TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

  "Dammit." Clay hit the dashboard with the palm of his hand, frustration eating at his insides. He could only hope that this time the killer had gotten sloppy and had left something behind … something that could point to a positive identification.

  He saw the scene ahead when he was still a block away. Police cars were parked in the street and yellow tape shone in the dawn light, strung to protect and secure the area.

  The crime-scene van was already there and he knew his partners, Trey and Burt were awaiting his arrival and instructions.

  Preliminary survey, he told himself as he parked his car, grabbed his case and headed toward the scene. As he approached, his gaze swept the area before him, looking for anything that might appear out of place. Clues could often be found outside the secured area.

  Trey met him near the scene. "Hell of a way to wake up," he said.

  "You're telling me," Clay agreed. "What have you got so far?"

  "Jason Sheller was the first officer on the scene. He said he was doing a drive-by, spied the body and immediately recognized what we had. He called it in and the chief instructed him to secure the area and not let anyone around until you got here."

  "Good, so the scene has been contained."

  "As far as I know nobody has gone inside the tape except the medical examiner who pronounced the victim dead."

  "Time of death?" Clay asked as the two men approached the crime-scene tape where Burt stood waiting for them.

  "According to the lividity and temperature of the body and the state of rigor mortis, he's saying that he's been dead between, five and seven hours."

  Clay frowned. Too long for a body left out in the open. There already could be all kinds of airborne contaminants obscuring or confusing real evidence.

  He stopped just outside of the taped-off area and looked around. He knew how important it was to .get a complete mental picture not only of the victim, but also of the surrounding area in order to properly process the scene.

  It was a tough transition, from Tamara's warm arms and his peaceful sleep to this vision of murder. Tim O'Brien was on his back on the sidewalk, his nakedness looking as obscene as anything Clay had ever seen as the pinkish light of dawn played over the body.

  The only thing more obscene than the stark nakedness of the body was the blood that decorated his chest and stomach from the multiple stab wounds he'd received.

  "There's no doubt it's one of the slasher's," Burt said. "It's exactly the same M.O. and the signature of leaving the victim naked and out in a public area. I'm sure the wounds will show the same type of knife used in this one as the last two."

  "We might as well get started," Clay said. The three men opened their cases and began to put on gloves and plastic footies.

  As they were doing this, Chief Cleberg hurried over to Clay. He looked older than his years, harassed half-mindless, and he pulled Clay away from the other two men and leaned toward him conspiratorially.

  "You've got to find something, Clay. You've got to find something to catch this madman. People are starting to panic and I don't have anything to tell them to reassure them."

  "I'll do my best, Chief, but so far this creep hasn't left anything behind for us to work with."

  "There's got to be something. Whoever is doing this has to be stopped." A wildness possessed Glen's eyes and the redness of his neck and face made Clay fear the man was on the verge of a stroke.

  "Go home, Glen," Clay said. "There's nothing you can do here. Let me and my men do what you pay us to do. I'll call you if we get anything to go on."

  Glen sighed and raked a hand through his thinning hair. "You sure you have things under control here?" It was obvious he'd rather be anywhere than here with the latest victim.

  "Just leave me a couple of patrolmen to keep the gawkers away and maintain the integrity of the site, and I'll keep you posted."

  In truth, Clay would prefer Glen not be on site. It was much easier for Clay and his men to do their jobs without the chief looking over their shoulders.

  He breathed a sigh of relief as Glen nodded, bellowed several orders, and then headed for his car. Clay turned to Trey and Burt. "Let's get going. Hopefully we can finish up here before the morning crowd starts heading into town."

  His hope to finish up before the streets filled with morning workers and traffic was short-lived. They had only managed to take photographs and draw diagrams before the first curiosity seekers began to crowd around the crime scene.

  Clay released the body to the medical examiner as quickly as possible, not wanting Tim O'Brien, even in death, to suffer the indignity of his neighbors and friends seeing him naked in the morning sun.

  Not only did they vacuum, bindle, collect and categorize each and every item that might have evidentiary value, Clay also studied the scene itself, trying to visualize how it all had played out.

  As with the other two scenes, Tim's clothes were found near the body. They were bloodstained and folded neatly. The bloodstains indicated that Tim had been stabbed while dressed, then stripped naked after his death.

  Why would a murderer take the time to strip the victims if not for the sheer humiliation of them? And how arrogant and in control he must feel as he took the time to strip the bodies.

  There was a massive quantity of blood and Clay knew there was no way the murderer had walked away from this scene without Tim's blood on him.

  Unfortunately, the laws wouldn't allow him to search each and every house in Cherokee Corners to see who might have bloody clothes hidden away somewhere. If the laws had provided such action, long ago Clay would have done a house-to-house search for his mother.

  He couldn't think about her now. Nor could he entertain thoughts of Tamara, although thoughts about her' continued to intrude. He had to stay focused on the here and now, on the dead body before him and the clues the scene might provide.

  Unlike at the other two scenes, a footprint had been left in Tim's blood. The sight of that footprint exhilarated Clay. Finally. Something left behind.

  He photographed the footprint from half a dozen angles, then carefully transferred the print so that it could be used later to identify the type and size of shoe that had made it. At first glance it looked to have been made by a man's sneaker … around a size nine or ten, but he wouldn't know for sure until he got it back to the lab and did some comparison studies.

  Jason Sheller hovered nearby, watching everything that was being collected, coming precariously close to running the risk of contaminating things as he crowded too near. "Why don't you go canvass the area and see if anyone saw anything," Clay finally said when Jason got too close to what he was doing.

  "Two men are already doing that," Jason replied. "What have you found so far?"

  Clay looked at Jason, surprised to see a tinge of fear in Jason's eyes. "I won't know for sure what I've found until we get everything back to the lab and sort it all out. But you know that, Sheller, so what's up?"

  "Nothing's up. What could be up with me? I'm just curious, that's all. I'm allowed to be curious, aren't I?" He turned and walked away, leaving Clay staring at his back. What had that been all about?

  Clay returned his focus to his work, but his mind replayed the small exchange with Jason. There had been defensiveness in his tone and fear darkening his eyes.

  Maybe it was because Jason usually worked the night shift and had been the one to find Tim this morning. Maybe he was afraid of becoming the next victim.

  Clay sighed in frustration. If he could just do his job right and find the killer, then nobody in his town would have to be afraid again:

  * * *

  Tamara had thought she would get up the moment Clay had left. But after a moment of hesitation, she'd curled back up in the bed, this time on his side, where his scent was strongest and the bedding still retained his body heat.

  She must have fallen back asleep for when she opened her eyes again, the sun was fully up. She remained where she was, stretched out on Clay's side of the bed, his pillow bene
ath her head, and thought of the night that had passed.

  He'd not only been a masterful lover, but he'd been passionate and emotional as well. For those moments of lovemaking, he'd owned her body, heart and soul.

  However, as was always the case with the coming of dawn, morning regrets niggled in the back of her head as she got into the shower. She'd known when she'd gone to his room the night before that she was making a mistake, that making love with Clay would just make it more difficult to go back to her cottage and forget him.

  He'd been quite clear what he was offering and there had been nothing in his words to give her any hope for anything other than what she'd received already from him … a night of splendid lovemaking.

  The morning passed slowly, her thoughts consumed by Clay and the work he was involved in at the moment. Another murder. The pressure on him would be even more intense than it had been before. She thought of the reason he'd given her for turning his back on his Native heritage. Cruel schoolmates, childish taunts and teasing, everyone at one time or another in their lives experienced such things.

  She couldn't believe that what he'd shared with her had been the sum and total for his rejecting the Cherokee ways and teaching, for alienating himself from the cultural center that had meant so much to his mother and to the town itself. There had to be more. But apparently he hadn't been willing to share any more.

  She had just sat down at the table for lunch when she heard a noise coming from the front door. Instantly she froze with fear. She knew when Clay had left early that morning to process a crime scene that she probably wouldn't see him back home until late tonight.

  Until this moment fear for her personal safety hadn't been an issue. Even though her cottage had been ripped apart, since she'd come here she hadn't given another thought to the fact that somebody might be after her.

  What if the "bear" had found her? What if he had somehow discovered that she was staying here and knew that Clay was gone and she was all alone?

  As noiseless as possible, she got up from the table and slid a butcher knife from the silverware drawer. She held it tight in her hand, out before her as a weapon, then crept from the kitchen and into the living room in time to see Breanna coming through the front door.

  Breanna squealed in surprise at the sight of her. "You scared me to death," she exclaimed.

  "You scared me, too," Tamara replied as she quickly put the knife down on the end table between the two chairs.

  "What are you doing here?" Breanna asked. Tamara followed her as she carried a covered dish through the living room and into the kitchen.

  "I'm staying here for a couple of days."

  Breanna eyed her with obvious curiosity. "Really? Clay didn't mention a thing about having a houseguest." She placed the dish on the table. "I heard there was another murder and knew he'd be busy all day. I fixed him a casserole because I know he never eats well when he's in the middle of a case." She smiled at Tamara slyly. "It never occurred to me he might have a woman here cooking for him."

  "I'm just here until Jeb can clean up the mess at my cottage," Tamara explained. "Alyssa was all booked up at the bed-and-breakfast so Clay invited me to stay here."

  "Really?" Breanna sat at the table, obviously in no hurry to leave.

  "Uh … I was just about to have a tuna sandwich. Would you like to join me?"

  "I'd love to."

  Surprised, Tamara got up and made an additional sandwich then returned to the table. She and Breanna weren't what she would consider friends. They had seen each other often at the cultural center and had always exchanged cheerful pleasantries, but they'd never shared any real time together.

  "So, Clay invited you to stay here. That's very interesting. Most of the time Clay is so antisocial, he doesn't even invite any of his family members here. Very interesting." She looked at Tamara as if she was a new breed of insect.

  "I understand there's going to be a new member to your family," Tamara said in an effort to change the focus off herself and Clay.

  "Yes." Breanna touched her stomach, a smile curving her lips. "Adam and I are thrilled, and of course Maggie has already planned her baby brother's entire life."

  "Brother? You already know it's a boy?"

  "No, but Maggie is certain it is."

  "I wish you all the best," Tamara said, a wistfulness welling up inside her. What would it be like to carry a baby inside her? What could it be like to carry Clay's baby?

  "There's only one thing that can make everything perfect and that's if my mother is with me when I deliver this baby." The happiness that had shone in her eyes was doused, replaced by the sadness of her mother's absence.

  "She'll be there," Tamara said with as much conviction as she could muster.

  "Of course she will," Breanna agreed, but both women recognized that with each day that passed, the odds grew worse and worse that Rita would be returned home safe and sound.

  For a moment the two were silent, then Breanna cast Tamara another sly grin. "So, tell me what, exactly, is going on between you and my brother."

  Had she been asked the question yesterday, the answer would have been easier. As it was, she felt the warmth that swept through her body, up her neck and over her face and knew it was impossible that Breanna would miss the blush.

  "I told you, he's just been kind enough to let me stay here until my place is back in order."

  Breanna grinned. "I've known my brother all my life and he's never kind unless there's something in it for him."

  Tamara laughed. "What an awful thing to say."

  "It was, wasn't it. What I mean is Clay would give any of us the shirt off his back if we needed it. But he's never been very open to other people." Breanna took a bite of her sandwich, her gaze lingering and speculative on Tamara. "You're in love with him."

  Tamara's bite of sandwich stuck in her throat at the unexpectedness of the statement. For a moment she had no idea how to answer.

  "Your cousin Alyssa warned me that the worst thing I could do would be to fall in love with your brother."

  Breanna smiled once again. "Alyssa and Clay often butt heads. Alyssa thinks Clay is hardheaded and hard-hearted. Clay thinks Alyssa is too soft-hearted and hardheaded."

  "And Clay isn't hardheaded and hard-hearted?" Tamara asked.

  "Of course he is. He's a man, isn't he?" Breanna laughed. "He's stubborn and can be brusque to the point of rudeness. He's single-minded and obsessed with his work. But if you could see him for ten minutes with my daughter, Maggie. you'd know that there's so much more to him than that."

  "I already know that," Tamara said softly. She remembered the tenderness that Clay had exhibited the night before as he'd held her in his arms, stroked her hip as they had whispered in the darkness of the night.

  "You're in love with him." It was more question than statement but Breanna didn't wait for her reply. "Tamara, he can be a hard man, a difficult man, but if you can get beneath his defenses, if you can get him to open up his heart to you, then I say go for it. He needs somebody … something good in his life that is all his own."

  Long after Breanna had left, her words replayed in Tamara's head. He needed somebody in his life. He needed something good in his life. But could he ever open up his heart to accept something good, someone special? And could she be the woman to do that?

  The bigger question was did she want to be the woman to do that. She left the kitchen and went into the living room where her mother and father's broken courting flute was on a shelf next to Clay's worktable.

  She picked up one of the pieces, running her hands over the smooth wood that had been delicately carved. The courting flute was one of the Cherokee traditions, part of what she'd seen for herself in her visions of her future.

  If she did manage to get beneath Clay's defenses, if he fell in love with her and decided he wanted to build a future with her, then she'd have to figure out if she was willing to sacrifice all that she'd once dreamed about marriage and her spirit mate.

  But th
e main thing she wondered about was if Clay was truly a man who had turned his back on his blood—on his heritage—or if he was a wounded warrior who needed somebody to help him to find his way back home.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  «^»

  For the next three days work consumed Clay. All his focus, all his energy, was directed at trying to find something in the evidence that had been gathered at the latest murder scene.

  He spent his days running tests, doing comparisons and packaging items to be sent to the bigger lab in Oklahoma City. He marked the material as a priority, but knew not to expect results back too quickly.

  He left the house before dawn each morning and rarely returned until after eleven or twelve at night. No matter what time he got home, Tamara was waiting up for him with a meal, a gentle smile and no expectations of conversation or anything else.

  He'd left work earlier this evening, burnt out and exhausted. As he drove home, he was irritated to realize how much he looked forward to Tamara's presence in his house.

  His house had come alive with her there. In some cases her presence was subtle, the scent of her in the air, the life energy that had taken possession of the space.

  In other cases, her presence was more overt. Wildflowers now filled the house, colorful, sweet-scented bouquets in water glasses. The place had begun to smell like a home instead of a house, the scents a combination of her perfume, good cooking and cleansers. Gone was the sterile environment he'd become accustomed to and it irritated him more than a little bit that he was growing far too accustomed to having her there.

  He pulled up, unsurprised to see the porch light on, awaiting his arrival. He got out of his car, weariness weighing heavily on his shoulders … a weariness coupled with a growing irritation from an unknown source.

  It was obvious she hadn't been expecting him so early. He unlocked the door, walked inside and found her sketching at the kitchen table.

  "Clay!" She jumped up from the table at the sight of him and quickly turned her sketch pad over. "You're earlier than you've been the last couple of nights."