A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  “Excuse me.” She nudged her way past kids on bikes, bikini-clad teenage girls flaunting their newly developed bodies, curious moms and dads, and barking dogs. Finally she came upon some old-timers who’d parked their lawn chairs in the front row just outside the yellow crime scene tape. The barricade stretched across the narrow road, framed by a campground on one side and the Applegate River on the other. Sticky with perspiration, she peeled her blouse from her back.

  A sheriff’s deputy stood stiffly behind the tape. His name tag read Parker.

  She flashed her credentials with as much authority as possible. “Whit McKenna with the Medford Daily Chronicle. Can you confirm that a body was found in the woods?”

  “You need to direct your questions to the detective assigned to the case.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “I can’t say.”

  She prodded him for information, but he was a stone wall. Frustrated, she turned away and caught sight of Bryan, a summer intern and photographer, on the other side of the river. He crouched in the underbrush on the steep embankment. His camera was aimed across the river at an ambulance and a group of law enforcement personnel. What Bryan lacked in experience, he made up for with enthusiasm. He caught her eye and gave her the thumbs-up. She waved.

  Turning around, Whit scanned the area. With all these people, someone must have seen something. Her roaming gaze settled on a weathered old guy with bronzed skin, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, who paced alongside his Dodge Ram truck parked near the river under the shade of a Douglas fir. A golden retriever sat in the bed of the vehicle, tongue lolling in the heat.

  The guy paused to ruffle the dog’s ears. The back of his white T-shirt read: Here … fishy, fishy.

  Instinct told her this was more than a curious onlooker, as he was the only one not peering beyond the crime scene tape, anxious to find out what all the fuss was about.

  “Not catching any fish today, huh?” Whit approached the old man, her voice raised over the gushing river only a few yards from his truck. He turned, his expression edgy, blue eyes sharp.

  “Nah. I only drove up here ’cause of old Doc Masterson; you know, the vet over by the McKee Bridge store?”

  Whit nodded. She had no idea who he was talking about.

  “Well, he told me about a place called Big Flat Rock.” He nodded his head to the left. “Right there in the middle of that river. Said he caught four steelhead just during his lunch hour! Heck, I didn’t even get a chance to unload my fishing gear before Red here took off after that bear.”

  Jackpot.

  Her heart skipped a beat, then plunged into overdrive. The thrill of the hunt coursed through her veins as if she’d never left her career in the dust.

  “So … you were the one to find the body?”

  “Eureka, huh?” She felt a twinge of compassion. The old guy possessed the same glassy-eyed look she’d witnessed on the faces of war-ravaged villagers in Afghanistan.

  “That’s quite a discovery,” she said, hoping he’d elaborate.

  “That’s for sure. And now I’m stuck here. The detective told me not to leave until he had time to get a full statement from me, so I been hangin’ out here for darn near an hour. I finally crossed that yella tape to come check on my dog. That fella over there”—he pointed to the deputy on guard—“told me I had to stay put. It’s Friday. During the summer our church has a barbecue every Friday. Tonight it’s at our place.” He grinned sheepishly. “I was planning on grillin’ my catch and showing off for the boys, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.” Whit smiled, warming up to him. “A man with a fish story and proof to match is a holy thing.”

  He laughed gruffly, “Hey, you’re all right.”

  For a woman, she interpreted, without taking offense. “Listen, would you mind if I asked you a few questions. I’m with the Medford Daily Chronicle.”

  “Well.” He paused a moment, glanced over at the deputy, then shrugged. “I guess that would be all right. It’s a heck of a story, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Don’t find buried bodies every day.”

  “Quite a shock wasn’t it?” Whit pulled her micro-recorder out of her tote bag, but kept her pad and pen handy for backup.

  “Damn right! Oh, pardon me, ma’am. It was a shock, all right. If I had a smoke, I’d light up right now. I quit years ago, but that business had me thinkin’ about those Luckys. Haven’t felt like that since Korea.”

  “I understand. Maybe it would help if you talked about it. Would you tell me your name?”

  “Jerry Wolcott. I’m a retired grocery store owner. I used to own JW’s Grocery out off Old Stage Road. I was famous for my home-ground sausage. You probably heard about it. Folks used to come from all over the Rogue Valley. Still do. I sold the recipe with the store.” He shook his head sadly. “Now the guy that bought the place is selling my brand all over the internet. It’s the darnedest thing. I kinda wish I’d-a kept that recipe to myself.”

  “I bet.” Whit positioned her back to the deputy to hide her recorder. Better if he didn’t know the press was questioning their witness. They’d kick themselves later for not taking better care of shell-shocked Mr. Wolcott. “You say Red found the bear and the body?”

  “Yeah. He took off running the minute his feet hit the ground. I thought he was after a squirrel. He likes to tree those suckers.”

  “Some squirrel this time!”

  He ruffled the dog’s ears lovingly. “I guess I better thank the good Lord that Red wasn’t chewed up by that bear.”

  “He ran it off?”

  “No, ma’am.” His gaze wandered away, remembering, and he gave a shudder. “That bear was already chewing on that lady’s leg, and he wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Uh-uh. Red was quick enough to stay out of the reach of the bear at first, but it wouldn’t have been long before that bear tore into him. No.” He turned and pointed at the gun rack in the back window of his truck. “I grabbed my gun and shot over the bear’s head. The bullet ricocheted off a tree and sent splinters into the bear’s face. He roared in pain and off he ran, right up that road there about half a mile.”

  “Can you describe the body?”

  He frowned, scratching the back of his gray head. “All I saw was a leg. I think the bear didn’t have enough time to dig up the rest of her.”

  “Then how do you know it was a woman?”

  “Cause the foot was wearing a red sandal. The kind with a long skinny heel. And the bear had already chewed off the foot, or most of it anyways. I’ll sure never forget something like that.”

  “So, your shot put the bear on the run. What happened next?”

  “Yeah, but that didn’t stop old Red.” He paused to affectionately rub the dog’s head again. “He tore up the road, chasin’ that bear. Treed it too,” he said proudly. “I wasn’t taken no chances, though. I put a leash on Red and ran him back to the truck so I could call nine-one-one. I was distracted by that poor woman’s body. I don’t know what happened to the bear after that. The Department of Fish and Wildlife are out there searching for it now.”

  “About what time did you call nine-one-one?”

  “I’d say about three this afternoon.”

  Whit glanced at the gun rack. “Where’s your gun now?”

  “The cops took it. Said it was evidence.”

  “What kind of gun was it?”

  “I just had my small one on me today. It’s a twenty-two-caliber Ruger rifle. Did the job, though.”

  “Mr. Wolcott, did you see anyone else near the body or in the woods?”

  “Just call me Jerry. And nope. Not until I fired that shot; then a couple of kids came runnin’ down the trail that way.” He pointed across the road and up the mountain toward Gin Lin Trail.

  “Kids?”

  “Yeah. Boys. I’d say about eleven or twelve. Two of them. I think Red’s crazy barking got their attention; then when I shot the gun, they came over to see what happened. I went tearing up the road after Red
and the bear. Haven’t moved like that in years. When I got back, the boys were standing there staring at the woman’s body. I yelled at them to stay back and told ’em I was calling nine-one-one.”

  “Are the boys still here?” She scanned the crowd along the road.

  “Maybe, in the campground somewheres.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Uh-oh. Here comes the law.”

  Whit stiffened and quickly requested his phone number for future reference. She thanked Mr. Wolcott and gave him her card. After dropping the recorder into her bag, she turned, ready to escape, but instead faced a tall man in a teal-blue dress shirt and tie, loosened at the neck.

  Mr. Wolcott said, “This here is the detective who asked me to wait and give a statement.”

  “It looks like you’ve already given one.” The detective’s gaze traveled swiftly, taking in her scuffed chin, burn holes in her blouse, grass stains on her skirt, and the still-bloody scrape on her knee. She could read the curiosity on his face, but he refrained from asking what happened to her.

  With a polite smile, she offered her hand, taking note of a bruise under his eye. “Whit McKenna, Medford Daily Chronicle.”

  He hesitated for just a second. “I’ve … read some of your bylines.” He gripped her hand in a firm shake. “Today, though, I would have preferred to debrief my witness myself.”

  “Oh, well …” She pulled her hand free. “Maybe you should have had your witness wait behind the crime scene tape.”

  “Point taken. Did I see you with a recorder?”

  She met the challenge in his tone. “Did you?”

  “I have the right to confiscate evidence if I deem it pertinent to the investigation.”

  “I’m sorry, I missed your name. Detective …?”

  “Jacob Panetta, Medford Police Department.”

  “Panetta?” Suddenly aware of who he was, her gaze fell to his bruised cheek. “Aren’t you on suspension until next month?”

  His lips thinned. “Nice article.”

  Last week she’d written a story about the battery and assault charges leveled against Panetta by one Detective Tucker, so his sarcasm was not lost on her. Her source at the police station, a busybody waiting to pay a parking fine, had said Tucker made a derogatory comment about Panetta’s family and that started the fistfight. Whit was sure her very public coverage of the incident had not helped to reduce disciplinary action against Panetta. Fat chance he would dole out any information.

  Mr. Wolcott felt the need to intervene. “I’ll be tellin’ you the same story I done told her, Detective. Ain’t no harm done. Now, for cryin’ out loud, I have got to get home to my wife, because we’re puttin’ on a barbecue at our house tonight.”

  Whit thanked Mr. Wolcott for his time and seized the opportunity to escape. She felt Panetta’s penetrating gaze on her departing back. Dismissing the encounter as unfortunate, she marched down the road and into the campground in search of the witnesses.

  After asking around, she finally found the mother of one of the boys who had seen the dead woman’s grave: a heavyset woman in a red T-shirt and jean shorts, her mouse-brown hair in a sloppy ponytail. She was busy hanging wet towels over a clothesline suspended between an aged motor home and a tree.

  “They took off up that trail again,” the mother said, exuding beer breath in a raspy two-packs-a-day voice. “I think they’ve got a fort built up there.”

  “The trail?” Whit pointed to a winding swath of ground dirt and gravel that disappeared into the woods and tried to swallow the lump of sawdust that had suddenly swelled in her throat. “Okay. Sure. How far in, do you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. We’ve been using walkie-talkies to call them to dinner, but the batteries finally wore out.”

  “I see. So you have no way of communicating with them?”

  “Not right now.”

  “What about a cell phone?”

  The woman shrugged weary-sloped shoulders, as if camping with preteen boys was more than she’d bargained for—hence the empty beer bottle on the picnic table next to an overflowing ashtray. “No. No cell phone. I wouldn’t let him bring it, ’cause he’d just lose it, and reception up here ain’t very good anyway.” She frowned, her gaze on the trail. “I don’t like them out there without the walkie-talkies, especially with a bear running about. I sent my husband into town to pick up some batteries; he should’ve been back an hour ago. I was gonna send him after the boys. Since you’re headed that way, would you mind telling them I said to come on back? Besides, I think we have a storm comin’ in.”

  “Sure, if I see them.”

  Whit glanced at the sky; darkening clouds cast shadows over the mountains to the south. She’d been too preoccupied to notice. All the more reason not to go wandering into the woods.

  She turned away and cautiously approached the trailhead. It slithered its way into the woods like a flat, gray snake weaving back and forth up the incline until it disappeared amid peeling branches of madrone and birch trees.

  It would be like walking a gauntlet, she thought, as haunting impressions slipped through cracks and crevices in her psyche. As if to say whatever lay ahead on the trail would be her undoing.

  Over the years she’d endured every kind of hardship while chasing stories and been witness to atrocities that no one should ever have to see. She’d known the risks. Perhaps she’d led a reckless life. Obsessive, John, her husband, would have said, while comforting her after a particularly ugly nightmare and urging her to consider another career. Let it go, he would say. Someone else would cover it. But who? she would ask. What if no one did? His response was always the same. You can’t put out every fire in the world, Whit. Let it go.

  Of course she hadn’t let it go, even now, after fate had inevitably slaughtered the very life she’d held most dear. And that … the fear of seeing that, reliving it, terrified her like nothing else ever had.

  Still, she’d never abandoned a story in her life, and she wasn’t going to start now.

  Resolute, jaw determinably set, Whit began the ascent.

  CHAPTER

  3

  STIFLING HEAT AND threatening storm clouds cast a pall over the forest. Medical examiner detective Katie Riggs could see it through her camera lens as she shot pictures of the partially buried body. The air in her lungs weighed thick and heavy. Her navy slacks and cotton polo shirt were sticky against her skin. Slender and petite, she wore her blonde hair cropped short, a convenience she’d adopted after her last chemo treatment a year ago. She still craved heat to alleviate the almost constant chill in her bones, but this sweltering weather was too much even for her.

  She pulled a tissue from her back pocket and wiped perspiration from her forehead and lip. Thankfully, she didn’t need to worry about makeup. She’d never used it, and raised with three brothers and no mother, she never missed it.

  With a sigh, she knelt to study the only part of the corpse visible above the haphazard grave, wincing at the stench of decaying flesh. If she waited a few minutes, her senses would numb to the putrefaction. Camera lens focused, she shot several photos as a ray of sunlight cut through the trees with the precision of a spotlight on the partially severed leg. Teeth marks were clearly visible on the calf and the instep of the foot, along with some nasty claw marks. The lack of blood indicated the wounds were definitely postmortem. Splintered bone protruded from a compound fracture where the bear’s jaws had snapped the tibia, and below that carnage dangled a red-sandaled foot.

  She angled the camera lower, her lens capturing the broken ankle, the delicate, dusty, patent-leather sandal straps that encased matching red-painted toenails, the slender toes crusted with dirt. That single shot signified the brutal end of this woman’s life. A tragic picture that needed no words.

  The transition from homicide detective to medical examiner detective had been a diversion following Riggs’s recovery from surgery that left a paper-thin scar along her hairline and around the front of her ear. The right side of her face was slightly thinner
than the left. Something the average eye would miss, but a reminder for her every morning when she looked in the mirror that life was indeed short. And turning thirty-seven next December was not a given.

  She lowered the camera, listening to the rushing of the nearby river that filled the silence of the forest amid the buzz of flying insects. She shifted her position and focused on the wooded hillside, where a sandy trail snaked away in the distance. Frowning, she brushed a hand through her blonde pixie cut, her gaze searching the forest for any clues. Shadowed by tall alder and pine, high on a ridge, Gin Lin Trail twisted its way to a campground about a quarter mile away.

  It was possible that a hiker on the trail had scared off the perp before he’d had time to stack enough rocks on the grave. River rocks were embedded in the ground all around. It would have been a tough dig and probably took longer than expected. Even so, the body could have remained undetected for a long time. The killer certainly had not bargained on a hungry bear digging up his kill.

  Standing, she slipped on a pair of latex gloves from her kit and paused to examine her new tattoo on the inside of her wrist, the skin around the cross and praying hands still raw and raised. She’d discovered the power of prayer during her battle with cancer. Now that she was cancer-free, she worried that she’d forget. Focus on mundane things, like what to wear, what to eat, and before she knew it, the grim reaper would come calling again, and this time he’d be pissed because she’d already escaped him once.

  “Nice tat.”

  Riggs glanced up, surprised to see Detective Jacob Panetta. Light on his feet, he had an annoying way of approaching unnoticed, like a ghost appearing out of thin air.