I think about the fact that someone else will see this video. “I’m happy to talk to someone else. Just not you.”
His face flashes with anger. To anyone watching this, I’ve professionally embarrassed him. He was hoping to get me to say something that would implicate me in some way. I was talkative. Now I’m not, because he’s an asshole.
Gunther pushes himself away from the table, knocking it hard enough to bump into me.
If he’s a cop they didn’t arrest, I’d hate to meet the ones they did.
He stands up and leans on the surface. “You think you’re so fucking smart?” His hand goes into his pocket and pulls out a key ring.
It’s the key he used to start the video camera recording.
Shit. He’s walking back to the cabinet with the VCR. “Everyone saw you come in here all bruised up.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
There’s a knock. Gunther jerks his head toward the door, pissed about the interruption. “What?”
Palmer speaks through the doorway. “Whitmyer wants you on the scene.”
“What the fuck? I’m talking to the witness.”
She motions for him to step into the hall. He goes, reluctantly, glaring at me every step of the way.
The door is open a crack. I hear her whisper.
“. . . he says they found a body.”
“Then I should be getting him to talk,” Gunther growls.
“Whitmyer said specifically for you to leave him be.”
“Fuck,” he barks, followed by the sound of a fist hitting a wall.
I hear him stomp away.
Palmer steps inside. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” She’s polite and sweet. The contrast is jarring.
I don’t know the politics of this place, so I’m afraid to say anything, but I can’t help it. “Do I have to talk to him again?”
She steals a glance down the hall, then turns back. “We’ve all been under a lot of pressure lately.”
“I’ve heard.”
She lowers her voice. “Chelsea was his cousin.”
Holy shit. Those four little words change the context of everything that just happened. Gunther is still an asshole and a bully, but I understand him a little more. I think.
Palmer motions for me to follow her. “Let’s go back up front. I have to watch the station. Everyone is out at the scene.”
I take a seat next to a desk filled with mug books.
“Whitmyer says he’s bringing in state forensics in the morning. Right now they’re trying to lock down the scene.”
“Is it her? Chelsea?”
“I don’t know. I doubt they’ve even attempted to disturb the grave any more than necessary. They’ll want a forensics team to come do a thorough excavation.”
That makes sense. I’m used to the Hollywood notion that every police station has a whole forensic department ready at all hours of the day.
“So you’re some kind of bear expert?” she asks.
“No. I’m a biologist, but bears aren’t my specialty.” Not even close.
“Oh. I’m sure you explained it to Gunny, but how did you know where to look?”
“Amber’s account and looking for some unusual vegetation.”
“Oh.” She blinks at me, then drops the topic and goes back to her work. I don’t have the nerve to ask what happens next, so I just sit there.
About an hour later a clean-cut man in his early forties wearing a thick coat comes walking into the station.
He nods to Palmer, then addresses me. “I’m Whitmyer, the acting police chief. Are you the gentleman who found the body?”
I stand up. “Yes, sir.”
“Good work. Gunny told me that you’re a biologist and you looked for some special plants that grow over bodies.”
Christ already. I should just write a book on the subject. “Basically,” I say, too tired to explain.
He walks over and shakes my hand. “Well, thank you. We haven’t confirmed it’s Chelsea yet. But I’m guessing it is.” He nods to the garbage bag on the counter containing her coat. “This hers?”
“Yes.”
He throws a glance at Palmer. “Did anyone think to put this in evidence?”
“Sorry. McKenna just left it.”
Whitmyer takes a pair of gloves from his pocket and slides a mask over his face. He was probably using them at the burial scene.
He carefully unties McKenna’s knot and peers inside, then quickly seals it back up. “Carole, can you see to it that this gets locked up?”
Palmer takes the bag down the hall.
“Looks like Amber and Devon skipped out,” he says.
“Why would they do that?”
Whitmyer points to my bruised face. “Devon?”
“It was a miscommunication. I wanted to talk to Amber about what happened to Chelsea. They thought it was something else.”
He gives me a knowing nod. “Do you want to press charges?”
“No. I’m just here to find out what happened to Chelsea and the connection to Juniper Parsons.”
“The girl that was killed in Filmount? Bear, right?”
“I don’t think so. That’s why I came here.”
“Well, we’ll let the state police do the forensics on that. Where are you staying?”
“The Creekside Inn.”
“Gus’s place? He’s a good guy. Are you going to be here tomorrow?”
“Yes. I have to get back to Austin at some point. But I can stick around a few more days.”
“All right. We’ll get a formal statement tomorrow. In the meantime, go get some rest.”
Whitmyer’s calm and professional demeanor is a relief. A sane voice in all this insanity.
He walks me to the front door. “Thank you again. I’ve got to get on the horn to Sheriff Tyson and find out what she knows.” He pauses. “Did you speak to her back in Filmount?”
Cold water runs through my veins at the thought. “Yeah . . . they weren’t too interested in what I had to say.”
“I’m sure this will pique their interest.”
I get the feeling that could be a bad thing.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
STASIS
There’s a knock on my motel room door at 11 a.m. I didn’t sleep much, even as exhausted as I am. I spent part of the night gathering all of my notes and putting everything together on a thumb drive for the investigators.
I treated it like a report for a science journal. I want them to have a clear understanding of my thought process and the sequence of events that led to discovering Chelsea’s body—this could be vital to my freedom.
I also put in some data generated by MAAT and instructions on how to use the online version on my web server. I’m sure the FBI and other agencies have better, more specific tools, but local ones like Hudson Creek may not have access to them.
Along with how I found Chelsea, I put together all of the information on the pattern of the killer.
In the hands of someone who knows more about criminal investigation and forensics than myself, it should be a good start.
I’m just one man, and I found another victim in a day. With the involvement of real law enforcement agencies, they could catch this guy before I make it back to Austin.
There are two e-mail messages asking why I missed faculty meetings. I type brief replies, stating that I’ve been helping with a law enforcement investigation.
It feels good to type those words. Chasing frogs and strange attractors is one thing, but fighting crime, making a difference, that’s something else.
I made a list of all the things they should look for in Chelsea’s body. Despite conventional wisdom, stainless steel can be a hotbed of bacteria. Forensic technicians should try growing bacteria taken from Chelsea’s and Juniper’s wounds as well as baseline samples from the surrounding soil.
If they find a culture common to the wounds but not to the soil or the unpunctured parts of their bodies, it’s an indicator that the killer used the same weapon. Once they find the suspect, testing any sharp objects for the same bacteria would put him in both places.
I put together a section detailing the laboratory procedures I’d use to get a statistically significant result. I also explain how they could use DNA markers from the bacterial culture to identify it beyond just a species.
Maybe with some of their data I could use MAAT to make more specific predictions for other clients?