“And gender?” Tara asked.
“Undetermined. Although based on a ring discovered with the hand bones, I’d guess female. I’ll have the Big Four by tomorrow, along with postmortem interval and possibly cause of death.” Kelsey met Tara’s gaze. “If it turns out this is related to Catalina Reyes and our Jane Doe, then that’s three victims.”
Tara understood the implication. That many connected murders indicated a serial killer.
Kelsey peered around Tara and muttered a curse. Tara turned to see Jason crouched inside the blue grid.
“Deputy, I need your boots out of the excavation site,” Kelsey commanded. “Nobody’s allowed in there besides me and my staff.”
Jason stood up, scowling. He took his time glancing around and then wandered back to the CSI van, where law-enforcement types were milling around.
“Unbelievable.” Kelsey shook her head.
“How long do you think the recovery will take?”
She glanced at her watch. “Hard to say. The canine unit’s still finishing up. Assuming we don’t find any secondary sites, I’d say five or six hours?”
Tara was shocked. “Even with our evidence response team? They should be here any minute.”
“I know, but it’s slow going. An excavation like this requires small wooden instruments and animal-hair brushes to avoid marking up the bones. That takes time. And every scoop of dirt has to be sifted for evidence. A wad of chewing gum or a fingernail or a scrap of duct tape could contain vital DNA evidence.” She nodded at the tent, where several workers in Delphi Center jackets knelt beside a sifter. “We have to go through everything, a thimble at a time.”
“What can I do to help?”
“You’ve called your ERT people, so that helps a lot. I assume they’re trained in body recovery?”
“They are.”
“Hey!” Kelsey strode past Tara. “Did you just spit near the grave site?” She stalked right up to Jason, who was hovering over the sifters now.
“Huh?”
“Step away from my sifters, sir. That’s a restricted area.”
His cheeks reddened. “I’m deputy sheriff in this county.”
“I don’t care who you are. If you contaminate my crime scene again, I’ll have you permanently removed.”
Jason stormed off just as Tara heard a whistle from the woods. She turned to see a stocky young man walking over with a German shepherd.
“Something you need to see, Doc.” He glanced at Tara, and she introduced herself.
Kelsey walked over. “Peaches alert on something?”
“About a quarter mile in,” he said. “Follow me.”
He led them back across the clearing and into the woods. A layer of pine needles covered the loamy soil, making it impossible to see footprints. The deeper into the woods, the darker and danker the surrounding air. The dog handler held a branch back so it wouldn’t snap Tara in the face.
“Watch your step here,” he said. “It gets steep.”
Peaches led the expedition, confidently picking her way down an incline into a hollow littered with fallen trees and branches. She stopped beside a rotten log and thumped her tail on the ground.
“Down here,” the handler said, peeling away a tangle of vines with his gloved hands.
Kelsey crouched beside him and took a look, then rubbed the dog’s head. “She’s good, isn’t she?”
“The best.”
Tara looked over Kelsey’s shoulder to see a slender gray bone peeking out from the leaves. “Is it human?”
“Looks like it to me. I’d say a radius.” Kelsey looked at Tara. “An arm bone. I’ll examine the osteon pattern back at the lab to confirm.” She dug a magnifying glass from her pocket and studied the specimen. “Slight scratches. They look postmortem, so my guess is they were caused by scavengers, possibly a raccoon or a coyote. I need to photograph it like this before we do anything.”
They stood up, and the solemn look on Kelsey’s face gave Tara a sinking feeling.
“Looks like we’re dealing with a serial killer,” Kelsey said.
“But how do you know scavengers didn’t drag this over from the other grave site?”
“Because”—Kelsey nodded at the clearing—“that victim’s arms are intact. This bone belongs to someone else.”
TARA RETURNED TO her room at Big Pines practically drunk with exhaustion. Her shoulders ached. Her knees burned. Even her arm hurt as she reached to switch on the lamp.
She dumped everything onto the bed—phone, food, jacket, plus the map she’d picked up at the convenience store. Feeling faint from hunger, she sank onto the mattress and tore into her Snickers bar but quickly discovered she barely had the energy to chew.
She was wasted, both physically and mentally. And she knew sleep would be fitful tonight. Again.
Last night she’d drifted off thinking of Liam. She’d thought about his mouth and his taste and the warm slide of his hands. The buzz of it all had given her a few solid hours. But sometime around sunrise the raid had come back, just in time to wring her out emotionally before the start of the day.
The dreams would be different tonight. After spending hours hunched over the sifting screen, she knew tonight’s visions would be about scoops of earth and musty smells and pitiful shards of human bone.
The familiar anger was back again, filling up her chest. She thought of those women murdered and dumped in the woods. What had their final moments been like? Had they run or fought or begged for their lives?
Tara believed so. It was something she knew.
She closed her eyes as the anger expanded, making her chest tighten and her hands clench into fists. Honey, one day you’re gonna snap in two, her grandmother used to say, and some days Tara felt like she would, like she could physically shatter from the emotions she kept locked inside.
She hated the powerlessness. The feeling of weakness always lurking beneath the surface, making her confidence seem phony, making her feel like a fraud. Other people in her profession went about the whir of life so nonchalantly, and their ease had always felt alien to her. It made her feel estranged from everyone else. How could people see what they saw—especially social workers and beat cops who saw everything—and not be consumed with anger all the time? How did they do it?
Tara took a deep breath. She tried to manage the stress, and mostly she did okay. She was no shrink, but she had a minor in psychology and she wasn’t an idiot. She knew she needed outlets in order to keep on an even keel, which was important for SWAT. Double standards abounded in law enforcement, and whereas a man in her office could lose his temper and everyone would shrug it off, if a woman did, she was labeled a bitch. Or worse, a head case.
Typically, she blew off steam by jogging or working out or doing some target practice. Nothing released tension better than burning a few mags on the pistol range. The force recoiling through her arms was a sort of release, and at the end of a session she’d feel okay. Sparring worked, too, going a few rounds with one of her SWAT teammates, landing a few solid kicks. And there was always sex.
Well, not always. And certainly not lately, which was part of the problem. She hadn’t had time for shooting or sparring or anything she did to relieve tension, and it was building inside of her as the marathon work weeks continued.
Tara twisted the top off her drink and looked at her phone on the bed. Maybe she should call Liam to get her mind off everything. Was he back in town yet, or had he stayed an extra night in Austin with the blonde?
Ashley Somers. Tara had looked up the address. Liam was a player, apparently. He’d told her he didn’t sleep with clients, but ex-clients seemed to be fair game.
So had he slept with Catalina Reyes? If he had, did it matter? What mattered most to Tara was that she still didn’t believe she’d gotten a straight answer about his relationship to a murder victim.
Tara felt the sugar kicking in, and her energy perked up. She took a long, fizzy swig of Coke, then turned her attention to the map, unfoldin
g it on the bed. An idea had been forming during her drive home, like vapor gathering into a cloud.
Two bodies, both deposited on private land owned by a Louisiana timber company and leased to hunters. Land where Kelsey Quinn suspected poachers had stumbled upon a human skull and then phoned in an anonymous tip.
After examining the map for a few minutes, Tara called M.J.
“Where are you?” Tara asked, glancing at the clock. It was after ten.
“Still at the sheriff’s office in Cypress.”
“Anything there?”
M.J. sighed. “Not a lot. We’ve got the security tapes from the timber company, but they only keep two weeks’ worth of history.”
Tara had figured that might be an issue when she saw the low-budget surveillance camera mounted on the trailer that the timber company used as an office.
“Anyway, traffic is light there these days, according to the property manager,” M.J. reported. “That tract’s fifteen hundred acres, but they did a big timber cut last year, so right now that land’s just sitting and all their equipment’s tied up in the neighboring county. According to the timber company, the only people in and out have been some foresters inspecting the trees.”
“Plus the hunters,” Tara added.
“Yeah, I asked about that,” M.J. said. “They tell me the people with deer leases come and go through the north access road. They’ve got a code for the gate there.”
“We need a list of those lease holders.”
“I know, Tara. Ingram’s working on it.”
“Sorry.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m just tired.”
“That’s because you sifted dirt all day. Get some rest, okay? I’ll finish here and we’ll catch up in the morning.”
Tara hung up and studied the map again, paying special attention to the layout of the roads and forests and access routes. She thought of the fire chief down in Silver Springs. Timber was a big business, and local fire departments were in charge of protecting it. Tara examined the roads and rivers in relation to where the victims’ bodies had been found. Four victims discovered in three short months. Tara gazed at the map as her idea crystallized.
“Screw it,” she said, pitching her candy bar into the trash and grabbing her keys. She wouldn’t sleep well anyway.
SHE TOOK THE highway leading east from town and then retraced her path through the twisty back roads. Towering pines rose on either side. The road leading to the timber company’s land was narrow and poorly marked, and Tara almost missed the weathered wooden sign: CORRINE TIMBER, RIGHT 2 MILES.
Tara turned and followed the unfamiliar route along the north edge of the property. She drove and drove through the woods, checking the map in her lap frequently. She’d almost given up finding it when she dipped over a low-water crossing with a rain gauge tacked to a post. She veered left, and a turnoff came into view. She hooked a right and saw the sign for the firebreak. Score.
She tossed the map aside and pulled onto a wide shoulder, careful to avoid any fallen logs. She got out, leaving her headlights on to guide her.
For a moment she stood beside her door and simply looked around, taking in the scene. It was eerily quiet. No din of emergency vehicles and first responders. Not so much as a barn owl to break the silence, only a faint rustle of branches as wind whispered through the forest.
Tara took out her flashlight and swept it around. She was surrounded by trees, completely hemmed in except for the narrow road behind her and the wide swath of emptiness directly behind the gate. The firebreak. A sign hooked to the barrier said, CYPRESS COUNTY FIRE DISTRICT NO TRESPASSING.
The air was misty, and the light of her headlights shimmered off tiny droplets of moisture as she approached the gate. She aimed her flashlight at the sturdy metal arm stretching across the gap in the fencing. A rusty brown chain dragged on the ground.
No lock.
Tara’s breath caught.
The gate was closed but not secured. Someone had removed the padlock, just as she’d suspected. The fire chief had found a discarded padlock at the crime scene in Silver Springs. What about this crime scene?
She glanced around, pulse thrumming. She wished she’d thought to ask Alex Sears precisely where he’d found the padlock.
Tara neared the gate, moving her flashlight over the area. If she’d parked her car at a different angle, she’d be able to see better, but she was too excited now to go back and move it. She eased inside the gate and aimed her beam at the ground, illuminating pine needles and other natural debris but no discarded padlock possibly bearing a killer’s fingerprints or DNA. If she recovered the lock, at the very least they might be able to match the tool marks. And matching tool marks could link this crime scene to the one down in Silver Springs. It was a long shot, but she had to look.
Tara moved farther into the forest and combed her light over the ground. Tonight she was on the lookout for snakes and spiders and animal traps ready to bite, but she saw only dirt and leaves.
“Come on,” she muttered. She was onto something. She could feel it. For a moment she turned off her flashlight and simply stood there listening. The darkness seemed alive now, a breathing creature. Tara’s pulse sped up.
Focus. Think like the killer.
She closed her eyes for a few moments. Then she walked back to the gate and eased through the opening, careful not to touch the metal. She stood beside the chain and imagined cutting the padlock with a heavy pair of bolt cutters. She imagined removing the lock from the chain as a victim lay dead or dying in a nearby vehicle. She tried to imagine what he’d be thinking and feeling as, moment by moment, his carefully crafted fantasy became real.
He’d be amped up, sexually aroused. He’d be nervous, too, maybe even nervous enough to do something stupid, like nick his hand on something sharp or forget to wear gloves. He’d get the lock off, then glance anxiously over his shoulder. Then he’d either pocket the ruined padlock or fling it away so he could undo the chain . . .
Roughly eighty percent of people were right-handed, including Tara. She scanned the ground until she spotted a rock. She picked it up and made what felt like a natural throw into a clump of bushes. The rock thumped against the ground, and she followed it into the brush with her flashlight.
No padlock nearby.
She glanced around, poking through the foliage. She pushed through branches, snagging her weatherproof jacket on thorns as she moved around, searching for metal. She dropped into a crouch, sweeping her flashlight around and peering under fallen logs. Months had elapsed since the victims had been brought here. Even if the lock had been left behind, it could be hiding beneath leaves or even inches of dirt. It could have been swept away in a downpour or cautiously removed by the killer himself.
Tara stood, frustrated. She walked to the clearing, where a good fifty feet of forest had been removed to create a challenge for all but the most determined forest fires.
She moved her light along the ground again. She walked to the other side of the firebreak, where the land dropped down into a ravine and the pines gave way to a thicket of oaks, sycamores, and scrub brush.
At the base of a tree, a glint of silver.
She rushed over. She crouched down and gently picked a leaf away to reveal a rust-spotted padlock. Shiny new gouges marked the place where a heavy-duty tool had chomped through metal.
“No way,” she murmured, hardly believing it.
But then her disbelief was crowded out by the joy of being right about something, of following a wild hunch that panned out.
Practically skipping with excitement, she rushed back to the Explorer and grabbed some items from her evidence kit. As she returned to the site, she pulled out her phone. For a second she hesitated.
Maybe she should wait for a CSI. But what if something happened in the meantime? What if between now and tomorrow morning the lock got moved somehow, either by a person or a force of nature, like the cigarette butt she’d seen in the crime-scene video?
She coul
dn’t risk it.
She went to work documenting the scene with her phone’s camera, taking pictures of the lock and the tree from every angle. Then she crouched down and brushed all the leaves away and used a twig to dislodge the mangled lock from the soil.
Carefully, she deposited the lock in a paper evidence bag and stood up. She tucked the bag into her pocket and looked around. Now she needed photos of the chain on the gate. Should she remove that now, too, or come back tomorrow? Her field kit didn’t include a bag large enough to hold it, and anyway, it was heavy. She could come back with a cardboard box and a better camera to document the entire scene.
Crack.
She dropped to the ground, hitting her chin with a tooth-rattling smack. Her ears rang as her brain identified the sound:
Gun.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tara sprawled there, stunned, her mouth filling with blood as the word reverberated. Gun gun gun. She felt the hot sting of adrenaline in her veins. She lifted her head slightly.
Crack.
Dirt stung her eyes. She launched herself toward tree cover, and branches lashed her cheeks as she fought through the foliage. She flattened herself on the ground, pulse pounding.
Someone was shooting at her.
At her. What the hell?
She swatted at the branches but only managed to get more tangled, snagging her hair on thorns. She wrestled herself free from the bush and commando-crawled along the ground on her elbows, desperate to stay low. What the hell what the hell what the hell? She groped in the dark and encountered what seemed to be a sturdy tree trunk. She pulled herself behind it and felt a flicker of relief—and then the world fell out from under her as she pitched headfirst into nothing, which quickly became something as she smashed against a rock. She bumped over it, flailing her arms as she careened down a slope, banging knees and hips and elbows before hitting something solid and immovable.
The impact had knocked the wind out of her, and for a moment she was on a playground, blinking up at the bright blue sky after falling off the monkey bars. But there was no blue now, only an inky void. A feeling of unreality washed over her as she stared at the blackness, and for a brief, disconnected moment she thought she’d imagined the gunshots. But her ears were still ringing from the noise.
Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) Page 11
