“Don’t forget to stretch, regularly,” she stressed. “And it doesn’t hurt to have a good soak before bed—you might want to use some Epsom salts too. It does wonders for aching muscles and joints. That way, you won’t feel so stiff in the morning. Run every other day so that your body can have twenty-four hours of recovery.”
He followed her lead and began stretching his legs too. “I hear you.”
Katie was lucky—at least that’s the way she thought about it. She was working as a detective at a job she loved. When she had returned to Pine Valley after her army tours were over, she was uncertain of what she was going to do next. Return to Sacramento Police Department and work patrol, take some time off, or work cold cases for the Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department. She chose the latter and was given the opportunity to head the cold-case unit—a newly formed department—and Deputy McGaven was pulled from patrol to assist. It was the best decision she had ever made.
“Katie?” McGaven asked staring at her.
“Oh, sorry. Just thinking…”
“About the new case?” He finished her sentence.
“Stop doing that,” she said.
“What?”
“Finishing my sentences.”
“Well… I can’t help it.”
“Fine. Just don’t do it all the time. It’s annoying,” she said, slowly walking down the trail.
“Isn’t it a form of flattery?” He smiled as he followed her back down the hillside.
“Some would think so,” she played along. “But, it’s still annoying.” Katie began to jog slowly back down the steep trail to finish cooling down and to give McGaven a break.
Her cell phone rang.
Katie pulled it out of her pocket. “Detective Scott,” she answered. “Yes, he’s here. Okay, we’re both here now,” she said and put her cell phone on speaker for McGaven to hear as he jogged over.
“I’m glad that I caught both of you at the same place,” said Sheriff Scott. His voice was serious. “Do you remember a cold case that came across your desk recently, Candace Harlan?”
Katie had to think a moment, but it came to her. “Yes, a missing persons case—actually a runaway from foster care?”
“Yes,” he said.
Katie looked at McGaven, knowing what the sheriff was going to say—she caught McGaven’s eye and they listened intently.
“I need you and McGaven to get over to Elm Hill Mansion right now. During demolition this morning, they found a body. By description, it’s likely Candace Harlan, but we won’t know officially until the body is examined. You know the most about events surrounding Candace’s case—and I want you to be the first on the scene and to work this investigation.”
“We’re actually close. Just on our way down the Brown’s Hill trail,” she said and began walking quickly, McGaven beside her.
“Good. I need you to report to Detective Hamilton immediately.”
Katie frowned and stopped, leaving a stilted silence.
“He’s been briefed and knows you’re on your way. I need you to work the crime scene with him. This was originally a cold case on your desk, so the way I see it, you have first priority to the investigation.”
“I’m sure Hamilton has it under control,” Katie insisted. She wasn’t liked by the detective, and taking over a case like this would do nothing to alleviate the tension between them.
“Katie,” the sheriff said, “it’s not a request. So I would suggest getting to the scene ASAP.”
“Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”
The sheriff abruptly disconnected the call.
McGaven raised his eyebrows. “That wasn’t pleasant.”
“He’s been like that recently,” she said. “I can’t really blame him, under the circumstances; being the number one suspect in your own wife’s murder will have taken its toll. He’s just trying to regain his authority at the department again…” She moved faster along the path to get back to the parking area.
“I guess it is tough having the sheriff as your uncle,” he said.
“That’s an understatement.”
Three
Monday 0955 hours
McGaven parked the unmarked police sedan where he could between hastily parked work trucks, construction equipment and first responders. A number of construction workers, police officers, and people holding signs were obstructing the entrance to the property.
Katie had been informed that CSU were already inside the police-only area waiting for further orders from her. She took a moment in the car to watch the carefully controlled movements of deputies and forensic personnel protecting the crime scene by taping off areas in quadrants and shielding the body with a sheet. Most of the onlookers, including a few protesters that had hung around, pushed against the tape trying to get a look at the murder scene.
Katie opened the passenger door and stepped out, her running shoes instantly sinking into a puddle as the cool breeze whipped through her clothes. “Great,” she said, rolling her eyes as she trudged through sticky mud toward the yellow tape area. Neither Katie nor McGaven had had time to change out of their running attire, so they forged ahead without their badges and guns. At first glance, they looked like any nosy onlooker. Luckily, a patrol officer recognized them immediately and let them through.
Katie slowed her pace, taking everything in and scanning the area before making her way toward the body. Bulldozers were frozen mid-operation, towering over her. The stench of diesel masked the familiar odor of wet earth and pine trees, and all around her trenches and heaped soil battled against the run-off of water from all the rain they’d been having recently. To her left were three large metal construction containers—two had their doors wide open, but it was too dark to see inside.
It was a breathtaking site, with stunning views of the rolling valley all around and large elm and oak trees surrounding the house. The slight breeze made a whispering sound as it threaded through the leaves. It was no wonder someone would want to build their home here.
In the middle of the picture-perfect landscape stood the crippled remains of Elm Hill Mansion, clearly of no use or interest to anyone anymore and waiting to be knocked down. The once beautiful pale blue paint was now peeling from the wood in sections, leaving behind a tarnished beige undercoat—a sickly primer color beginning to seep through and take over.
If you squinted your eyes, it was easy to see that the historical house had once been a beautiful and striking manor. Two large columns at the entrance nodded to its grandeur, and several steps led up to a gorgeous double-door entrance with inlaid blue, green, and yellow stained glass depicting birds in the trees, obviously inspired by the amazing views that surrounded them. The doors hadn’t been removed yet, but it looked like they soon would be as the porch that had once wrapped around the front and sides of the mansion had already been removed and replaced with caution tape. Pretty windows on all three stories were now a misfit of broken glass and boarding. Around each window were intricately cut wood designs that added a whimsical fringe and decoration. Most were broken, hanging loose or completely absent. The wind, picking up now, caused loose pieces to rattle against the house.
Glancing behind her, Katie saw the small crowd of construction workers and a couple of other bystanders leaning over the yellow tape, trying to get a look at the scene. At least the area had been cleared quickly and there were hopes of preserving the site.
Katie and McGaven kept their course and walked toward the crime scene. Forensic Supervisor John Blackburn was organizing evidence containers and readying himself to take photographs when instructed, but he kept his distance and waited for Katie to get a first look. He nodded as she walked past.
Detective Bryan Hamilton stood next to a deputy, waiting for Katie. His perfectly pressed suit seemed out of place around the chaotic property. He appeared annoyed, running his fingers anxiously through his sparse hair, but forced a short-lived smile as she approached.
“How would you like to handle this, Detective?” Kat
ie asked respectfully, knowing she was treading on his territory and making sure that her presence wasn’t going to cause any more antagonism than was absolutely necessary.
H seemed to relax a little. “It’s your show, Scott.” He then nodded to McGaven behind her.
“We are all on the same side,” said Katie. “I’ll tell you what I see so CSI can get started as quickly as possible.” It was better to include the detective than to alienate him or anyone else at the Pine Valley Sheriff’s Department.
Hamilton hesitated for a moment, and then accompanied Katie toward the sheet shielding the trench.
“Who found the body?” she asked, stopping to look at him.
Detective Hamilton turned and pointed. “The construction foreman; well, actually, one of his bulldozer operators.” He looked at his notes. “The foreman is Bob Bramble. He’s the short guy in the red shirt.”
Katie picked him out from the crowd, and then crouched to study all the heavy shoe prints around the area where she stood. “Did anyone go past this area?”
“I don’t think so. The foreman had enough sense to stop everything immediately and call the police,” the detective said.
There were several yellow markers at the edge of the property marking the beginning of the crime scene. They were at the side of the land farthest away from the house, overlooking the dense forest where the excess water was being redirected. It looked like the bulldozers were bringing more dirt in, in order to even out the area before the final grading and scraping, and the extra rain water had forced the older soil to collapse.
As Katie slowly walked to the edge of the property, she noticed that the earthmoving equipment stopped towering above the crime scene on the flat ground and about ten feet before the final resting place of the body. The activity from the large construction machines had caused the ground to separate. She limited her movement as she paused where she estimated the foreman and other workers had stood.
Pain pressed against her eyebrows as a slight vertigo washed through her vision for a moment.
Hamilton and McGaven waited patiently as she took a few steps to the left and then the right, studying the erosion of the hillside and how the body appeared to have tumbled out. It was unclear how deep the victim had been buried, but Katie wondered if it was a coincidence she was buried at an obvious drainage point.
“Is this extreme erosion after an extra rainy month? Or just the usual?” she asked, deliberately not looking at the body yet. No one offered any type of response, so she scrutinized the surroundings, looking for anything that might have either disturbed the area recently or been accidentally left at the scene.
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. She felt her hands tremble so she curled her fingers against her palms to mask the movement. Her vision blurred slightly, causing things to appear dull and leaving her equilibrium somewhat off balance.
Not now…
An all-too-familiar prickly sensation travelled down her arms and legs, confirming her worst fear. Anxiety was the curse she carried with her after two tours in the army. Her post-traumatic stress was something she realized that she would most likely have to bear forever. Some days were easier than others—and she hadn’t had an episode in almost two months.
Nothing stays away forever…
Standing at the edge of the crime scene, she fought the invisible enemy that raged within her like a silent storm. If she gave in to it, a full force panic attack would ensue where she would not be able to conduct her investigative duties. She knew all eyes were on her, so she made sure that she breathed slowly and steadily. It calmed her nerves and brought down the adrenalin, but her sensations were still heightened, leaving her feeling unbalanced and totally vulnerable. She hated that feeling more than anything else.
This wasn’t her first crime scene, but she had only been involved in a handful. It wasn’t the thought of a dead body, but rather the reality of another victim. She had seen many victims on the battlefield, from both sides, and there wasn’t anything trivial about it. Every life was a story, just as every death was an ending.
Katie focused on the ground to steady herself. Water was still trickling from the opposite edge of the property and then down into the wooded area in several places. Five feet from the leveled edge was the nude body of a young woman, who appeared to have been dislodged and tumbled through a couple of revolutions before stopping in her current position. Twisted. Broken.
Katie reached into her pocket and took out a pair of plastic gloves. Pulling them on to her trembling hands, she prepared to descend the hillside. She took one step and realized that her running shoes would be ruined from the amount of water and mud she had navigated so far. She sighed but continued sideways and with caution, keeping a watchful eye for any evidence, but making sure that she didn’t take a fall down the hillside herself.
As she inched closer, something in the mud caught her attention. It was pink and the sunlight made it appear opalescent.
“I have something,” she said and leaned in to carefully remove the mud around the object, revealing a long, torn fingernail decorated with pink nail polish. It had been ripped from the cuticle at the base of the nail. It definitely looked real.
Katie looked up and saw John, the forensic supervisor, coming down to her with an evidence bag and a digital camera hanging around his neck. He carefully followed Katie’s footsteps in the mud.
Once by her side, he took several photographs for documentation. Behind him, Katie saw that Detective Hamilton was making notes and McGaven watched with intense interest as John expertly recovered the single fingernail and placed it into the evidence bag. He looked at it closely. “It looks like the nail from an index finger—right index finger,” he corrected. He looked at Katie, gave a brief smile, and then waited for her to continue before he started photographing the body.
Katie blinked twice, steadying her nerves, then turned her focus back to the body. Her mind whirled questions.
Did the victim fight until the very last moment? Was that how she lost her fingernail?
Why is she naked?
Wouldn’t it have been easier to bury the body in the woods where no one would find it?
Katie inched closer. The girl was partially decomposing. Flesh had rotted away from the upper arms, part of her breast and stomach areas, and one side of her face. The back molars were showing through the vacant patches of skin around the jawline.
She studied the girl’s face and head. There didn’t appear to be any type of blunt-force trauma or any other obvious injuries. She gently moved the long dark hair away from her face to look at the girl’s neck. A welted line common with strangulations was visible. She continued to examine the body and found that the girl’s right hand was missing the right index fingernail. Wrapped tightly around the left wrist were the remnants of what appeared to be thin twine—now darkened and deeply embedded into the remaining skin.
She didn’t want to move the body in any way until forensics took all the photos necessary to document the scene. She wasn’t sure how long it had been buried, but it looked to be six months or more, by the level of decomposition. That was for the medical examiner to conclude. The missing persons report Katie had looked over a couple of weeks back indicated that Candace Harlan was reported missing almost five years ago. If the body was Harlan, she definitely had not been dead for five years. More questions attacked her thoughts.
What was she doing back here?
Why?
The Elm Hill Mansion had been vacated for close to two years. Katie studied the area at the top of the property where the estate stood. The shell of the house looked like a prop on a movie set, and suddenly made the entire crime scene feel staged and strangely unreal.
“Detective Scott,” said John.
Katie looked over.
“You need to see this,” he said. His voice was anxious and that was out of character for the usually unflappable forensic supervisor.
Katie hurried back up to see what he was referring to.<
br />
“Look,” he instructed and pointed to the victim’s back where a word had been carved with deep cuts to the flesh, but it also appeared as if some type of ink was used. The letters were crudely cut, with some exaggeration on the tail of the g now blackened, but still clear enough to read.
“What is it?” asked McGaven at the top of the hill.
“I’m not sure,” said Katie slowly. She shuddered to think. “I think it says something like ‘raccoglitore’.”
“Is that Italian?” asked John.
“I’m not sure,” she said again. “Wait… there’s more.” She carefully crumbled away the mud as more letters appeared beneath.
“What is it?” said Detective Hamilton.
“It says,” she began slowly. “It says ‘raccoglitore di cacciatori’.” Katie thought about the words. It sounded familiar to her, but she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t gibberish. It meant something. She said, “Does anyone know Italian, or maybe Portuguese?”
“Wait a minute,” said McGaven as he retrieved his phone. “Repeat again slowly.”
“Raccoglitore di cacciatori,” Katie said enunciating the best she could.
McGaven typed in the words on his cell phone and waited. He quickly read the results, stopped and looked at the detectives.
“What does it mean?” asked Katie. Her heart beat faster, not from anxiety but from anticipation of a message from a killer.
“It means… ‘hunter-gatherer’.”
Four
Monday 1230 hours
The words “hunter-gatherer” echoed through Katie’s mind in a strained whisper as she continued searching, but the fingernail and body were the only things identifiable at the scene.
Everyone remained quiet while she worked.
“Detective,” Katie finally said when she was sure that she’d missed nothing. “You want to come down here?”
Detective Hamilton hesitated and then said, “No, the least amount of disturbance would be best. John, go ahead and document.”
Last Girls Alive: A totally addictive crime thriller and mystery novel (Detective Katie Scott Book 4) Page 2
