by Lis Wiehl
Besides, if it was suicide, why wasn’t she still hanging? He looked up but didn’t see any broken branches.
Leif held his breath as he bent closer to the girl. Only she wasn’t a girl anymore. She was a husk, a shell, a life-sized rag doll. It was easier to think of her that way. Not as a girl who might have been wondering what she might get for Christmas.
Normally he paid particular attention to the victim’s eyes, hands, and feet and the soles of their shoes, but for the first two he had to be content with photographing where each had been.
Seasoned veteran of the ERT, Rod Emerick, kept the photo log. As Leif worked, Rod carefully noted the pertinent facts of each photograph: its number, a description of the object or scene, its location, and the time and date. Every evidence tech had heard the cautionary story of what had happened when the FBI took photos of JFK but neglected to note whether the photos were of entrance or exit wounds. The pictures had wound up being useless.
Leif took another photograph, this one of the head. Hanks of dark blonde hair clung wetly to the skull, but most of the face had been eaten away. What was left of her visible skin looked brown and stiff. She had been out here long enough that she had begun to mummify.
He straightened up and stretched, pressing his fists into the middle of his back. It gave him a chance to check in on his team without being obvious. Even the seasoned agents looked upset. A young kid like this, chewed up by animals—it was a hard scene for anyone. Leif decided to organize a trauma debrief in the next week, get a chaplain to come in. It was a good way to check in with everyone while underlining that the ERT was a team in every sense of the word, a team that looked after each other.
He leaned over again and snapped photos of the red leash. Some of Katie’s hair was caught underneath.
Leif imagined how it had gone down. She could have looped the leash around her own neck, tied the other end around a branch, let her weight sag forward. It was a lot easier than most people thought to hang yourself. Your feet didn’t even need to leave the ground. Over the past few years he had been called to scenes where people had died with a noose around their neck leaning, kneeling, sitting, or even lying down. The noose didn’t even need to be tight to be effective. The heart and the lungs failed, although the brain probably eked out a horrible minute or two.
Alternatively, someone could have looped the leash around Katie’s neck and strangled her.
What had happened to Katie Converse—and why? The why was the most important thing. Her navy blue parka seemed to be zipped all the way. Her coat covered her butt, but her pants looked like they were in their proper place. But just because her pants weren’t down around her ankles didn’t mean she hadn’t been raped up here. Throw her down on a bed of leaves and there would be no one around to hear. But Leif saw no signs of a fight—no defensive injuries, no broken branches or scuffed earth. Could she have been killed someplace else and then dumped here? But this area would only be accessible by ATV, and he hadn’t seen any tracks. And it was hard to picture someone carrying her all the way up here. So whatever had happened had probably taken place here.
Had the girl fled here from one of the popular trails, chased down by a killer? Or had someone stuck a gun in her back and forced her up here?
Or had Katie come up here to solve her problems in her own sad way?
MYSPACE.COM/THEDCPAGE
Coffee Buzz
November 19
I know I haven’t written much lately. A lot has been going on, but I can’t say most of it.
The Senate worked until 2:00 a.m. last night. Senator X had a whole bunch of pizzas delivered, just for us. Everybody likes him. And there I am thinking that I know him on a whole different level.
We got excused from school today, but not from work. I feel terrible. I’m so exhausted. I keep drinking coffee, but all it does is make me feel like I want to throw up.
FOREST PARK
January 4
Channel Four had gotten a tip from a woman who lived near a parking lot for Forest Park. She reported a lot of police activity, including some kind of search dog.
Cassidy and Andy had had to park their car three blocks away. Once they made it to the parking lot, the policewoman stationed at the entrance would let them come no farther. And, she said, no one was available to speak on camera about what was going on.
They began to set up for a live shot in the yard of the woman who had tipped them, with Andy’s camera pointed in the direction of the parking lot full of marked and unmarked cars, as well as a mobile command post.
In her head, Cassidy was putting together the story—as sketchy as it was—when she spotted Nicole walking to her car. She hurried across the street.
The policewoman sighed when she saw Cassidy tick-tocking toward her again in her high heels and short skirt. “I already told you, you’re not allowed in the lot.”
“But I know her,” Cassidy said, and called and waved. “Nic! Nic! Can I talk to you for a second?”
Nicole stopped, turned, and finally—reluctantly, Cassidy was sure—nodded assent. With a huffy grunt, the policewoman let Cassidy past.
“So have they found Katie?” she begged. “Is that what happened?”
“Come on, you know I can’t say,” Nicole said, her expression unreadable. “Notifications have to be made.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” she guessed, remembering that Nicole was the liaison to the Converse family. “Come on, Nicole,” Cassidy begged. “You’ve got to give me something here. I’m the one who told you guys about the rumors about Fairview. And I’m the one who turned up Luisa.”
Nicole stared at her without answering, without twitching a muscle, without any kind of expression on her face. Typical Nicole, with her typical poker face.
When it was the three of them—Nicole, Allison, and Cassidy—the relationship worked. They laughed, they shared tips, they shared gossip, they shared desserts. They were the real Triple Threat Club. But when Allison wasn’t around, it was out of balance. Cassidy was painfully aware that, compared to Nicole, she talked too fast, shared too much, laughed too loud.
“Please?” Cassidy begged. “They’re threatening to let Madeline McCormick take over the story if I don’t keep on bringing it home. The only reason I haven’t been bigfooted yet is that they know I have sources nobody else does. But I’ve got to give them a reason for keeping me on!”
Finally, Nicole sighed, and Cassidy knew she had won.
“That’s the guy who found the hand,” she said, pointing to a man in his twenties with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, standing at the far end of the lot. He stared down at the paper coffee cup in his hand, but it was clear he didn’t really see it. “His name’s Jeff. He might be willing to be interviewed.”
“Thanks! Thanks a lot!”
Nicole gave Cassidy one of her thousand-yard stares. “Don’t thank me. We never even had this conversation.” She opened her car door.
Cassidy scurried over to the guy, glad that Andy was still down on the street, out of sight. Stick a camera in a guy’s face first thing and you could lose the whole interview. Cameras made most people leery. So she often did a bit of a bait and switch. By the time she talked this guy into the interview and he figured out it was on camera, not for the newspaper, it would be too late.
“Hey, Jeff, I’m Cassidy Shaw. I’m a reporter. One of the FBI agents suggested I talk to you.”
Jeff still looked shell-shocked, as if he wasn’t totally in touch with reality. Well, at least this wouldn’t be as bad as some of the interviews she had done over the years. Sticking her microphone into the faces of grieving parents and saying, “Your son just died. How do you feel?” all the while hating herself. But give this Jeff guy a day or two, and he would probably be glad for his newfound celebrity status. After all, he hadn’t known the girl. He had never even seen her—just her hand. That was a pretty small price to pay for your fifteen minutes of fame. People would ask for his autograph, take his picture, buy
him drinks. All the good stuff.
Ten minutes later, Andy gave Cassidy the go signal on the tipster’s lawn while curious neighbors gathered to watch. Jeff was starting to look a little wobbly, so Cassidy grabbed his elbow.
She said rapidly, “We are here at Forest Park where human remains have been found. It is possible that they are those of Katie Converse. And here with us to tell us what he found is runner Jeff Lowe.”
CONVERSE RESIDENCE
January 4
If anything, the crowds had grown outside the Converses’ house. And it wasn’t just the media anymore. The media circus had attracted its own onlookers, as if they hoped to see real tigers leaping through flaming hoops, or at least catch a glimpse of a weeping family member or a famous talking head. It was as big an attraction as Portland’s Peacock Lane had been only a few days before, where neighbors vied with each other for the most over-the-top Christmas lights and decorations.
As soon as Nic—accompanied by the Bureau’s victim witness specialist and a police chaplain—turned up the walk, the crowd surged forward. The three of them ignored the shouts and the clicks of hundreds of cameras.
“Why are you here?”
“Is there something new on the Katie Converse case?”
“What’s happened?”
They kept walking, never looking around. Valerie answered the bell. She was wearing a white apron and holding a potato peeler.
They did not wait for an invitation before stepping inside. Nic closed the door behind them. The vultures didn’t need to film this.
“Is your husband here?” she asked gently. “We need to talk to both of you.”
Valerie sagged against the wall. “No!” The cry was ripped from her. “No, no, no.” Instead of getting louder, her words got softer.
Wayne hurried around the corner, drying his hands on a dish towel.
Nic made herself meet their pleading eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Converse, I’d like you to meet Denise Anderson, our victim witness specialist, and Bob Greenfield, a Portland police chaplain.” She turned to Katie’s parents. “Could we please go into the living room and sit down?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re here,” Wayne said. He stood as straight as a fireplace poker, but Nic knew a single touch could knock him over. “Tell us now.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we have bad news. Human remains have been found in Forest Park. They appear to be Katie’s.”
With a wail, Valerie fell to her knees. “Did, did she suffer?” she gasped out. The potato peeler was still clasped in her hand, forgotten.
“There are no signs of a struggle.” This was true, as far as it went. But even after the oxygen was cut off, the brain still functioned for several minutes. And who was to know what those minutes were like?
“You said it appeared to be Katie,” Wayne said. He let the dish towel fall to the floor. “So you don’t know for sure.”
Opening the hall closet, he pulled out a coat. Nic saw how his shirt hung slack over his arms, how his pants sagged on his hips. He must have lost fifteen pounds in the three weeks since Katie’s disappearance.
“Maybe it’s not her. I have to see for myself. There’s probably been some mistake.”
“I’m afraid you can’t,” Denise said.
No parents should ever have to witness their child reduced to a piece of discarded carrion.
“The scene is still being investigated,” Nic said. “And then we’ll need to take the body to the medical examiners so that we can determine what happened.”
Nic would rather be dead than have to answer the next question about her own daughter. She asked, “Does Katie have any identifying marks—scars, tattoos, birthmarks, moles?”
Despite what was shown on TV or in books, in Oregon it was the medical examiner’s job to identify the body—never the family’s.
“She has a two-inch scar on her knee,” Wayne said. “Her right knee. From when she was seven and went ice skating. Why? Have you looked? I told you, it’s probably not her. That’s why I have to go. I could take one look and tell you right away that it’s not her.”
She hated having to kill his hope. “The body is dressed in the same clothing Katie was wearing. And judging by the girl’s age and the color of the hair and how long the body appears to have been there—it’s her. It’s Katie.”
Nic had a flash of Katie’s face—or what was left of it—and pushed the memory aside.
“Why are you saying all those things about scars and moles?” Still on her knees, Valerie looked up at her with desperate eyes. She was trembling, the potato peeler shaking back and forth. “We gave you her photo. You should be able to take one look at this body and know if it’s Katie’s.”
Wayne slipped his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “And since you are not sure, then it’s probably not her. That’s why I have to go there myself.”
“You have to remember, this body has been outside for some time,” Denise said softly. “There has been some . . .” She hesitated. “Some predation.”
“Predation—what does that—you mean like predators?” Valerie’s voice arced higher in horror. “Do you mean animals? Animals have eaten my daughter?”
Nic nodded, her misery complete. “There’s been some damage to the face.” She cleared her throat. “Could you tell me what color your dog’s leash was?”
“Red,” Wayne said. “Why? Did you find it, too? Just because you found it in the park doesn’t mean it’s Jalapeño’s. Do you know how many people walk their dogs there? Probably hundreds. And most of them off leash, too. A leash—a leash could be anyone’s.”
“Did you find her holding it?” Valerie finally remembered the potato peeler. She put it down on the entrance table next to her and wiped her hands on her apron. And kept wiping them.
“Not exactly.” Nic wished she didn’t have to say the next words. “The leash was around her neck.”
“Oh no!” Valerie choked out. “You’re saying she killed herself. I knew she was in pain, but I never—”
“We don’t know what happened, Mrs. Converse,” Denise said. “We don’t know anything for sure. That’s why the medical examiner needs to do an autopsy.”
“I’m going out there,” Wayne repeated stubbornly. “Even if it’s not Katie, you can’t leave this girl lying out there. It’s freezing. You can’t just leave her out there in the cold.”
“The body will be removed from the scene as soon as possible,” Bob said. “And I can assure you, she will never be alone.”
Something inside Wayne seemed to crack. “But I am her father! I need to be there. I didn’t protect her when she was alive. At least I can do it now that she’s dead!”
Nic felt the hairs lift on the back of her neck. She stepped forward and touched him lightly on the arm. “What do you mean, Mr. Converse? About not protecting Katie?”
He bit his lip and looked down. “This creep took her, didn’t he? Some creep took my baby. And I wasn’t there to stop him.” He lifted his head again. “But it can’t be Katie. I would know if it was my daughter. I would know right here.” He thumped his fist over his chest. “And I don’t feel it. I don’t know it. So it can’t be true. It can’t.”
His eyes were lost. “Because if it is Katie, how am I supposed to live? How am I supposed to live?”
FOREST PARK
January 4
As Leif took photographs, the rest of the evidence response team was collecting any potential evidence, tagging it, logging it, and packaging it so that it remained intact on its way to the lab. The chain of evidence couldn’t be broken, or they risked a killer going free.
If there was a killer. Leif’s mind kept going back to that thought.
The team also gathered soil, fauna, and insect samples. Later they would be compared with anything found on the body to see if it might have been dumped here. But Leif was pretty sure they were just going through the motions. He would bet anything that Katie had died here in Forest Park.
>
They found the dog collar about twenty feet from Katie’s body. Unfastened and undamaged. It went into its own evidence bag, as did the gold bracelet and every windblown candy and chip wrapper.
The ERT members also looked for signs of a struggle—tufts of pulled-out hair, trampled leaves, torn-up moss, a scrap of cloth caught on a branch, footprints in a place someone would normally avoid.
Karl Zehner waved Leif over to where he had found two footprints about fifteen feet away from the body, both, to the naked eye at least, belonging to the same set of shoes—and far too big to be from Katie’s feet. In a fight, footprints were often made at an angle as people fought for purchase, but these footprints looked flat. To make it easy to sort out which footprints belonged and which didn’t, all of the ERT members were issued the same high black Danner boots with steel toes. Everyone else who had been on the scene—the runner who had found the hand, the dog handler, Nic—would have their shoes photographed and documented as to make, model, and size.
But were these prints meaningful? Would footprints really have survived two weeks or more, including days where there had been rain or snow? Or were they much newer than that?
Leif took photographs and then told Karl to cast the prints. Someone had stood here and looked at her. Why? When? The footprints would never give that away. But who—that they might be able to figure out.
As Leif returned to the body, Karl set about making a cast, kneading water and casting material in a plastic bag until the texture was like pan-cake batter. The dental stone would pull up not only the footprint but an additional inch of dirt. And in that dirt there could be trace evidence that had been carried in on the wearer’s shoes: hairs, fibers, maybe a different type of soil. Leif sent up a prayer for carpet fiber. After the casts had set, Karl would carefully lift them free and put them in paper bags to take them back to the lab.
