The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(86)

Same for the other bodies. If the time frame doesn’t match up, if I was out of the country when they were killed, I’ll concoct some story about putting their bodies in a freezer to hold them longer or something like that so I would have an alibi.

I’ll say the Cougar Creek bodies were ones I found elsewhere and planted years ago at the hot spring.

How hard will they try to debunk the testimony of a dead man? If I give them everything they need, they’ll be happy.

Whatever it takes to keep Jillian safe.

They’ll want a motive, too. I can’t just explain how I managed all of the killings—they’ll want to know why a sick mind would conceive of such a deranged plot.

I’ll tell them I’ve always been off. Obsessed with violent thoughts toward women, the desire to pull off the perfect murder. I’ll tell them I killed Juniper because it wasn’t enough to watch strangers die; I wanted to murder someone who knew me.

Why would I kill myself?

If I’m a sociopath, it can’t be due to guilt. Is it because I want to gloat openly? Or is it that I fear they’re closing in on me?

When they arrested Ted Bundy, he told the police officer who caught him it would have been better to have just shot him. He felt no remorse but wasn’t immune to anxiety.

I’ll need to make a detailed timeline to explain when I did my crimes. I should also be prepared with some explanations of how I fooled the methods for dating bodies, like the refrigerator. I could name some preservatives as well as some enzymatic accelerants.

To make it more convincing, I should see to it that when they search my car they find the necessary tools and chemicals. There’s probably one or more chemical supply companies nearby that can provide me with what I need.

Yes, I think I can do this. Hell, I’ll post my video confession online for everyone to see. That would be too much for the news to resist.

That should convince him of my sincerity.



There’s a clarity that arrives when life forces you into a binary situation.

If I had more time, there might be other choices. Regardless of the name change, I’m sure I could have found him. But I was too late and too clumsy. Any attempt to bid for more time would be transparent to him. He has the upper hand.

I devote my mental energy to the chemicals and materials I’ll need to convince the police I was able to muck around with the bodies, screwing up their estimated time of death.

There’s an enzymatic solution used as an industrial cleanser that would cause advanced necrosis before breaking down. A few gallons of that would be convincing. A mild acid wash in a bathtub would cause skin discoloration and aging.

I could say I used a CO2 tank to cause the internal organs to rupture from decomposition.

If I wanted to really screw with forensics, I could say I drew blood from one body and placed it in another to mess with their DNA analysis.

Hell, I could even convincingly turn a corpse into a dead clone of a living person if I transferred enough blood, used a clotting agent to have it solidify in the veins they’d tap, then destroyed the dental records by using hydrofluoric acid to wear down the teeth—as if they were attacked by aggressive bacteria.

Okay, I know what I’ll say. I know what I need to do.

I’ll write up a summary of my methods, make a video confession, and then let the police know where to find my body.

It’s the only way to keep Jillian safe.





CHAPTER SEVENTY


SURROGATE

In my solitude I have pondered much on the incomprehensible subjects of space, eternity, life and death.

—Alfred Russel Wallace

Faking my own death is easier said than done—especially with such short notice. While there was no way in hell I could convince someone conducting a thorough forensic examination that somebody else’s body was my own, I could buy myself some time. I have three or four days at most until Mead and her staff take a look at the corpse and realize that the whole thing is a sham.

I have to find Joshua Lee Clark before then. Once he realizes what I’ve done, he’s going to go ballistic and Jillian and Gus won’t be safe.

If I thought Clark would leave them alone, I might have put the bullet in my head. But I don’t trust him. Once I’m dead, he’ll probably eventually kill Jillian just for kicks. It’s what he does. While he presented himself as a coldly rational person on the phone, he’s a murderer who enjoys killing. It’s in his DNA.

To buy time I have to let him think I’m dead. To do that, I need a body. On average, twenty-four people die a day in Montana. The number of males around my age averages about two to three per day.

According to the Montana Gazette, Christopher Dunleavy, age thirty, was found unresponsive two days ago and taken to Missoula Memorial Hospital, where he was declared dead on arrival from a prescription-drug overdose. Authorities say they’re trying to contact family members. Translation: his body is sitting in the hospital morgue waiting for someone to make burial arrangements.

The social media profile I found for him shows someone that doesn’t resemble me facially but has a similar body type—close enough for what I have planned.



I dial the hospital and have the switchboard connect me to the morgue.

“Cold storage,” says a friendly woman.

“Hello, I’m calling from Hudson Creek sheriff’s office. Do you still have Christopher Dunleavy’s remains?”