“Doesn’t make sense. Russell didn’t kill that girl.” His gaze scanned the field. “He’s making a fortune leasing the land. We haven’t had a murder in this county in a couple of years.”
“Officer Tatum?” her radio squawked.
She pressed the microphone button at her chest. “Tatum.”
“Forensics has been dispatched. About a half hour away.”
“Roger.”
DuPont’s gaze narrowed as he glanced up at the clear, cloudless sky. “Nothing to do but sit and wait.”
The idea of standing here and waiting made her skin crawl. She wasn’t good with stillness, much less listening to DuPont’s latest theory on politics. “I’m going to take my dog for a look around the field. He might find something.”
“Suit yourself.”
She tugged Cooper’s line. “Ready to do some work?”
The dog barked and wagged his tail.
Cooper sniffed the air and tugged on the line. They moved back toward the tall grass, and Cooper took her straight to the body. He wasn’t a cadaver dog, but the scent was strong and hard to ignore. She let him sniff the ground and the area before he turned from the body and guided her into a thicket of woods. She followed, not sure where they were going. They were thirty feet into the woods when she spotted the black backpack sitting on the ground. Cooper sat in front of it, barked, and wagged his tail. She rubbed him on the head and praised him for the find.
Kneeling, she opted not to touch the bag. She’d bet money it belonged to the victim. She waved to DuPont to mark the place, and when he finally made his way with an orange flag, she and Cooper kept searching.
By the time two more deputy patrol cars arrived, she and Cooper had searched a large grid area of the grassland and found nothing else. News of the Woodstock-like concert planned here in early October was exciting for many of the local businesses. Hotels within sixty miles were sold out, and restaurants and food vendors were gearing up. What would happen now was anyone’s guess.
When she heard the engine of the forensic van arrive, she returned to the crime scene. She glanced across the field and saw Harris shake the technicians’ hands. She looked toward the scene and spotted a familiar uniformed officer, the forensic investigator Martin Thompson, working the crime scene.
Martin moved toward the body with two large cases, one in each hand. The technicians trailed, each carrying a piece of equipment. Within minutes, a tent was set up along with a folding table stocked with equipment.
By the time she returned to the body, Martin was setting up a camera designed to take a 360-degree panoramic image of the scene. She stepped outside the crime scene tape and watched as the camera’s eye swept the field around the dead girl.
“Trooper Tatum,” Martin said finally. “What can you tell me about the scene?” He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt embossed with a state police logo, khakis, and boots. Dark hair and a thick mustache were both trimmed close, making his angled face look sharper and leaner.
“Body of a young woman was found by a local farmer walking the field. Beyond confirming she doesn’t have a pulse, I let her be. Cooper found a backpack close by. I think it belongs to her.”
Satisfied he had a good shot of the overall crime scene, he hefted a 35 mm digital camera and took a couple of practice shots. He moved toward the tape, focusing on specific elements of the scene. Click. Click. He captured shot after shot, working his way around the tape. The images might not be interesting to a civilian, but they could capture a critical clue missed by the naked eye.
Martin approached the body and with gloved hands brushed back her hair. “There are ligature marks on her neck,” he said. “Medical examiner will make the call, but my money’s on strangulation.”
Sadness tugged at Riley.
“She’s in full rigor mortis,” he said. The stiffening of the limbs developed within two to six hours after death and eventually dissipated within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
“So she died within the last day?” Riley asked.
“That’s the best guess until the medical examiner takes a liver temperature. That will pinpoint time of death better.”
“Okay.”
“Harris looks annoyed,” Martin said. “Looks like he ate a sour apple.”
“You know how he loves having state police around.” Her belt creaked as she shifted her stance. She needed a distraction from the lifeless body. “How’s the running going? I heard you’re training for a marathon.” Outsiders rarely understood how cops could make small talk at a murder scene, but sometimes clinging to everyday life helped them deal with the horrors.
He opened a paper bag and pulled it over the victim’s left hand. The bag would save any DNA trapped under her fingernails. “The running is doing its best to kill me.”
Riley smiled. “Hang tough. You’ll come to love it.”
“If you say so.” His tone was always indifferent, his expression stoic, and his sentences factual to the point of dry. “I understand you’ve filed adoption papers.”
“That’s right. Soon I’ll be the proud mother of a seventeen-year-old. Hanna is thrilled. I’m hoping social services doesn’t find any reason to reject my petition.”
“I don’t see why they would.”
“My job has crazy hours.”
“Raising a teenage daughter is an undertaking, but you’ve done well so far, right?”
“So far so good. You have teenage girls, right?”
“Three.” Martin photographed the victim’s body, arms, hands, and face. The girl’s eyes were half-open, her jaw slack, but despite death, Riley recognized her. The invisible weight on her shoulders doubled. “I’ve seen her before working at a truck stop.”
“Doing what?”
“Hooking.”
He shook his head. “Girls like this don’t fare well.”
It had been four weeks since she’d seen this girl vanish into the motor home. She’d been ready to knock on the door and demand to see her. Then the call came from dispatch and she’d been pulled away. What would have happened if she’d been at the scene just another ten minutes? Would she have had time to check IDs and find out where the girl really belonged? “No, they do not.”
Martin leaned in and checked the victim’s front and back pockets. He retrieved a crumpled dollar bill, a stick of gum, and two condoms. “We might find ID in the backpack.”
As he drew closer and studied the ligature marks on the neck, he said, “There’s a tattoo on the back of her neck. There’s an extra pair of gloves on my worktable over there. Put them on and you can have a look.”
She moved to the table, noting the neatly organized bags, cameras, and sketch pads. Martin insisted on organization. She plucked a fresh pair of latex gloves from the box and pulled them onto her hands.
As she moved toward Martin, he lifted the curtain of hair off the neck. Above the ligature mark were the initials JC. The letters were crudely written, the dark ink thick and uneven. She knew them for what they were. JC. “Jax Carter’s brand.”