by Gregg Olsen
I intend to circulate the picture of her face, messed up or not. Someone in law enforcement may recognize her.
“How about give a face shot to all the law enforcement in the area and then get a forensic sketch to put on the news media?”
“That’s smart.” I smile. “While we’re waiting to identify her, what do we do?” I ask.
“See if there are any witnesses around the area where the body was found.”
“That’s a good idea. But how about we start with the last person to see the victim?”
“You mean Robbie Boyd?”
“He was the last person to see her.”
“But the coroner said she’s been dead more than twenty-four hours. Would he stick around that long?”
“Plenty of killers want the bodies to be found.” I reference the two types of killers: organized and disorganized.
“We learned that in the academy,” she says.
“Which kind of killer do you think this guy is?”
“Organized,” she says. “He must have planned it. The clothes are missing. He left no visible evidence behind. He hid the body, but not so well that it wouldn’t be found. He made it hard for us to identify her by messing up her face.”
“Do you think Boyd could have killed her?” I ask.
She thinks a minute. “I don’t know. He’s pretty creepy.”
I go into teacher mode. “Killers enjoy the kill. Sometimes they come back to where they’ve hidden a body. It gives them a sense of power, control. They know something no one else knows. The posing of the body means something to them. Maybe they’re mimicking another killer. Robbie said he was a criminal justice student.”
“So he would know about some of this stuff. He told me to either arrest him or let him go. He knew I couldn’t arrest him, didn’t he?”
She is catching on.
“But he’s still a suspect,” I say. “What did you think about his statement?”
Ronnie doesn’t hesitate. “His story about why he was there in the first place stinks. And he never told me who told him about the place. I don’t believe he was just hoping to find somewhere to climb rocks.”
“Did he have climbing gear in the car?” She took photographs of the inside and outside of the car but didn’t look in the trunk as far as I could tell.
“He had some rope in the trunk. I might have forgotten to take a picture of that. There were gloves on the back floorboard that might be for climbing. I didn’t see any carabiners or other equipment. He said he was just checking it out, so maybe he was going to come back?”
Maybe. But he seemed squirrelly to me.
“You said he lives on campus at the college?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“Did he show you a student ID?”
She looks down at her lap. “I didn’t ask for it. Should I have?”
“Not necessarily,” I lie, because in her defense, I did kind of throw her to the wolves.
“We’ll call the campus when we get to the station to check him out. But you’re right: the first thing is to identify the body. Hopefully, someone is missing her.”
Seven
I start the car to leave and immediately run the case through my mind while Ronnie looks through her phone. I have near perfect recall. Always have. It’s a blessing and a curse. A blessing when I need it. A curse when I don’t want to think about something bad in my life. I concentrate on what I saw from the cliff.
Rope tied to tree. Coiled. Look down side of cliff at rocks and beach. Can see only rocks and sand and water.
The rope was coiled when Boyd found it. He almost tripped over it. He threw it down, climbed down, saw the body, climbed up. Then Deputy Davis arrived and climbed down before I got there. I didn’t know if that meant anything, but it bothered me. I’ll call Deputy Davis and see how he found the rope. I should have asked.
I climb down. Turn to see if I can see the body and end up falling on Davis. I climb over several big boulders and see a bare foot like Boyd said. Why was he climbing over the boulders? I’ll have to ask him.
I fast-forward. I envision Davis video conferencing with Larsen.
Lift face. Skin. Pale. Blue-white. Lips deep blue. Eyes open. Blue or hazel. Staring at me. Early twenties. Contusions on cheeks. Black circles around both eyes.
I forgot the racoon eyes. Blunt trauma to the head or face causes that.
Split lips.
Ligature marks on both wrists, both ankles, throat. Dark blue. Deep bruising.
I fast-forward again. Crime scene deputies are putting her in the body bag.
I notice the ligature mark around her neck isn’t dark blue. It’s black. Deep tissue.
At boat ramp. The body is on the stretcher.
Petechiae are present in the eyes. Strangled.
No rigor. Hands are bagged.
Captain Marvel and Floyd roll the body to her side for Larsen.
Lump on back of neck. Not a lump. Something cut to the bone. Half a square in shape.
Wider than ligature. A buckle. Ligature was a collar? Belt? Inch wide? Livor mortis is fixed in her back, buttocks, shoulders, but not her arms.
She was lying on her back after death, but her arms were not stretched out like we found her. The arms must have been suspended above the body. Not touching anything. How is that possible?
Handcuffs? Wrists still handcuffed?
I zone back in and Ronnie is talking. It’s nothing important or even about the case. She is complaining about issues with her parents and yada yada. I tune her out and concentrate on what else I saw before the body was placed in the back of the coroner’s van.
I watch Jerry Larsen with the stretcher at the top of the boat ramp.
The body bag is laid on the stretcher. Larsen unzips it. I’m thinking how uncomfortable being zipped up in that bag must be.
Then: “She’s dead. She doesn’t feel a thing.”
I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies. Made a few that way. I was never concerned for the ones I killed. I hope those assholes suffered after death and burn in hell. My heart goes out to this victim. I don’t know anything about her. Yet.
Larsen is examining the body. I am too.
Stretch marks on her lower abdomen.
Similar stretch marks on her upper thighs, and when they roll her to the side, I see them on her lower buttocks.
Lost weight? Had a child?
Deep tissue bruising on her upper chest, back, and the right side of her jaw, around both eyes. Some the size of a big fist. Some on her arms and cheeks like fingermarks. She was grabbed by the face.
Some are older injuries that were healing. She was held captive awhile.
The split lip is more recent. I didn’t open her mouth to see if teeth were missing. I didn’t have to.
The marks encircling her wrists are narrow but deep indentations. Skin was abraded from struggling. Handcuffs. Not likely steel cable or nylon rope. Autopsy will show.
Deep blue bruises encircling ankles in shape of chain links. Reminds me of chain used to hold up a porch swing. Or tie a dog outside. Or chain someone to something. I’ve seen that. Can’t unsee it.
One other thing passes through my mind. I didn’t see any rings or jewelry or signs of it. White circles where rings would have been. She might not have been married.
My phone rings. It’s Davis.
“Ma’am, I found something.”
Do I have to ask? I guess so.
“What did you find, Deputy Davis?”
“I tripped over a rock and there was something scratched into the bottom of it.”
“Okay.”
“It looks like some kind of devil worship symbol. I’m not good with that stuff.”
“Can you send a picture to my phone?”
“Will do.”
“How far from the body was it?”
“About ten feet. I must have walked over that rock twenty times. Good thing I tripped, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Good thing. Send
the picture.”
I hang up and my phone dings. I pull over to the shoulder. The symbol was crudely scratched into the rock. Davis took the photo with a ruler to show size. The rock itself is about the size of a toaster. The symbol is a circle with a triangle inside and an oval shape inside the triangle. I have no idea what I’m looking at.
I show it to Ronnie.
“Any ideas?”
Ronnie gets on her phone and taps and slides and taps her finger over the screen until I’m ready to scream. I hate it when people do that. She turns her phone toward me. “The Internet says it’s the all-seeing eye of God or the Eye of Providence.”
The Internet is never wrong.
Ronnie goes on. “It represents the eye of God watching over humanity.”
Organized killers plan their killing. They stalk a victim, decide when, where, and how to dispose of the body, and cover their trail. Disorganized killers are more likely to kill in the heat of the moment or on impulse. They select a target of opportunity, leave them where they kill them. Minimal attempt to cover their trail. No planning. This killer was definitely organized. He left the body where it wouldn’t be discovered quickly but knew eventually it would draw attention. He posed it. Maybe he left behind the symbol as well. After all, the posing of the body was symbolism. What it meant to the killer I don’t have a clue. It may mean he is watching out for the body. Watching the body. Was he watching us find the body?
Possibly.
Killers also get a kick out of seeing people horrified, or in pain, or at their worst.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Ronnie tapping my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m just thinking about this case.”
“I looked up news media accounts of other deaths that occurred around the area.”
I’m slightly interested but now she doesn’t speak. I’m not playing this game.
“Ronnie, you have my permission to tell me things before I ask.”
She smiles, missing my point by a mile.
“I’ve jotted down the details, but the long and short of it is they are mostly boating accidents and accidental drownings, RV fires, stuff like that. Nothing ever happens on Marrowstone Island.”
Something has happened now.
“Should we go back and see what Crime Scene and Captain Martin come up with? Maybe they found some new evidence.”
Ronnie doesn’t give up very easily. Both are characteristics of a stalker and a good detective.
As I drive, Ronnie sits back and is silent for a change. No doubt planning my demise and imagining being swept off her feet by Captain Marvel and living happily ever after. I know there isn’t any happily ever after, but I don’t tell her. Instead, I notice that her suit is wrinkled.
For some reason that makes me smile.
Eight
The mattress is lumpy. Something is jabbing into her ribs. Sharp pain. She doesn’t know where she is. Her eyes fly open and she swings her legs over the side. She intends to get up but lands flat on her face. She can’t lift her legs. Something is tight around her ankles.
She pushes herself up from the floor to see and pain shoots through her ribs. She sucks in breath through clenched teeth and doesn’t dare move until the pain subsides. She wonders if she has broken her ribs. What is happening?
She twists her head and looks around but even moving her head causes a throbbing pain behind her eyes. Her first thought is that she’s been in a car wreck. But this isn’t a hospital room. The floor is sticky, grimy linoleum that was a light marbled color at one time but is now cracked all over and ripped up in places. A rotting wood floor peeks out from underneath.
She tries to draw her knees under her to get up. She can’t move them more than an inch. She lies on her chest again and is immediately sorry. She was right about the broken ribs.
“Where am I?” she says, first to herself and then louder. “Where am I? Is there anyone there?” She listens. No answer. Not even footsteps. A chill runs through her. She’s alone, hurt, unable to get to her feet. Even breathing causes lightning bolts of pain to shoot through her side and head, paralyzing her.
The pain subsides a little and she opens her eyes. Carefully, without moving her head, she looks around. She’s in a room with a high ceiling. She’s in an older home. There are piles of things stacked against the walls and rows of junk surrounding her. Piles of clothing, plastic packaging, dolls, picture frames, blankets, rugs, cloth that may be coats or more clothing or just bolts of material with narrow pathways between them. A portable sewing machine is half buried in one of the piles. The piles are set so close together, it would be impossible to get between them unless she moves sideways. Straight ahead, she can see part of a boarded-over window.
“Hello! Is anyone there?”
She screams this as loudly as she can, but her breath is short, and it comes out no louder than conversation.
How did I get here?
A dim light plays in the room.
She shifts her chin toward her left shoulder. Despite the pain, she moves a little more, feeling a crack in the linoleum scrape her cheek. Her vision sweeps a side of the room and there are more and more junk piles, some that must be over eight feet tall, with only inches between some of them. Boxes everywhere. Some are nothing but boxes of kitchen appliances, a FryDaddy, a Mr. Coffee, a Crock-Pot, a tall box for a Dirt Devil vacuum with an extra-long cord and twelve extra bags included. Randomly, Lego blocks of all sizes and colors are embedded in the floor, as if someone stepped on them, pushing them into the deep black grime.
She lifts her eyes toward the ceiling, ignoring the pain. She is looking for the top of a door or a window that isn’t boarded over. What she sees makes her breath catch in her tortured lungs. The tops of the walls and the ceiling are covered with Styrofoam sheets several inches thick.
The room has been soundproofed.
Hot tears run down her face, and her chest seizes up. She lies still for a time, afraid to move, afraid period. She starts to call out again but stops herself.
What if whoever answers is not there to help her?
The young woman has always been independent. She knows that the way to overcome any threat to her survival is to get angry. Angry enough to fight back. She’s a fighter. Her mother taught her that. But that was before. In the life she used to have before she became pregnant. Before she went against her mother’s wishes and gave the baby away. She made the right choice. Her mom didn’t understand. Disowned her. She has been totally on her own since. Moved to another town. Gotten a new job. Made new friends. Dealt with the loss alone.
Her thoughts bring another round of tears and she gives in to it, sucking up the pain. She is crying for her baby. The one she never knew and now doesn’t think she’ll ever know. She has always thought she can fix things with her mother, given enough time. She defied her mother but is still a good daughter and a good woman. Unlike the father of her child. That man was a ghost. She got a new phone number and changed her appearance. It was enough. He wouldn’t look for her too hard. He wanted nothing to do with a child. He made that clear. He looked trapped like an animal when she told him she was pregnant and then said—like he was doing her a great service—that he’d pay for the abortion.
She hears a click from somewhere just out of her field of view. She couldn’t even turn her head to look if she dared. She lies still, closes her eyes.
“There you are,” he says.
Last night comes rushing back to her.
“I won’t tell. Please,” she begs.
“You’re right. You won’t.”
Nine
Sheriff Gray is outside, standing on the side of the building, lighting up a cigarette as I park in the lot at the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. He takes a drag and, while exhaling, fans the smoke away. His wife disapproves of his smoking. He is overweight, eats too much greasy junk food, doesn’t exercise, and is a poster boy for bad lifestyle choices.
The sheriff spot
s my car and tosses the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe and kicking the tobacco around to destroy the evidence. As I approach, with Ronnie following like a duckling, his cheeks suddenly redden.
“I can stop anytime I want,” he says.
“Sure.”
“I can,” he insists. “I have.”
“I can see that.”
He diverts my attention by addressing Ronnie.
“Did you learn anything?” he asks.
I answer for her. “She was a big help, Sheriff. She took a statement from the guy who found the body.”
“Detective Carpenter said I could search his car without a warrant,” Ronnie says, looking to the sheriff for clarification. I guess she didn’t trust that I’d told her correctly.
“You don’t need a warrant if he consented,” he says. “Megan should have told you that.”
Ronnie’s face colors and she keeps it directed downward. “Uh, I meant to say she told me I could search if he gave me consent. He did and I searched.”
Liar. Liar. Blue suit on fire.
“Let’s go into my office and you can fill me in,” Sheriff Gray says as we follow him inside.
I want to keep Ronnie where I can see her. Sheriff Gray brings his office chair out into the room so we can sit in a circle. His chair’s seat is mostly duct tape.
I pull my chair out of the circle and into a corner so I can face the door. Never sit with your back to the door.
I fill him in on everything except my observations of the body. It doesn’t matter what I thought I saw, except to me. I finish and the sheriff sits for a long time, hand under his chin in thought. He gets up with a squealing of springs and pushes the duct-taped monster back behind his desk.
“So what are you going to do?” he asks.
“I’m going to type up my reports and wait for the Crime Scene, Marine Patrol, and the coroner’s reports. I’d like to attend the autopsy if possible.” I don’t really want to attend, but I want to get another look at the stretch marks. She didn’t just lose weight. A baby. Maybe. There may be a child out there somewhere that just lost its mother.
