Chapter One

I awake to the sound of heavy air in the sailboat’s rigging, in the mast and the shroud, slapping halyards and ruffling canvas covers, uneasy sounds, chaotic. Everything feels wrong and sounds wrong.

A boat sailing at sea has a rhythm. It moves through the wind and waves smoothly. A sailboat can tell you if all is well, even in the roughest weather. You know right away when something breaks or something goes wrong. The sails will slap and halyards will bang. This boat doesn’t feel right.

A loud screech resonates from overhead. I can’t shake this sleep. I’m stuck in the in-between. The rigging shrieks louder now. I can’t be at sea. I’m not on my sailboat in Sausalito. I’m still in the woods.

I yank my head out of the quicksand and get my bearings. The sky is purple, giving way to royal blue. I sense movement…everywhere. I sit up, resting my head against a thousand year old tree. The bushes and ferns are outlined by the rising sun. Foot tall black shapes are moving all around me. They bounce from side to side and up and down. I am in the woods above one of the most expensive suburbs in the country, a quick bridge crossing from San Francisco.

Dark images take shape and squawk as they move about. They’re crows, ten or twenty of them. Their cawing builds to a crescendo until it completely devours the quiet. I shift my weight, pulling myself up against the tree. The birds startle and take flight and blacken the sky. They leave behind a mass in the half-light.

A pile of branches just a few feet from where I slept covers something gray and white. The crows settle in nearby branches in anticipation of my departure, their cawing persists. I shake the stiffness from my legs as I become aware of a putrid smell. The odor overpowers me and reaches into my very being. My nose runs. My throat closes up and even my stomach rejects it. My gag reflex kicks in as I quickly turn away. I pull my shirt up to my mouth and try to suck as much air through it as I can, but it doesn’t do any good. I lose the Kripsy Kreme flavored bile from the previous night’s poor dinner decision.

I know this smell and I know where it’s coming from. I turn back to the mass hidden beneath redwood and cedar branches. The crows have returned and are picking tentatively at exposed flesh. They’re like sharks in the South Pacific. They keep their distance, constantly sizing you up. Then at the perfect opportunity, they swoop back to take their prey. In this case it’s human.

My sinuses are numbed by the stench of the body. My instinctual desire to regurgitate my dinner passes. I step forward and wave my arms, sending the crows into the air. I get a closer look, trying not to disturb the remains. The gray light of morning is filling in the details and hardening the edges. The body is fresh, but I can’t really tell more than that. It’s mangled arms and legs akimbo. The clothing is torn away in some places, wrapped and twisted in others. There are no shoes present. The twisted legs are beginning to balloon from the internal gases and the trauma. The bloodied hands are devoid of skin and the ends of the fingers are torn open. I look closer at what’s left. I can’t tell if it is a man or a woman.

I think about what animal could have done this. Mountain lions have long since disappeared from these hills and the last Grizzly was shot here around the turn of the century.

I’ve seen dead bodies before.  I’ve dragged them from rivers and I’ve found them lying in their own blood. Some looked peaceful as if it were all part of the process, while others have the look of surprise. I can’t see this person’s face. I can only imagine the pure shock that it might have registered before meeting its end.

I have stumbled on to something a bit more complicated than a simple surveillance. My work from last night, spying on a married surgeon, is moved to the back burner. It was not my intention to be standing over a body today. I want to be cleaning my boat, polishing the stainless or starting a new maintenance project. I often complain about not being busy enough but when busy comes I complain about that too.

The crows alight to higher branches and continue their eerie calls. I step back from the body and offer a moment of silence. This discovery is an unknowable rite of passage for the victim, a moment when life or death takes a turn and changes everything and everyone connected to him or her.

I lift my camera but the battery is dead.

Chapter Two

The fog is playing tricks on me, seeping into my head, bringing with it self-doubt. The freakish thought of discovering other bodies moves in and out of my head. I don’t know the circumstances behind the death, so I don’t know what to expect. This can’t be the work of a serial killer or rapist. The perpetrator would never mutilate the body like this. To a serial killer the body is the trophy and the morgue is the trophy shelf. He wants everybody to see and know his work. This doesn’t make sense.

I begin to contemplate the possibility that a killer might be nearby. I listen. I scan the perimeter. There are bushes and ferns where there was only darkness last night. A grove of tall redwoods and cedars surrounds me. A creek runs toward the bay in the canyon bottom below. There is no one, if there was I’d probably be dead by now.

Could this have happened while I slept? I brace myself against the big redwood tree and reach out to the lifeless form. I reach for the bare skin of one of the mangled limbs. The body is ice cold. This victim of some unbelievable accident or heinous crime met its death sometime before I arrived on the scene.

I ponder the silence a moment before my focus moves to my own feet. I wiggle my toes in my dirty boots. My footprints are everywhere. Fibers from my clothes are probably embedded in the redwoods and in the leaves on the forest floor. My jeans are covered in the same mud and leaves and would leave an indelible impression on a detective investigating the murder scene.

I check my phone for a signal, but of course there’s nothing. There’s never one when you need it, another dead spot. I take a few pictures with my phone. Now there is nothing I can do except climb out and go for help.

The canyon is a completely different place in the daylight. The climb out takes me longer than anticipated. A cold dense fog has moved in, making it difficult to get my bearings. Once again I am forced to be wary of my every step. I feel uncomfortable leaving the body to the crows, but there is nothing I can do. They’ll be back on it in a matter of minutes.

Being in the thick fog is like being under water. Sounds come from everywhere, wrapping around you until you lose your sense of direction. I can hear the distant hum of commuters on Paradise Road in Tiburon which I know to be several canyons away. The crows are still arguing in the canyon, but it sounds like they’re everywhere. Maybe they are.

I can sail madly into the night with only the stars for direction, but fill the arena with fog and even the daylight becomes a confusing muddle. I stagger along, growing disoriented, waiting for the hit.

I hear car doors slam. Voices rise from the bay a mile away. A ferry boat leaves the dock at Tiburon, pressing its hindquarters against the metal piers. I hear the booming foghorn that hangs beneath the roadway of the Golden Gate Bridge. I hear all of this. Then I hear the crows again. I continue on until I reach the top of the hill.

It’s close to 6:30 A.M. The signal on the phone is weak, low battery. This is not an easy call to make. I call Tom Ricketts, an old friend.

One of my personal and professional goals is to avoid the media. Getting my face plastered on the news and in the papers doesn’t exactly do my business any good; my clients expect anonymity. Keeping it off the radio keeps it off the scanners, which means more time to clear out before the San Francisco Chronicle and the Marin Independent Journal set up camp and before the news helicopters begin their lazy circles overhead.

I call Tom’s house and his wife tells me that he is running on the high school track nearby. I find it hard to believe. He hasn’t had a runner’s physique in years, at least since the invention of the value meal. He carries most of his weight above his belt like all the guys our age. I picture him running; huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his red face. It isn’t like him but we all have to get into shape sometime.

I walk down the narrow path to my Chevy Suburban which is parked at a construction site beneath a grassy slope surrounded by eucalyptus trees. Thankfully, the aroma of eucalyptus oil in the fallen leaves clears the scent of death from my sinuses. I quickly eject the SD card from my SLR, loaded with last night’s bread and butter job. I tuck the memory card into my pocket. I look at the contents of my truck; a sail bag is the perfect means by which to transport a body to the dump site, heavy wrenches and tools, solvents and adhesives. My truck looks like it either belongs to a sailor or a serial killer. I’m going to need an alibi.

I give myself the once-over. I’m covered in dirt and mud. My clothes are soiled and damp and I’m emitting an odor I’m not comfortable with and I can’t do much about. My cell phone rings. It’s Tom Ricketts.

Tom was the kid on the block who your parents didn’t want you to play with. He was a thirteen year old joy-rider behind the wheel of his father’s Caprice wagon. He was the kid who always got you in trouble and let you take the fall. He was small, sinewy and strong. He was the best friend that you got into fist fights with one day and had the time of your life with the next. He was fearless.

Tom is a little less than thrilled that I’m interrupting his morning run, but he understands the urgency. He’s a lieutenant for the San Rafael Police Department. I rarely call him with a false alarm. I tell him what happened moment by moment; including the run in with the security guards on the hill last night, my interrupted surveillance of the doctor and his paramour and the chase that led me to sleep next to a dead body. I’d rather risk a slap on the wrist for trespassing than have to explain away my reason for sleeping in the woods and smelling like an errant slaughterhouse knife sharpener.

Ricketts says he’ll make the calls and for me to stay put. He said that it was out of his jurisdiction, but local agencies tend to help each other out in circumstances like this. They all pretty much work together. He would try to get to the scene as fast as he could.

In less than three minutes I hear the sirens racing up the hill. Four Tiburon police cars pour into the construction site with lights ablaze. Gravel flies and a cloud of dust coats everything that is damp, mainly me. Doors fly open and guns are drawn. The cops talk into their shoulder mikes.

I slowly put my hands in the air and step away from the Suburban. The officers have taken up defensive positions behind open patrol car doors with their guns pointed at my kill zone. I turn around and back toward them as directed. They leave their positions to give me a quick pat-down then they approach the Suburban.

My truck is given a light search.

“Clear here!” shouts an officer kneeling on the front seat of my suburban while he points his gun toward the backseat.

“Clear over here!” another officer shouts from a nearby bush.

“I’m clear, you clear?” one officer says to another.

“Clear back here.” The last officer shouts in my ear as he leans me against his car.

“We’re all clear,” I say annoyed. Then we wait.

The cops have been instructed to stand by. We stand around kicking at the dirt. Nobody is talking.

The Tiburon Police Chief, John Lemley, is the first in management to arrive. He slides into the lot driving an older blue Chevy Tahoe that looks like it has seen more soccer field parking lots than crime scenes. The faded bumper sticker in the rear window alludes to the fact that his kids were on the honor roll, and thus were smarter than everyone else and richer than half the rest simply because they went to a school that could afford to spend money on senseless bumper stickers.

Now that the chief’s children have left the nest and are studying in distant colleges, save for the one who is trying to find ‘herself’ while working at a dive shop in a Belize resort town, his wife drives the fun car.

The chief musters. He’s in his fifties and carries a daily reminder of his increasing appetite and slowing metabolism in front of him. His height somewhat hides his true girth, but it’s his badge that is totally invisible.

The Chief talks to his staff sergeant who puts the boots into action. Two of the police cruisers block the site as other officers grab their shotguns and police tape. The chief looks at me but doesn’t say anything.

The sheriff deputies arrive along with the county detective. Their lights are wigwagging with the new state of the art LED strobes that could send the unaware epileptic into grand mal seizures. Once again the dust settles, with most of it sticking to me. If more cars arrive I will become completely camouflaged in dirt and will be able to walk out of here without having to talk to anyone.

The Chief doesn’t seem thrilled by the deputies’ arrival either but that’s what you get in Marin County, numerous jurisdictions all piled up against each other. You call the station about a barking dog and four police agencies show up. At this point, the Chief waves the dust away from his face as he confers with the detective out of earshot, and finally, he motions me over.

“Good morning, Jack.” The chief says, wiping his brow, he has a voice like a wrestling match announcer.

“Good morning, Chief.” I try to dust off my shirt and pants but it’s impossible. The county investigator seems to be watching my futile attempts with disdain. This looks like this is going to be fun.

The chief turns to the investigator, “Homicide Detective Ellen Jacobs of Marin County, this is Jack Brubaker, of the Brubaker Agency in Sausalito and I am sure that he has a very good explanation for being here.”

“Detective.” I offer my hand but there are no takers. The Chief looks away and Ellen Jacobs grimaces. Could the cool reception be the result of me sleeping with a dead body in the woods last night?

I know of Ellen Jacobs through the occasional news blurb and she knows me because…well, who doesn’t. Jacobs is a climber. She started at a podunk valley agency where she supposedly solved the crime of the decade. Her discovery of a pregnant murder victim next to a real estate office here in the Bay Area must have sealed the deal. That was her ticket out of the smoggy Valley and into the hot-tub community. I don’t remember her looking this good, but I guess what they say is true: climbing is the best form of exercise.

Ellen looks great with her straight dirty blonde hair pulled back into a burgeoning pony tail. She goes for the conservative navy blue jacket and casual Friday jeans look along with black pumps which will prove to be grossly inappropriate for what we are about to encounter. The dead body doesn’t care how she comes dressed to the party.

“I’m going to get out of these shoes.” Ellen says looking down at her feet.

“Huh,” I mumble. I look down at mine feeling rugged and outdoorsy.

I watch the chief show his young officers how to tie a knot in the police tape while Ellen pulls on a pair of hiking boots. I prefer to watch Ellen.

I know from her ambition that she is probably a man-eater, but then that’s my type. Each time I promise myself, no more man-eaters, but I always fall for the man-eater and end up on their menu.

Ellen returns to where I have been standing, alone, like an idiot. There is a long pregnant pause. I can’t muster anything more than a nod, she a glare. We’re on the right track.

The chief, no longer distracted by his team’s inability to tie two lengths of police tape together, rejoins us. “I am glad to see that you’ve gotten to know each other a little better.”

Ellen and I look at each other. This isn’t going to be easy.

I know the chief from some previous work I did for him regarding his kid in Belize. And, as a matter of fact, I really don’t consider today to be work, I call it real bad luck for me and the dead body in the woods.

“Brubaker,” she nods, “I’m sure we will have plenty of time to get acquainted.”

“In what, an interview room?” I still can’t get a shot at her eyes behind her dark sunglasses. I believe I mentioned that it was foggy, so I don’t know why the sunglasses. She must think it gives her the upper hand or maybe she’s hiding a hang-over.

The chief looks up the hill and says, “I’m going in with one man. Jacobs, you can follow behind with two of your men. We won’t touch anything or leave the trail, assuming we don’t have to. Avoid stepping on any footprints. We’ll get photos as we go. Once we secure the scene we’ll back out, at which time we will hand it over to the county crime scene guys. Brubaker, you can show us where it is. Please restrain from your usual banter. It’s too early, and frankly I don’t want to hear it.”

“Assuming it is a crime scene.” Ellen rubs her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

“It’s a crime scene, all right.” I say. “Let’s cut the protocol.”

“We are cutting the protocol. You should be sitting in the back of a patrol car right now,” Ellen barks.   “So keep your mouth shut.”

“Wow, the thought of me being locked up with you, barking orders at me, is a turn on.” I put out my wrists mocking a desire for handcuffs.

“Knock it off you two. Brubaker isn’t a threat to anyone. And Ellen, don’t forget this is still my town and my investigation. No banter!”

There it is. We’ve been scolded. Ellen lets out a huff of resentment. It puts a smile on my grubby face.

“This will be base camp unless we find something in closer proximity.” The Chief looks at his men one more time. Several men are rocking on their heels while another untangles a roll of crime scene tape. “Very well, let’s go.” Chief Lemley and Detective Jacobs wave their men over as we begin our procession up the hill.

We walk in silence. Camera flashes illuminate the white misty backdrop. We make our way along a trail bordered by the low shrubs and thick grass that run along the crest of a hilltop. I recognize an area blanketed in soft grass and foamy soil. If I had only seen it last night, it would have been the perfect hiding place. The body would have been left for some other rube to find. The trail leads off toward the narrow canyon and a thickening wood.

Deputy Ansell Adams is taking pictures of everything, turning the evidence into a documentary entitled, “What I did before I got fired for burning through this year’s photo processing budget.” With one of the flashes comes a crash.

“Detective Jacobs, are you alright?” I peer over the bushes while hanging on to the cedar branch that cleaned her clock. She is sprawled spread-eagle among the ferns. As she tries to raise herself up, her hands sink into the damp earth.

I offer my hand and this time she takes it. “Careful of the footprints, they’re evidence.” I add without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

“I’m okay.” Detective Jacobs brushes herself off. As she tries to restore her balance, her diminutive feet sink in the mud. She plunges forward pulling at her mud-caked boots as if she were walking into hurricane force winds. Soon she is back on the trail.

I scan for footprints on the trail, but nothing was left behind, not even my own. Chief Lemley has already passed the point where I left the trail last night. I call after him. He returns and we sort out the procedure beneath the location of the body.

Ellen Jacobs approaches the body, while the chief and I wait below.

“Where were you?” Jacob’s asks. Her jeans are muddied and torn. She rubs her forehead where the branch nailed her then presses a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. She stares at the body.

“I was next to that big freaking tree,” I answer with an intended impatient tone. I point to one of the giant redwoods. The rotting odor drifts over the group. The photographer is the first to lose it and the other newbies follow suit. The sounds of gagging and retching scatter the birds from the limbs above. The chief seems to inhale the odor, as if he were determining the sex, age and cause of death at that very moment.

I am not sure that Jacobs is interested in my answer because she is focused on the corpse. She is like the Horse Whisperer for dead bodies. At one point I thought she was going to put her ear right up to the decedent’s lips.

“So you ran up here, and, as you said, you ‘hunkered down next to this tree.’ You said you smelled the corpse this morning but you didn’t smell anything last night when you were breathing the hardest and when you fell asleep.”

The Marin detective seems to have started her interrogation without me. “Right, that’s what I said.” There are three officers standing down on the path wondering what the hell they are doing there, and so am I. “I was sleeping against the trunk of that big redwood rather than using the body as a pillow.” I point to a flattened area of bark on the forest floor.

“Let’s keep this on a professional level, Brubaker.” The chief speaks.

“Gotcha,” I say.

The chief shifts his weight as he scans the nearby terrain. He ponders a moment before asking the obvious. “So you’re telling us you didn’t know it was here until sunrise. You didn’t smell it until this morning?”

“I find it hard to believe, Mr. Brubaker.” Ellen doesn’t look up from the body.

“That’s what I said, chief. I woke up with a goddamned body at my feet and I called it in. You are here and so is everyone else. I have to get to work.”

The chief cracks a half-smile. “Calm down.”

He hates guys like me, but he also hates the Sheriff’s office for taking over his investigations.

“We’ll call you. Watch your step on your way out.” The chief puts an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“We’ll be in touch.” Ellen Jacob’s eyes are still on the body. “And leave your shoes.”

“What’s that?” Is she some kind of sicko?

“Leave ‘em.” She crosses her arms.

“Here?” I look down at my soiled boots.

“Drop them at base camp before you leave.”

“Now or never,” I say, pulling my feet out of my boots as I kick them toward the officers on the trail below. One flies through the air and lands perfectly in the rookie’s meaty hands while the other slices left and nearly cuts down the chief before landing in distant a bush.

“Don’t go anywhere.” Jacobs tries to get the last word.

“I am confused. Should I stay or should I go?” I ask.

The chief looks at Ellen with the same question written in the expression on his face. Ellen teeters awkwardly, “Go, but don’t go anywhere.” She pronounces the last word very slowly, as if conveying a meaning that only I can understand.

The chief and I look to her for clarification.

“You know what I mean!”

The chief and I look at each other and shake our heads very slowly.

“Where in the hell would I go? I’m not wearing any shoes!”

“Just don’t sail anywhere. I’ve heard you have a boat.” Fluster leaks through her professional demeanor.

Who has she been talking to? “Right!” The bulb just went off. I don’t envy the chief if this is what he is in for.

“Brubaker? We want your photos too,” Ellen adds.

“I almost forgot.” I look to the chief and he okays it with a nod. I reach into my pocket and give the SD chip to Chief Lemley’s guy. I could have feigned ignorance but then I would have been without an alibi.

I push past the other two officers still waiting for orders. I watch my step as I move among the footprints, which are now up to eleven pairs. There goes that evidence.