by Alex Kava
69
Devil’s Backbone State Forest
Maggie figured they had two hours before the sun set. Maybe only half of that before the forest started to get dark. But Keith Ganza wanted to get the “lay of the land,” so he could prepare his team for the next day. A day that promised to be as physically brutal as it would be mentally.
Already Maggie was out of breath, and they had just left the service road—supposedly, the only road into the forest. The rest of the way would be on foot. As they trudged over the rocks, through the mud and between the trees—some places so tight they had to sidestep—Maggie realized how limited they would be as to what gear and equipment they’d be able to carry to the site. At the same time she couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to haul out the bodies.
Sheriff Olson had sent one of his young deputies to guide them, a tall lanky man whose long legs hiked effortlessly so far ahead of Maggie and Ganza that he had to stop every once in a while for them to catch up. Deputy Ryan didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he looked excited to be chosen. He took the responsibility seriously and consulted the handheld GPS device, making sure they hadn’t strayed off course.
Maggie couldn’t believe the Collector had used this path to dispose of his victims. There had to be another.
“Not much farther,” Deputy Ryan called to them as he waited up ahead.
Maggie was surprised that Ganza was right behind her. He was in much better shape than she guessed. Tomorrow might be different with heavy backpacks.
“We need to be careful from this point on,” Deputy Ryan told them. “They’re some drop-off ledges and steep ravines. And we’re getting into that shadow time when it’s tough to see them until you’re right on top of them.”
“Is this the only way in?” Ganza asked as they caught up with the deputy and took a break. “I can’t imagine him hauling a body.”
“This is the path the dog followed.”
Deputy Ryan pointed to another fluorescent orange ribbon tied to a branch at eye level. He’d mentioned the ribbons when they started, and Maggie noticed them along the way, but only because she was looking for them. Otherwise she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find them.
“The dog handler said this might have been the guy’s shortcut. It was probably the most recent path he used.”
“So there might be another?”
“Sure. We just didn’t want to get lost.” He gestured as if to say, take a look around.
“Did you find a shed?” Maggie asked.
“Remember where we parked? It’s just down the road and up over that rock wall. Dog found it, too.” He stopped and grinned. “Of course, the dog didn’t climb the wall. But she sure did some scratching at it like maybe the guy had climbed it.”
Maggie thought it felt as though they had been climbing the whole way, a constant incline, steep enough in places that she needed to grab onto tree roots and anything else jutting out of the rock and the dirt. But now they were going down and she saw what Deputy Ryan meant. The shadows were swallowing up any last rays of sunshine that had been filtering in through the trees.
The ground finally leveled a bit and at a patch of scraggly shrubs the young deputy stopped and put his arm out for them to stop, too. On the other side of the shrubs it looked like the ground had cracked open. The ravine was about ten feet across and thirty feet wide, tapering at both edges so that it looked like a gaping mouth. But even looking over the edge, Maggie couldn’t see the bottom.
Deputy Ryan grabbed a flashlight from his utility belt as he said, “Sheriff Olson is working on getting a generator set up. It’s tough to see down there. Lots of shadows in the middle of the day, too.”
He flicked on the light and began to sweep down against the dirt and rock wall, He stopped when the stream of light found a white bloated face with a tangle of hair and eyes wide open, staring up at them.
70
Strasburg, Virginia
Maggie was trying to explain to Greg why she wouldn’t be home that night. She had expected to leave a message and was disappointed when he actually answered the phone.
“Sounds like a party,” he said.
The restaurant next to the Fairfield Inn seemed to be a favorite even at ten o’clock on a weeknight. Both were near the junction where Interstate 81 met Interstate 66. It looked like truckers and tourists mixed with locals. Had she known Greg would answer the phone, she would have made more of an effort to find a quieter spot.
“It’s off the interstate,” she told him. “Not like we have a lot to choose from.”
She didn’t want to tell him about the Collector or anything to do with the case. She knew she’d get a lecture. But he didn’t seem to care about any of that. In fact, he didn’t ask any questions about the case, or why she would be staying overnight. Instead, he launched into a whole other reprimand.
“Your mother called.”
And Maggie’s stomach did a flip. “Is she okay?”
“You’d know if you’d just check in with her.” There was no sympathy in his voice, nothing in his tone that would remind her of the other night when he had told her it wasn’t her fault.
She didn’t argue. Instead she said, “You’re right. I’ll call her in the morning.”
That silenced him. She thought she’d lost the connection. But then almost as if he had to get the last word in, he said, “Well, okay then.”
When she put the phone down she noticed Turner watching her from across the table. And she saw genuine sympathy in those warm brown eyes, so much so, that she had to look away.
Turner and Cunningham had arrived before nightfall. They had met Ganza and Maggie at the restaurant just steps away from the hotel. Cunningham had already taken care of getting them rooms. Ganza had called his team and given them a long list of what he wanted them to bring in the morning.
They’d just settled in and both men were anxious to hear what she and Ganza had seen. But Maggie wished she could check into her room, take a hot shower, curl up under the covers. She wanted to block out the memory of that woman’s eyes staring up at her. This was nothing like examining crime scene photos. And it was nothing like finding body parts. This woman had been alive, perhaps only days ago. Now her body was broken, probably cut up and thrown into a ravine as if it were garbage.
Was she sacrificed just so the Collector could offer Maggie a fresh kill?
That hadn’t occurred to Maggie until this moment, and suddenly the restaurant was much too hot. It felt like the floor was tilting, and she caught herself grabbing onto the table edge. Then she looked to see if anyone had seen her grab the edge of the table?
No, thank goodness.
Both Cunningham and Turner were listening to Ganza. She knew Ganza was speaking only because she saw his mouth moving. She couldn’t hear him over the wind tunnel in her ears. She reached for her water half expecting the glass to slide off the table before she could grab it. She took a gulp then slowed down to sips.
Breathe. In and out. Just breathe.
Finally she heard their voices. She scooted her chair in to anchor herself against the table. The room had barely straightened itself when the men were looking at her.
Had they noticed her strange behavior?
No, they didn’t look concerned. They were waiting for her answer to a question. Only Maggie never heard the question.
That’s when the waitress appeared, drawing their attention. Taking their orders. Letting Turner be charming. Telling them what was good. Reminding them of food and drink. And saving Maggie from admitting, that maybe she wasn’t okay.
71
Gainesville, Virginia
There was another woman missing. Rita slid the tray with empty glasses onto the counter without taking her eyes off the television in the corner. This one was a college student: Jessica Todd, twenty-one years old from Manassas. She was last seen
Friday night having dinner and drinks with her friends at Ollie’s Bar and Grill. Her car was found in the parking lot.
Ollie’s was literally just up the road. Way too close for comfort.
In the photo they were showing, Jessica looked younger than twenty-one and Rita couldn’t help thinking she wasn’t that much older than her daughter, Carly.
“You okay?”
Rita jumped, startled because she hadn’t heard Drew.
“That poor girl,” she said pointing at the screen. “What do you suppose happened to her?”
He glanced up and shrugged like he had no idea who she was talking about even though the girl’s photo had been on every news channel. He took the order sheet from her tray of empties and started grabbing bottles and glasses to fill the order.
“You think it’s the same guy who took that councilwoman?”
“I thought she was in Boston?” He didn’t look up as he added ice to the glasses.
“Remember she was taken from Boston. You said it was a restaurant parking lot. One of Mr. Gibson’s.”
“Oh yeah.” But he didn’t look interested.
“They found her body someplace down by Richmond.”
Was she the only one who had committed all these details to memory?
Drew had already moved on to pouring the liquor. She liked watching him. His hands moved with such purpose. There was discipline and organization to the way he made the drinks, not just remembering how to layer the liquors like in a Tequila Sunrise. She could see why he wanted to be a chef. He used his fingers the same way as Carly did, both of them committed to creating a masterpiece with each work.
He caught her watching and lifted his hands in mock surrender as he said, “What? Am I not fast enough?”
But then he smiled. At her. Only her.
The smile was such a rarity that she couldn’t stop the blush. Thankfully, he went back to finishing the drinks, and Rita tried to concentrate on something, anything other than that annoying pleasant heat crawling through her body. That’s when she saw the small, bald-headed man with a mop and bucket going down the hallway to clean the restrooms.
She turned back to Drew and asked, “What happened to Morgan?”
Drew shrugged like he didn’t know and didn’t really care.
Truth was she didn’t know what Morgan’s schedule was. She was feeling a bit on edge ever since she’d mentioned him to that FBI agent.
Finished with the drinks, Drew set them on her tray, two at a time. He slid it all the way to overlap onto her side, making it easier for her to grab. He was so thoughtful.
But now Rita’s mind tried to retrieve what she had told the agent—Maggie O’Dell. She still had her card. Rita had slipped it into her wallet. Was it possible the FBI questioned him, suspected him, just because of what Rita had said? She thought she had told Agent O’Dell that it was only her impression. Though she couldn’t remember the exact words she’d used.
Rita took the tray. She hoped she hadn’t spooked the man. And even more so, she hoped Morgan didn’t know she had told the FBI. Who knew what that creepy guy was capable of doing.
She thought about Jessica Todd again, and how close Ollie’s was. It would be easy enough to get off the last shift here and be waiting in Ollie’s parking lot for an unsuspecting, slightly tipsy college girl.
Rita felt a shiver and shook her head. She needed to stop watching the news.
72
Wednesday
Devil’s Backbone State Forest
This was the first time Maggie had ever used her go-bag. Usually it sat in the corner of her office back behind the door. Every two or three months she updated or refreshed it. Now she was grateful she had stocked it so thoughtfully despite never using it. She had transferred some of the basics to a daypack—protein bars, Chapstick, Vicks VapoRub (which she had added since the Tanner’s double-wide), bottles of water, latex gloves, maglite and a lightweight rain jacket that rolled into a neat small tube.
She wore a T-shirt, hiking boots, jeans and a long-sleeve button-down shirt that she left unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. It had been a rainy summer, unseasonably cool, and though the sun was out, she wouldn’t be surprised to have a thunderstorm come rolling over the mountains.
Deputy Ryan, who turned out to be quite the outdoorsman, offered them kerchiefs. He said they were soaked in natural oils and he promised they would ward off mosquitoes and other insects if they tied them around their upper arm or neck.
Maggie had prepared herself for rain, humidity, temperature changes, insects, and the foul smells of decomposition. What she had no way of preparing herself for was how she would respond to what they found down in that ravine. The hellhole that the Collector had chosen as a gravesite for his victims.
Despite her pre-med expertise and her ability to detach emotionally at an autopsy, she already knew from the double-wide trailer experience that there was a massive difference in viewing an autopsy and in recovering a decomposing corpse.
Sheriff Olson had already found a way to have his men haul into the forest a portable generator, fuel to run it and floodlights along with the necessary equipment to set up a pulley system. As Ganza had suggested the night before, there was an easier, more beaten down trail that led to the ravine. However it was also much longer and circled all the way around bringing them to the site from the opposite direction.
All of them—Ganza, his two CSU techs, Turner, Cunningham and Maggie—carried an extra pack on their backs with gear. Maggie was surprised that Assistant Director Cunningham had joined them. She suspected this was his way of dealing with the frustration. The Collector had bested them all. But he hadn’t counted on them finding this treasure trove of information.
They got to work immediately setting up a staging area with tarps and constructing a makeshift tent. On this side of the ravine, the ground was more level and covered with grass and soft clover instead of all rock. There was an open space with a break in the canopy of trees overhead, so that sunlight streamed down in patches instead of slivers of light.
Sheriff Olson’s men had also decided it was too steep of a climb to get to the bottom. Standing on the edge and looking down Maggie realized it wasn’t that deep. Maybe ten feet. And only one side was rock. The others were dirt. The deputies had lowered a telescoping ladder, securing it at the bottom and the top and giving it enough of an angle for it to function as a ramp, so Ganza and his team could walk up and down carrying their gear without holding onto the rungs of the ladder.
Sunlight filtered in, but Maggie knew it wouldn’t stream down to the bottom of the pit. She saw that Ganza and his techs strapped on headlamps even as the sheriff’s men strung the floodlights. They also had slipped on facemasks that they let hang by the elastic around their necks. Now as Ganza looked ready to descend the ladder he handed her a facemask and headlamp. She caught herself swallowing hard. Her mouth and throat were suddenly cotton dry.
This was it.
How best to understand a madman than to view his handiwork. It was what profilers did. Only she had been doing it from the comfort and safety of her cramped office for too many years. It was a lot different than examining the contents of Stucky’s takeout containers. Without a body, without eyes staring wide open—like the woman down below—it was much easier to detach from a toe, a kidney or a spleen.
“You ready?” Ganza asked.
Her fingers fumbled in her daypack for the Vicks VapoRub. Maggie hoped her hands weren’t shaking but she couldn’t be certain. When she noticed Ganza watching, she offered the small container to him first.
Ganza stroked his mustache and shook his head. “Stays in my mustache forever. I hate that.”
But he waited for her without a hint of impatience. She appreciated the fact that he had to know she was anxious, and yet he didn’t point it out by asking if she was okay.
Finally she
told him, “Let’s do this.”
73
Maggie fell back on her forensic training. She tried to concentrate on details. Observe and examine. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. There was actually more space than she imagined. But there were also piles of dirt and debris.
First, they removed the woman’s body. Already Maggie realized how much she hated maggots. Up this close she could see them clinging to the soft tissue even as the CSU techs swiped at them. Some fell off as the techs lifted and wedged the corpse onto a medevac basket the sheriff’s department had provided. They tightened the rope around her then waited while Cunningham and Turner pulled, engaging the pulley system.
There was only the one corpse out in the open, though Maggie didn’t need to look hard to know there were others. They, however, would require some digging. She could see several bones, the white knots gleaming against the black dirt. Ganza’s techs got busy filling buckets with trowels and sifting thought the dirt. If they found something interesting they hauled their buckets up the ladder where they could filter the contents through screens.
They’d collect trace evidence and pieces of remains. Maggie knew they’d also bag up samples of the soil and any vegetation present. Although the victims were dumped here they probably weren’t killed here. Particles still clinging to their clothes or mud on their shoes could sometimes lead investigators to the original crime scenes.
Ganza didn’t expect anything from Maggie except to observe and ask questions. They were used to working through puzzles. Still, she helped him clear away branches and wet leaves. Underneath they could see a running shoe and a heap of discarded clothes. It looked like some of the debris had been tossed on top.
“Why bother to hide anything down here?” she asked out loud, not expecting an answer.
She was already trying to figure out why the Collector had tossed the bodies into a ravine in the middle of a state forest that had no public access. This was the same killer who wanted to show off the pieces he removed.
