Andie was suddenly wide awake. She jotted down the information. "I'll see you there," she said, then hung up. In less than five minutes she was out the door and on the road, headed for Lakewood Park.
The town of Issaquah was southeast of Seattle and beautiful Lake Washington. It was an area more rural than suburban Bellevue to the north, though everything in the region had built up since she was a little girl exploring with her father. Still, parts of town had remained much the way Andie had remembered it, nestled in a valley between Squak, Tiger and Cougar mountains, a quaint shopping attraction with wooden boardwalks, plenty of colorful flowers in planters, and old clapboard-style homes that had been turned into stores. Memories came back as she cruised past the general store and continued to the park just outside the village.
Andie couldn't remember the last time she'd visited this area, but she'd never forget the first. She was ten years old, living at the time well south of Seattle outside Tacoma. She and her father had driven up to Issaquah for a town festival. On the way home, Andie wanted to navigate. Her father checked the glove compartment for road maps, and Andie saw his handgun. As a cop, he always carried it with him. Andie had forever wanted to shoot it, but under her mother's rule she had a three-year wait: no guns till the thirteenth birthday. Andie prevailed on him all the way home, promising never to tell Mom if he would just let her fire off a few rounds. Finally he gave in. They got off the highway and drove a short while to a wide-open spot in the White River Valley. Her dad set up some soda cans on a tree stump. He stood behind her, holding her small hands in his as she closed one eye and took careful aim. Her hand shook slightly as she squeezed the trigger. She missed the first one, then hit the next three. She was squealing with delight when a stranger startled them from behind. He was an old man with long gray hair and a weathered face. Two dark feathers protruded from his brimmed felt hat.
"Who is that, Dad?" she whispered nervously.
"He's an Indian."
The man spoke, his face expressionless. "You can't shoot here. This is reservation land."
"But I'm part Indian."
Her father took her by the hand. "Let's go, Andie. That doesn't matter."
She loved her parents, two hardworking white middle-class people who truly loved their half-Indian adopted daughter. To this day, however, those words stuck with her. Maybe it was the tone in her father's voice. Maybe it was the way he had scowled at the old Muckleshoot Indian. But those three words--"That doesn't matter"--seemed to sum up her past. Out of respect for her adoptive parents, she had never bucked their wishes and sought out her birth mother's Indian heritage. That void in her own life had affected her in many ways. Ironically, it may well have fueled her fascination for this kind of police work--victimology and criminal profiling. There, everything mattered. Every little detail about a person's life mattered so completely.
She steered onto the side road, that thought in mind. Details. Intimate details, from the number of fillings in her teeth to the legs that had needed shaving. The scrapings beneath the fingernails. The search for semen in her pubic hair. The contents of her stomach. It made Andie feel guilty in a way. She, a perfect stranger, was about to learn more than anyone had ever known about a young woman in Lakewood Park.
Victim number four.
Chapter Twenty.
Andieparked in the lot and walked toward the squad car and two deputy sheriffs who were posted at the gated entrance. It wasn't much of a gate, just a long metal pole that ran parallel to the ground and swung on a hinge. It kept vehicles out after dark, but vagrants on foot could simply duck under it and come and go as they pleased. Yellow police tape was strung across the entrance. Just inside the park, rows of police officers walked three feet apart, combing the grounds for clues, like a farmer plowing the field. Andie pulled her trench coat tight. It wasn't quite cold enough to steam her breath, but the dampness made it feel colder than it was. She stopped at the gate and flashed her credentials to the deputy.
"Agent Henning, FBI."
He checked it. A few raindrops gathered on the gold FBI shield. "Detective Kessler from Seattle is at the recovery site. He's expecting you."
"Where is it, exactly?"
"Straight down the path about a half mile. You'll see public rest rooms on your right. Turn left, then just head down the hill. You'll see the forensic team at work."
Andie thanked him and started down the path. She walked quickly, but not so quick that she couldn't take in the surroundings. The walk was slightly uphill, she noticed. It would have taken one hell of a strong man to carry a dead body this far.
At the top of the hill were the rest rooms the deputy had mentioned. Typical county park facilities made of cinder blocks. The largest wall had been hit by graffiti artists.