Looking at his own career, he couldn’t completely fault her. He’d been an FBI agent for nearly seventeen years. The only time he took a vacation was when his boss insisted. Except for the two years he and Miranda were involved. Only then had he voluntarily taken time off.
He stripped and stepped into the shower, turning on the faucet. The icy spray hit him hard before it warmed, but he needed the cold. When he had first learned what Miranda had gone through, he’d stood under ice-cold water as long as he could tolerate it. He’d wanted to experience a small part of her pain.
Nineteen minutes was his record. But the river was colder than the shower, and she’d survived.
He left Gallatin Lodge before anyone was up. He didn’t want to run into Miranda here, not yet. She hadn’t known yesterday he was staying here, and he wondered if her father had since told her.
He thought not.
Nick met him at McKay’s, a diner around the corner from the police station. The restaurant hadn’t changed much since he’d been away. Vinyl blue-and-white checked tablecloths, condiments centered in the middle, gray walls, and red plastic flowers sagging in sconces between marginally clean windows. Country music interspersed with a pair of wannabe comedians from the morning radio show filtered through the speakers bolted high in each corner of the room.
He asked Fran, the waitress, to refill his travel mug but didn’t feel much like eating before the autopsy. He ordered toast, more to soak up the caffeine than because he was hungry.
Nick didn’t look like he’d slept any more than Quinn had. He’d aged as well—twelve years ago, when Quinn first came to Bozeman, Nick had been a twenty-three-year-old rookie as shiny as a new penny. Now, lines crossed his face and knowledge burned in his eyes.
Murder aged you.
“What’s the plan?” Quinn asked.
“I have a ranger coming out to take down any trees we need for evidence, and twenty-six law enforcement personnel, two who double as crime scene technicians.” Nick glanced at his watch. “We have two hours before we need to be there.”
“If we find the shack?”
“We’ll process the scene and send the evidence to the State Crime Lab in Helena.”
“You mentioned on the phone last week that Rebecca had been abducted outside her place of business. Any witnesses?”
Nick shook his head. “No one saw anything.”
“Rebecca Douglas was in a public parking lot, not stranded by the side of a road. No one saw or heard anything?”
“I interviewed everyone who was at the Pizza Shack that night, even if they’d left long before Rebecca was abducted. If anyone saw anything, it didn’t look suspicious.”
“I wonder if she knew him,” Quinn speculated out loud.
“It’s always been a possibility that the Butcher is someone familiar to the college girls.”
“Have you run all University staff and students who have been there for at least fifteen years?”
“We’ve run all staff who meet the profile through the criminal database, but no one pops. The worst we have is a sociology professor who was arrested in the 1970s for civil disobedience, and a janitor who was arrested for a felony DUI eight years ago.”
“Do it again,” Quinn said. Nick’s brow furrowed, and Quinn backtracked. He didn’t want Nick to think he was taking over. “What I mean is, we should focus on all single white males who were at the University either as a student, staff member, or professor under the age of thirty-five at the time Penny went missing.”
“Thirty-five?”
Quinn nodded. “The original profile suggested that the Butcher was a single white male between twenty-five and thirty-five, and that he knew at least one of his victims.
“We’d thought at first that he knew Miranda or Sharon, either from campus, the Lodge, or where Sharon worked,” he continued. “But when we determined that Penny Thompson had been the Butcher’s first victim, the odds are that Penny knew her attacker and Miranda and Sharon were strangers.”
“But there were hundreds of potential suspects,” Nick said. “I remember going on dozens of interviews and getting nowhere.”
Quinn remembered. Far too many people had had contact with Penny, and when they’d narrowed it to those who knew her well—the boyfriend, her professors, her teaching assistants—no one fit the profile. It didn’t help that her disappearance was three years before Miranda’s and Sharon’s kidnapping.
Quinn refrained from comment as the waitress approached with their toast. Bozeman was a small town, even with a university of twelve thousand students knocking on the city limits. Ears were big; mouths were bigger.
“Sheriff Donaldson was convinced Penny was killed by her boyfriend,” Nick said. “But that never panned out. There was no evidence to connect him to her disappearance. Once we suspected she was the Butcher’s first victim, her father had already gotten rid of the car.”
Nick finished his coffee and slammed the ceramic mug on the table. “We’re floundering, Quinn. The bastard has racked up another victim and we have no evidence, no witnesses, no suspects. The press is going to have a field day.”
“We found her quickly. That’s always good news. When’s the autopsy?”
Nick glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. We should head over there.” He drained his coffee.
Quinn dreaded the autopsy. He didn’t know what he feared more: looking at the body of Rebecca Douglas on the table, or picturing Miranda under the same knife.
Fran approached the table with a carafe of fresh coffee and a newspaper. “Just delivered,” she said as she slapped the paper in front of Nick. “If you don’t mind me saying, Elijah Banks is an asshole and everybody knows it. His mother must be rolling over in her grave, poor woman.”
BODY FOUND IN WOODS
No confirmation on identity
from Sheriff’s Department
By Elijah Banks
Special to the Chronicle
BOZEMAN, MONTANA—Gallatin County Sheriff Nick Thomas would neither confirm nor deny that the female body found yesterday morning was missing Bozeman student Rebecca Douglas.
“Everything points to the Butcher,” a source in the Sheriff’s Department said on condition of anonymity.
Sheriff Thomas reluctantly confirmed that he is receiving outside assistance from an FBI Special Agent, Quincy Peterson, of the FBI field office in Seattle. The more experienced Peterson was part of the search for missing co-eds Sharon Lewis and Miranda Moore twelve years ago. Lewis was found murdered and Moore escaped, but was unable to identify her attacker.
The unidentified female was discovered early Saturday morning by Ryan Parker, 11, the son of Superior Court Judge Richard Parker, and two friends. By noon, more than forty sheriff deputies and volunteers were searching the woods four miles west of Cherry Creek Road, ten miles south of Route 84. No one was able to confirm what specific evidence they were searching for.
“When we found her, we thought she might be the missing girl,” Parker said. “She didn’t have any clothes on.”
A source in the Mayor’s office said, “It’s about time,” when told that the FBI was again part of the Butcher investigation. “We need a competent team of professionals to finally catch this killer. The young women of Bozeman are rightfully scared.”
Last Friday night, Ms. Douglas left MSU’s Hannon Hall in her own car for her job at the Pizza Shack off Interstate 191. She never returned to campus. Her roommate notified campus security that she was missing, and then called the Gallatin County Sheriff’s office. Her car was soon discovered in her employer’s parking lot.
The Bozeman Butcher’s first known victim . . .
Nick slammed the paper back down on the table, coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug.
Quinn agreed that Eli’s interviewing Ryan Parker was beyond the pale. Where was Judge Parker during all this? Why hadn’t he stopped him?
It wasn’t just Ryan’s interview. Quinn didn’t like the way Eli jabbed at the Sheriff’s Department
. The last thing he needed was a turf war mucking up the investigation. Nick’s people already thought he was an outsider; if they suspected he was trying to undermine Nick, Quinn wouldn’t get any support.
He had to earn their trust.
“I’ll make an official statement,” Quinn said as he stood and tossed a few dollars on the table.
Nick glanced at Quinn as they left the coffee shop and stopped next to his truck. “Don’t know what good that’ll do.”
“It’s your investigation, Nick. I wouldn’t be here without your invitation. You know that.”
“Am I doing things right? Am I missing something? Did I—”
Quinn put up his hand. “Stop. Don’t second-guess yourself. You’ve dotted your i’s and crossed your t’s, and don’t think I wouldn’t be the first one to say something if you hadn’t. But I wouldn’t go to the press, I’d go to you. I hope you know that.”
Nick closed his eyes. “I know. I know. Eli just gets to me, you know?”
“Yeah. He’s a dick.”
They walked the block to the government center, where the medical examiner also had an office and laboratory.
“How’d Miranda take to you staying at the lodge?” Nick asked.
Quinn winced. “She doesn’t know. Yet.”
“Shit’ll hit the fan.”
“She’ll deal with it.”
Nick wondered. Miranda was already upset that he’d called Quinn in without consulting her. Not that he needed to, but he’d often asked her opinion about various factors in the Butcher investigation, particularly when dealing with the initial search. Over the years, they’d grown comfortable in their working relationship. It had been an easy step to turn their friendship into an intimate partnership.
The fact that he’d walked away two years ago because Miranda didn’t return his feelings didn’t minimize his dislike of Quinn practically sharing a roof with her. He knew, in the back of his heart, that Miranda wouldn’t return to him. If she did, he would be second choice, after Quinn.
He didn’t like that position one bit.
He liked Quinn. But he loved Miranda. And the thought of the two of them . . .
No. It wasn’t going to happen. Miranda had been devastated when Quinn pulled her from the Academy. She’d nursed that hurt and anger for years. She wouldn’t get over it during the few weeks Quinn would be in town.
So there was still a chance, Nick thought as they turned into the medical examiner’s outer office. In fact, perhaps Miranda would turn to him because Quinn was in town. He’d offer understanding. Sympathy. A shoulder.
No. He wouldn’t settle for second place. Miranda had to want him, not be driven into his arms because of another man.
Ryan Parker sat high up on the ridge, confident no one could see him, and watched the people gather below. But his eyes weren’t focused on the sheriff’s deputies.
The bright crime scene tape drew him in. Reminding him who had lain there. He’d never forget the blue, naked body. The deep, dark red—almost black—gash in her throat. The cuts and bruises covering her skin.
But it was her eyes that haunted him now.
He hadn’t slept much the night before. Every time he tried to sleep, Rebecca Douglas stared at him, her wide, frozen blue eyes fuzzy with death.
Ryan had seen dozens of dead animals in his eleven years. When he’d shot a buck with his .22, a clean shot in the back of the head, his dad had been proud of him. He hadn’t been all that proud of himself.
Hunting was okay. He didn’t particularly like it, not like his dad and his uncle, but it was okay.
Fishing, on the other hand, was heaven. He’d fish every day if his parents let him. He felt independent, free, when he was out on the lake, or sitting on the eddy near the bend in the river south of his house, or just on the pier at the lake. It made him happier than anything else in his life. More than the horses. Certainly more than hunting.
And, too often, he was happier alone, without his parents.
Something about the quiet, maybe. Or the waiting. Sean and Timmy didn’t have the patience for fishing. Timmy could keep quiet, but he fidgeted. Sean didn’t even go anymore because Ryan refused to pull in the rod after twenty minutes of no bites. Sometimes his dad would sit with him for a couple of hours, and that was good.
But his dad was too busy now for long excursions to the lake.
Sometimes it took all day to catch a decent-sized trout or bass. Sometimes you didn’t catch anything, but that was okay. Because it was the fishing, the waiting, the freedom that made all the difference in the world. Not the catching.
But Sean and Timmy didn’t understand that.
Neither did his father, though he tried.
Ryan watched the people below, so small they looked like ants. He squinted and held up his fingers. So big. Less than a quarter-inch.
They didn’t even know he was here.
He just wanted to see what they found. For some reason, he thought if they found the guy who killed that girl, he could sleep easier. It was as if the girl were a doe, her neck sliced, her eyes wide and unfocused and staring.
Ryan didn’t like that. People were people and animals were animals, but someone had treated that girl like an animal. It wasn’t right.
When most of the sheriff’s people started down the old logging path, Ryan stood and brushed the dirt from his worn jeans. He had to be getting back, anyway. Because he’d left Ranger in the stable, it’d take him an hour to get home and he didn’t want his mom to worry. She didn’t ask a lot of questions, but she always knew if he was lying.
Ryan didn’t lie, really. But sometimes, he didn’t want to tell the truth. Avoiding conversations was the best way to handle his mom.
He followed the narrow springtime creek down the ridge, toward the wider path that led to the boundary of their ranch. He spotted hoofprints and frowned. They looked fresh, but he hadn’t noticed any of the searchers coming this high up the ridge. Whoever it was, though, needed to reshoe his poor horse. The right hind hoof had lost a couple of nails, and the loose rocks and dirt would be getting under the shoe and embedding in the horse’s hooves.
Lost in thought, he almost missed it.
The sun reflected off something in his path and he stopped to bend down and examine it.
At first he thought two snake eyes were glaring at him, ready to strike, and he teetered back onto his heels. He regained his balance and looked more carefully at the object.
It wasn’t a snake, of course. The two eyes were small, dark gems. Deep green, like the pine trees at dusk. The gems were embedded in a simple silver belt buckle carved to look like a bird. Like an eagle. The gems were its eyes.
He reached out and picked it up, surprised when a piece of leather came with it, still attached to the buckle. Examining the end, it was obviously frayed and probably broke off when a hunter or hiker stopped on this high ledge to take a pee.
Ryan hesitated as he stared at the buckle. Should he take it to that FBI agent? Maybe it would be important to the investigation. His heart beat with excitement. The Untouchables was his favorite movie, and he never missed Without a Trace, the show about finding missing people.
But his excitement turned to worry. His father had told him specifically not to bother the sheriff. And he’d lied to his mother about where he was going. She would flip. She wouldn’t yell or spank him or anything, but she had this look, and the look was scarier than any punishment.
He shivered and pulled his jacket closer, though the day was warming nicely. Stuffing the buckle into his pocket, he continued down the narrow trail toward home. If he saw Sheriff Thomas again, he’d show him the buckle.
It was probably nothing, anyway. Just some guy pissing in the woods.
CHAPTER
10
Every muscle in her body tense, Miranda followed Quinn, Nick, and the others down the path to the clearing they’d discovered the day before.
Nick had called in Pete Knudson, a ranger she’d often worked with
on searches. If they found a bullet lodged in a tree, he would either cut out a segment or fell the whole tree in order to collect the bullet for evidence.
The tension gave her a mind-numbing headache she attempted to tame by swallowing three aspirin with a swig of water from her canteen. She could easily blame her pain on lack of sleep, a sparse appetite, or the stress of the Butcher claiming another victim. But she held Quinn responsible for the bulk of her discomfort. His presence unnerved her in ways she hadn’t imagined.
For years, she’d lied to herself that his betrayal at the Academy hadn’t mattered. Though hurt at the time, she reasoned, she’d come back to Bozeman and made a good life for herself. After four years on the Search and Rescue team, she accepted the lead position when her boss, Manny Rodriguez, took a job down in Colorado. Her team, the two paid staff members and the more than two dozen volunteers she could call upon, trusted her.
“Miranda?” Nick said, falling into step with her, his ruggedly handsome face tight with concern.
“I’m fine,” she answered the unspoken question.
“Yeah.” He glanced at Quinn, who led the group.
“What happened at the autopsy?” She tried to sound professional but was unable to keep her voice from cracking.
“I left before Doc Abrams was done, but it’s the same guy.”
“We knew that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Quinn,” Nick said, his voice low so no one could overhear.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you yesterday. You didn’t deserve it after seeing Rebecca like that.”
Nick still tried to shield her from reliving her seven days in hell. He didn’t understand that while she couldn’t escape the past, helping to find these girls gave her a measure of peace. She was doing everything she could to find the Butcher. And someday, he would be stopped.
She hoped to be there when he was captured. She had to be, as if helping to catch him would release her from daily remembrance and nightly terrors.
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