by Paty Jager
“Pull up beside that blue sedan parked near the edge,” he ordered the bus driver. Hawke faced the group. “Stay behind me and away from the vehicle while we discuss how to figure out which direction he’s gone.”
Hawke exited the vehicle first. A glance at the dark gray clouds and the sharp biting wind on his neck, had him pulling the collar of his coat up around his ears. He’d been wise to bring his felt Stetson in this weather. “Make sure you are all bundled up. Don’t want to have any of you get frostbite.” He walked over to within ten feet of the blue car.
The group gathered where he motioned for them to stop. “The first thing to do when you encounter the vehicle of a missing person is take a look around for prints to show you which way they are headed.”
“This is paved. There are no footprints,” said one of the attendees.
Hawke pulled plastic evidence markers from his backpack and crouched, studying the ground. “We know that he left Reykjavik at nine this morning. How long did it take us to drive here?”
“About forty minutes,” Sigga said.
“Then we must figure that,” Hawke glanced at his watch, “he arrived before the sun dried the dew from the ground, and we are four hours behind him.” Hawke spotted something on the ground. He placed an evidence marker near it.
“What is that?” Kanika Tumaini, a policewoman from Kenya, asked.
“Something that isn’t natural to this parking lot.” Hawke explained why he thought the small pebbles that scratched the surface in a line were important to the tracking. They showed movement toward the path leading to the boiling mud pools. “Split up into groups of three and check along the paths to see where someone stepped off and headed away from this area.” He pointed to Ms. Moore, Mr. Tanaka, and Ms. Tumaini. “You three check out the vehicle and see if you can find anything that would tell us which direction he is headed.”
“I’ve never searched a vehicle before,” Ms. Tumaini said.
Hawke studied her a moment. “Just follow the other’s lead. I’m sure you’ll figure out what we need after you look.” He didn’t know if Nonni had left anything in the car to help the search. But it was a good lesson. You don’t always find easy directions to follow.
A whistle and a shout went up. “Over here!”
Hawke jogged to the spot where Chelsea Pearce, a SAR from Colorado, Sigga, and Reggie Carlton stood.
“This looks like a clear hiking boot print that is headed east, toward the road and more open ground,” Sigga said.
“And the sign says not to walk here,” Chelsea pointed out.
Hawke studied the print. It was the correct size for the young man. He hadn’t had a chance to see what his hiking boot soles looked like. “Good job. While we have been given permission to trek around out here, try to spread out a bit to not make too much of a mark on the landscape. You’ll take turns in the lead.” He glanced back at the three still at the car. “Would someone run back and get the people at the car?”
A thirtyish man from the U.S., Leonard Harlow, ran back.
Hawke pointed to one person. “You start following the trail. If you lose it for any reason, stop and ask for help. With this many people tramping around, the tracks could be wiped out by our feet if we aren’t careful.” This was not only a lesson on following sign but how to not cover it up.
They crossed the road and the lead person stopped at the other edge. “I lost it.”
Hawke had known that would happen. “Everyone take a good look at what the boot print looks like.” They each leaned over studying the print, then awaited his next command. “Now, spread out along both sides of the road and see where he stepped off the pavement.”
While the group looked for tracks on the ground, Hawke studied the landscape. Knowing Nonni would be trying to outfox them, he looked for the terrain least likely to show prints. He spotted a rim of pillow lava about thirty yards to the east.
“Over here!” Ms. Moore called.
Hawke jogged over along with the rest of the group. There was a clear print in the mud alongside the road. “Since you found the track, you can follow it until you lose it.”
The woman gave him a defiant glare before dropping her gaze to the ground and moving slowly forward.
“When you are tracking, you not only follow the clear evidence but also take a look at the surroundings.” Hawke watched as half a dozen stopped and studied the terrain. “Where do you think this person is headed. Think like they would. If it’s someone scared and alone, they would seek a way to see better. They would go to the highest spot or follow a mountain downhill to civilization. What if it is someone hiding? What would they do?”
“Try to hide his tracks,” Ms. Pearce said.
“Then he would head for that patch of rock,” Carlton said.
“Good thinking. Where is Ms. Moore headed?” Hawke asked.
Carlton smiled. “Toward the rocks.”
At the small patch of pillow lava rock, the woman stopped, straightened, and turned a frustrated face his direction. “I don’t see a track on the rocks.”
“You couldn’t have had much of a track to follow across that spongey grass. How did you know he came this way?” Hawke wasn’t going to give anything away. He wanted them all to learn from this course, not just listen to him.
“Indentions in the grass and torn spots, like he was hurrying, maybe running or jogging.”
“Good. That is the other thing to watch for. The way the prints look. It can tell you how fast or slow the person you are tracking is moving.” Hawke crouched by the edge of the rocks where Ms. Moore had stopped. He was impressed with how the group had fanned out on both sides of her as she followed the prints. That way the prints weren’t compromised.
Studying the rocks, he saw a loose piece had moved slightly, and not far beyond, a scrape from a rock, perhaps lodged in the tread of Nonni’s shoe.
“Everyone get down like this and study the rocks. What do you see?” He waited for them to all crouch. “It isn’t always about the print you have been following but how things are displaced.”
“There, I see it!” Mr. Tanaka said, pointing to the scrape. “He went that direction across the rocks.”
“Good. You take the lead for finding the track.” Hawke stood and waited for the group to move forward, again spreading out.
Tanaka walked down a gully and up to the top of a small rise. There was more rock.
Hawke had to give Nonni credit, he’d worked hard at making the class think and study the ground.
“Let’s see if someone else can pick up the trail.” Hawke crouched to see which direction the young man had gone. He was headed more south now. It appeared toward another rise.
Ms. Tumaini pointed. “There. He’s headed this way.”
“Lead the way,” Hawke said, impressed with the keen eyes of the group so far.
They crossed the rocks and walked over the slight rise.
A large, perhaps thirty feet long steamy, sulfuric smelling pool of mud could be seen bubbling at the bottom of the draw. Hawke stared at the pool. Something didn’t look right. The group had continued on, following the footprints. He whistled and called, “Hey, has anyone looked around rather than just at the ground?”
The group stopped and stared at him. “What was one of the first things I told you about following tracks?”
“It’s not always about the tracks,” Tanaka said.
“That’s right. Did any of you take a look around when we came to the rise?”
They all started scanning the area.
“Something is out of place at the pool,” Sigga said. She started to head down the rise along with everyone else.
“Stop!” Hawke shouted, causing them all to halt. “Sigga and I will go check on the mud pool. The rest of you wait here.”
He motioned for Sigga to follow him. Hawke went down the hill cautiously to make sure he didn’t disrupt any evidence if what he saw at the pool was a body.
The closer they walked to the pool, he
could see the legs and feet of a hiker. The upper body and head were face down in the steaming, boiling, muddy water. His nose twitched from the sulfuric gas that smelled like rotten eggs.
“Fjandans!” Sigga exclaimed as they stopped at the person’s feet. “I would not wish this way to die on even my enemies.”
Hawke agreed. He pulled out his phone and took photos, hoping it wasn’t Nonni. He didn’t have any idea what the young man was wearing. “Should we pull him out or wait for forensics?”
“The longer he is in there, the more deterioration. Pull him out. Fjandans! Do you think this is Nonni?”
“I hope not.” A lump as sour and large as a lemon rolled around in his gut. He dug in his pack and pulled out latex gloves. The gloves had been to show the participants in his class what all they needed to have in their pack when they went out tracking. Now it was being used in a way he hadn’t planned.
They each grabbed a booted foot and pulled. The mud made a bit of a sucking noise as the body was tugged from its grasp. They rolled the body over. The neck and hands were boggy and discolored greenish brown from the mud and minerals. The facial features, besides being greenish brown, were distorted and swollen.
“Do you think it’s Nonni?” Sigga asked, again.
Hawke felt the body’s pockets and found a wallet. Inside was a soggy driver’s license, showing this was indeed Jón Einarsson. Nonni.
“Shit!” He shoved the wallet back in the pocket and stared at the body. “Call it in and tell everyone to stay put up on the rise.”
“This is my country, not yours. I’ll give the orders.” As she said this, she pulled out her phone and walked up the rise toward the group.
“How did you get in there, my friend?” Hawke asked, studying the area around the mud pool. Had he been standing at the edge looking at it and slipped? Hardly likely. The ground wasn’t any rockier than what he’d hiked to get here. Had someone shoved him in? Or hit him on the head, knocking him into the pool? But why?
The young man seemed carefree and amiable. What could he have possibly been into that someone would follow him here and do this?
Sigga returned. “The CID are coming as well as Detective Inspector Ari Böðvarsson. This is his region.” She glanced up at the group on the rise. “I didn’t tell them who we found. But asked them to all write down what they remember from starting at the car.”
“Good idea. It will keep them busy. How long until CID and the detective get here?” Hawke crouched next to the body, studying the ground. The Criminal Investigation Division would check the area for evidence, but he wanted to make sure anything that might get covered up by their arrival be tagged now.
“An hour.” Sigga crouched. “What are you doing?”
He pulled out one of the evidence markers from his pack. “Looking for indentions that might indicate a struggle.”
“You don’t think he fell in on his own?” Her tone was noncommittal.
“Nope. He had help.” He glanced up at the woman then back to scanning the ground. “What can you tell me about him?”
“His father has coordinated this event for the last ten years. Nonni has been helping him every year.”
“Was he a SAR member?”
“Nonni? He was working his way up, but he was just a college student who helped with the convention and went out on a call or two. He didn’t really have the drive to be more than a weekend member.”
Hawke placed another evidence marker on the ground. “He and his father get along?”
Sigga stood. “There is no way Einar did this. He didn’t see the sun for his son.”
Hawke studied her. This sounded a lot like a comment his mother or an elder would make. “I’m assuming this means the father had strong emotions for his son?”
“Yes.” Sigga faced him.
“But they have different last names. Wasn’t Nonni his stepson?”
She stared at him. “In Iceland, the child uses their father’s first name and adds either son or daughter. I am Sigga Eiríksdóttir, daughter of Eiríkur, my father. He is Eiríkur Egilsson, son of my grandfather, Egill Friðmarsson. That is why we usually call one another by our first name. It is less confusing.”
Now he was understanding why the father and son had different last names. They had appeared to have the same bone structure and Hawke had thought that was just an Icelandic gene. “Then he will take this loss hard.” Hawke always hated telling a parent their child had died. A murder was worse than an accident, however, both were world shattering to a parent.
“This could close down the conference.” Sigga sighed. “I was having a good time getting to know the new people.”
Hawke stared at her. “The conference attendees can’t leave. They’ll all need to be contacted about how they knew Nonni.”
“We can’t keep a thousand people here while we conduct a murder investigation. That could take months.” She stared at him as if he’d had his bell rung too many times.
“We need to talk to his friends.” Hawke placed another marker. “I’m going to follow these tracks. They aren’t Nonni’s boot tracks.”
“Do we have to sit up on that hill all day?”
Hawke swung around to find Ms. Tumaini standing twenty feet from the body. She didn’t glance at it, but kept her gaze on Sigga.
“You’ll all need to be questioned,” Hawke said.
“You know where to find us. Can’t we take the bus back and attend another pre-conference event? We might as well learn something as sit up there watching you two.” Ms. Tumaini waved an arm toward the group. “And it’s cold just standing around.”
“Take down the name of everyone on the bus and you may all go back to the conference. But don’t say a word about this.” Sigga stood with her arms crossed.
“Aren’t they going to wonder about us coming back early?” The Kenyan stared back at Sigga.
“Just say something came up and we sent you back.”
The dark woman was taller and broader shouldered than Sigga. She shrugged and headed back up the hill.
“I wonder why they made her the spokesperson?” Sigga questioned.
Hawke shrugged and followed the tracks leading away from the mud pool.
Chapter Three
Hawke arrived at the Krýsuvík parking lot as the bus pulled out and sleet started to fall. The group had made good time back to the bus. He’d lost the trail once over some boulders, but had managed to pick it back up. He could tell the person he’d followed had a long stride and had been hurrying. The footprint was of average size— a nine or ten for a male and ten or eleven for a woman. The problem with hiking boots—men’s and women’s were hard to tell apart. The weight could have been either a man or woman. A bit heavier than Sigga, but an average man, a husky woman, or someone lighter who carried a pack.
He studied the vehicles in the parking lot. Nonni’s was still there. About a dozen people were walking on the trails around the sulfurous steaming mud pools. Five cars, besides Nonni’s were in the parking lot. How did the murderer get away? Had he or she followed the victim here, parked, found the right place to kill him, then hiked back, got in their car, and drove off?
Out of habit, he walked through the parking lot, writing down the car licenses, makes, and models. Three were rental cars. After that, he shoved his hands into his pockets, put his head down and trekked the mile straight back to the lone mud pool where the body was found.
Topping the rise, he spotted a van, police car, and unmarked car on a nearly invisible road beyond the mud pool. Eight people milled around besides Sigga.
He walked up and stood alongside the policewoman.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“The person who did this hiked back to the parking lot.” Hawke tapped his pack. “I wrote down the licenses, makes, and models of the cars there, but I have a feeling whoever did this is back in town acting as if nothing happened.”
“You must be Hawke, the tracker Sigga and Einar have been talking about.”
A tall thin man held out his hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Ari Böðvarsson.”
Hawke shook hands. “Pleased to meet you. Do you have enough pull to make sure no one from the conference leaves until they can each be excluded from the investigation?”
“Sigga was right. You are wanting to keep everyone here. Unless we have proof someone is involved in this, we can’t detain them once the conference is over.”
“Then you’ll have to make sure we figure this out before the conference ends and don’t let Einar’s grief have him shorten it.” Hawke didn’t like having only five days, possibly six if the attendees in question stayed on for the Super Jeep Tour on Monday.
A woman dressed in white, carrying a clipboard, walked up to them. “I was told you have a photo of how the body was found?”
Hawke pulled out his phone and showed her all the photos he took.
“Send those to me.” She handed him a card. “After seeing the photos, my preliminary response is to say this is a homicide. I’ll know more after an autopsy to see if there was any blunt force trauma to the head or drugs involved.”
“Thank you, Halla,” the inspector said, dismissing the woman. He turned to Hawke and Sigga. “We won’t know anymore until the autopsy.”
“We need to talk to the people at the conference and Nonni’s friends. The ones he was with last night. They were all at the table while we discussed where he would come today.” Hawke wasn’t going to wait around for the report. He had people to talk to and a short time to figure it out.
“I know who the three were. I’ll dig up what I can find on them,” Sigga said. “Give us a lift back to Reykjavik?” she asked the inspector.
He grunted and they trudged through the drizzle over to his car.
Hawke shook the sleet from his waterproof coat and Stetson before sliding into the back seat. Sigga took the passenger seat in the front.
The two in the front discussed how Einar would take the news while Hawke hunkered into his coat in the back seat, making a list in his mind of who he needed to talk to. Other than Sigga thinking the young man wasn’t SAR material, she hadn’t said anything bad about him. What would cause someone to follow him and push him to such a gruesome death?
