Page 36 of Evil Bones
I’d played on those courts many times. Wished I was heading to do so now, not to revisit a site where a dog had gone missing before turning up dead.
“Maybe it ain’t the mutilation what gets his rocks off.” Slidell’s voice brought me back. “Maybe it’s the killing.”
“We don’t know who shot Bear. It’s possible whoever decapitated and displayed his remains did so after finding him dead.”
Again, Slidell made that crotchety sound in his throat.
Park Road Park is an urban oasis offering hiking trails, wooded picnic areas, open green spaces, sports fields, and a lake called the Duck Pond. Just before the small body of water, Slidell pulled onto a grassy strip paralleling the pavement.
“Anything else turn up when you did your cutting?” Shifting gears, he made another of his disjointed segues.
“Besides the bullet, no.”
Skinny swiveled toward me, a look of disgust on his broad, florid face.
“Honest opinion, doc. You think the same doer what’s been nailing up body parts also capped that dog?”
“I don’t know.”
“Either way. I catch this shit weasel, he’s gonna wish he died in his mama’s womb.”
Slidell released his seat belt with a one-thumb jab, hit the door handle with his elbow, and hauled himself from the car in one surprisingly swift move for a man of his bulk.
Donning shades and a ball cap, I alighted also. Scanned my surroundings.
The lake was to my right. The ducks gliding on its surface seemed not to care that the water was green and murky. Or perhaps they preferred it that way.
“Where’s the goddam trail?”
“There.”
The woods to our left were a mix of pine and hardwood. Recognizingthe trailhead from Joye’s description—the weathered utility shed, the pump, the tree stump—I indicated a point among the oaks, more a gradation in shadowing than an obvious gap.
Slidell set off at an unusually fast clip. I followed, half running to keep up.
By the time we reached the trees, Skinny was panting like a marathoner finishing a race. Sweat dampened his hairline and rivulets streamed down his temples. The greased pompadour lay flat on his crown.
At his winded direction, I brushed past him to take the lead. Ten yards into the woods, I spotted a scrap of red cloth tied to a low-hanging branch. Recognizing Joye’s marker, placed during his search for Bear, I veered from the path.
Skinny’s wheezing told me he was close behind. As did the occasional whiff of BO, now overpowering the cologne. Moving through the dense vegetation, I handed off low-hanging branches to prevent them snapping back in his face.
In less than five minutes, we reached an enormous oak.
“This is the last place Joye had eyes on Bear. According to his statement, it was here that the dog shot off into the trees.”
Slidell was bent at the waist, hands on his knees. When he straightened, his face was the color of claret.
“Show me those Frog Pond scene pics,” he managed to pant.
I dug my phone from my pocket and pulled up the compilation file. In it, I’d created a folder for every case for which we had photos of the remains still in situ.
As Skinny flipped through the images, I walked the area, following a loose grid pattern. Several minutes passed with no words exchanged.
“Spot anything shouldn’t be here?”
I turned. Slidell had finished with the photos and was now watching me.
“Not yet,” I replied.
