Cold Case

by Susan Sleeman

  Still, Jackson could help speed things along. “Want me to remove the tie-down boots while you start the checklist?”

  Riley nodded and got out of the vehicle. “Just be sure you don’t manhandle the rotors.”

  “Me, manhandle something?” Jackson laughed.

  His teammate knew him well. Shoot, all the guys on the team often used more force than necessary to get a job done. Eryn was the only one with any finesse.

  Jackson strode to the first ring and squatted, his knee aching. The humid ocean air often made it hurt, but he’d do about anything to stay on this team, and that included enduring a little pain from living on the southern Oregon coast.

  He released the first strap and stood to take off the boot and push the rotor up. He tried to imagine the moment he would walk into Maggie’s life again. Maybe her home or even her summer school classroom. He saw her standing at the lecture podium, looking to the door and seeing him. Her face creasing in the same agony as the day they’d parted ways.

  Pain gripped him like a charley horse that wouldn’t release its hold. It’d been some time since this particular ache had taken him down, but even years later it felt the same. He could force the memories away, reason them away, work so hard there was no place for them to surface, but the pain still pushed its way up in unguarded moments and left him reeling.

  Did Maggie feel the same way, or had the passing of time healed her wounds?

  He had no way of knowing. Meant he couldn’t tell her he was coming. She could refuse to see him, and he wouldn’t be able to help her. Actually, odds were good that she would send him packing. After the tragedy that tore them apart, they’d agreed never to see each other again.

  In the many years since that day, he kept his promise no matter how difficult it had been.

  Surely, she would understand why he was breaking their agreement now and be willing to talk to him. Right?

  Devastation stretched out in front of Maggie, and her tears weren’t far from the surface. Stately homes now lay in smoldering ruins of rubble and ash in the once-majestic Oregon hillside. Gray skies hung above, dark and ominous like the ash that still drifted in from nearby fires.

  She sighed. Rain was coming. That was good for the Middle Fork Fire still burning with a hazy glow in the distance. Not good for the recovery effort, but Maggie wouldn’t let that stop her. Couldn’t let it stop her. Families depended on her to identify their missing loved ones. She would work in rain, sleet, snow, hail, or you-name-it if she could bring them closure.

  She shook her head at the utter and totally preventable destruction caused by teens setting off firecrackers in the Willamette National Forest. High winds took care of the rest, blowing the Middle Fork Fire into the Summit subdivision during early morning hours just a few short days ago. Firecrackers were illegal in the area, and even if they weren’t, the teens must have known the spring was drier than normal, already putting forest fire season in full swing.

  “Dr. Turner,” a female voice came from behind.

  Maggie dragged her focus from the disturbing scene and faced the young woman holding a microphone. Maggie was five nine and the woman stood taller, her bleached-blond hair styled to perfection. She introduced herself as Felicia Nutley, but Maggie needed no introduction. She recognized her as an up-and-coming local television reporter.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Nutley?” Maggie asked.

  “I was hoping you’d give me a minute for an interview.”

  “I don’t know…” Maggie looked back at the search and rescue team hard at work gingerly sifting through the rubble. The sun was already drooping low in the sky, leaving her only three hours or so of daylight to complete her work. “The others are depending on me.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Felicia said. “Our small community is so devastated by the loss of life. I know the public will be relieved to hear that a forensic anthropologist has been called in to help with victim identity.”

  Would they? The fire burned extremely hot and fast, and the crew was no longer finding bodies, only bone fragments. The team poured debris by the shovelful through fine grates and sifted. They discarded anything that fell through into piles near the foundation of cordoned-off houses and carefully examined what remained.

  Wouldn’t it creep out the viewing public to learn the crew was only finding fragments? They probably wouldn’t want to discover what her job actually was, taking over after the team finished the initial work. She was trained to distinguish a fragment of bone from rock or burnt clay, and it was her job to scrutinize any pieces remaining after the sifting. Still, maybe it would be a good idea to let folks know that she and the team were doing everything they could to recover the missing homeowners. She could leave out details of how that was happening.

  Maggie faced the reporter. “I’ll give you two minutes, but then I really need to get to work.”

  “Thank you.” Felicia smiled and signaled for her cameraman to join them. “Just relax and look at Zeke when you talk.”

  Zeke, a scruffy-looking stocky guy, joined them and turned Maggie by the arm. “Light’s better facing this way.”

  She nodded and took a long breath. She’d been digging through ruins for nearly twelve hours and must look a mess. Maybe just a quick hand through her hair to straighten it. No. No, she wasn’t going to primp.

  Felicia quickly fired questions at Maggie, and she answered them as succinctly as possible. At the two-minute mark, she excused herself to step behind the barricades and work her way over the ash-strewn street. Brick mailboxes and retaining walls stood at the sidewalk like sentries to former homes. Clay flowerpots once filled with blooming plants sat near metal patio furniture—the only reminders of the lifestyle in the vibrant neighborhood just a few days prior. Now the only colors amidst the gray ash were red flags, planted by dog handlers to mark where the dogs found human remains, and the brightly colored clothing of the search and rescue workers.

  Tears pressed against Maggie’s eyes again. So much destruction. Total and complete. And fifteen lives lost. Two men still missing.

  Oh, God, why? she asked but really didn’t expect an answer. She’d been asking a similar question for six years without an explanation and didn’t think she would get one now either.

  She let her nails bite into her palms to stem her tears and continued down the street toward dog handler Parker Amburg, his dog Quasimodo on a leash. The black lab was covered in ash, but still seemed eager to work. Not Parker. No, this job was taking a toll on him. Thin, about five foot nine, his tan face held large splotches of ash, and his shoulders sagged.

  He stopped in front of her with a resigned sigh. “We have another one.”

  “Another one, what?”

  “Victim.” His well-duh look told of his frustration. “In the shed out back of 5040. I just confirmed it.”

  5040? She shot a look down the street to a house three down from where she’d been working all day. “That can’t be. No one was reported missing at 5040. The entire family is safe and secure on vacation in Florida.”

  “Well, I’m telling you, there’s a victim there. Quasi doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “He must have.” She frowned. “Only two people were reported missing in the entire neighborhood. This would be number three.”

  “Like I said. Quasi doesn’t make mistakes, and he was confirming a hit by another dog.” Parker scrubbed a hand over a jaw covered in stubble. “I marked the location with flags. You do what you want with it.”

  “I’m sorry, Parker,” she said sincerely. “I don’t mean to call your expertise into question. Of course, I’ll check it out. And I’ll do it right now.”

  He nodded and turned toward the makeshift parking area for workers. Maggie doubted he was done for the day, but since Quasimodo just lighted on a victim, he would rotate out for another dog. This same dance had been going on from sunup until sundown for days now while they checked every home in the large neighborhood, not just the ones whose owners were reported
missing.

  She continued her course, the first few drops of rain hitting her face. By the time she reached 5040, a steady drizzle was falling. She was glad to see that the crew had already erected a canopy with light over the location to preserve the remains. She stopped to settle a particulate respirator over her mouth and nose and stepped off the road.

  She worked her way through the rubble, her boots sure and solid when the ground underneath shifted. Passing by the house, a spiral staircase climbed eerily toward the dark sky. She would never forget the sights and smells of this recovery. Bad dreams haunted her for days now, but she wouldn’t let that scare her off when desperate families needed her help.

  She slogged through the debris to the back of the property, where ashen trees stood forlornly looking over the remains of what was once a storage shed. Near the red flags planted by Parker, she set her bag on the ground and snapped pictures of the area for documentation, taking long shots first and moving on to close-ups.

  She stowed her phone and set to work, carefully excavating rubble. She found bases for a rake and shovels, the steel impervious to the hot fire, but their wooden handles were gone. Before long, she found her first bone, a femur. Hoping that she might have found an intact skeleton, she continued, carefully picking up and discarding debris from atop the bones. The work was painstakingly slow, but hours later, she reached the upper body covered with a large steel wheelbarrow, and she lifted it off.

  Experts told her that this fire burned close to twenty-two hundred degrees, taking most everything in its path. But the melting point of carbon steel was over twenty-six hundred degrees, which is why metal structures remained intact.

  As she settled the wheelbarrow out of her way, the sun disappeared below the horizon. Didn’t matter. No way she’d quit before learning more about this body. But she needed to turn on the overhead light to continue working.

  She stood and stretched up to click on the bulb. She took a moment to give her leg muscles a chance to recover from squatting and let her gaze roam the quiet site. Her fellow workers had all taken off. Not unusual. She worked late most nights by herself just to keep up with the demand for her skills. And standing there wasn’t going to get it done.

  She squatted again to brush away more debris, revealing a narrow, heart-shaped pelvis that told her she was looking at the remains of a male. One of the missing men? Neither of them lived at this address, but it was possible this guy came over here to get a hose or some other tool to try to stop the fire from spreading.

  Eager to find leads on his identity, she moved up to the skull. The head was turned to the side, and she spotted a circular hole in the parietal bone in the rear. The wound beveled in, one of the most obvious responses of cranial bone to ballistics.

  This man had been shot.

  “No way.” She sat back on her heels and stared.

  Murdered. Someone murdered him. That was obvious by the location of the wound. He couldn’t have shot himself in the back of the head.

  She examined the front of the skull but didn’t find an exit wound. The slug was most likely still in the skull. Would make sense if the wound was caused by a handgun and small-caliber bullet. She quickly measured the entrance wound. Yeah. Small caliber. Most likely a handgun.

  She glanced around, looking for the weapon, but found none. She wanted to do more. To look for the actual slug. But this was a crime scene now, and the medical examiner and county sheriff needed to take over.

  Heart hammering, she hurried down the street toward the recovery truck lit by a hastily rigged streetlight so she could make the call and get additional equipment. She passed a burned-out car with melted aluminum rims running in rivulets down the street, the metal now solidified. Past the other homes, their foundations dark with eerie shadows.

  At the truck, she pushed up the respirator and snapped off her latex gloves to dig out her phone.

  “Nate,” she said after the sheriff answered. “Dr. Turner here. I’m at Summit, and I found something you’ll want to check out.”

  “What’s that?”

  She leaned against the truck and described her findings. “The circular hole along with the beveling in the skull is clear evidence of a gunshot wound. This man was murdered.”

  “Oh, man.” He sighed out a long breath. “You’re sure.”

  “Yes. The wound is a classic bullet wound, and he was shot in the back of the skull.”

  “Which is unlikely for a self-inflicted wound unless the guy rigged something up to hold the gun and pull the trigger.”

  “Right,” she said, her mind racing to make sense of this scene. “And odds are good that he didn’t do that. Much easier to shoot himself in the mouth or temple.”

  “I’ll get on the horn with the ME and get her out there. If you need to take off, I’ll dispatch a deputy to protect the scene.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until we figure out if this guy is one of our missing men.” She shook her head. “Imagine that. A murder in the middle of this terrible tragedy.”

  “You think you’ve seen everything in this job and then…” His voice fell off, but he didn’t have to say more. After years of working forensic anthropology investigations, Maggie got it.

  “Okay,” Nate said. “I’m about thirty minutes out.”

  “I’ll wait for you at the shed.” She disconnected and stowed her phone. This was such a crazy turn of events, and it was likely going to be a long night. She should grab a bottle of water and protein bar from the cab before getting the equipment.

  She rounded the truck and came up short.

  A man stood in the dark, the moon barely outlining him.

  Her heart seized with fear, and her arms went out in an automatic defensive posture.

  “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” The guy held up his hands and stepped out of the shadows, taking away a bit of the fear factor. He had an average round face, full beard, and glasses making him appear kind of scholarly…like one of her fellow assistant professors or one of the older students on campus. In fact, he seemed familiar somehow.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, trying to get a good look at his face with shadows still hiding much of it.

  He shook his head. “I just got off work and wanted to check on my house. My place is one of the few that survived.”

  He sounded legitimate and didn’t look all that threatening, but still, she wished she had a weapon of some sort or was still on the phone with Nate.

  “Which house is yours?” she asked, hoping to ferret out the truth.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Big blue one on the left about a half mile down. Wife put that ginormous concrete fountain out front. Can’t miss it.”

  Maggie remembered the house and fountain he was describing.

  “It’s crazy how some houses escaped damage, isn’t it?” he asked.

  She nodded and started to relax. The fire didn’t burn as hot in some areas, leaving entire homes in the subdivision without any damage. The destruction all depended on how the fire hopped from one location to another.

  “Not that I’m gonna live here anytime soon.” He frowned. “Not with the destruction all around. Still, I check on the place every day. Pick up a few more things. Never know about looters.”

  “I’ve been working here for days and haven’t seen anyone who wasn’t here to help.”

  “Good to know.” He tilted his head. “You’re working kind of late, aren’t you?”

  “There’s much to be done.”

  “You’re the anthropologist, right? Saw you on the early news tonight.”

  She nodded and hoped he didn’t gush about her volunteer work the way others were doing. She was just a regular person whose skills allowed her to be of assistance in this dire time.

  “Well, on behalf of myself and neighbors, thank you.” He smiled and erased all worry from her mind. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  She nodded. “Nice talking to you.”

  He took off down the street
, and she headed for the cab to grab her water and bar, glancing over her shoulder along the way to make sure he kept going. He strolled down the middle of the barren street, the only safe place to walk at night—the best place even in broad daylight. She chugged some water, stowed the bottle and bar in her apron pocket, then went to the back of the truck. She unlocked it and climbed in.

  The victim’s teeth, though ashen gray—meaning they were extremely fragile—were intact and could be compared to dental x-rays of the missing men as a quick method of confirming his identity. She would use a handheld x-ray device for that. With only fragments left to recover, no one used it for days, and she suspected it was buried in one of the bins on the truck’s shelves. She worked her way down the right side, pulling out containers, digging through each one until she reached the front of the vehicle.

  She found the device in a lower bin. Finally. She pulled it out, and carefully set it on the floor. She stood to stretch, her lower back stiff from bending over ruins.

  An arm came around her neck, jerking her back against a hard body.

  She screamed.

  Once. Twice. Loudly.

  Then he cut off her air supply. Totally. Completely.

  She strained to speak. Couldn’t emit even a peep. Tried again. Failed.

  She only had a minute—maybe less—to get free before blackness settled in.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  She clawed at the arm in long frantic gashes. His long sleeves prevented her from ripping into his skin. She reached up. Clutched a fistful of hair. Yanked hard. Pulling. Tearing.

  The man grunted but didn’t release her.

  “I’m not going away for murder,” he said, his tone like a hissing snake.

  What in the world?

  He tightened his hold.

  She tried to suck in air. Couldn’t gain a breath. Not even a sip of oxygen.