Lucy Coy made her way down to the crime scene as Maggie heard the first drops of rain begin to hit the forest’s upper canopy. There was absolutely nothing about the woman that would have prompted Maggie to use or even think the words “old” or “crazy.”
She wore hiking boots, blue jeans, a white shirt with the untucked tails sticking out from underneath her rain jacket. Tall and thin, Coy carried herself like a dancer with an elegant but unassuming confidence. Adding to her mystique, there were featherlike wisps of silver in her dark hair that was clipped short. It stuck up in places and would have made anyone else look as if she had just gotten out of bed. On Lucy Coy it looked stylish.
Under the brash floodlights the woman’s face showed no distinctive lines, just smooth skin over high cheekbones. Her dark eyes focused on Maggie as introductions were made. The woman was sizing up the FBI agent who had summoned her from her warm, dry home, but with no hint of annoyance. Instead, Lucy Coy looked eager to understand exactly what was expected of her and get right to it.
If anything Maggie could understand the sheriff’s awe of Lucy. She seemed out of place with these men, but at the same time she fit in comfortably with these surroundings, almost at home in the middle of the forest. She didn’t appear to even notice the rain.
The men from the other side of the hill had brought and left at the perimeter the items Maggie had requested: digital camera, latex gloves, paper bags, markers, and several plastic coolers. Maggie had insisted on unused and sealed tarps to prevent introducing debris to the crime scene. Those were now strung from trees and hung above areas deemed important and waiting for closer inspection or possible casting.
The impact of what had happened to these teenagers was sinking in as each of the injured made their way to the triage area. The boy wrapped in barbed wire had sustained the severest injuries from what Maggie could tell, but that was only if they didn’t count the two left behind who waited for Lucy Coy.
Maggie noticed Lucy’s rich voice had a tone of reverence. She spoke in perfect rhythm with the breeze and the night birds, offering few words and listening intently.
“We’ve already taken all the photos we need,” Maggie told her. “I thought it was important for someone with a medical background to see the bodies as they were found, before they’re moved.”
Maggie followed Lucy, who followed Donny. The sheriff lagged well behind as if still pronouncing his annoyance. Yet he wouldn’t dare miss this, either.
When the rain had finally come it did so with little fanfare. A rumble of thunder periodically quaked through the trees and sometimes the sky above the canopy would brighten with a soft glow of lightning. But the violent electricity that had forked through the clouds earlier had seeped out somewhere on the horizon. Maggie was grateful and recognized the pitter-patter of the soft rain as a blessing compared to what she had expected. Even the cicadas and crickets agreed and had begun competing with the low hum of the gas generator left up the steep incline, its sound muted by the brush and easily forgotten except for the tentacles of orange extension cords that trailed down the slope.
As they passed under the dead owl still suspended from the branch, Lucy stopped. She stepped closer until she was directly underneath the bird.
“The wings are singed,” Lucy said.
Then she bent down to examine the ground beneath the bird. Several orange stakes marked where Maggie had stumbled over the boy wrapped in barbed wire.
“One of the injured was found here,” Maggie explained.
Lucy nodded as she swirled a finger in the sand between two areas stained with blood.
Maggie saw the sheriff glare at Donny. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him mouthing, “See, I told you so.” As if that wasn’t enough, he spun his index finger at his temple to emphasize that Lucy Coy was, indeed, crazy.
As she stood up Lucy stopped to examine one of the lower branches.
“There’s some kind of a thread here,” she pointed out. “It’s tangled but doesn’t look weathered. Can we bag this?”
Donny nodded.
“And the owl. Can we bag it, also?”
Lucy walked around the upside-down bird to look into the creature’s eyes. Ignoring the sheriff’s reaction to her she added, “Plains Indians believed owls carried the souls of the departed.”
“Is that why you want us to take it, because you think it might have captured their souls?” the sheriff asked, trying to keep a straight face.