Georgia, like many officers, took extra care and caution when she had a murder case involving a child. Rick noted the flat set of her lips and the stiffness of her back. She was pissed and not a woman to be bothered.
Rick glanced toward the maintenance crew. “I want to talk to the guys that found the body.”
“Me too.”
The detectives moved toward two men wearing green coveralls and mud boots. One leaned on a shovel while the other stood back, cigarette dangling from a large sun-weathered calloused hand.
Rick pulled his badge from his pocket and held it up for the two men who straightened when they approached. The smoker dropped his cigarette to the ground and doused it with the twist of a booted foot.
Bishop flicked his badge quickly. “I’m Detective Bishop, Nashville Police Department. Got questions for you about your find.”
The men looked at Bishop. Neither said a word but a subtle narrowing of their eyes said the Boston accent pegged him as an outsider.
The smoker, a tall, lean man with stooped shoulders and graying temples, spoke. “I’m Tate Greene and this is Neville Jones. That dog going to bite me?”
Rick glanced at Tracker who watched the men carefully. The canine hadn’t gotten the memo that he’d been retired and though he didn’t move like he once did, his eyes and brain remained sharper than ever. “No.”
Greene eyed the dog. “You two are the ones shot last year?”
“That’s right,” Rick said. Their story had been all over the news for weeks. The media scrutiny had been stifling and left a distaste for reporters in Rick’s mouth. “I’m Detective Rick Morgan.”
“And that’s Tracker,” Tate said. “I saw you two on the television.”
“Correct.”
Tate studied the canine’s dark gaze. “Reporter said you screwed up.”
“I didn’t.”
“But you got shot.”
“The other guy’s dead.”
Tate nodded. “Right.”
Bishop shifted, never happy with a slow-paced conversation. He fired questions like bullets and though that worked sometimes, often it was better, Rick thought, to toss the questions out easy and slow so when the curveball came no one expected it.
“I don’t like dogs,” said Neville, the younger of the two men. In his late twenties, his build was plumper and his hair darker and thicker. Both men shared the same square-faced bone structure and flat noses.
“He’s my nephew,” Tate said. “Got bitten bad when he was six and hasn’t liked dogs since.”
Tracker eyed both men with keen interest.
“How long you two been working for the parks department?” Rick asked.
“Going on ten years.” Tate shifted his attention from the dog to the detective. “And Neville started last month. Used to work at the hospital but he got laid off.”
Neville glanced at his uncle, seemingly annoyed by the added explanation but he made no comment. He jerked a bandanna out of his pocket and wiped sweat from his brow.
“Why were you draining the lake?”
“Maintenance. One of the fountains hasn’t been working for a while and we have an order to replace the head,” Tate said.
“Walk us through what happened, if you don’t mind.” Rick said.
Tate met Rick’s gaze. “Took a good day to pump the water out of the lake. Neither one of us noticed the bag right off. It was covered in mud.”
Neville nodded agreement. “I was making my way through the mud when my boot got caught. I stumbled and damned near fell forward. Just as I righted myself, I saw the edge of the bag. A bit of plastic sticking up. I tugged and realized pretty quick it was a garbage bag.”
Tate shook his head. “I’ve found all kinds of crap in places like this when we drain away water. A bike. Car tires. Hell, even a shotgun. But never a body. When I saw the pink blanket, I peeled it back and saw the skull. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Rick’s gaze flickered to the bit of pink in the muck. Anger banded around his heart, digging in cold talons. “What’d you do after you realized you’d found bones?”
“We got the hell out of there,” Neville said. “Can’t be good luck to find bones. Never know when the spirits are lingering around.”
Bishop arched a brow but didn’t comment.
Rick nodded as if he understood. “Never can be too careful. What’d you do next?”
“I called the cops,” Tate added.
Bishop’s sunglasses hid his eyes, but his lips flattened into a grim line. “You have any information about the maintenance of this pond?”
Tate glanced toward Bishop and frowned. “Like I said I been here ten years and I haven’t worked on it before.”
“Where can I get maintenance records?” Rick asked.
“Front office,” Tate said. “Marvin Beard runs maintenance. Call him and he can tell you what’s been done in the area.”
Rick pulled a notebook from his pants pocket and jotted down the name. He also took down contact information for Tate and Neville. “Thanks. Do me a favor and stick around a bit longer.” He tossed a smile that had the two men nodding and retreating back to the shade of a tree.
Rick and Bishop moved back to the pond in time to see Georgia struggling to get out of the muck without dropping her camera.
Georgia shook her head. “Don’t even try. The mud will suck you in and ruin your pants.” Two more steps and then a hard pull on her right foot and she stepped up onto the grassy bank.
“What did you find?” Rick asked.
She huffed out a breath and brushed a curl off her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. “As I told the uniforms, it’s a child. I can’t say for certain about the sex or cause of death. I can tell you the child was very young. Judging by the size of the skull I’d say five years old but in cases like this . . .” Realizing her tone grew increasingly bitter, she paused. “Children who’ve suffered a history of abuse often can be small for their age. Malnutrition.” Again a heavy silence. “I’d say female judging by the pink blanket but that’s just a guess at this point.”