by D Krauss
*
"Nothin'," Greg said, kicking at some poison ivy. "Just like the last three times."
Mark frowned. "Stop that. You'll get the juice all over me."
"You allergic?"
"Yes. And so are you, so knock it off." He wanted to think, he wanted to look, and Greg spreading itch poison all over the place was too distracting.
"So?" Greg pushed away and began kicking at rocks instead.
"I'm still looking."
"At what? We've combed this place, the techies combed it, we've gotten all the tracks and fibers from every friggin' idiot who walked through here anytime during the past twenty years." Greg wasn't one to push a case beyond its Solvability Factors.
Solvability Factors...what crap. Still, other than an arrow made from animals long dead, what did they have?
"No enemies," Mark said.
"No."
"No girlfriend."
"No."
"No pissed-off neighbors."
"No. And no, and no," Greg snapped. "We've asked all those questions."
"Okay, but now we know about the arrow. We know how weird it is. Now we ask different questions."
"We could have done that at the office."
True, Mark acknowledged, but crime scenes kept the ghost of what happened. They were in the right place to glimpse the ghost: on the trail, right about where Mr. Smith had been shot. It was about the same time, too. Mark stared down the hill at the traffic going by.
"All right," time to start, "the killer used an arrow made out of pretty rare artifacts, or maybe it's an original old arrow, meaning a pretty expensive arrow, to kill Mr. Smith. Why?"
"It's the only one he had."
Mark snorted. "Yeah, right, an expert bowman who stocks his quiver with million dollar arrows."
"It's the only one he had with him."
Hmm. "So, target of opportunity?"
"Maybe," Greg said, "He was going by, saw Mr. Smith, decided to let him have it. Test out his skills."
"Saw him from where?"
Greg gestured down the hill. "Driving by."
"How could he see him?"
"It's early spring. There's no foliage."
"No, no," Mark waved his hand. "How could he see him from the road? The angle's too steep."
"Hm." Greg acknowledged that. "Maybe he saw him further down, as he was driving up."
They both looked down the road, back towards the Daventry entrance, which was lost to sight by the road swell. A car crested the swell, the driver silhouetted in the rear windshield.
"Okay." Mark felt a little stirring in his stomach. That's why you come back to the scene, Greg. "So, he sees Mr. Smith as he's coming up the hill, decides to stop and shoot. With a very expensive artifact. Why?"
"Again, only arrow he had."
"But why is shooting someone more important than keeping the arrow?"
"Well, maybe he stole it, knew he had to get rid of it. What better way to baffle everyone?"
"Could have just thrown it in a ditch. Anyone finding it would be clueless."
"Maybe he needed to make a statement of some kind."
Mark tapped his chin, watching the cars. "What kind of statement?"
"Oh, man, I don't know, repression of Indian rights, exploitation by the white man, striking back at authority, take your pick."
"No," Mark held up a finger. "This is important. Our victim, was he involved in anything exploitative like that? Animal testing, maybe?"
"He was a unit chief at GSA."
"Okay, he ordered staplers for the government. The government exploited the Indians…" and let the thought hang.
Greg shook his head. "No, doesn't work. It's not like he was wearing a sign or something."
"Yeah, but everybody in Fairfax County works for the government. And the killer would've seen him here every day."
They both went "hmm." Mr. Smith had walked the dog through the woods on a little-deviating schedule for years.
"Which means," Mark said softly, "our killer goes by every afternoon. At the same time."
They both stared at the cars, suddenly alert, peering through the windshields until they passed out of view, looking for guilt, an avoiding turn of the head, nervousness. Like they could see that from here. Mark shook himself.
"So, Robin Hood drives this route. He's mad, getting madder every time he sees the fat cat white man walking his privileged dog through woods that maybe once belonged to the Indians, maybe his own people, maybe not, maybe just feels some affinity. Snaps, stops, shoots, drives off." Mark folded his arms, pleased with himself.
Greg nodded. "Could be. After all, this is the Ghost Woods."
Mark blinked. "What?"
"Ghost Woods, that's what they call this little patch."
"Who does?"
Greg shrugged. "Everyone does. I saw it on the county topo map when I was measuring distances. Ghost Woods."
"Why, 'cause it's a ghost of what these woods used to be?"
"No, it's an Indian name. A translation, anyway."
"Is it?" Mark was feeling even more smug. "That fits."
"Seems to," Greg nodded.
Mark smiled. Now he had direction, the right questions, which narrowed the options and developed names and whittled those down until only one name was left, the killer. Yes. Screw you, CSI. This one wouldn't peter out, this one would be solved…
Mark frowned. He watched the cars go by.
"You know, Greg," he said, suddenly, "Something really bothers me."
"What?"
He pointed at the road. "How many cars have gone by since we got up here?"
Greg pulled at some bark on a small tree. "Dunno. I haven't been counting."
"A lot, right?"
"Yeah, thirty, I'd say."
"Yeah, thirty, a pretty much continuous stream of cars with a small break here and there, wouldn't you say?"
"Okay, I'll say that. What's your point?"
"How," and Mark swept his hand to take in the road, "do you pull over, blocking half the road and pissing off everyone behind you, get out, grab a bow and arrow, shoot someone on the trail above, get back in your car, drive off, and no one sees anything?"
They were both quiet, watching the cars.
"Ghosts," Greg said, finally.
