Ann set down her cup. “It could have been left by a contractor or the real estate agent.” As the possibilities swirled, she realized she needed to get out of the house and clear her head.
She quickly brushed her hair, pulled it up into a sleek ponytail, and then put on lipstick to brighten her lips. She moved back into her office and stared at the case files she had carefully tucked away after she had guided Nate back into his room last night.
She had glimpsed the crime scene yesterday, but with all the controlled chaos of the police personnel, coupled with the shock of seeing the body, she had not processed as many details as she could have.
She laced up her hiking shoes, stuffed her credentials and cell into a cross-body purse, and headed out the front door, which she locked and then double-checked.
The drive to the crime scene was uneventful. She parked on the gravel road, tugged on a hat over her aviator sunglasses, and followed the grass path beaten by the forensic team and police up to the spot where the body had been found.
The rain three nights ago had washed over the grass and softened the brittle brown with lighter shades of green. The Montana grasslands were clever. In drought they went dormant and waited, patient and silent, under cloudless skies. And when the rains came, they soaked up the moisture and rejoined the living until the next drought.
The police estimated that the murder had occurred here after the rains. Was that a calculated choice by the killer, or was it merely an accident of time?
She looked back toward the path and noted the flecks of white plaster that remained where technicians had taken tire and shoe impressions. Luckily, given the trampling in the dark, the first responders had not destroyed those forensic details.
Ann ducked under the yellow tape and stood at the edge of the blackened grass. Setting the body on fire had many strategic advantages. It masked the victim’s identity and destroyed evidence. And the removal of the victim’s clothes, if not related to a sexual fetish, was another way to delay identification. Why draw attention to a body that would be difficult to identify?
DNA had been extracted from the back molars of the last victim and was at the state lab now for testing. If the DNA was not found in a database, it could be used for reverse genealogy, which had been a critical tool in recent years and had helped solve several high-profile serial murders. Conceivably, genealogists could backtrack through public ancestry sites and identify the victim. But that took time, money, and resources. Perhaps, if authorities did not make identifications soon in the first and second cases, mapping might be an option.
She rose, moved to the steep hillside, and looked toward the valley, allowing the wind to push against her. Tuesday’s moon had been at half strength, and the lights from the small town below would have winked like gems. Was this location important to the killer or random?
As she turned to leave, she spotted what looked like a narrow path and, in the distance, the flicker of white paper. Adjusting her purse, she made her way slowly down the mountainside. Several times small rocks rolled out from under her feet, and she struggled to catch her balance. Each time she looked back, she visually retraced the steep path and questioned whether this was wise.
Drawn by the paper, she half stepped, half scooted over the loose rock until she reached it. Squatting, she realized it was a Polaroid picture. It was rumpled and dirty, but there was no missing the smiling young woman’s face staring back at her. She looked up the hill and thought about the body she had viewed yesterday. Was this her?
The gravel on the steep grade slid under her feet, and before Ann could react, she fell backward and hit hard on her backside. She had to dig in her heels to stop herself from tumbling over the side.
When she came to a complete stop, she sat still for several moments as her heart rammed against her ribs. No one knew she was up here. She had no cell service, and a fall would put her in life-threatening trouble.
She could picture the headlines now: CRAZED WIDOW PLUNGES OFF SIDE OF ANACONDA MOUNTAIN.
As her adrenaline spiked, she searched for the Polaroid image. At first, she thought she had lost it, but then she caught sight of the white corner. It was trapped in the grass. She carefully leaned over and picked it up.
Pinching the paper between her fingers, she inched her way up the hill, moving slowly and avoiding loose rock. The return climb took three times as long as the descent, and when she reached the top of the hill, she lay back on the grass until her nerves settled.
Rising, she allowed herself one last look at the surrounding area and the crime scene. Why this place? She did not know. Yet.
Her hands were both scraped raw, but instead of dwelling on an injury she could not fix here, she hurried toward her car. Relief washed over her when she reached the vehicle.
From her glove box, she removed a plastic shopping bag, which, like napkins and wipes, she kept stocked because, well, you never knew when you might need one. She carefully placed the picture in the bag and laid it on the passenger seat.
The engine started easily, and the rush of cool air-conditioning felt good against her skin. She grabbed a wet wipe from the glove box and cleaned off the dirt as best she could. The deep scrapes burned, but they were a small price to pay for the picture.
She drove a mile before she checked her phone. It would not be like Nate to call three hours into his own adventure, but better to know. No calls from Nate but two from Bryce.
She hit “Redial,” and he picked up on the second ring. “Hey, sorry I missed your call. I was out of cell service.”
“Did you go on the camping trip with Nate?” Bryce asked.
“No. I hiked up to the crime scene.” She stopped at a T intersection, looked both ways, and took a left toward the interstate.
“Not the best place to be alone.”
She could have made a statement about independence and her ability to make sound decisions, but her aching palms said otherwise. “I did find something. A Polaroid picture.”
“Of what?”
“A woman’s face.”
“The crime scene went over every square inch of that site.”
“It was down a pathway.”
“They hiked until it was too steep to continue.”
She flexed her left hand and frowned at the traces of dirt still embedded in her scrapes. “Not that steep.”
“Yeah, that steep. Are you okay?”
“Of course. I grew up climbing these foothills.”
He sighed. “I’m headed into Missoula now and about an hour out. The medical examiner is ready to do the autopsy. Do you still want to attend?”
The memories of the burned, mutilated body rushed her. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Missoula, Montana
Thursday, August 19
1:30 p.m.
Bryce leaned against the side of the forensic science building, watching the parking lot for Ann’s vehicle. When she pulled up, he was pleased and relieved. She did not need his permission, but he had not liked her being at the crime scene alone.
As she rose out of the car, he noticed her lipstick looked fresh and hair just combed. There was also a faint swath of dirt along her right pant leg.
He considered holding back a comment, then did not. “You fell on the hill.”
“The rocks can be slippery. No big deal.” She held up a shopping bag. “Not exactly an evidence bag, but I put the picture in here.”