Could be the killer sideswiped the tree and stopped to cut out the evidence, leaving no paint to match up with his vehicle. Diane took an orange marker flag hanging from her belt and pushed the wire holder into the ground next to the tree.
She continued along, looking for more tight squeezes and surveying the ground, looking for any thing.
About a quarter of a mile farther, she came to a rough dirt road filled with ruts and rocks the size of cantaloupes. In one direction the road was heavily overgrown with tall weeds growing down the middle. Erosion scars were deep and the woods thick.
In the opposite direction, the weeds in the center were shorter, the road better. An older Land Rover was parked in the middle of the road. As she walked toward it, she heard the sound of a motor, and a county deputy’s car came into view. It pulled up be hind the Rover and stopped. The two guys who had found the bodies got out and began transferring their equipment from the patrol car to the Rover. Diane quickened her pace.
‘‘You lost, lady?’’ one of the men called out to her.
‘‘No,’’ she said as she approached their vehicle. ‘‘I need to ask you some questions.’’
‘‘She’s working on the case,’’ said the deputy. He was the one called Ricky—the one who had to gather up his expectorated tobacco and take it to his car.
‘‘I’m Diane Fallon.’’
‘‘Chris Edwards and Steven Mayberry. We told everything we know to the sheriff.’’
Both men were young, not over twenty-five, Diane guessed. Chris Edwards had short, wavy light brown hair. He was athletic with a thin layer of baby fat between his skin and muscles, giving him a wellshaped, pudgy appearance. Steven Mayberry had dark brown straight hair that hung below his ears. He was more slightly built and leaner.
Both of them looked nervous, fidgeting with their equipment, dropping some of it on the ground. Chris put a hand to his face and coughed.
‘‘Just a few questions,’’ said Diane.
‘‘Okay, but all we know is what we told the sheriff.’’ Chris Edwards pointed to an instrument his partner had in his hand. ‘‘I was just calculating the height of a tree when I saw what looked like a body hanging in the distant canopy.’’
‘‘Look,’’ interrupted Deputy Ricky. ‘‘You need me to take you back to the scene? If you do, I’ll stick around . . . but I need to get back. There’s a crowd gathering up at the road.’’
‘‘I’ll walk back,’’ Diane told him. ‘‘Thanks.’’
The deputy helped the two men with the last of their gear and drove off, backing all the way up the road. Whatever else Ricky was, he was a good backer. Diane watched as his car maneuvered down the rutfilled dirt road with hardly a waver.
‘‘What exactly is a timber cruise?’’ asked Diane, leaning against the white vehicle. Perhaps a few mun dane questions would put them at ease. The two did relax their stance.
‘‘Basically, inventorying the trees,’’ said Chris.
‘‘You count them?’’
‘‘Yes—and determine the diameter, height and species.’’
‘‘Surely not all of them.’’
‘‘No, not on a parcel this size. It’s six hundred and twenty-five acres. We do a point sample—count a tenth of an acre at regular points on a grid.’’ Steven pointed to a rolled-up map in the backseat of the Rover.
‘‘So you’ve been all over the woods. Or did you just start?’’
‘‘No. We’ve been at it a while. Mainly in this sec tion.’’ He pointed to the woods on the side of the road opposite the crime scene. ‘‘This section’s mainly soft woods and pine. The other side, where the bodies are, is mainly hardwoods. It hasn’t been cut in over a hundred years,’’ Steven added.
‘‘Have you noticed anyone out in the woods while you were working?’’
Chris and Steven looked at each other wide-eyed. ‘‘You mean the killer could be out here—now?’’
‘‘Probably not,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I’m just asking ques tions I always ask. Did you see anyone?’’
Both the men shook their heads. ‘‘No. But we found some hoofprints thataways.’’ Chris pointed to the piney side of the road. ‘‘I’d say about a half a mile in. For about a half mile you get these mostly thirtyyear-old trees you see here. After that, the parcel was clear-cut about ten years ago. The hoofprints were along a stream where the trees weren’t cut. The timber managers always try to leave a stand to control ero sion along streams of any size.’’
‘‘But you didn’t see a rider?’’
‘‘No. Just the prints. If I was a tracker, I’d tell you how old they were, but I’m not.’’ Chris laughed, joined by Steven. ‘‘I suppose they could be new or they could be old. We haven’t had rain in a while.’’
‘‘Did the horses have shoes?’’
They hesitated a second, surprised by the question. ‘‘I don’t know that I noticed,’’ said Steven. ‘‘I’d say yes. The print was crisp, as I recall.’’
‘‘When you’re doing your timber cruise, do you tag the trees in some way—make a cut in them?’’
‘‘Sometimes we use an orange ribbon to mark the center of the plot we’re sampling, but you wouldn’t want to make a cut. It’d be a way for diseases to attack the tree. Besides, these are valuable products. You don’t go hacking them up,’’ said Steven.
‘‘She’s talking about that tree over there.’’ Chris pointed in the direction of the tree Diane had found with the gash. ‘‘We saw that. Somebody took a saw to it. No idea why. They wouldn’t be check ing for sap or anything. Maybe someone was trying to cut it down. Not doing a very good job of it, though.’’
‘‘Near the crime scene, there’s a tree that’s been cut down and brush piled on top. Did you do that?’’
Both of them shook their heads. ‘‘No,’’ said Chris. ‘‘We saw that too. Maybe somebody was trying to hide what they’d done.’’
‘‘Maybe. Have you noticed or found anything un usual while you’ve been out here?’’
‘‘Unusual? More unusual than those bodies?’’
‘‘Anything like the remains of a campfire, tire tracks, objects—anything not natural to the forest.’’
They hesitated a moment. Exchanged gazes briefly, and looked back at Diane. ‘‘Just the hoofprints,’’ said Chris. ‘‘But we were mainly looking at the trees.’’
Steven agreed. ‘‘No one’s supposed to camp here. Something like campfire smoke would’ve been no ticed. They keep a pretty good eye out for forest fires, especially since it’s been so dry.’’
‘‘They?’’
‘‘The forest rangers. Anyone here ’bouts would take notice of smoke, for that matter.’’
Diane’s gaze rested on the map in the backseat. ‘‘Could I have a look at your map?’’
‘‘We’ve got a copy we could give you,’’ said Chris. He went around and opened the back and pulled out a cardboard mailing tube. ‘‘It’s got our grid marked on it, but that shouldn’t matter.’’
He pulled out the map and unrolled it on the hood of the Rover. That was when Diane noticed how marked up the side of the vehicle was. For a moment her heart skipped a beat. Of course their vehicle would be beat up. It was an old model and they used it on rough terrain—and she was sure the sheriff would check them out. They had found the bodies, and it would be routine to check them out. Still . . . She took a deep breath.
‘‘We’re right here.’’ Chris pointed to a spot on the map next to a line marked as a road. ‘‘The bodies are here.’’
‘‘We take a tenth of an acre sample everywhere the grid lines cross,’’ added Steven.
‘‘Where were the hoofprints?’’ asked Diane.
‘‘That’d be right along here.’’ Chris moved his finger along a blue line labeled as Cobb Creek.
‘‘Give her that extra copy of the aerial photograph too,’’ said Steven.
‘‘Sure.’’ Chris pulled it out of the tube and lay it out on the hood. ‘�
��See, you can tell the kind of trees that grow here.’’ Diane couldn’t, but she nodded. ‘‘See over here where the stream cuts in? The trees are smaller. That’s where it was clear-cut. Over here is where we did most of the cruise, and right here is the bodies.’’ He rolled up the maps, put them back in the tube and handed it to her.
‘‘I appreciate this.’’
‘‘Glad to help...’’
As he spoke, they heard the sound of a motor. The deputy coming back, thought Diane. But a dark blue SUV appeared over the rise.
‘‘Oh, Jesus,’’ said Chris.
Chapter 4
Diane knew what Chris and Steven were thinking. The same thought flashed through her mind—the killer. As the vehicle slowed to a stop, the letters WXNG on the magnetic sign attached to the side brought relief to Chris and Steven. But not to Diane. She crossed in front of the vehicle and walked to the driver’s side.
‘‘Can I help you?’’ she asked the woman who ap peared as the window slid down.
‘‘WXNG news.’’ The woman, perhaps twenty-five with fine brown hair and eyes to match, looked Diane up and down a moment and spotted the identification that hung from a cord around her neck. ‘‘What can you tell us?’’ she asked.
‘‘Not a thing. Have you seen the sheriff?’’
‘‘The deputy said he’s at the scene. We heard it’s a racial thing.’’
Thing, thought Diane. What a way to describe the horror of murder. Diane measured her words. She could see ‘‘No comment’’ appearing in the news, something like: ‘‘The authorities at the scene had no comment when asked if this was a racially motivated crime.’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Diane asked.
‘‘We heard that someone lynched three black men.’’
‘‘You’ve been given incorrect information. For more than that, you need to talk to the sheriff.’’
‘‘That’s who we’re going to see.’’ She turned to her passenger. ‘‘I see a road down there. I think that’ll get us to the crime scene.’’
‘‘That roadway’s part of the crime scene. You can’t go there,’’ said Diane.
‘‘People around here want to know what’s going on. It’s my job to tell them, and I’m going to do it.’’
‘‘Not by contaminating the crime scene, you’re not. You get near that roadway, I’ll impound your vehicle.’’
‘‘You can’t do that.’’
‘‘Yes, I can. If you continue on after I’ve told you it’s a crime scene, I’ll have you arrested. You can get the information you want, just not through here. Drive back to the road. I’ll call the sheriff and tell him you want to speak with him.’’
Diane took her phone and punched in the sheriff’s number with her thumb, not taking her eyes off the woman. When he answered she told him about the reporter. She also asked him to send one of her team with some crime scene tape to rope off the roadway to the scene.
‘‘Damn reporters,’’ he said. ‘‘I suppose they’ve got ten on to this racial thing going around.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘You told them it wasn’t, didn’t you?’’
‘‘Yes. And I also told them that all other informa tion had to come from you.’’
‘‘You did, did you? I suppose I got to talk to them sometime. Tell them I’ll meet them up at the road.’’
Diane relayed the message. The woman was reluc tant. She sat in her SUV, not making a move to put her car in gear. ‘‘I need to pull down there so I can turn around.’’ She pointed to the forbidden path.
Diane had the impression she was planning to make a break for it. ‘‘I’m sorry, but you can’t. As I said, it’s part of the crime scene.’’
‘‘Well, where the hell do you expect me to turn around?’’
‘‘Not at the crime scene. If you back up several feet, there’s a small turnaround between those trees.’’
‘‘Back up?’’ She said it as though her vehicle didn’t have a reverse gear.
‘‘Yes.’’
She reluctantly put her car in gear and started to back up, then abruptly slammed on the brakes, throw ing her passenger forward and backward. She stepped out of the car and turned toward Steven and Chris. ‘‘Who are you two? Are you the ones who found the bodies?’’
The passenger, a tall lean man close to thirty, stepped out and shouldered his video camera and trained it on the two timber cruisers.
‘‘You are the two who found the bodies, right?’’ the reporter asked again.
‘‘We found them and called the sheriff. That’s all there was to it,’’ Steven told her.
‘‘Tell us about the scene.’’
‘‘The sheriff told us not to talk about it,’’ said Chris.
‘‘He can’t order you not to talk.’’
‘‘And you can’t order us to talk.’’ Chris shrugged. ‘‘As soon as we saw the bodies, we left and called the sheriff. That’s it.’’
‘‘How many bodies were there?’’
‘‘We can’t say anything about it.’’
‘‘What was it like, coming upon dead bodies?’’
The two of them glared at her a moment. ‘‘What do you think it was like?’’ said Steven. ‘‘How many times have you found dead bodies in your work place?’’
Diane was glad to see that they were more reluctant to talk to the reporter than they were to talk with her.
As the reporter was trying to pull answers from Chris and Steven, Diane saw the two deputies, Chuck and Leon, coming up the trail from the crime scene to tape off the vehicle path through the woods. She walked down to meet them.
‘‘I’m glad you’re here. I fear I was going to have a hard time keeping that reporter from crashing the crime scene.’’
‘‘That’s Pris Halloran from that little TV station in Atlanta, WXNG,’’ said Chuck. ‘‘She cruises around listening to her scanner. She’s always trying to break a big story. Mostly, she makes a whole lot out of nothing.’’
‘‘The guy’s Kyle Anthony,’’ said Leon. ‘‘He got fired from one of the big Atlanta stations after he was arrested for possession of cocaine.’’
‘‘I think both of them’s hungry for some kind of big news score,’’ said Chuck. ‘‘I see she’s giving the timber guys a hard time.’’
From the stiff posture Chris and Steven had taken, folded arms, head down, Diane guessed Chuck was right.
‘‘Would you get that damn thing out of my face? You trying to get a view of my tonsils?’’ Chris’ voice carried clearly down the road to where Diane and the deputies were securing the crime scene tape.
‘‘Looks like Chris Edwards needs a little backup,’’ said Leon.
The three of them walked up to them at a fast pace. ‘‘Everything all right here?’’ asked Leon.
‘‘I’m just conducting an interview,’’ said Pris Halloran.
‘‘We’ve got to get back to work.’’ Steven opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
‘‘You know,’’ said Diane, ‘‘if the sheriff gets up to the road and you aren’t there, you’re not likely to get another chance to talk with him today.’’
That got the reporter and the cameraman moving. They jumped in their SUV and backed up to the turn around and left before Chris and Steven could make their getaway.
‘‘Fill me in,’’ Diane said to Jin when she finally got back to the main crime scene.
Jin handed over the sketches he and Neva had made.
‘‘We found something interesting.’’ He led her to the bodies through the path they had searched and cleared. ‘‘Notice anything funny?’’
Diane scrutinized the corpse in front of her, tuning out the aroma of decaying flesh. She looked at the hands tied at the wrist, well on their way to becom ing skeletonized.
‘‘Well, damn,’’ she said.
The killer had cut off the fingertips, leaving an open wound for the flies to lay their eggs and the maggots to infest quickly. The fl
esh on the hands was eaten away before the rest of the body.
‘‘Damn’s right,’’ said Jin. ‘‘No chance of getting prints.’’
‘‘I suppose the others are the same.’’
‘‘Yes. Lots of good opportunities for getting some thing from the ropes, though. I’d like to watch you examine them. Been wanting to learn to do that.’’ ‘‘Finding anything on the ground?’’
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