"One approximately three feet in length and an inch and a half thick. Bark worn off. Props up the plywood cover about as you'd expect."
"And the shelves?" He took a step toward them.
"Not yet," D.D. spoke up sharply
He concealed his surprise with a shrug, then turned to face her; it was her party after all.
"I don't see many evidence placards," he said at last.
"It's that clean. It's like the subject closed it up. He used it. For a while, I'm willing to bet, then one day he simply moved on."
Bobby studied her intently, but she didn't elaborate.
"Feels old," he commented.
"Abandoned," D.D. specified.
"Got a date?"
"Nothing scientific. We'll have to wait for Christie's report."
He waited again, but once more she refused to provide additional information.
"Yeah, okay," he said after a moment. "It looks like his work. You and I only have secondhand details, though. Have you contacted the detectives who worked the original scene?"
She shook her head. "I've been here since midnight; haven't had a chance to check the old case file yet. That's a lot of years back, though. Whichever officers handled it, they're bound to be retired by now."
"November eighteen, 1980," Bobby provided softly
D.D. got a tight look around her mouth. "Knew you'd remember," she murmured grimly. She straightened her shoulders. "What else?"
"That pit was smaller, four by six. I don't recall any mention of support beams in the police report. I think it's safe to say it was less sophisticated than this one. Jesus. Reading about it still isn't the same as seeing it. Jesus."
He touched the wall again, feeling the hard-packed earth. Twelve-year-old Catherine Gagnon had spent nearly a month in that first earthen prison, living in a timeless black void interrupted only by visits from her captor, Richard Umbrio, who had held her as his own personal sex slave. Hunters had found her by accident shortly before Thanksgiving, when they had tapped on the plywood cover and been startled to hear faint cries below. Catherine had been saved; Umbrio sent to prison.
The story should've ended there, but it didn't.
"I don't remember any mention of other victims at Umbrio's trial," D.D. was saying now.
"No."
"Doesn't mean he hadn't done it before, though."
"No."
"She could've been his seventh victim, eighth, ninth, tenth. He wasn't the type to talk, so anything's possible."
"Sure. Anything's possible." He understood what D.D. left unsaid. And it's not like they could ask. Umbrio had died two years ago, shot by Catherine Gagnon, under circumstances that had been the true death knell to Bobby's STOP career. Funny how some crimes just went on and on and on, even decades later.
Bobby's gaze returned to the covered shelves, which he noticed D.D. was still avoiding. D.D. hadn't called him at two in the morning to look at a subterranean chamber. BPD hadn't issued red-ball deployment for a nearly empty pit.
"D.D?" he asked quietly
She finally nodded. "Might as well see it for yourself. These are the ones, Bobby, who didn't get saved. These are the ones who remained down in the dark."
BOBBY HANDLED THE blinds carefully. The cords felt old, rotting in his hands. Some of the tiny interwoven pieces of bamboo were splintering, snagging on the strings, making the shade difficult to roll. He could smell the taint stronger here. Sweet, almost vinegary. His hands shook in spite of himself and he had to work to steady his heartbeat.
Be in the moment, but outside the moment. Detached. Composed. Focused.
The first blind rolled up. Then the second.
What helped him the most, in the end, was sheer incomprehension.
Bags. Clear plastic garbage bags. Six of them. Three on the top shelf, three on the bottom, positioned side by side, tied neatly at the top.
Bags. Six of them. Clear plastic.
He staggered back.
There were no words. He could feel his mouth open, but nothing was happening, nothing coming out. He just looked. And looked and looked, because such a thing couldn't exist, such a thing couldn't be. His mind saw it, rejected it, then saw the image and fought with it all over again. He couldn't… It couldn't…
His back hit the ladder. He reached behind, grabbing the cool metal rungs so hard he could feel the edges bite into the flesh of his hands. He focused on that sensation, the sharp pain. It grounded him. Kept him from having to scream.
D.D. pointed up to the ceiling, where one of the light strips had been hung.
"We didn't add those two hooks," D.D. said quietly "They were already there. We didn't find any lanterns left behind, but I would assume…"
"Yeah," Bobby said roughly, still breathing through his mouth. "Yeah."
"And the chair, of course."
"Yeah, yeah. And the fucking chair."
"It's, uh, it's wet mummification," D.D. said, her own voice sounding shaky, working at control. "That's what Christie called it. He bound the bodies, put each in a garbage bag, then tied the top. When decomp started… well, there was no place for the fluids to go. Basically, the bodies pickled in their own juices."