“Ego-schmego. So what if he has cold lips from kissing mirrors. He’s prettier than you are. Go out with him and enjoy the view.” Bertie clicked her tongue and watched Joshua drive off. “But hey, if you’re gonna throw him back into the ocean, toss him my way.”
“If you two are done ogling,” the pilot said, “let’s get going.” Jake took the backpacks and placed them along with the other gear into the rear of the plane. “Okay now, weight’s the thing in flying these planes. They’re like a teeter-totter. I have to be sure the weight is balanced. You”—again he pointed at Murphy—“when you get into the front seat, be careful. It’s tight, so watch out you don’t bump against anything. And whatever you do, don’t touch anything.” He held out his hand to help her step from the dock to the pontoon. A three-step ladder led to a row of seats.
She crouched and slipped between the seats, then twisted and crawled into the right front seat. It was crowded with instruments but surprisingly roomy once she sat down. Bertie was seated in the rear of the plane.
Jake opened the door next to the pilot’s seat and boarded. “Fasten your seat belt. Life vest is under the seat, except yours—”
“My name is Murphy. Not Kid.”
“Right. Yours is in the door. Two exit doors in the back. Two up here. Got that?”
“Yes.”
Jake pointed to the headphones. “Noisy. You’ll need them. Put the microphone next to your mouth and speak loudly, as if you were mad at someone.”
The headphones muted the sounds of the engine somewhat, but the roar was still substantial. Jake twisted a knob, flipped switches, and punched in some information on a screen near her. After Jake cleared his takeoff, the engine grew louder as they surged forward. The front of the plane rose. She could no longer see where they were heading. She looked out the side window. They flew past houses, and the pontoon split the water like a boat. The spray disappeared as they lifted off the lake.
They passed over a field, then the roofs of the houses, which shrank as they climbed into the cerulean-blue sky. Land disappeared and the ocean’s ultramarine-turquoise shading of the Woody Island Channel gave way to Maya blue. Irregularly shaped islands covered by spruces and grass studded the liquid landscape. In the distance, plumes of water from whale spouts spritzed the ocean surface.
She pressed her hand against the plane’s window. The view was breathtaking.
“I flew over the island yesterday for Elin.” Jake’s voice, clear in the headphones, intruded on her thoughts. Murphy reluctantly looked at him.
“The location is not much more than a speck.” He twisted a knob overhead. “And you’ll have to go up a cliff. I see you brought a telescoping ladder. I don’t think that will be long enough.” His gaze lingered on her. “Do either of you know how to climb?”
“I’ve done some rock climbing.”
He studied her for a moment. “You’ll need it for the last few feet. I have to stay with the plane. They don’t pay me enough to climb cliffs. I’ll send you up with a rope ladder that should cover the height of the cliff. Once you reach the top, you can attach it to make it easier to go up and down.”
“Easy is good,” Bertie said.
“So, just to be on the same page, what are we looking for on the island?” she asked Bertie. “Assuming the bodies are gone.”
“Pretty much what you would on any case—look for anything—pieces of metal or bullets, clothing, bones, graves, unusual vegetation—”
“What?”
“Sometimes people are buried with seeds on their clothing. The seeds can sprout.”
“Oh!”
“Just look for anything. I’ll take photos, you’ll hone the sketch, then we’ll set up the grid, probe the ground, scan the area with the metal detector, and come back.”
“Whoa there,” Jake said. “You have about a three-hour window before the weather closes in. Do you think you’ll be able to do all that?”
“Hmm. Probably not.” Bertie leaned forward. “We’ll photograph, measure, grid it out, and do a probe. If we find anything, we’ll get the metal detector. If we run out of time, we can do that next time, along with sifting.”
Murphy returned her gaze to the view. Kodiak Island was on the right, covered with a jagged, snowcapped mountain range. The land rose from the ocean in azo green broken up by tufts of spruce trees. Dark moving dots appeared on a ridge.
“Buffalo.” Jake nodded in that direction. “Can’t really have cattle with all the bears. Elin told me you haven’t been on Kodiak all that long.” Jake took out a CD and placed it into a player, then pushed a button. Music poured into Murphy’s earphones, followed by a smooth male voice. “Kodiak Island is the second-largest island in the United States, ninety-nine miles long by ten to sixty miles wide. It was originally inhabited by the Sugpiaq Natives, but in 1784, Russian settlers established a presence . . .”
Bertie touched Jake on the shoulder and shook her head. He clicked off the travelogue.
Murphy glanced back at the technician. “Bertie, if we’re tight for time, how about we concentrate on the area near the rockslide and work outward from there.” She held up a copy of her sketch of the bodies. “Maybe we can start up here”—she pointed—“and move to here.”
Bertie grinned. “All coming back to ya, isn’t it? Like riding a bicycle.”
Coming back? Murphy frowned. “What do you mean?” Bertie winked at her. She reached into one of the many pockets on her vest, pulled out a small notebook, and handed it to Murphy.
“What’s this?” Inside was lined paper divided into two columns. One column was labeled Facts and evidence, the other, Questions.
Bertie said, “It’s modeled after accident reconstruction techniques, you know, the formula S (mph) = √ (30 (f)(d)(BE)) where you . . . This may not be the way you did it back in . . .?”
Had she told Bertie Kentucky or West Virginia? “Back east.”
“At our crime lab, this is what we use to keep track of the things you need to find out and the things you already know.”
“But I never said I was actually looking for a j—”
“Tut, tut, never question a job offer. Now, start by putting your name on the outside of the notebook and the case number, which is 17–6–14384058, and the type of case.”
She sighed and did as she was told. She hesitated over the type of case. “What would you call this? A multiple homicide? Murder-suicides? Mass suicides? Mass murder?”
“For now call it unknown deaths.”
She jotted the suggestion.
“Now, inside put the date at the top of the page.” Bertie pointed. “Then write everything you know about this case on this side. As you write what you know, also note what you don’t know, your questions.”
“What about poor Vasily’s and Irina’s murders? Are they connected?”
“That would go in the questions column.”
Under Facts and evidence Murphy wrote Five victims, all male, death ten years ago, signs of violent death, no other reports of finding bodies, had to get to island somehow—boat? Bodies removed/disposed/buried by person or persons unknown.
Bertie leaned over the seat and read what Murphy had written. “See? Good instincts. A natural. Keep going.”
Murphy tapped the last notation. “Jake, do the Kodiak bears ever, um, swim to outlying islands? I mean, they’re big enough to carry off a human body.”
“Yeah, a Kodiak can weigh upward of twelve hundred pounds. They stand over nine feet tall on their hind legs, but there’s no reason for any bears to go out there. It’s remote and difficult to get to, and the bears like to stick to areas where they’re comfortable and food is plentiful.” He frowned as he looked to his right. Indigo clouds peeked up from the horizon.
Murphy returned to her list. Under Questions she wrote Cause of death, what happened to bodies, what happened to transportation, Vasily and caregiver murder connected? Identity—Filipino? Once again she spoke to Jake. “I’ve never really paid much attention. Does Ko
diak have a large Filipino population?”
“Big enough. They have their own church. The fish canneries hire ’em.”
Adding Cannery workers? to her questions, she wrote Why on island?
“There it is.” Jake pointed.
Ruuwaq Island wasn’t much more than a pile of rocks, cliffs, and a dot of green. Jake circled once so they could see the land from the air, then brought the plane in for a perfect landing on the water.
Murphy tucked her notebook into the pocket of her jeans.
He taxied to a tumble of boulders next to the cliff. “The rocks are slick, so watch your step. I’ll be monitoring the weather. You need to be back here at”—he glanced at his watch—“sixteen hundred hours at the latest. Here.” He handed Bertie a two-way radio. “If the storm comes in faster, I’ll call, and you run.”
Bertie took it and placed it into one of her vest pockets.
He opened his door, slid onto the pontoon, then to a rock. Grabbing a rope dangling from the wing, he maneuvered the plane into position, then helped the women out. “Hold this rope until I get your gear out.” Bertie grabbed the tether while he unloaded the backpacks, probes, and metal detector. Murphy hauled them to the bottom of the small cliff.
The sea was clear and calm, gently rolling around the rocks that formed a tiny beach. The water was clear enough to see the steep-sided bottom where translucent, fist-sized jellyfish pulsed.
Murphy took stock of the cliff. A more gradual ascent to the top was to the right, but the cliff was substantially higher at that point. The rocky face in front of her was jagged, with lots of hand-and footholds. She could probably climb up without even using the telescoping ladder, but she hadn’t brought enough gear to climb safely. She handed Bertie her glasses so they wouldn’t fall off.
“You be careful,” Bertie said. “This is an unforgiving place. Don’t get so caught up in looking for clues that you lose sight of the big picture.”
“I’ll be careful.” With Jake’s and Bertie’s help, she secured the ladder and scrambled up. As expected, the short climb to the top of the cliff from the ladder was relatively easy, even with slick rocks. She leaned over the precipice, gave Bertie a thumbs-up, then secured the ends of the rope and rope ladder to a large boulder. She tossed one end of the rope to Bertie, who attached the first backpack. By the time Murphy hauled up both backpacks, the probes, and the metal detector, she was soaked with sweat and the palms of her hands were raw.
Bertie crawled up last, grunting with the effort. “Please tell me my thighs are thinner after this climb.” She handed Murphy her glasses.
Murphy put them on, pursed her lips, and checked Bertie from head to foot. “Yes. I’m sure you just dropped two sizes.”
“Good girl. Lie to me. You’ll nail the job and get a raise.”
Murphy blinked at the word lie. Bertie didn’t seem to notice. After pulling the backpack on, she took a good look at the island. The land rose to a rocky summit on the right and sloped down to a rubble of jagged rocks tumbling out to the sea. A cool, damp breeze chilled her face and whistled around the boulders. Beyond the shore, the vast ocean stretched out to the horizon, undisturbed by any sign of boats or land. Vasily had mentioned hearing gulls, but the only sound she heard was the wind.
Though the day was bright with sunshine, she could understand what Vasily meant by a coldness in the heart. This windswept piece of craggy earth was a tiny, godforsaken dot.
She shivered.
Bertie, backpack in place and metal detector strung over her shoulder, stepped next to her. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’m just imagining Vasily finding those bodies.”
“We’ve got work to do.” Bertie patted her arm. “It’s best to not have too vivid an imagination about now.”
CHAPTER 7
They set off toward the rockslide and soon reached a shallow dip in the landscape.
“Elin told me what Vasily said and saw,” Bertie said. “But you were there and did the drawing. You need to take the lead.”
Murphy nodded and pulled out a copy of the sketch, then compared it to the land. “Okay.” Her voice sounded muffled to her own ears. “The bodies would have been over there. Vasily said he didn’t notice the bodies at first, so they had to have been in something like this. A slight hollow. And there”—she pointed—“is the table-shaped rock.”
Her skin grew clammy. It was one thing to do a drawing of a possible homicide site. This was unmistakably real. Am I standing on their graves?
Bertie took off her backpack and unstrapped the metal detector, placing them on the ground. Reaching into the backpack, she pulled out a digital camera. “I’m going to start by taking photos.”
“Right. Um . . . what do you want me to do? I’m used to a . . . smaller crime scene. You know, an inside-a-room kinda thing.” Lame.
“You mentioned the rock. Take a tape measure and get the dimensions. It’s an established point of reference. You’ll be using the Cartesian coordinate system. Once you have the rock measurement, starting at that corner”—Bertie pointed—“use a compass and establish a line going north—”
“Line?”
“Just fasten the dumb end of the tape measure to the ground at that corner. Walk straight north, unwinding the tape as you go. When you reach the end, fasten that end of the tape measure to the ground. We now have a north-south line.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“That line will help us establish anything we recover based on an x-axis and a y-axis measurement. We’ll measure outward from the north-south line at a 90-degree angle. We’ll need two sets of measurements for each item we find. For example, if we find a gun over here”—Bertie walked over to a small rock—“it would be 5’6” north and 4’8” east.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m used to lasers and stuff like that.”
“We have a few, but mostly we have budget cuts. Alaska doesn’t have income tax or sales tax, and the main industry, petroleum, is in the toilet. I have to share with the other crime-scene team members, and old or cold cases get leftovers. You’ll find the compass and tape measure in the kit in your backpack.”
While Bertie took photographs, Murphy approached the table-shaped rock. The surface was slate gray on three sides with an undercut fourth side that looked black. As she measured the undercut, a smear of black appeared on her hand. Dropping to her knees, she examined the rock’s surface, then the moss-covered ground next to it.
“Whatcha got?” Bertie squatted next to her.
She showed her hand. “This came from that surface.”
Bertie ran her fingers over the ground in front of them and came up with a gray-black piece of what looked like bone. “All right, now that’s what I’m talking about. Bring me a probe.”
She retrieved one of the T-shaped metal rods. By the time she returned, Bertie had poked a small, cadmium-yellow flag into the spot where she’d found the bone, placed a scale next to the bone, and taken photographs. She took the probe from Murphy and shoved it into the ground. It stopped after four inches. “Feels like solid rock.” She tried several more spots, all with the same results. “Well, we know they didn’t bury the bodies. At least not intact.”
Murphy tried to smile. Her mouth felt stiff. Was the remoteness of the island ratcheting up her unease, or the idea of finding body parts?
“Let me fiddle around here for a bit, take more photos.” Bertie waved her arms. “Get some earth samples, maybe do a bit of digging. You can work the metal detector.” She stood with a grunt, picked up the machine, and showed Murphy how it worked. “Walk in a straight line, as if you were mowing a lawn, moving back and forth slowly.” She pointed. “Begin over there. When you reach the end of the depression, move over a few feet and repeat going the other way. Don’t just be watching the indicator. Look at the ground. Watch for plastics like buttons, an indication the ground’s been disturbed—”
“Bones?”
“Bones. Yell if you find anything, and stay put. We’ll
mark it, measure, and collect it.”
Murphy walked to the starting point, near the end of the tape measure, and started moving forward. She’d only gone a few steps when the metal detector beeped. “Got something!”
Bertie converged on her location, poked a flag into the ground, placed an evidence ruler next to the object, and took a photo. She then held it up. “It looks like a belt buckle.”
Murphy took the rusty object from Bertie. “It’s really small for a belt. Maybe a small dog’s collar?”
“Yeah, good call, Murph.” Bertie pulled out an evidence bag from a pocket and handed it to her. “Label it and drop the buckle inside. Note on your chart what you found. When you’re done with the metal detector, you can come back and measure the location.”
The sun dimmed as a cloud passed in front of it, and a blast of cold wind blew around them.
She zipped up her coat, but the cold stayed inside.
Bertie glanced up and pulled up her collar. “We’d better hurry. I’ve tagged a few more things by the rock. If you’d go over and measure those flags, I’ll take over the metal detector. ’Kay?”
“Sure.” Murphy took out a clipboard, attached a piece of gridded paper to it, and sat on the ground near the table rock. Four cheerful yellow flags marked a three-foot-square area.
Clouds continued to build. The temperature dropped. Her ears were getting cold and her nose ran.
The metal detector let out a warbling beep. “Murph?”
Something in Bertie’s voice gave her goose pimples. She stood. “What?”
“Listen to this. It’s going crazy.” Bertie pointed to the meter on the metal detector.
She trotted over. “What does it mean?”
Bertie turned in a small circle. The meter dropped down, then shot back up when she returned to the spot. “I’m going to walk along the rockslide.” Bertie started forward and she followed. The meter remained high.
Bertie stopped. “There’s a large hunk of metal behind that slide. Large and fairly straight.”
Formula of Deception Page 5