“These notes are for you, Casey—” Mathias speaks English for Anders’s benefit. “I do not think we must stand on protocol. Including interpretations along with the observations may prove helpful. As you were saying…”
“Arrested decomposition suggests the first body was not immediately placed in that crevice, but began the process of decay in another climate, and then was moved to the crevice. The second body—” I stop. “Start again. For the purpose of these notes, the ‘first’ body is the one found on the bottom. That doesn’t mean she was killed first, though that does seem like a reasonable early interpretation. I’m going to continue removing garments with the warning that I may damage the tissue of the first body in doing so.”
I proceeded slowly, meticulously. Clothing off. Folded. Placed in plastic bags.
“Both bodies are female,” I say. “Both in an advanced state of desiccation. I’m going to make preliminary observations, which I will research later to determine time of death. I’ll ask Dr. Atelier and Deputy Anders to assist in those observations.”
We’re making notes on the state of the bodies only. Mathias offers interpretations as well. He’s sure I’m right about the order of the deaths, which only makes sense. The first victim dies and is later disposed of in that crevice. When the second also dies, she’s immediately dropped there.
As for cause of death? “There is significant damage to the back of both skulls,” I say. “All three of us agree death appears to be from blunt-force trauma.”
I think of Sutherland’s bloodied toque. I think of that pipe, heading for the back of my head.
“Given the state of the bodies, it is difficult to determine lesser forms of trauma. We do see some postmortem injuries, presumably arising from their environment and the manner in which they were discovered.” The investigator landing on them and then having to squeeze them through very tight passages. “But we do see evidence of a broken and badly healed ankle with the first body. Rib damage with the second. There are also signs of…” I’m about to say enforced captivity, but I’m extrapolating. Instead, I list my observations. Untreated dental decay. Evidence of malnutrition. Hair and nail damage.
Signs that these women were not captured, killed, and dumped in quick succession. Signs that we are looking at Nicole’s intended fate: held in a hole until …
Until what? She became too malnourished? Until her captor found a replacement? Or simply until he tired of her?
The door opens. Dalton walks in, papers in hand.
“We’re just finishing up,” I say. “I was just going to do another check for identifying features. Not that I expect we’ll identify them but…” I shrug. “It’ll help.”
He walks to the second body and lifts her arm, his gaze going to her wrist. He rubs his thumb over the skin, smoothing it, and as he does, something I missed in the wrinkled, desiccated skin. Lateral scars. Then I realize he went straight to it. As if he knew exactly what he was looking for.
A chill slides over me. “Eric?”
He walks to the first body and checks the knees. There are surgical scars there—I’d noted them. He takes a closer look and then nods.
“Eric…?”
He lays a photo on the first body. A photo of a woman about my age, brown skin, dark wavy hair. Like the body on the table. On the second he places a photo of a woman about the same age, with long dark hair and blue eyes, matching the corpse beneath it.
He turns to the first body. “Robyn Salas. Disappeared March 20, 2010.” Then to the second. “Victoria Locke. Disappeared July 3, 2012.”
TWENTY-SIX
We’re on the back deck at the station, tequila shots in hand. I’ve taken one already. So has Anders, leaning against the railing, bundled up and trying not to shiver. He’s eyeing his second shot. Tequila isn’t really his thing, but it looks mighty good right now, a defense against the cold and the mood, both settling around us.
He downs his. I follow and put my glass aside. Two’s my limit, and not for any reason other than that there have been times in my life when a third looked so good. And a fourth and a fifth. I’ve seen too many cops go down that road, never to return. Up here, restraint is even more important. It’s too easy to use alcohol to push back the darkness.
Dalton hasn’t poured himself a second shot. Two is for home, when it’s just me, and he doesn’t care what he says and, sometimes, says what needs saying. Tonight it’s one.
He’s been talking about the dead women. About Nicole, too. Until now, we haven’t spoken much of her as a person. That’s not disrespectful. It’s oddly the opposite—she’s here and alive, therefore it’s wrong to talk about her. But now we do, both men giving their impressions of her before she disappeared into the forest.
As I’d already gathered, neither had known Nicole well. She’d been here only about six months, and she herself had said she hadn’t mingled much.
“I ran into her now and then,” Anders says. “I’d talk for a few minutes, try to get to know her.”
“Did you sleep with her?” Dalton asks.
Anders looks at him. Just looks.