Near You

by Mary Burton

  Ann set down her cup. “It could have been left by a contractor or the real estate agent.” As the possibilities swirled, she realized she needed to get out of the house and clear her head.

  She quickly brushed her hair, pulled it up into a sleek ponytail, and then put on lipstick to brighten her lips. She moved back into her office and stared at the case files she had carefully tucked away after she had guided Nate back into his room last night.

  She had glimpsed the crime scene yesterday, but with all the controlled chaos of the police personnel, coupled with the shock of seeing the body, she had not processed as many details as she could have.

  She laced up her hiking shoes, stuffed her credentials and cell into a cross-body purse, and headed out the front door, which she locked and then double-checked.

  The drive to the crime scene was uneventful. She parked on the gravel road, tugged on a hat over her aviator sunglasses, and followed the grass path beaten by the forensic team and police up to the spot where the body had been found.

  The rain three nights ago had washed over the grass and softened the brittle brown with lighter shades of green. The Montana grasslands were clever. In drought they went dormant and waited, patient and silent, under cloudless skies. And when the rains came, they soaked up the moisture and rejoined the living until the next drought.

  The police estimated that the murder had occurred here after the rains. Was that a calculated choice by the killer, or was it merely an accident of time?

  She looked back toward the path and noted the flecks of white plaster that remained where technicians had taken tire and shoe impressions. Luckily, given the trampling in the dark, the first responders had not destroyed those forensic details.

  Ann ducked under the yellow tape and stood at the edge of the blackened grass. Setting the body on fire had many strategic advantages. It masked the victim’s identity and destroyed evidence. And the removal of the victim’s clothes, if not related to a sexual fetish, was another way to delay identification. Why draw attention to a body that would be difficult to identify?

  DNA had been extracted from the back molars of the last victim and was at the state lab now for testing. If the DNA was not found in a database, it could be used for reverse genealogy, which had been a critical tool in recent years and had helped solve several high-profile serial murders. Conceivably, genealogists could backtrack through public ancestry sites and identify the victim. But that took time, money, and resources. Perhaps, if authorities did not make identifications soon in the first and second cases, mapping might be an option.

  She rose, moved to the steep hillside, and looked toward the valley, allowing the wind to push against her. Tuesday’s moon had been at half strength, and the lights from the small town below would have winked like gems. Was this location important to the killer or random?

  As she turned to leave, she spotted what looked like a narrow path and, in the distance, the flicker of white paper. Adjusting her purse, she made her way slowly down the mountainside. Several times small rocks rolled out from under her feet, and she struggled to catch her balance. Each time she looked back, she visually retraced the steep path and questioned whether this was wise.

  Drawn by the paper, she half stepped, half scooted over the loose rock until she reached it. Squatting, she realized it was a Polaroid picture. It was rumpled and dirty, but there was no missing the smiling young woman’s face staring back at her. She looked up the hill and thought about the body she had viewed yesterday. Was this her?

  The gravel on the steep grade slid under her feet, and before Ann could react, she fell backward and hit hard on her backside. She had to dig in her heels to stop herself from tumbling over the side.

  When she came to a complete stop, she sat still for several moments as her heart rammed against her ribs. No one knew she was up here. She had no cell service, and a fall would put her in life-threatening trouble.

  She could picture the headlines now: CRAZED WIDOW PLUNGES OFF SIDE OF ANACONDA MOUNTAIN.

  As her adrenaline spiked, she searched for the Polaroid image. At first, she thought she had lost it, but then she caught sight of the white corner. It was trapped in the grass. She carefully leaned over and picked it up.

  Pinching the paper between her fingers, she inched her way up the hill, moving slowly and avoiding loose rock. The return climb took three times as long as the descent, and when she reached the top of the hill, she lay back on the grass until her nerves settled.

  Rising, she allowed herself one last look at the surrounding area and the crime scene. Why this place? She did not know. Yet.

  Her hands were both scraped raw, but instead of dwelling on an injury she could not fix here, she hurried toward her car. Relief washed over her when she reached the vehicle.

  From her glove box, she removed a plastic shopping bag, which, like napkins and wipes, she kept stocked because, well, you never knew when you might need one. She carefully placed the picture in the bag and laid it on the passenger seat.

  The engine started easily, and the rush of cool air-conditioning felt good against her skin. She grabbed a wet wipe from the glove box and cleaned off the dirt as best she could. The deep scrapes burned, but they were a small price to pay for the picture.

  She drove a mile before she checked her phone. It would not be like Nate to call three hours into his own adventure, but better to know. No calls from Nate but two from Bryce.

  She hit “Redial,” and he picked up on the second ring. “Hey, sorry I missed your call. I was out of cell service.”

  “Did you go on the camping trip with Nate?” Bryce asked.

  “No. I hiked up to the crime scene.” She stopped at a T intersection, looked both ways, and took a left toward the interstate.

  “Not the best place to be alone.”

  She could have made a statement about independence and her ability to make sound decisions, but her aching palms said otherwise. “I did find something. A Polaroid picture.”

  “Of what?”

  “A woman’s face.”

  “The crime scene went over every square inch of that site.”

  “It was down a pathway.”

  “They hiked until it was too steep to continue.”

  She flexed her left hand and frowned at the traces of dirt still embedded in her scrapes. “Not that steep.”

  “Yeah, that steep. Are you okay?”

  “Of course. I grew up climbing these foothills.”

  He sighed. “I’m headed into Missoula now and about an hour out. The medical examiner is ready to do the autopsy. Do you still want to attend?”

  The memories of the burned, mutilated body rushed her. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Missoula, Montana

  Thursday, August 19

  1:30 p.m.

  Bryce leaned against the side of the forensic science building, watching the parking lot for Ann’s vehicle. When she pulled up, he was pleased and relieved. She did not need his permission, but he had not liked her being at the crime scene alone.

  As she rose out of the car, he noticed her lipstick looked fresh and hair just combed. There was also a faint swath of dirt along her right pant leg.

  He considered holding back a comment, then did not. “You fell on the hill.”

  “The rocks can be slippery. No big deal.” She held up a shopping bag. “Not exactly an evidence bag, but I put the picture in here.”

  He looked in the bag. “Where was this?”

  “About a hundred and fifty yards from the top.”

  As he pulled a fresh evidence bag from his pocket, he noted the red scrapes on her hands. He was not her boss, her brother, or her anything, and it was not his place to lecture.

  She gingerly pinched the edges of the paper and dropped it in his bag. “It’s been in the elements, so it’s pretty beaten up. But you can see the picture of a woman. She might be the victim.”

  He studied the image and snapped a picture of it with hi
s phone. “I’ll turn it over to forensics.” His tone remained even. “How are the hands?”

  She involuntarily flexed them. “A reminder to be more careful.”

  He opened the door to the medical building and waited for her to pass. Removing his hat, he showed his badge to the guard at the front desk, and the two took the elevator down to the basement floor.

  “Dr. Christopher is waiting for us,” he said. “He should have the body prepped and ready to examine.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “I’ll be fine. Any luck on those files from Kansas and Tennessee?”

  “They’re on the way. Too big to fax, so each jurisdiction overnighted them. Should be here first thing tomorrow.”

  “I know the cases aren’t identical, but killers learn as they go. They evolve. The first time is usually planned over a long time, but the killer is also inexperienced, and the killing doesn’t always go as expected. Afterward, the offender generally evaluates his work. What could he have done better? How could he avoid mistakes in the future? Should he have chosen a different victim?”

  “He’s doing a mission debriefing.”

  “Exactly.” When the elevator doors opened, she stepped into the hallway. “What’s the timeline on those cases back east?”

  “Kansas was last October and Knoxville in May,” he said.

  “If we’re assuming the two cases are connected, Kansas to Knoxville is a west-east direction,” she said to herself.

  “What’s that have to do with it?”

  “Nothing yet. Just a theory that the killer could be moving west. I could be wrong.”

  “Regarding the Kansas case, the victim was a sex worker, and the primary suspect is her pimp. He cut her face before he killed her. The Knoxville case involved a local Realtor. She went missing for ten days, and when her body was discovered, the medical examiner noted the facial mutilation was done postmortem.”

  “Dr. Christopher made a similar comment about the Helena victim in his autopsy notes. He noted the straight lines of the blade.”

  “The body in Knoxville wasn’t burned, and the victim was identified by her clothes and jewelry. Maybe he’s learned a few tricks along the way,” he said. “Assuming the killer is connected to the Knoxville case, he arrived right at the beginning of tourist season, when out-of-state plates often go unnoticed.”

  “Careful and meticulous,” she offered. “He doesn’t appear anxious to stop.”

  Bryce frowned as she echoed his worries. “Then we stop him.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and followed him into the locker room outside the autopsy suite. As he gowned up, he glanced toward her as she dutifully turned off the ringer on her cell phone and placed it in her purse hanging in a locker. She slid into her gown quickly, and he handed her gloves.

  As she gingerly worked her fingers into the gloves, he noticed the scrapes and gashes on her palms. A fall in a location like that was a fast track to ending up a statistic. But again, not his place to say.

  “I can hear you thinking,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “It wasn’t smart to go up there alone.” She winced a little as the glove’s thin skin settled on one of the deeper wounds.

  “No, it was not.”

  Her gaze held a mixture of defiance, independence, and maybe a little relief that he was not lecturing. It did not take a big stretch to imagine how her late husband would have handled this. He had worked with Clarke Mead once on an arson case. Bullish, determined, and focused, Mead had a tendency to lecture. Though Bryce was willing to bet that Ann had gone toe to toe with him more than once.

  She was the first to the door and held it for him. Nodding his thanks, Bryce passed into the sterile tiled room perfumed with the faint scent of chemicals and charred flesh.

  A sheet-draped gurney butted against a chrome sink-counter combo that was the medical examiner’s workstation. Beside the gurney was an instrument table holding a closed packet of sterilized tools. Soft classical music played from a speaker on the shelf above the sink.

  Ann knitted her fingers together, her gaze magnetized on the draped body. “Doesn’t look like there’s much left.”

  “Hopefully more than the killer planned on leaving,” Bryce said.

  Swinging doors opened. Dr. Christopher was a tall, lean man in his late thirties who wore a tie-dye surgical cap and light-blue scrubs. He was a graduate of the Yale School of Medicine and had relocated to Missoula in his late twenties. Etched lines around his eyes and mouth were the mark of a man who spent his off hours in the sun, working a small ranch outfitted with a collection of cattle, horses, and chickens.

  “Doc,” Bryce said. “How’s the posse back at the ranch?”

  “All doing well. The calves born in the spring are thriving. I hear you’ve got a herd as well.”

  “As a matter of fact, we are about to get a new addition to the herd, Venus. She’s five or six.”

  Dr. Christopher smiled as he shook his head. “I’ve got to hand it to your brother. That’s a hell of an undertaking.”

  “Dylan doesn’t mind four-legged creatures. It’s the two-legged ones that frustrate him.”

  “Dr. Bailey,” Dr. Christopher said, extending his hand. “This is new for you.”

  Her grip was firm, and she gave no indication her hand was tender. “It’s the theme in my life.”

  “Still out at your folks’ place?” he asked.

  “No. Nate and I moved into town about two weeks ago.”

  “Just in time for the school year,” Dr. Christopher said.

  “That’s the plan.”

  Dr. Christopher’s easy banter softened the worry lines on Ann’s face as she followed the doctor toward a large computer screen. Bryce had been to his share of autopsies, but he was still shocked by what a human could do to another.

  “First, let’s look at the X-rays.” Dr. Christopher pressed several keys, and the image of a human skeleton appeared. “As you can see, the victim suffered no broken bones during her murder, but about ten years ago, she suffered an ankle fracture. There is a plate in place, which I’ll remove during the autopsy and determine if there’s a serial number.”

  “That might help with a faster identification,” Bryce said.

  “It might. Any luck with the first victim?” Dr. Christopher asked.

  “None,” Bryce said.

  Dr. Christopher indicated three different marks angled on the underside of the breastbone. “These marks on the rib cage were made by the murder weapon. I believe the knife was a long narrow blade with smooth edges.”

  “How can you determine the knife size?” Ann asked.

  “I can’t exactly,” Dr. Christopher said. “But I can say a larger hunting knife, say with a serrated edge, would have left a different mark.”

  “How many times was she stabbed?” Ann asked.

  Dr. Christopher switched screens to a photograph taken of the body. “I’d say five times. I’ll know better when I open her up, but I believe this cut,” he said, pointing to the largest on the left side, “was her last, and it finished her off. Even if she had been close to a hospital emergency room, she wouldn’t have survived.”

  “How do you know it’s the last cut?” Ann asked.

  Dr. Christopher swiped to another image. “You’ll notice a small triangle of metal on the underside of the breastbone. I’d say that’s the tip of your murder weapon. If he continued to stab with the damaged blade, the shape of the cuts would have varied.”

  Ann leaned closer, studying the image with a keen curiosity. “I would think she would have had time to see the knife coming.”

  “It’s easy to underestimate the speed of a knife blade,” Bryce said. “Cops are trained to follow the Twenty-One-Foot Rule when dealing with an offender armed with a knife.”

  “Meaning?” she asked.

  “In the time it takes the officer to identify the threat, draw his weapon, and fire,
the offender can travel twenty-one feet and deliver a lethal thrust of a knife.”

  “If the picture I found is the victim,” she said, “it suggests she was acquainted with her killer.”

  “That’s an interesting point,” Dr. Christopher said. “All the wounds are angled upward. If the killer had been rushing directly at her, it’s likely the slashes would have been downward.” He raised and lowered his arm to illustrate.

  “A well-placed knife jab isn’t easy,” Bryce said. “The target is often moving and fighting back. Does she have any defensive wounds?”

  “No,” Dr. Christopher said.

  “Over fifty percent of murdered women are killed by an acquaintance or an intimate partner,” Ann said.

  Killing via knife was messy. Blood spatter often sprayed the attacker, surrounding walls, and ground. Blood also could embed into the knife handle’s crevices and remain despite a careful cleaning. That, combined with a broken tip, meant it would not be hard to link the weapon to the crimes if and when Bryce found it.

  As the doctor motioned them toward the body, each donned masks and protective eye gear. A medical technician, Jessica Leonard, entered the room. In her late fifties, Jessica had salt-and-pepper hair and olive skin. She was a fourth-generation Montana native and a retired emergency room nurse.

  “We’ve drawn blood and sent it off for drug testing,” she said.

  “Results will take a few weeks,” Dr. Christopher said. “The July victim’s toxicology results came back late yesterday. No drugs in her system, but she had a high blood alcohol count.”

  Jessica opened the instrument packet and then removed the sheet draped on the body. The remains were blackened, twisted, and the limbs had grown rigid from rigor mortis. What remained of the victim’s hands and feet had contracted inward, and the victim’s hair had been scorched off. The face was barely recognizable as human.

  They all went silent, and Bryce was aware that Ann’s breathing had grown shallow. As tempted as he was to offer words of encouragement, there was little he could say to soften this blow. She would have to gut this one out, as all cops did during their first autopsy.