“Mind if I run a comb through her hair?”
“I can point out the contusion, Casey, and I will shave the area to take a closer look, although I can already tell you the head injury did not deprive her of air.” She pauses. “No, I should amend that. The injury itself would not have caused suffocation, but it is possible that she collapsed from it and then suffocated, if the fall led to an obstruction in her airway. That would make it manslaughter not murder, correct? If death occurred unintentionally?”
“Mmm, debatable. If you hit someone intentionally on the head, particularly with that degree of force, you can kill them. We’d have no way of judging intent from the blow. Arguing for a lower charge would be the lawyer’s job. But I don’t think that’s how she died.”
“You believe I’m wrong about the cause of death?”
I have to smile at her expression. “No, April. I agree that she suffocated. I just don’t think it happened as the result of a fall. I’m asking whether I may comb her hair because I’m looking for detritus. I’ve noted dirt in skin creases. Which could be explained by lack of easy showering facilities, but there’s also some on her face. May I comb her hair to check for more?”
April fetches me a medical comb as I take a blank sheet of paper from a clipboard. Then I carefully comb a section of Jolene’s hair. Grains of dirt speckle the white page.
I formed a theory back at the scene, and nothing we’ve uncovered here has disproven it. The opposite, in fact; April’s findings and my examination support that initial theory. If I pause to think, it’s because I don’t want to be wrong in front of April.
I scan Jolene’s body over one more time, double-checking my findings. Then I say, still with great care, “Have you seen anything inconsistent with Jolene having been buried alive?”
“What?”
And there it is, her tone just sharp enough to make me flinch.
“It’s a theory,” I say, my voice as calm as I can make it. “Her wrists and ankles seem to have been bound. Her nails are ragged. There’s no dirt under them—her hands are clean—which may suggest they were gloved or that her killer cleaned them, removing the most obvious sign of burial. There’s dirt in skin creases and embedded in clothing seams, as if her killer did a quick but imperfect job sweeping it away. Dirt in her hair, too. The cause of death was suffocation, which is consistent with burial. The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is that I’d expect a more violent death.”
“The medical evidence is not consistent with what I would expect to see in a violent suffocation. And I cannot imagine anything else if one were buried alive.”
“What if Conrad had died?” I say. “If he hadn’t been found in time?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with…” She slows. “Oh. Yes. You mean that he would not have shown signs of violent death if he’d died without waking. Agreed, but Jolene was clearly awake at some point. She did struggle.”
“So, based on the evidence, you would conclude that it is not possible someone buried Jolene alive.”
“I would find it highly coincidental for a second person to be buried alive so soon after the first. Particularly when the original offender is imprisoned.” She peers at me. “Are you suggesting Brandon escaped from his cell and murdered Jolene? One might think he would have the sense not to repeat a failed attempt.”
Before I can answer, she says, “Though he did succeed this time, so perhaps all he needed was a little experience.”
When I pause, she says, “That was a joke, Casey.”
“Ah, good. Thank you. I’m not suggesting Brandon did this, though I’m not suggesting he didn’t either. If Jolene was buried alive, that’s not a coincidence. It’s a copycat.”
“A copycat killing?” Her eyes widen. “I read one of those in a novel. It happens then?”
“It does, which is why police conceal some details in crimes that get a lot of media coverage. It helps them weed out the perpetrator from the copycats.”
“But why resort to copying the methods of another? Are there not enough to go around? I am hardly the most creative person, but I can think of at least a hundred ways to murder someone.”
“I’ll remember that.” I point at Jolene. “Back on topic. Is there anything you found here that would preclude this being another burial?”
“There is not,” she says.
“Thank you.”
* * *
I’m back at the crime scene. Or, at least, the spot where we found the body. The militia have ensured no one goes into the forest. It’s now early morning, and people have noticed our attention, so they’ve started lingering in the area, trying to figure out what’s so important. They’re probably also wondering why we’ve postponed the search for Jolene, and some will connect those dots. I’ll deal with that later.
Kenny keeps onlookers out of sight while Dalton and I bring Storm back to the scene. Dalton takes a crack at tracking first, and as I might have expected, we don’t need the dog’s nose. Dalton follows signs that are mostly invisible to me. Within twenty feet, he reaches the end, and with it, we find a scene that sets the hair on my neck prickling.
If I’d seen this spot a week ago, I’d never have noticed it. Even yesterday, I doubt I’d have paid much attention. Now, with what I suspect happened to Jolene—and what I know happened to Conrad—the signs are unmistakable.
Disturbed ground.
It’s been hidden even better than the place where I found Conrad. Instead of just yanking a tree branch onto it, someone has gone to the effort of not only filling the hole and packing it, but scattering vegetation over it. At a glance, I’d have passed it by. Yet the trail leads here, and so I find signs that someone has dug and refilled a hole.
“We’re going to have to dig it up,” I say. “If there’s any evidence, I’ll need it.”
“Another baseball cap, maybe?”
“Let’s hope not. But in light of that, I’ll want excavators I can trust.”
I consider my options. Of the militia who’d been here when I arrived, only Kenny remains. We need him elsewhere.
“Let’s get Sebastian on it,” I say. “And Petra if she can be spared.”
TWENTY-NINE
My plan is to assist in and supervise the excavation. That goes to hell when Phil comes to say that the council needs to speak to me. Not him. Not Dalton. Me.
“I’ll take over here,” Dalton says as we stand beside the spot, where we’ve just begun excavation. “Dig carefully. Sieve everything. Treat it like an archaeological dig. Right?”
“Thank you.”
I follow Phil through town. As we walk, I notice Ted on his porch, his gaze tracking our movements. I glance over, and he retreats inside.
“Detective Butler,” an out-of-breath voice calls behind me.
I turn to see Gloria jogging from the general store, her face taut with worry.