Free Bare Bones by Debra Dunbar Page A

Tremelay looked rather green as he stared at the bloody leather protruding from the backpack.
    “Yes, sir,” the tech said. “I’m gonna bag it in the backpack, but we’ll get photos of it laid out once I get it to the morgue.”
    I know I had the same slack-jaw, deer-in-headlights look as Tremelay did. Skinned body at the Walters Art Museum. Skin stuffed into a backpack at a house in Canton. And what was in the cooler. “I’m assuming that’s a body in there? That’s not lamb or a gigantic pork loin, is it?”
    The tech shook his head. “No, it’s a body. But not the same body. I mean, the body in the cooler is male, and it’s skinned. This skin is male, but it’s younger, like that of a teenager. I didn’t pull it all the way out because I wanted to preserve any trace evidence, but I could tell.”
    I felt the weight of Tremelay’s stare on me, and I looked up to meet his eyes. “What do you think, Ainsworth?”
    I shrugged, because none of this had anything to do with me. “I think you’ve got a crazy serial killer on your hands, Detective. That’s what I think.”

Chapter 8
     
    T HE FOX WAS back on top of the Peterson’s book when I got home, but none of the pages had been moved. Hoping for the best, I started to read about chupacabras. As interesting as it was, I kept thinking of what we’d found at the house in Canton and texting little notes to Tremelay. He hadn’t responded, so either he was out of pocket or ignoring me. Probably the latter.
    Did the John Doe from the museum have a broken neck too?
    Puncture wound to the back of the neck?
    Hips dislocated?
    Was skinning cleanly done, or evidence of defensive wound/knife cuts?
    I figured it would take a while for the medical examiner’s office to get around to the bodies, and skin, from the Canton house, but hopefully they’d performed the autopsy on the John Doe. If we could just figure out what was similar and what was different between them, maybe we’d have a direction to go in. Right now other than cross comparing medical implant records and missing person’s reports, and searching for Bradley Lewis as a “person of interest” we had nothing to go on.
    We. When would I get it through my thick head that this was a human serial killer? As intriguing as it all was, I was a Templar and a part-time barista. Tremelay was kind enough to loop me in as a friend. That was it.
    And he was busy. I needed to stop texting him and continue to read about chupacabras.
    I was just starting to get to the intriguing part, where Peterson discussed the times chupacabra had been mistaken for werewolves, when there was a knock on my door. The book had amazing full-color, detailed photography of the corpses of each, pointing out the differences in physiology as well as hair patterns, so I was reluctant to answer it. Janice always texted before she came over. Dario wouldn’t be here during daylight hours and he just opened the door and let himself in anyway. Whoever it was could just go away.
    Another knock. “Solaria, I know you’re in there. Answer the door.”
    The last person I ever expected was at my door—my mother. I practically dropped the book on the floor in my haste to let her in, all sorts of horrible scenarios running through my mind. We Templars were pretty good about keeping in touch via modern communication methods, but certain things required a personal visit—things like sharing the news of a family death.
    Oh, God. My Dad? He always seemed so healthy, but things happened. It couldn’t be Essie. My great-grandmother was probably one-thirty if she was a day, but I honestly expected her to outlive us all. Besides, I’d just spoken to her yesterday. Jet? Oh, not Athena’s new daughter. We’d had a huge family party two weeks ago when she and Pietrus got home from Korea with her. I thought of the little girl’s thick black hair that stood out from her head like one of those troll dolls, her round, pinchable cheeks, her sweet, rosy bow of