter. All the help.”
“Like I said. Better days.” I could hear the strain in his voice, but I still didn’t turn around, even when he put a hand on my shoulder, the first comfort he’d offered. “But not me. I’m too close to you.” His tone softened, as if to both warn and console me at once. “It’ll be one of the other agents. It needs to be thorough to rule out your family, so it won’t be pleasant.”
I wiped my eyes again, fighting tears that were half selfish, half for the child buried in the sand just ahead. “That’s just great. Do you have any idea how many Chadwicks know about this site, either by family history or by actually coming out here to see it? Do you know how big an investigation you’re talking about?”
“Tell me.”
I looked up at him. He wavered in a watery pattern of tears. “At the last family reunion back in 2005, over 225 people attended. Lots more couldn’t make it. My family is scattered all over the nation. We’re two races and all ages, from the late nineties to not yet born. We started on a family genealogy chart last year, and it points to dozens of other family members—dozens, Jim—that are lost or missing. Hundreds of us live in this state alone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding? You’re going to have to talk to all of them, aren’t you? And before you ask, yes, we’ve had our share of spotted sheep.”
“Don’t you mean black sheep?” he said, amused.
“Not with my family’s ethnic mix. And some of our spotted sheep have done jail time.”
Jim swore, his amusement gone.
“Don’t let my aunt Mosetta hear you swear. She won’t care if you’re a cop or not, you say that in her presence and she’ll wash out your mouth with good lye soap. Why concentrate on just the Chadwicks? Anyone could locate this place.”
“Not likely.”
“Yes, likely.” I swiped at my face with the flannel cuffs. “You said the last body was buried in a Confederate graveyard. Was it easy to find?”
“A lot easier to find than this one.” The comforting tone was gone from his voice. That hadn’t lasted long.
“Well, this one’s not impossible to detect either.”
“Ash—” Jim stopped himself from whatever he was about to say and took a deep breath. “Why don’t you tell me how anyone outside of your family would know about this burial plot.”
I jerked my head at the grave site just ahead. “The South Carolina State Library has information on graveyards across the state. The information is available online at the library’s Web site, and also in the South Carolina reference room. I know, because at that family reunion I mentioned, we looked it up one rainy day for fun. You can click on ‘counties’ and find any graveyard thus far discovered in any county.” The whole time I talked, tears fell, dripping off my chin in dual steady streams. My nose was clogging.
“The Chadwick plot is registered with the state in historical records. It’s listed in county records, on some old county maps, and frankly anyone who wanted to find it could, with a little work. Any teacher, student, historian, politician, librarian or professor could pinpoint it on MapQuest. Anyone looking for genealogy information. Anyone doing research for any purpose could find it. It’s easy. Just as easy as finding the Chadwick family Web site.”
Jim looked at me thoughtfully. “Your family has its own Web site?” I just looked at him. “What is it, www.Chadwicks.com?”
Grudgingly I said, “Chadwick family. org.”
“So we may not be dealing with a history buff. Just someone who can use the Internet,” he said tiredly.
“That narrows it down for you a lot, I guess. Only eighty-something percent of the citizens in South Carolina have Internet access. Even my nana uses the Internet these days, to get the best prices on her crops.”
“But the problem with the farm and your family is this—the perpetrator would have to get here somehow, carrying a body and digging implements. He had to drive straight through your family farm.”
“Hilldale Hills is closer than Chadwick Farms. A lot closer. In fact, if I’d known where the body was in the first place, I’d have driven over and walked in. It’s no more than a quarter mile thatta way.” I pointed. “There’s another farm about a mile thatta way.” I pointed off toward the Iredells’ llama farm. “Have you even figured out what direction the perpetrator came from? Have you found a trail? Have you asked me any questions to determine the most likely ingress and egress? No.” I sniffed. I decided to give up fighting the tears. I couldn’t seem to stop them.
“You’re not channeling your mother anymore.”
“Josephine doesn’t cry. It ruins her makeup. Causes lines in her skin and dehydrates the horny layer of her epidermis. Or maybe it negatively affects the acid mantle or something. I don’t remember exactly.”
Jim chuckled. “Horny layer?”
“I’m not kidding. Josey is a youth obsessed, skin-treatment-aholic. A plastic surgeon’s professional financial sleep-induced orgasmic pleasure.” The more I talked, the more I cried and the more Jim laughed. At least someone was happy.
“Would that be a wet dream?” Jim’s tone was half-disbelieving.
“Not in front of my family, it wouldn’t.”
“I have to meet this woman.”
“You will.” I scuffed at my cheeks. “She’ll be