Page 103 of Evil Bones
“It was grody to the max.” French wrinkled her nose, compressing its scatter of freckles into one brown splotch.
“Flies were, like, totally crawling up the bro’s nose!” Steiner’s eyes were saucers behind the thick glasses.
“I thought it was cool.” Timmons was the only one whose adrenaline level might have been close to normal. “You know, likeCSIorBonesor something.”
“You watch too much television,” French said.
“And you don’t?”
“I’m not, like, addicted.”
“Really? Every time—”
“I’m sorry you had to see what you did,” I said, interrupting the squabbling.
“My cat died last summer. By the time we found her body she looked as disgusting as that dude back there.” Steiner jabbed a thumb over one shoulder.
“Eww,” French said.
“Bite it,” Steiner snapped. “She was a great cat.”
“Can you describe what you saw?” I tried another approach.
“We already told the cops everything we know.” Did Steiner now sound guarded? Or simply teenage bored?
“I understand. But you three are the onlyactualeyewitnesses.” I looked at Timmons, hoping her TV crime drama habit might work in my favor. “We need to keep asking questions until we’re satisfied that we’ve covered every possible base. It’s routine.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Eyes narrowed, Timmons hooked air quotes around the pronoun I’d used. I had to admire the kid. She was no dummy.
Using middle school language, I explained who I was and what I do.
“Sick,” French said.
“Gross,” Steiner said.
“Whatever,” Timmons said. “But, like we told the cops, we don’t know shitzo.”
Fifteen minutes later, I had to agree. Except for one important detail.
According to Timmons, she and her friends were working on some sort of Girl Scout merit badge requiring a minimum of three hikes. When they’d gone on their first trek late Thursday afternoon, Balodis’s body hadn’t been under the tree. When they’d set out early today, it had.
That timeline corroborated my preliminary PMI estimate of less than forty-eight hours. Balodis had probably been killed sometime Friday.
“Did you get a look at the man’s face?” I asked gently.
Three solemn nods.
“Do you know him?”
Three violent head shakes.
I was about to pose a follow-up when footsteps sounded on the path at our backs. We all turned.
In seconds, a very sweaty Slidell emerged from the trees.
Raising a thumb and finger to his lips, Skinny whistled loud enough to be heard in Nairobi.
The MCME techs, again Hawkins and Winslow, were butt-leaning on the front panel of their truck. Startled, both looked his way.
