The first thing she noticed was the smell. Then the heat.
Agent Delaney opened the trailer’s door and the wave of hot foul air hit them all. No amount of training could have prepared Maggie for this. She fought her gag reflex. She didn’t want the men to notice. Didn’t want to remind them this was her first scene.
“Whoa! Son of a bitch.” It was Delaney who complained.
When he took a step backward and delayed their entrance Maggie tried to refocus, grateful for his hesitation and the opportunity to suck in a few more breaths of fresh air.
She could do this. She had to be able to do this.
She felt Cunningham tap her on the shoulder. Immediately she thought he was prodding her forward, ready to observe her initial response. But when she glanced back his hand stayed outstretched. It took her a few seconds to realize he was handing her shoe covers, latex gloves and a small jar of Vicks Vapo Rub.
She took the covers and gloves but started to wave off the Vicks. The last thing she wanted was special treatment, but then she got a whiff and saw the greasy ointment smudged on his upper lip. Turner already had some, too, and out of the corner of her eye Maggie could see Delaney waiting for his turn.
When Delaney opened the front door to the trailer a second time, the smear of menthol under her nose made no difference.
Chapter 4
At first glance it looked as though every surface had been splattered with blood. The walls were a Jackson Pollack masterpiece of horror, spaghetti streaks that crisscrossed in layers. One of the victims hung from the ceiling. Electrical cord tied his feet and hands. Although his body was now bloated Maggie knew it was his blood on the walls. It didn’t take a blood spatter expert to speculate that his throat had been slashed after he was hung upside down.
“Looks like he fought for a while,” Turner said what the rest of them were thinking.
She had to look away and that’s when she noticed the bloody prints on the carpet.
“Someone was barefooted.”
All of them looked up at the man’s feet, corded together at the ceiling and still laced up in tennis shoes. Turner took off down the narrow hallway to the back of the trailer, careful where he stepped. Maggie could hear him opening doors.
She tried to concentrate. She needed to look at this no differently than she would look at the photos she received of other crime scenes.
Focus, she told herself.
But the smell was overwhelming. Like suffocating inside a Dumpster filled with rotting meat. It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t shake an annoying buzz from inside her head. And the heat – she was burning up.
“Feels like he cranked up the furnace,” Cunningham said.
So it wasn’t just her. Little relief came with that revelation.
“Heat accelerates decomp,” Maggie told them, all the while fighting the acid backing up from her stomach.
“And speeds up the work of our little friends.” Delaney pointed at the mass of black, a stain on the victim’s T-shirt.
She thought it was dried blood, a possible stab wound to the abdomen. But now she saw movement.
Maggots! She hated maggots.
She swallowed bile. Tried to breathe.
Stupid gag reflex.
Yes, there were many advantages to observing a crime scene from photographs and video.
Concentrate. Focus.
Then she realized the buzzing wasn’t in her head.
Flies. There had to be hundreds although she couldn’t see them. They had finished here and were working in the next room. A mass of them swarmed what looked like dinner left on the kitchen table. One plate was black with flies. So was the melted puddles surrounding it.
“Victim number two is in the bedroom,” Turner announced from down the hall. “Female.”
Cunningham shot at glance a Maggie. If he was worried about protecting her sensibilities it was a little late.
“Throat’s slashed. Clothes haven’t been pulled down or off. Her hands are tied in front. And she still has her shoes on.”
“Electrical cord?” Maggie asked.
Turner looked back into the bedroom then said, “Yah, looks like it. What are you thinking?”
Maggie pointed to a capsized lamp. It’s cord had been cut. “He didn’t bring rope or ties. He used what was already here.”
Turner nodded.
“The killer wasn’t organized. He didn’t come prepared,” she said.
“Or is he cocky enough that he knows he could kill them without much preparation?” Cunningham asked.
“So are the bloody footprints his?” Turner asked. “Could we be that lucky?”
“If they are, he’s a small guy,” Cunningham said.
“Charlie Manson’s only five foot two,” she told them as she tried to follow the smeared bloody steps.