by Gregg Olsen
“There,” she says. “Now it won’t float away.”
She makes it so easy for me to hate her. On the other hand, I love having someone around who knows how to do this kind of stuff.
The Crime Scene tech says the coroner is stuck on an arson with fatality case in another part of the county and they’ll remove the body after processing the scene.
“We’re just starting,” he says, motioning around with a wave of his arm. “There’s no need to string caution tape. Skunk is uninhabited.”
I look around. Large basalt boulders form a barrier on the southern tip of the little island; the rest is forest and beaches. The tide might have washed away any footprints.
“Hey, Detective Carpenter.”
It’s one of the techs coming out of the tall, weather matted brush inland.
“You might want to see this.”
I weave my way through the rocks that litter the beach. The tech yells for me to move to my left and come straight at him. I take two steps to my left and walk into the brush. It’s higher than my waist, and blackberry brambles pull at my jacket. I’m grateful for the heavy work pants. I stop, button my jacket, and hold my arms up to keep them out of the worst of it. As I approach a wooded area, there is a shallow incline where the brush thins out. The tech leads me up into the trees several yards and stops.
My eyes follow his gaze.
I see it immediately.
The body has its back to us and is turning with the breeze to face us. Boyd is wearing the same tattered clothes. One scuffed tan army boot is off, and a dingy sock shows beneath the cuff of faded jeans. His head is tilted far to the left and down, neck stretched from the weight, hanging from a length of yellow nylon climbing rope. Long, curly, greasy black hair hangs over the left side of his face. His tongue looks like a black stopper has been corkscrewed into his mouth.
It isn’t the real Robbie Boyd, but it is the man who identified himself as such.
The tech looks at me, then back at the body.
“There’s something in his hand,” he says.
I squint a little. In the right hand, a piece of white, red, and black cloth is just barely visible.
I look back the way we came and can see a narrow path in the brush where someone trampled parts of it down from the body to the beach. I scan the body once more. The rope was thrown over a low-hanging limb about ten feet off the ground, then tied around the trunk of the tree. I can’t see the knot at the neck with the head canted, but I know it’s there.
“Rock-climbing rope,” I say.
The tech nods.
I work my way back to the beach, where another tech is chatting up Ronnie. They are both smiling, and the tech has a notebook out and is writing something down.
I approach and the tech suddenly becomes busy and Ronnie looks away.
“Who found her?” I ask.
Even from this distance I can see the victim is a younger woman in the age range of the other victims, maybe a little younger. The body is lying faceup, legs spread wide, arms stretched out to each side, with the back of the head in a notch between two big rocks, making the face clearly visible. A redhead.
Just like the others.
Blood has run down the inside of the legs, and her crotch is covered in it. There are large bruises along the side of one leg and binding marks on the wrists and ankles and a wider mark around the neck.
“Joey said Roy found her,” Ronnie says.
“Captain Martin?” I ask.
She nods.
“And Joey is?”
“Sorry. Deputy Joe Fischer.”
The tech is crouching by the body and raises a hand without turning around.
“That’s me,” he says, getting up and coming over to us. “Captain Martin said he was patrolling this bay and spotted her. He called and here we are. My partner found the hanging man.”
I don’t care for his attitude.
“Good job,” I say.
This body is different from the others in that she’s completely nude. Her eyes, however, are open just like the others’ were.
I move toward the body.
“Just don’t touch her,” he says.
Ronnie snaps on latex gloves.
“Can I go with you, Megan?” she asks.
“Stay behind me,” I say, “and don’t trip and fall on the body in those clunky big boots.”
“I promise.”
The tech points to other tracks in the sand where he made his approach. We will stay in his footsteps.
The sun glints off of something metal or glass halfway buried in the sand. I turn to the tech. “Something’s in the ground there.”
Joey plants a marker flag in the sand beside the item.
I continue and stop two feet from the body. There’s deep bruising on the chest, ribs, and stomach. I squat down for a better look. Her knees are scuffed. I can’t see the palms of her hands, but the knuckles are definitely rubbed raw and scabbed over. There are bruises on her shins, and the ribs have deep purple and yellow bruises the size of a fist or a boot. Her red hair has been spread out around her head like a fan. It looks to have been done on purpose. Her blue eyes stare up into nothingness. Her lips are slightly parted but not split like the other victims’ lips. In fact, her face is unscathed by injury.
The deputy in the woods yells down to us.
“Detective, you might want to come back up here.”
I make sure Ronnie moves back out of the scene with me before I return up the trail.
“I found a purse over there by that downed tree,” he says. “Some clothing is a few feet away. A dress and bra, by the looks of it. I took pictures of the purse if you want me to collect it while you’re here.”
“That would be perfect,” I tell him. “And check around here to see if you find any kind of symbol, will you?”
He gives me a questioning look.
“The other cases I’m working,” I say. “A symbol, about the size of your palm, was scraped or carved into a rock or a tree trunk.”
While the tech goes to get the purse, I examine the tree and the body. The tree is a young alder, maybe a foot in diameter. The rope is draped over a limb and Boyd’s toes are just touching the ground. Of course, his neck is stretched a few inches. I try to picture him coming here and doing that to himself.
It doesn’t feel right.
If I were going to hang myself, I would tie the rope to the trunk and then throw the line over the limb. Then I would stand on something, tie the rope around my neck, and kick the stand away. There is nothing to stand on here. I’ll have to wait for the pathologist’s report.
“Can you get a picture of the limb where the rope is touching?”
The tech agrees. “You want to see if there are any burn marks,” he says. “Like the body was hoisted up and then tied off.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bart, Detective Carpenter. Deputy Bart Johnson. You spoke at the academy last year and I was in your homicide class.”
I remember being forced to do the class by Sheriff Gray. He usually did those types of things, but he was busy that day. Probably playing Candy Crush on his computer.
“Bart, do you think you can get that picture for me before I leave?”
“I can get it right now,” he says, unzipping his Tyvek suit down to his waist. He reaches inside and pulls out a long, narrow rod.
“It’s for taking selfies with a cell phone,” he says. “I keep one just in case I have to look on top of things I can’t reach.”
Finally, I think. A good use for those insufferable selfie sticks.
He expands the rod to thirty inches. He reaches back inside his coveralls and pulls out his cell phone. He walks around the tree, getting different angles, and shows me the video.
“Stop here,” I say.
He does.
“What’s that look like to you?”
The video is of the backside of the tree trunk. He expands the picture to zoom in.
“There�
��s your symbol, ma’am.”
The all-seeing eye.
It’s here.
I have him send the video to my phone. I open it and can’t tell if the rope rubbed the bark significantly or not.
“When you get the body down, can you take more pictures of the limb and the knots? And of that symbol?”
“I’ll send everything to you, ma’am.”
This tech isn’t any older than I am, but he makes me feel old.
“Ma’am” is like “marm,” as in “school marm,” a prim and prudish spinster.
I return to the beach. The boat is standing by, and Ronnie has found another big rock to perch on and watch as Crime Scene does their thing.
“Joey,” I say to the tech, “when Bart gets the body down, can you check the dead man’s clothing for a knife?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I want to tell him to stop calling me “ma’am,” but my phone rings.
It’s Sheriff Gray.
“Is it your guy? Boyd?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He’s hanging in a tree.”
“Murder or suicide?”
Yet to be determined, but I say what I think.
“It looks like he hanged himself,” I reply, with a perceptible touch of sarcasm.
So far, all of the victims have been posed carefully. The killer is telling a story. If Boyd was the killer and committed suicide, the story ends here.
If not, I’ll have to end this story.
“But you don’t believe it’s suicide?”
“They found a purse up here near Boyd’s body. And some women’s clothing.”
“But you think someone is setting Boyd up as the killer?”
“Too early to tell,” I say. “Hopefully, there will be some identification for both of them.”
Just then, Bart comes toward me with his phone.
“The cloth,” he says, looking uncertain.
“What about it?”
“It’s a note,” he says holding out his phone.
I look down and I feel the sand slipping under my feet.
In block letters:
I’M SORRY MEGAN
Forty
I’m thinking of the message left for me at the crime scene. I wonder if someone has followed me from my past, or if this is a new admirer. I look over at Ronnie. Her mouth is moving, and I do my best to shake off my anger and worry and listen to her as we drive back to the office.
“Vitruvian Woman,” Ronnie says.
For the last few miles she has complained about the way her parents treat her and how they don’t want her to be in law enforcement.
Right now, I’m agreeing with them.
“You know?” she asks me.
I don’t.
“Vitruvian Man,” she goes on. “Leonardo’s famous drawing of the human body. A male figure in a circle with his arms out to the sides, legs spread. He believed it showed the divine connection between the human body and the universe. The perfect man. You’ve seen it. I know you have. Only this one is a woman. Her legs and arms spread. Posed. Just like a drawing.”
I think about it. Maybe she’s onto something?
“Look it up when we get back,” I say.
She takes out her ever-present cell phone and begins punching, tapping, and sliding her finger across the poor abused screen.
“Here it is. See?”
She holds the screen where I can see without taking my eyes too much off the road. I’ve seen the drawing many times.
“What do you think it means?” I ask.
Ronnie shrugs a little. “It’s a woman instead of a man. If he’s substituting the woman for a man, it must be important. Maybe mother issues? I’ve heard of several serial killers that had mother issues. The perfect woman. Only she’s dead.”
The perfect woman is dead.
“Think about it some more and see what you come up with,” I tell her.
I have other things on my mind at the moment. For example, the piece of cloth Boyd was clutching in his dead hand was a piece of the skirt that was found near his body. A Sharpie pen was found in the back pocket of his jeans. The pen and the piece of cloth were covered in blood.
My name.
Since Boyd wasn’t bleeding, I assume the blood was from the female victim.
Vitruvian Woman.
In addition, there was a Washington State driver’s license in the purse that identified her as Karynn Eades. Karynn with a y and two n’s. I switch my thoughts to the cloth in Boyd’s hand. Boyd’s hands were bloody, but he had no cuts.
Sheriff Gray, Ronnie, Captain Marvel, Joey, and the other crime scene guy, Bart, were convinced it was a suicide note. I really can’t be sure. Their reasoning was that Boyd knew I had figured out he was the murderer. He took one more life before ending his own. It made sense, and that was what pissed me off most. Boyd had disappeared after that day at the cove on Marrowstone.
I’d given him my name at the scene.
And it was me who let him go. If this was a suicide, it was my fault Karynn with two n’s was dead.
I don’t want to believe he’s the killer.
I play back the other details from the scene.
The clothes were the right size for the victim. No shoes were found. The bra was rolled up with the skirt. The skirt was missing a piece of fabric, the size of the note. The glinting item I spotted buried in the sand near her body turned out to be a spent .45-caliber shell casing. Crime scene techs used a metal detector and found several other pistol and rifle shell casings of various calibers. Captain Martin says he’s heard shots fired in the bay in the past and suggested the shell casings were probably left over from the Fourth of July or New Year’s.
Ronnie is silent until we reach the office and pull in. I shut off the ignition.
“What do we do now?” she asks. “Boyd is dead, and he practically admitted to the killings. At least to Karynn’s, and he was right there with her body.”
I don’t say anything. I’m thinking. I get out of the car and head inside with Ronnie following behind. I almost make it to my desk when Nan hands me a pink message slip.
“Detective Osborne called,” she says. “He said to call him back as soon as you can.”
He has my phone number. He could have called direct and not gone through nosy Nan.
“He said he didn’t want to disturb you at the scene,” she says with a frown, as if she has read my mind. She stands there.
If you’re waiting for a tip, here’s a tip: Stop being so nosy.
“Thanks, Nan,” I say, and force myself to smile.
“It’s my job,” she says, and briskly walks away.
I might have hurt her feelings. I don’t care.
Ronnie pulls up a chair and opens her mouth in preparation for another barrage of insight or questions. I phone Clay. I will call Larry next out of politeness. I don’t expect Larry to do much of anything. I guess Clay can call Jimmy from Little Italy and tell him to call off his search.
“Megan,” Clay says, answering. I hear loud traffic in the background and the growl of an engine. He’s on his Harley. “I hear you found Boyd.”
“Skunk Island.”
“Appropriate place to hang himself.”
Who have you been talking to?
“That’s the general consensus.”
The line goes silent, then he says, “But you don’t think so.”
“I just want to be sure,” I say. “Wait for all the evidence.”
“That’s the smart thing to do. But from what I hear, he was twenty feet away from another victim’s body.”
Her name is Karynn. I hate how a living person is reduced to a thing, a victim, when he or she is murdered.
“The bodies are on their way to Dr. Andrade,” I say.
“She one of ours?”
“I think so.”
Clay chimes in with a singsong voice. “I know. I know. You want to wait for all the evidence.”
“When Dr. Andrade gives me a time for the autopsy,
I’ll give you a call if you want.”
I hope he says no. I don’t want to throw up in front of him. Even if he’s not interested in women.
“That’d be good,” he says. “Do you want me to call my friend Jimmy?”
“That’s part of the reason I called you back. I’d like to look at Boyd’s dorm room.”
“What are you looking for?” he asks.
“Just turning over every rock. Will you clear it? I don’t have a warrant, but the guy’s dead. There won’t be a trial.”
“I’ll call Jimmy as soon as we hang up. But you remember he stole the identity of the real Robert Boyd and he’s missing. We have to assume he’s alive. Might even be there.”
I hang up.
“Are we going to the college?” Ronnie asks.
“Not we. Me. I need you to stay here and do the computer searches.”
She looks like a disappointed child. She’ll get over it. I actually have a little faith in her.
Forty-One
I park in a space marked for Campus Security. I’ll probably get a ticket, but they’ll never take me alive. True to his word, Clay called me right back. Jimmy gave me his blessing and called ahead to the chief of security. She’ll meet me at her office and accompany me to Boyd’s dorm room. Jimmy has finally come through with something.
My phone pings with a text from Dan.
Dan: Hey you. Had a great time.
Me: Me too.
Dan: Let’s do it again.
I don’t know what to say. I want to see him again, but I don’t know how to fit something good into my life. Without ruining it, that is. I take the easy way out. I send Dan the “thumbs up” emoji and tell him that I’ll call him later.
“On the case.”
Now he gives me the “thumbs up.”
There is a knock on my passenger-side window and all I can see is a uniform and gun belt. I put down my phone and roll down the window, expecting to be told I can’t park here. A woman in her thirties squats even with the window.