See Her Die

by Leigh, Melinda

  “Yes, ma’am.” Todd ended the call.

  Bree turned to Matt. “How is he?” She motioned toward the dog. Brody had stretched out on the snow, resting as if he knew his job was done.

  Matt’s jaw tightened. “I’ll take him to the vet today. Hopefully, it’s nothing serious.”

  Bree wished Brody didn’t freak her out. Her brain knew he wouldn’t hurt her, but she was conditioned to fear him.

  A few minutes later, a sheriff’s department cruiser drove up from the opposite direction, stopping short of the parking area.

  Bree gestured toward the vehicle. “The deputy will take you back to your vehicle. Thanks for your help, Matt.”

  “It was all Brody, but you’re welcome.” Matt called the dog, who rose painfully to his feet.

  She watched Brody limp to the patrol car and gingerly climb into the back. Worry for the big dog tugged at her.

  Matt climbed into the passenger seat, and they drove away. She instantly wished he could have stayed. Not that she couldn’t handle being alone with a dead body. That was hardly a first for her. But she missed having a dependable partner, and Matt was solid.

  Another sheriff’s department cruiser appeared on the road above the parking lot. Her chief deputy climbed out and approached Bree. He avoided stepping on the tire tracks leading to and away from the boat ramp area.

  Bree turned back toward the body. Todd fell into step beside her.

  She retraced her own path back to the bank. “Try to stay on the tracks Matt and I left so we disturb the scene as little as possible.”

  “Holy . . .” Todd stopped cold. “What the hell happened to him?”

  Bree shook her head. “Best not to make assumptions this early in the investigation. Let’s wait for the ME.”

  “Is he the shooter?”

  “Too early to say. We’ll have to wait for the ME to ID the body and give us a time of death. I need you to secure the scene. Include the tire tracks and footprints in the parking area. Direct responding vehicles to park on the south side of the access road. Set up an area for the press. When in doubt, add distance to the crime scene perimeter. You can always make the area smaller. Harder to go back and expand it later.”

  Todd took a small notepad from his pocket and wrote in it. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let’s get a forensic team down here.” Bree pointed to a set of tire tracks. “These tire imprints look good enough to cast. Some of the footprints here are clearer than they were back at the cabin, maybe clear enough to get an impression. Get someone on that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Assign a deputy to start a crime scene log ASAP. I’m going to need you.”

  Todd hurried back to his car. While he secured the scene, Bree called the SFPD and asked for Detective Dane. The desk sergeant put her through to the detective’s voice mail, and Bree left a brief message.

  She turned back to the body.

  Could this be the shooter? If so, how did he end up in the lake? She scanned its frozen surface for a place where he could have gone through the ice but didn’t see a hole. A human body was slightly heavier than fresh water. Bodies sank, and a lake wouldn’t have much of a current. Drowning victims were typically found close to the place they went under. Where and when had this victim gone into the water? What had happened to his face?

  Bree surveyed the area. Even if they’d found the shooter, they were still missing the victim.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Two hours later, Bree watched the forensics tech shake a can of spray paint and crouch over a shoe print next to the vehicle tracks. He’d set a camera up on a tripod over the shoe print. Now he sprayed the print lightly with gray paint to create enough contrast and show the tread.

  Shoe prints in snow, white on white, were difficult to photograph. The spray paint would also help prevent the casting material from running between the crystals of snow.

  The tech snapped a photo. Then he added a scale, a black L-shaped ruler, pushing it into the snow until it was level with the shoe print. He snapped another picture using the ruler to show the size of the print.

  A few feet away from her, a second tech was preparing to cast the tire tracks. He’d already photographed them with and without spray paint.

  Holding a plastic bag of powdered dental stone, the tech squatted next to the print and added snow to a stainless-steel bottle of water. Once he added the water to the powdered dental stone, the chemical reaction would heat up the mixture. The snow would chill the water and help keep the mixture as cold as possible so that it didn’t melt the snow before setting. He poured the water into the plastic bag, closed it, and then kneaded the bag until the mixture reached the right consistency. Slowly, he poured it into the tire track. “I’ll work on the shoe prints now.”

  “How long before you can lift them?” she asked.

  “I should be able to transport them within the hour, but they’ll take twenty-four hours to dry completely.”

  Bree turned as the medical examiner’s van bounced over the frozen grass and parked next to the forensic unit. Crime scene tape encircled the entire parking area. Dr. Serena Jones and her assistant got out of the van and opened the hatch at the back of the vehicle. They donned coveralls and knee-high rubber boots before trudging to the edge of the lake.

  “Sheriff.” Dr. Jones was a tall African American woman. Today, she wore a purple fleece hat over her closely cropped hair.

  Bree’s heart ached. The last time she had seen the medical examiner had been over her sister’s dead body.

  Dr. Jones’s gaze went to the body on the shore.

  “A K-9 found the body at approximately nine a.m.” Bree turned and walked toward the lake beside the ME.

  They stopped ten feet short of the body. Dr. Jones scanned the area. “Has anyone touched the body?”

  “Yes.” Bree described finding the body and pulling it from the water. “I thought resuscitation might be possible. Then we rolled him over.” She didn’t need to say any more.

  Dr. Jones signaled her assistant, who moved forward with a camera. The assistant snapped long-range pics first, then spiraled toward the body to take progressively more close-up photographs. When she’d finished, Dr. Jones walked closer and squatted in the mud. “Some fingernails are broken.”

  “Possible defensive injuries,” Bree said.

  Dr. Jones tilted her head and wiped some mud off the wrist, exposing a red line. “Considering these are ligature marks, I’d say self-defense is a good bet.” She moved to his feet. “There are ligature marks around his ankles as well.”

  The ME covered the hands with paper bags to preserve evidence lodged under the fingernails.

  Bree stood back and let the medical examiner work. A shiver ran through her bones. She’d been out in the weather since before sunrise with nothing more than a few sips of coffee in her belly. Not that she was hungry, just running out of energy.

  Dr. Jones recorded air and water temperatures. Then the ME and her assistant removed the ice from around the legs and feet, piece by piece.

  “We’ll need samples of the water and the mud under and around the body,” Dr. Jones said.

  Her assistant took the samples and carried them back toward the ME’s van.

  “I’m ready to move the body. Can I get a hand, Sheriff?” Dr. Jones asked.

  “Sure.” Bree positioned herself on the opposite side of the body. She donned fresh gloves. Then she and Dr. Jones each took an arm and hauled the body onto a black body bag unfolded on the bank. Dr. Jones moved her kit, a plastic box that could have been used for tackle, closer to the body. She used a scalpel to take the body’s temperature via the liver. She read the thermometer, then did some calculations on her clipboard.

  “How long has he been dead?” Bree asked.

  Dr. Jones frowned at her calculations. “The cold water will make estimating the time of death challenging.”

  It was eleven thirty. The call about the shooting had come in at five thirty.

&n
bsp; “Can you tell me if he’s been dead more or less than six hours?” Bree asked.

  Dr. Jones glanced down at the calculations on her clipboard. “Definitely more than six hours.”

  Bree stared down at the faceless corpse.

  So, he’s not the shooter. Who is he?

  “Scarlet Falls PD is looking for a missing university student,” Bree said. “Detective Dane is lead.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Jones said. “The SPFD called earlier asking about John Does.”

  Bree saw her chief deputy walking toward her.

  “We’ve searched the boat ramp and parking area,” Todd said. “Didn’t find much other than the prints. The tire tracks went directly to the main road, as we expected.”

  Bree nodded. “I’d like to know where he went into the water.”

  “Must be close to here,” Todd said.

  “I agree.”

  “So, what now?”

  Bree pointed to the frozen trash and debris trapped in the ice. “We need to bag all of that litter. When the ME is finished, we need to search the lake bed around where the body was found. The water is shallow. No need to drag out the dive team. A deputy in tall boots should be sufficient. Mark off ten feet in each direction.”

  Bree stood and crossed her arms to stop her shivering. She hadn’t been this cold in a long time. She surveyed her scene. The ME was in charge of the body. Forensics was covering casting the tire tracks and boot prints. Deputies were searching the woods. She’d given instructions for processing the remaining scene. There was nothing more she could do here.

  “Todd, you and I will head back to the cabin.” Bree spotted a news van on the road. She was surprised there was only one. A deputy was directing the news team away from the scene. Bree walked over. As much as she hated being in front of a camera, she would rather give a voluntary statement and cooperate than create animosity with the press. They were doing their jobs, just like she was.

  The reporter, a tall blond man with a killer smile and a microphone, spotted her. “Sheriff? Can I have a minute?”

  “Yes,” Bree said.

  “I’m Nick West.” He held out a hand. Nick was young, probably in his late twenties.

  Bree shook it. A cameraman swung his lens toward them.

  The reporter spoke into his microphone. “This is Nick West of WSNY News talking to Randolph County Sheriff Bree Taggert. Sheriff, is it true you found a body in Grey Lake this morning?” He extended the mic toward her.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you identified the deceased?” he asked. “Is this the missing university student?”

  “We don’t know.”

  A second cameraman lifted his camera and pointed it at the lake.

  Bree stepped in front of the lens. “I’m going to ask you not to take any video until the body is placed in the bag. That is someone’s loved one. I won’t have the family learn of his death on TV. As soon as the remains are covered, you can roll film.”

  The cameraman frowned. “You can’t—”

  West held up a hand. “We’ll wait.”

  The cameraman lowered his camera.

  “Thank you for respecting the victim,” Bree said.

  West turned off the microphone. “What can you tell us off the record?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. West. I don’t do off the record, but I also won’t hold back information unless I have a good reason.”

  “OK.” West turned the mic back on. “What can you tell us?”

  “This morning at approximately nine o’clock, the deceased body of a man was found near the boat ramp in Grey Lake. There was no identification on the body. The sheriff’s department will assist the medical examiner in any way to determine the identity of the deceased as quickly as possible.”

  “Do you know if the victim was murdered?”

  “Cause of death will be determined by the medical examiner, but we are conducting a full investigation. I’ll hold a press conference as soon as I have more information.”

  He pulled the mic back. “Is this body related to this morning’s shooting at Grey Lake Campground?”

  The mic was in Bree’s face before she could think, but she took the time to choose her words carefully. “At this time, we have not officially established a connection between the two incidents.”

  “But you were investigating the shooting when you found the body?”

  “Yes.” Bree kept her expression neutral, but a small spark of anger fanned inside her. Nick would only know that information if someone in law enforcement had told him. She squelched her irritation. Leaks in her department were not the reporter’s fault. Bree was responsible for the behavior of her team. “But, at this time, we do not know if the two incidents are connected or coincidental.”

  “Is it possible that the remains belong to the shooting victim?” West asked.

  “No.” Bree shook her head. “The remains have been in the lake too long.”

  “Is it true there’s an eyewitness to this morning’s shooting?”

  Bree froze, and her poker face felt twitchy. “I can’t comment on an active investigation.”

  How did he know that?

  Her department leaked like a colander.

  “Excuse me, I need to get back to work,” she said.

  “Thanks, Sheriff.” West lowered his microphone.

  Bree gave him a slight nod and returned to her scene. She found Todd, and he drove them back to the cabin. Once there, she stopped at her SUV and drank the cold dregs of her coffee with the protein bar she’d left in the center console. She needed the calories, but the food left her nauseated. She found a water bottle in her vehicle and took a few minutes to hydrate.

  She found Todd talking to a deputy. She walked over for a status report on the scene.

  The deputy pointed toward cabins nineteen and twenty. “We’re almost finished with the outside areas. We’ll do inside the cabins next.”

  With snow coming, they’d prioritized the outdoor portions of the scene.

  “We’ll do number twenty.” Bree gestured to Todd, turned, and went up the steps into the cabin. Todd followed her into the main room. They tugged on gloves. Bree slid her camera from her pocket and began taking pictures of the sleeping bag and backpack in front of the fireplace. The fire had long since cooled to ashes.

  “When that fireplace is blazing, this room is probably nice and warm,” Todd said.

  “There are worse places for a homeless person to sleep,” Bree agreed.

  Away from the fireplace, Bree detected a faint chemical smell. She circled the kitchen, opening drawers and doors, all empty except for some general cleaning products in a bag under the kitchen sink: paper towels, cleaning rags, spray cleaner, Comet, and dishwashing liquid. Bree lifted a rag with one finger and sniffed it, then she smelled the spray cleaner. Same odor. Squatters who cleaned were rare.

  Next she checked the fridge. Nothing. No point in using it since the power was off. Except for the area in front of the fireplace, the cabin appeared undisturbed.

  Bree wandered into the bedroom. “It seems they only used the one room.”

  Todd followed her. “There’s only one fireplace.”

  “True.”

  “What are we looking for?” Todd asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bree admitted. “Anything that looks out of place.”

  “Are we even sure a crime was committed here? The body could be unrelated.”

  “We have a witness who reported a shooting and a body discovered less than a mile away from the cabin. Something happened here.”

  But what?

  There was no proof the body was related to the shooting at the cabin. Only Brody’s sense of smell linked the two scenes. She needed to keep an open mind. Todd lifted the mattress and checked under it. Bree went to the other side of the bed, knelt, and checked underneath with her flashlight. Nothing but dust bunnies. Todd pulled the bed out and inspected behind the headboard.

  Bree tapped her flashlight in her opposite palm.
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  Todd slid the bed back into place, stepped back, and surveyed the room. “Maybe there’s nothing to find in the cabin.”

  “Maybe not,” Bree agreed. “The girls are homeless and streetwise. They trespassed, broke into the cabin, and illegally occupied it. They wouldn’t unpack and get comfortable. They’d keep their stuff handy.”

  “Ready to bolt at any time.”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s get fingerprints.” Bree turned in a circle. The cabin was small, and there wasn’t much to search. “Maybe one of the girls will be in AFIS.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System would match found prints against a pool of fingerprint records. Bree opened the closet door. The narrow space inside was as empty as the rest of the cabin.

  Bree headed for the door. “We need background checks on Alyssa Vincent and her friend, Harper Scott. Also check the contacts and activity on Alyssa’s phone.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll need to call the owner of the campground.”

  “I have his number.” Todd read it to her. “His name is Phil Dunlop.”

  Bree entered it into her phone. No one answered, and she left a message. Then she exited through the front door.

  Another deputy was walking behind the cabin, looking for evidence on the ground. Bree had called in additional officers, but she was running out of personnel.

  “How much ground have you covered?” Bree asked.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “We searched the area behind the cabins. We didn’t find anything but the footprints you already saw. We photographed and mapped them. Starting on cabin nineteen now.”

  “Keep at it. Let the chief deputy know when you’re done.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bree walked behind the cabins. She wanted one more look at the shooting scene in broad daylight. She strode across the snow past the cluster of evergreens to the frozen lake. The sun peeked through the clouds. Its rays glittered on the ice. Wait. That was more than ice. Bree hurried closer. The clouds passed in front of the sun again, but not before she spotted something shiny. Bree crouched and scanned the ice, spotting two small pieces of brass.