Kozak parked on the shoulder.
Collecting what they needed and starting for the scene, they glanced at press people talking to the clutch of locals watching from across the street. Carillo nodded further off, where news camera operators were tight up alongside the chain-link fence, recording whatever they could. The investigators went to the trooper in the state car posted at the entrance gate, now cordoned with yellow tape.
“We’re looking for Trooper Rob Menza,” Carillo said.
The trooper’s back stiffened at the plain-clothed couple before his eyes saw the badges clipped to their belts. He touched the brim of his hat, then pointed.
“In there. Follow the path.”
The investigators lifted the tape and proceeded along the narrow, earthen road, overrun with brush, bent by recent traffic. Up ahead, strobing lights painted the forest red, white, and blue as they came to another knot of police vehicles, troopers, and deputies.
Menza was among them.
The trooper knew Carillo and Kozak, knew they outranked him and were going to assume command of the scene.
“Come over to my car. I’ll get my notes, bring you up to speed on what we have.”
Carillo and Kozak glanced toward the bright yellow crime scene tape, and the rear of the blue Corolla, nearly concealed by shrubs and branches. Then Carillo shook his head at all the police vehicles.
“Too many cooks in the kitchen here, Rob. We need to protect the scene.”
“Well, it unfolded pretty fast, and the county was quick to help.”
“No more people in here, unless we authorize,” Kozak said.
“Got it,” Menza said.
“Who’s been tromping around the car?” Carillo said.
“Just me.”
“And who’s out in the woods around it?”
“Erie County’s dog team, seeing if they can pick up anything.”
“That’s it?” Kozak asked. “You protected our scene?”
“I did. Erie County will put up the helicopter. And I notified FIU. They’ve been dispatched from Batavia and should be here anytime now.”
“All right, let’s go,” Kozak said.
Menza began debriefing the detectives, relating the short history of the case, how Greg Griffin first reported his wife missing after a futile all-night search for her, how state police put out alerts, the subsequent canvass and search efforts, up to this morning’s discovery by two walkers from Noble Haven.
“Jayne Hicks and Dianne Carr,” Menza said.
Carillo cast around, looking in police cars.
“And where are they now?”
“I let them go home.”
“You let them go home?” Carillo said.
“I have their statements and information.”
“Was there anyone else present at the scene?” Kozak asked.
“Greg Griffin, the husband, arrived, like, within fifteen minutes of me.”
“That fast?” Carillo said. “And where is he now?”
“He was pretty distraught, so I had Paulsen take him home.”
“Is Paulsen sitting on the husband’s house?” Kozak asked.
“Yes.”
Carillo threw a look of frustration to Kozak, who absorbed it as they finished taking notes and tugged on latex gloves.
“All right, Rob,” Kozak said. “Show us the exact way you traveled to her car.”
Menza pointed to the route he took and the investigators followed it, alone, single file.
“Can you believe it, Claire? He lets key witnesses leave before we can talk to them.”
“Nothing’s ever perfect, Ned. We’ll deal with it.”
They stopped at the tape to survey the entire scene, assessing the stretch of pathway from which the car had been driven into the dense wild brush that swallowed it—or was used to conceal it.
Kozak used her camera to make a short video even though FIU, the Forensic Investigations Unit, would make recordings of everything. She preferred to make her own, as well.
They lifted the tape and inspected the car, confirmed by the plate as belonging to Jennifer and Greg Griffin. Brushing against the overgrowth, Kozak made another video as they first inspected the exterior for damage, or signs of violence. Finding none, she opened the driver’s door to the immediate beep-pong chime indicating the keys were in the ignition.
The interior was empty.
No one was inside.
The chiming continued as Carillo searched the back and Kozak took the front. She found the registration in the glove box, studying it for further confirmation that this was Jennifer Griffin’s car. The inside was clean. No immediate sign of a struggle or violence. On the passenger seat was a paperback copy of Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
The book club choice, Kozak figured.
Sliding her gloved fingers in the seats, looking under them, in the car’s side pockets, Kozak found nothing.
No sign of Griffin, her bag, or any items.
Keys in the ignition, but she’s gone.
“Anything back there, Ned?”
“Crumbs and some stains, maybe chocolate, like someone’s eaten in the back seat.”
“Likely her son,” Kozak said, while making a video of the interior. When she was done, she said: “Maybe FIU will tell us more.”
They closed the door, welcoming the end of the chiming, looked at the car and the dark forest, glancing in the direction of barking nearby.
“Okay,” Carillo said, “so the husband reports her missing and goes out alone and looks all night, then calls it in, in the morning.”
“Right.”
“Menza talks to him at his house. He’s got small, bloodied scratches.”
“Yup.”
More barking, then the crackling of chatter on radios.
“Then today, minutes after her car’s found, he appears on the scene.”
“Right.”
“What do you make of that, Claire?”
“We’ll be talking to Greg Griffin.”
The barking continued. Then the investigators turned. Menza was approaching, waving to them.
“The dog team’s found something!”
Fifteen
Buffalo, New York, Trailside Grove
She can’t be dead.