The bulk of my Friday afternoon was spent going through the rest of the evidence from the scene. And finding out exactly what a proctoscope was for. I was right, I didn't want to know. After work, I went for a few beers with some of the guys from my hockey league. I made arrangements to pick up Lily Saturday night around 7:30. Lutetia complained to me about our daughter's attitude. I listened, said we'd figure things out. I hoped I wasn't lying.
Saturday morning, bright and early, I got a call from LaManche, letting me know the official findings of his autopsy. He was calling it as autoerotic asphyxia. He didn't sound surprised. He was passing his findings on to the coroner, who would handle the notification of next of kin. I was glad to not be making that phone call. The whole thing weirded me out. The guy had been pretty drunk, well over the legal limit, which I guess was why this trip in his baggie had ended so badly for him.
Once I finished with LaManche, I got myself some breakfast, then called Tempe. She claimed she was ready when I was, so I swung by to pick her up and we got on the road for Hemmingford. I was feeling pretty good. Spring had well and truly arrived and I wasn't feeling so hard up for a cigarette today. I even brought a coffee for Doctor Cranky.
Once she'd had some time to metabolize the caffeine, she seemed to finally want to talk. She didn't mention any possibility of after-search nookie. Maybe she could be convinced. "So," she asked, "how long did Laurier/Lowery live at the place we're heading for, anyway?"
I opened my window and leaned my arm on the edge. "A long time." I caught her arched eyebrow, then dove into the explanation as I understood it. "It's a bit complicated. Basically, we think he lived there since the early '70's." I went into the details we had, about various landlords and rental agreements that hadn't been as strict as the Canadian government would have liked. "When the last owner died, with no heirs, Lowery just started paying the taxes and bills in the dead guy's name. That was eight years ago."
I ignored her raised eyebrow and just enjoyed the warm air washing over my face. "Nobody noticed?" She sounded incredulous.
I shrugged. "They were getting their money. Nobody asked too many questions." She rolled her eyes. I changed the subject. "So Lowery got his kink on bundling in plastic, going deep, and beating off in a pond." I knew my distaste was coming though, but I couldn't help it. Maybe this particular bit of kink bothered me because, lately, my sexual escapades were strictly a solo affair. And the person I wanted to engage in a double act was more interested in making deviled eggs for her cat.
She grinned at me. "Dressed as a nurse."
I shook my head. Maybe I'd just never get the appeal of this. I certainly hoped not. "Apparently he changed in the canoe. The duffel contained jeans, socks, sneakers, and a shirt."
"Must take good balancing skills."
I didn't laugh, which took effort. "It also contained a flashlight."
"Suggesting he went to the pond at night."
"Wouldn't you?" I shook my head. I wouldn't want anyone seeing me in that situation. "I don't get it. What's the kick?"
"Most autoerotic activity takes place in the home," she announced.
I practically snorted. "Gee. Why would that be?" Maybe because that way no one saw you wrapped in a plastic bag, dressed as a freaking nurse.
"Death is usually due to the failure of a preestablished escape mechanism." Christ. I bet she'd read some scholarly paper on the subject or something.
I shook my head. "Lowery probably lost his snorkel, then panicked and dropped the knife he was using to cut himself free."
"That's LaManche's take. And it's plausible. Most autoerotic deaths are accidental. The person chokes or smothers, due to hanging, or the use of a ligature or plastic bag. Also in the mix are electrocution, foreign-body insertion, overdressing, or body wrapping."
"Body wrapping?" I probably didn't want to know, but I couldn't help but ask.
"A plastic bag over the head is fairly common, body wrapping less so. Last night I read about a sixty-year-old man found rolled in fourteen sewn blankets, his penis wrapped in a plastic bag. A forty-six-year-old man was discovered wearing seven pairs of stockings, a dress, and ladies' undies cut to allow Mr. Happy a front-row seat. A twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher died sporting a plastic mackintosh, three cotton skirts, a raincoat, and a plastic—"
She had seriously spent her evening researching this crap? I interrupted her before she could get through her dissertation. "I get the picture. But what's the point?"
"Heightened sexual excitement."
I caught her green eyes with my blue ones. "I can think of better routes to that end."
I saw her swallow, caught the blush that instantly stained her cheeks. Oh yeah, I've still got it. And I could certainly think of better ways for Dr. Temperance Brennan, and myself, to achieve heightened sexual excitement.
She retreated back to facts to cover the fact that I'd made her flustered. "Autoerotic arousal derives from a limited number of mechanisms." She ticked off each point with a finger. "One, direct stimulation of the erotic regions. Two, stimulation of the sexual centers of the central nervous system."
"As in strangulation or hanging," I clarified, just to make sure I was following her.
"Or the use of a head covering. It's well known that cerebral hypoxia can heighten sexual pleasure." I didn't care how well known it was, it was still weird. I didn't interrupt. "Three, creation of fear and distress in the context of a masochistic fantasy. Spice things up with electrocution or immersion, for example."
"Weenie-whacking submerged can't be all that common."
"There's actually a term for it. Aqua-eroticum. I found a few cases reported in the literature. One victim used an ankle rock, just like Lowery."
She had to be making this shit up. No way there was a scholarly paper on jacking off underwater. No way. I turned onto Highway 219. We passed the pond, and a few minutes later pulled to the shoulder beside a mailbox with the number 572 hand-painted on one side. Agent pain in the ass was apparently already on scene, if his cruiser was any hint.
Grand. We spent a few seconds studying the house. It was a small single storey bungalow set back from road. It was partially hidden by a small stand of pine. A small shed was situated to the right. I didn't see anything to start alarm bells ringing in my brain, so I gestured to Brennan and we hopped out of my jeep. The property looked pretty neat. The paint was fresh and the back garden had been plowed recently enough that it hadn't been covered with new growth yet. The wood pile had been refreshed since winter.
I saw a flash of movement in a front window and my blood boiled. Glancing at Brennan, I saw that she'd noticed it too. "Bandau better not be pulling more of his Lone Ranger bullshit." This kid was really starting to piss me off.
The outer door stood open, its frame gouged and splintered at the level of the knob. Great, just great. Dudley freaking Do-Right had taken it upon himself to break into the house ahead of the paper saying such an action was actually legal. He was really pissing me off. Brennan followed me inside, where we found Bandau dicking around. The sound of our footsteps made him turn to face us.
"Not jumping the gun again, are we, Agent?" I smiled, not a hint of humor in it.
"No, sir."
"You entered ahead of the warrant."
"Just securing the scene."
What exactly was he securing it from? Aliens? Ghosts? "Let's hope that's true." He didn't respond, and I decided to just ignore him.
Tempe and I began the familiar song and dance. I, at least, wasn't looking for anything in particular. We had no reason to suspect foul-play, and the only reason to still be investigating was the confusion over the ID. Had the ID been straight forward, I would have happily dumped the whole mess into the lap of the useless Bandau.
The contents of the house were pretty typical of an older guy who lived on his own and had never had a wife. It was neater than I expected, and there was a huge amount of home canned foods, but everything else was pretty typical. Battered dishes, furniture that was old or second hand or both. The fridge held basics. Milk, sandwich stuff.
There were a few dishes in the drying rack, a half empty bottle of scotch. The bathroom was clean and tidy, as was the bedroom. The tiny closet held unremarkable clothes. The closet floor held two pairs of boots, a pair of dress shoes and a pair of sandals, along with the missing motorcycle boot. I thought that was a bit odd. So the one boot really was part of his planned outfit. This guy had really been weird.
The shelf above the cloths rail contained the guy's porn collection. "Hell-o."
We read the titles. Tit Man. Butt Man. "The guy's flexible," Brennan remarked.
I picked one up, Lollypop Girls. The lead story was headlined Park It in My Panties. Tempe looked at me before I could come up with a suitable remark, about what exactly I'd like to park in her panties. She cut off my thought. "Decorum, sir."
"Hither we yonder to fair computer?" I grinned at her.
"Hither is not a verb."
"Let us forth, flaxen-haired maiden." Sure, she wasn't very blonde, but I was doing my best. She rolled her eyes at me dramatically and I bent slightly at the waist in a mock bow. "I yield to my lady's superior skills."
"Thank you."
I leaned in to softly get the last word. "And to her unclean undies." The things I could do to get said undies unclean… She smacked my arm, knocking me out of my musing.
I retreated back to the living room and she followed me. Bandau was still standing around, doing nothing as far as I could tell. What exactly had been the point of breaking in ahead of the warrant to just stand around?
Tempe started fishing around the desk. "No phone," she noted. "No cables. Did Laurier have an ISP account?"
What was she going on about now? "Meaning?"
"Internet Service Provider. Like Videotron or Bell."
Oh, internet. "Not that I found record of." It hadn't been any of the bills being paid in the deceased owner's name.
She switched on the computer, and I guessed she was having a go with common passwords. After a few minutes, something apparently worked. I waited while she finished booting the machine up. After a minute or two of clicking, she pointed at something. I leaned in to see what she was indicating. "He pirated signal from the neighbors."
"Can he do that?"
"The Fifes probably use their phone number as their password. A lot of folks do. Laurier knew or looked it up. Or maybe he asked permission. Anyway, once the password is entered, the computer remembers and automatically selects that network. The Fifes can't be far away. The signal's weak but sufficient."
I jotted down 'Fife' in my notebook. I'd get in touch with them on Monday. Tempe, meanwhile, kept poking around on the dead guy's computer. "He didn't use e-mail," she said. "Or iTunes, iPhoto, iMovie, iDVD."
"I see." Emphasis on the 'I'.
Another eye roll. "Let's check what he found amusing on the net."
She pulled up the guy's browsing history and announced, "A site called robesoniandotcom was visited six times." I leaned in to have a read. Her hair smelled good, like some kind of flowers, mixed with that perfume of hers I loved, mixed with just her. I resisted the urge to bury my face in it. I focused back on the actual job.
Tempe pulled up , which was an online newspaper for Lumberton, the county seat of Robeson County, North Carolina. "Hot damn," I murmured in her ear. She shivered, ever so slightly.
She reopened the history, and we both went back to skimming it. From what he looked at, it looked like he really was a draft dodger from the late '60's. That cemented the whole thing for me. I straightened up. "That nails it. Lowery left Lumberton for Canada to avoid service in Vietnam. He's been living the straight life as Jean Laurier ever since."
"Straight except for one quirk." She pointed to a couple addresses I hadn't read yet. Love Yourself and Tell. Hard Soloing. Ramrod's Self-Bondage Page. "Pick one," she said.
I shook my head, then pointed to one at random. Ramrod's blog featured two stories.
A Baptist minister was found dead, alone in his Arkansas home, wearing a wet suit, face mask, diving gloves, and slippers. Underneath the outerwear were a second rubberized suit with suspenders, rubberized male underwear, and bondage gear constructed of nylon and leather. The reverend's anus featured a condom-covered dildo.
A Kansas plumber hanged himself from a showerhead with his wife's leather belt. The gentleman survived to tell the tale. In vivid detail. Wonderful.
Ramrod's home page had a colorful sidebar encouraging visitors into his chat room. We opted to not.
Tempe shut down the computer and started rummaging around in the desk. I left her to it, opting instead to have a further poke through the living room. I didn't find anything telling. There was the typical loose change under the couch cushions, knick knacks in cabinets.
I stopped when Tempe called me over. "Check this out."
She handed me an old black and white photo. It looked very much like the kid from the high school yearbook fax. "Looks like Lowery," I said.
"The name Spider is written on the back."
I flipped it, read the inscription, nodded and handed it back to her. That was enough for me. I knew this was our guy. Jean Laurier was John Lowery. Now it was up to the guys in the US to figure out who exactly it was they'd buried in Lowery's grave. "We're done here," I announced.
"Take these?" She indicated the computer and the photo.
I glanced to Agent Useless. I'd wanted to make him panic a bit about the busted door, make him think we'd gotten permission only to inspect the interior, but it would be a hassle. I could always write him up over it, if he pissed me off again. I nodded to Tempe. "The warrant covers it."
She nodded and hopped under the desk to start unplugging things. I stood back and admired the view. I thought about my favorite panties on her, that tiny thong I loved so much. I glanced over at Bandau, who also had taken far too keen an interest in the good doctor's rear, especially for someone who couldn't be bothered to take more of an interest in the search than staring out the window a second before. I glared at him before making a decision. Oh yeah, I was totally writing him up.
