Die Smiling by Linda Ladd Page A

aluminum equipment cases from the back, I filled them in about what had happened. When I described Hilde’s body, they all turned and stared at me as if I’d made the whole thing up.
    Unfortunately, I pretty much knew what they were thinking. Nothing remotely resembling this kind of gruesome murder had happened at the lake before I moved here from LA. It began last summer with one sicko nightmare from my past, happened again last Christmas, and now here we go, number three. I was probably what was attracting killers to this rural, tranquil, beautiful setting, just as I had attracted death to those around me all my life. They knew it. I knew it. Everybody knew it.
    Buckeye snapped on his gloves and slammed the rear door of the van. I watched him pick up his case and look at me. He had a white beard and mustache that was usually trimmed close to his jaw but was a little long at the moment. He resembled the guy on that old Captain Kangaroo children’s show with his white hair and rotund body. Mr. Greenjeans had been the Captain’s sidekick, and there was a running Where’s Mr. Greenjeans? gag circulating around the coroner’s office. He wasn’t joking now, however; he was dead serious when he said, “So you’re sayin’ this guy cut off the vic’s lips and left them in the shower drain?”
    I nodded. “That’s what we think. He was still in the area and took a coupla shots at us, but he got away in a boat before we could get to him.”
    â€œGod Almighty. Was she mutilated any other way?”
    I shook my head, shrugged. “Not that we could tell. Body looked clean of visible wounds. Strangulation, maybe, but there’s a lot of blood at the mouth. You’ll have to tell us. Bud’s stringing tape down behind the house where the perp shot at us, then ran.” It was then I realized one of Buck’s primary team members was missing. “Where’s Shaggy?”
    Shaggy’s real name was John Becker, and he was undeniably one of the best forensics technicians in the state of Missouri, albeit a long-haired, hippie, nine-earrings-in-each-ear kind of guy. We called him Shaggy after the character in Scooby-Doo . He lived for his job and was always on time and ready to process a crime scene at the drop of a hat. His absence at the morgue was an unheard-of event.
    â€œHe called in sick today. Yesterday, too.”
    â€œYou gotta be kidding me? Shaggy did?”
    â€œYeah, we’re all in shock. He didn’t say what the problem was, but I know he’s got allergies that act up this time of year if he’s not takin’ Claritin. Or could be a Bruce Willis marathon runnin’ on TBS.”
    Shag’s obsession with the ex–Mr. Demi was legend, but nobody smiled at Buck’s remark. Not with this kind of crime scene facing us.
    Buck said, “Vicky, get all your stills of the victim, then do both the inside and outside up here, then let Bud show you where the perp went down the hill. You’ll have to do the videos, too, till Shag gets back.”
    Vicky Jackson was our crime scene photographer, in her forties with three kids who drove her crazy with soccer practice and swimming meets and a husband who adored the ground she walked on. She was a charter member in good standing of the renowned, prestigious Red Hat Society of Camdenton fame and wore her purple boa well.
    I said, “Vicky, take special care with this one, but I warn you, this guy spent a lot of time cleaning up after himself, so you’re gonna have your work cut out for you.”
    Buckeye said, “Until Vicky gets done inside the house, we’ll process the vic’s car. That it over there?” He pointed at the red Fusion.
    â€œYeah. It’s a rental, so I doubt if you’ll find anything inside. I’m pretty sure everything went down inside that bathroom.”
    Two of Buck’s people walked up the driveway to Hilde’s vehicle as Vicky