The Naturalist (The Naturalist Series Book 1)

by Andrew Mayne

  “What the fuck? I’m talking to the witness.”

  She motions for him to step into the hall. He goes, reluctantly, glaring at me every step of the way.

  The door is open a crack. I hear her whisper.

  “. . . he says they found a body.”

  “Then I should be getting him to talk,” Gunther growls.

  “Whitmyer said specifically for you to leave him be.”

  “Fuck,” he barks, followed by the sound of a fist hitting a wall.

  I hear him stomp away.

  Palmer steps inside. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” She’s polite and sweet. The contrast is jarring.

  I don’t know the politics of this place, so I’m afraid to say anything, but I can’t help it. “Do I have to talk to him again?”

  She steals a glance down the hall, then turns back. “We’ve all been under a lot of pressure lately.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  She lowers her voice. “Chelsea was his cousin.”

  Holy shit. Those four little words change the context of everything that just happened. Gunther is still an asshole and a bully, but I understand him a little more. I think.

  Palmer motions for me to follow her. “Let’s go back up front. I have to watch the station. Everyone is out at the scene.”

  I take a seat next to a desk filled with mug books.

  “Whitmyer says he’s bringing in state forensics in the morning. Right now they’re trying to lock down the scene.”

  “Is it her? Chelsea?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt they’ve even attempted to disturb the grave any more than necessary. They’ll want a forensics team to come do a thorough excavation.”

  That makes sense. I’m used to the Hollywood notion that every police station has a whole forensic department ready at all hours of the day.

  “So you’re some kind of bear expert?” she asks.

  “No. I’m a biologist, but bears aren’t my specialty.” Not even close.

  “Oh. I’m sure you explained it to Gunny, but how did you know where to look?”

  “Amber’s account and looking for some unusual vegetation.”

  “Oh.” She blinks at me, then drops the topic and goes back to her work. I don’t have the nerve to ask what happens next, so I just sit there.

  About an hour later a clean-cut man in his early forties wearing a thick coat comes walking into the station.

  He nods to Palmer, then addresses me. “I’m Whitmyer, the acting police chief. Are you the gentleman who found the body?”

  I stand up. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good work. Gunny told me that you’re a biologist and you looked for some special plants that grow over bodies.”

  Christ already. I should just write a book on the subject. “Basically,” I say, too tired to explain.

  He walks over and shakes my hand. “Well, thank you. We haven’t confirmed it’s Chelsea yet. But I’m guessing it is.” He nods to the garbage bag on the counter containing her coat. “This hers?”

  “Yes.”

  He throws a glance at Palmer. “Did anyone think to put this in evidence?”

  “Sorry. McKenna just left it.”

  Whitmyer takes a pair of gloves from his pocket and slides a mask over his face. He was probably using them at the burial scene.

  He carefully unties McKenna’s knot and peers inside, then quickly seals it back up. “Carole, can you see to it that this gets locked up?”

  Palmer takes the bag down the hall.

  “Looks like Amber and Devon skipped out,” he says.

  “Why would they do that?”

  Whitmyer points to my bruised face. “Devon?”

  “It was a miscommunication. I wanted to talk to Amber about what happened to Chelsea. They thought it was something else.”

  He gives me a knowing nod. “Do you want to press charges?”

  “No. I’m just here to find out what happened to Chelsea and the connection to Juniper Parsons.”

  “The girl that was killed in Filmount? Bear, right?”

  “I don’t think so. That’s why I came here.”

  “Well, we’ll let the state police do the forensics on that. Where are you staying?”

  “The Creekside Inn.”

  “Gus’s place? He’s a good guy. Are you going to be here tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I have to get back to Austin at some point. But I can stick around a few more days.”

  “All right. We’ll get a formal statement tomorrow. In the meantime, go get some rest.”

  Whitmyer’s calm and professional demeanor is a relief. A sane voice in all this insanity.

  He walks me to the front door. “Thank you again. I’ve got to get on the horn to Sheriff Tyson and find out what she knows.” He pauses. “Did you speak to her back in Filmount?”

  Cold water runs through my veins at the thought. “Yeah . . . they weren’t too interested in what I had to say.”

  “I’m sure this will pique their interest.”

  I get the feeling that could be a bad thing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  STASIS

  There’s a knock on my motel room door at 11 a.m. I didn’t sleep much, even as exhausted as I am. I spent part of the night gathering all of my notes and putting everything together on a thumb drive for the investigators.

  I treated it like a report for a science journal. I want them to have a clear understanding of my thought process and the sequence of events that led to discovering Chelsea’s body—this could be vital to my freedom.

  I also put in some data generated by MAAT and instructions on how to use the online version on my web server. I’m sure the FBI and other agencies have better, more specific tools, but local ones like Hudson Creek may not have access to them.

  Along with how I found Chelsea, I put together all of the information on the pattern of the killer.

  In the hands of someone who knows more about criminal investigation and forensics than myself, it should be a good start.

  I’m just one man, and I found another victim in a day. With the involvement of real law enforcement agencies, they could catch this guy before I make it back to Austin.

  There are two e-mail messages asking why I missed faculty meetings. I type brief replies, stating that I’ve been helping with a law enforcement investigation.

  It feels good to type those words. Chasing frogs and strange attractors is one thing, but fighting crime, making a difference, that’s something else.

  I made a list of all the things they should look for in Chelsea’s body. Despite conventional wisdom, stainless steel can be a hotbed of bacteria. Forensic technicians should try growing bacteria taken from Chelsea’s and Juniper’s wounds as well as baseline samples from the surrounding soil.

  If they find a culture common to the wounds but not to the soil or the unpunctured parts of their bodies, it’s an indicator that the killer used the same weapon. Once they find the suspect, testing any sharp objects for the same bacteria would put him in both places.

  I put together a section detailing the laboratory procedures I’d use to get a statistically significant result. I also explain how they could use DNA markers from the bacterial culture to identify it beyond just a species.

  Maybe with some of their data I could use MAAT to make more specific predictions for other clients?

  That could be an interesting project. The next time I speak with Julian I’ll put the bug in his ear. He’d probably love that kind of thing.

  I get out of bed and answer the door. There’s a police officer standing there. A young man with a badge that says Wojtczak.

  “Professor Cray?”

  I nod and wipe the sleep out of my eyes.

  “I’ve been asked to follow you over to the police station. They want to get your formal statement.”

  “Okay. Let me get a couple things.”

  He waits patiently while I get dressed and gather up my notes.

  “So you’re the guy that fo
und the body? I heard you discovered some kind of plant that only grows on dead people.”

  Ugh, the grapevine. “It’s not quite that simple.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder. “Any word if they’ve tracked down Devon and Amber?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have they exhumed the body yet?”

  “Not that I know of. State police forensics were all over it this morning. They got there early. I think the head medical examiner was doing an on-site examination.”

  I’m glad they’re proceeding carefully. Chelsea’s burial site could yield lots of interesting data points.

  We arrive at the station, and I’m led to a conference room significantly larger than the one Gunther interrogated me in last night.

  I freeze in the doorway when I see Sheriff Tyson sitting at the far end of the table next to Detective Glenn.

  The scene sets off a painful flashback. Of course they should be here, but the stress from our last interaction still haunts me.

  Glenn looks up at me. “What happened to your eye, Professor?” His tone is cordial.

  “Long story.”

  I’m given a spot to sit at the other end of the table.

  Whitmyer enters the room wearing a polo with the Hudson Creek Police logo. His boots are muddy. He’s probably been out there since this morning.

  “Professor Cray.” He shakes my hand.

  “Is it her?” I ask.

  He gives Tyson a glance. She nods back. I guess they have some kind of arrangement for how the case is going to be handled. I’m glad to see them working well together.

  “It is, Professor. It’s Chelsea Buchorn. Now, since everyone is here, I’d like you to take us through the series of events that led you here.” He gestures to my black eye. “I wouldn’t leave anything out. This is about Chelsea and Juniper.”

  I explain to them everything I said to Gunther. I give them an overview of MAAT and how it led me to Hudson Creek. I explain precisely how we found the body and give them some references in case they want to check up on them.

  It’s exhausting. They interrupt me a few times for details, but there’s no finger-pointing. There’s no accusations.

  When I finish, I set the thumb drive on the table. “It’s all here. How to find the next one, I think.”

  All through this, Sheriff Tyson watched me carefully. She let Glenn ask the questions. Occasionally she pointed to something on a list, but she never spoke.

  When she finally does, it startles me.

  “Professor Cray, I want to apologize for how we treated you. It was obvious you were under a lot of stress dealing with the death of a friend. We should have listened to what you had to say.”

  I’m beside myself. My tongue fumbles for words. “Thank you.”

  Detective Glenn stands up. “I respect your perseverance.” He begins to applaud.

  The entire room starts clapping. It’s a surreal moment. I feel myself welling up. “I just wish Juniper didn’t have to die. Or Chelsea.”

  Whitmyer picks up the thumb drive and plants a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to make sure Fish and Wildlife gets a copy of this.”

  “Great. Great,” I reply before it sinks in. “Wait? Fish and Wildlife? What about the law enforcement agencies?” I look around the room, confused.

  “I know this is stressful for you,” Whitmyer says. “I spoke with Sheriff Tyson and Detective Glenn about the prior incident. Grieving is hard to deal with.

  “We’re happy to find you some help. We have a few counselors out here. Good ones.”

  I search their faces for an explanation. “What about the murder investigation? What about getting the killer?”

  Whitmyer exchanges glances with Tyson and Glenn. “Theo, I know you don’t want to accept this. But it was a bear. Just like Juniper. Dr. Wilson, the chief medical examiner for the state, is returning with the body right now. He says all of the wounds are consistent with a bear attack.”

  “But she was buried . . .” My voice begins to rise.

  “Bears do that,” says Glenn. “And she was out there a long time. You pointed out yourself how erosion would help conceal the body.”

  I’m having another flashback to the last time I was in this situation. Getting excited only put me in a jail cell.

  From the way Tyson is watching me, I can tell she’s counting down the seconds until I lash out.

  I want to flip the fucking table over and scream. I don’t.

  I stay calm.

  “What about Amber Harrison’s statement?”

  “I took her initial one,” says Whitmyer. “She was as high as a kite. And she mentioned the possibility of a bear.”

  “She’s convinced that it’s a man now,” I reply, trying to keep the edge off my words.

  “Maybe so. But a statement made now, if we could find her, wouldn’t carry much weight. How reliable are memories the farther out you get?”

  Not very. I just nod my head. “But they’re going to do a full forensics examination?”

  “Absolutely.” He gives me a smile.

  “And the data I collected?”

  “I’ll look it over myself. But just listen to me. Fish and Wildlife might get a lot out of this. So don’t throw that out.”

  “Okay,” I say softly. “May I leave?”

  Whitmyer escorts me to the lobby. “I want to shake your hand. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Long ride back. Are you leaving today?”

  “If you don’t need anything else,” I answer quietly.

  “I’m sure we’ll be talking a lot on the phone.”

  I say goodbye and step outside. I can feel his eyes on me as he watches the sad Professor Don Quixote walk away.

  There’s nothing left for me to do.

  I tried.

  I really tried.

  Time to go home.

  A van pulls into the parking lot. It’s marked MONTANA STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER.

  Inside is Chelsea’s body.

  I shouldn’t care. But I do. I should be leaving. But I don’t.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  RESURRECTIONIST

  Science is filled with people who had to step outside what was considered socially acceptable. Roman physician Galen and Renaissance genius Leonardo da Vinci were forced to exhume bodies to better understand how they functioned. Because of this transgression, both men saved countless lives with their discoveries.

  I tell myself I’m trying to save lives and this isn’t just a matter of proving that I’m right. There’s a killer out there, and the room full of people I just left can’t see the obvious.

  I have to psych myself up for this. If I think about it too much, nothing will happen.

  Stepping behind an SUV, I observe two men in medical examiner jumpsuits exit the van and enter the police station’s rear entrance.

  If it had been any other kind of van, I never would have considered this. If her body was locked away in a morgue somewhere, it would be as far away from me psychologically as the surface of Mars.

  But the van I’m staring at is a Dodge Sprinter. The same type used as an ambulance. When I worked as an EMT, the Sprinter was as familiar to me as my office.

  It’s the familiarity that makes me feel like this isn’t a trespass. There’s also the fact that I could have taken samples from Chelsea’s body when we found her.

  I didn’t, because I thought investigators would do a more thorough job of tracking down her murderer. I was wrong.

  I wouldn’t know how to pick a lock if you put a gun to my head. Luckily, all of the Sprinter ambulances I worked with had a secret switch for unlocking them in the event you lose your keys while responding to a call.

  A lockout could cost lives.

  It doesn’t start the vehicle. It just opens the doors. All of them.

  On mine, the switch was in front of the driver’s side front wheel.

  I make sure nobody is around, then step over to the vehicle and reach down and feel for the
button.

  Nothing.

  I try the same spot on the passenger side. My fingers touch something rubbery. I press it.

  Click.

  My skin tingles. Adrenaline floods my body. It’s the sensation of solving a complicated puzzle.

  I move to the back of the van and try the door. The handle lifts and opens.

  An indescribable feeling of anxiety crashes over me. I tell myself not to hesitate and just do what I need to do.

  I slip inside and carefully close the door behind me.

  Gripping my penlight in my teeth, I slip on a pair of rubber gloves.

  The body bag takes up half the van. From the shape under the black rubber, it’s obvious rictus set in with her limbs in an awkward position.

  Now is not the time for me to analyze the agony she went through.

  I’ve done dozens of dissections in school. This should be no different—except for the degree of decay.

  My day pack has sample vials, but I forgot to pack a mask. Ugh. This is going to be unpleasant.

  No time to dwell on that oversight. I slide back the zipper.

  The smell is overpowering. I try to avoid breathing.

  Where it’s not covered by blood and dirt, Chelsea’s corpse is as white as chalk.

  Finding a wound isn’t difficult. There are so many of them.

  Her body is riddled with slashes, like stripes on a tiger.

  I understand why they think this is an animal attack. It’s so vicious. Her head is nearly torn off.

  In the face of this, I’m beginning to have my own doubts.

  There’s no time for that. I have to remind myself that science led me here. No matter what I think I see, there are more precise tools to understand what happened.

  I fill a few small vials with thickened blood and tissue from three different wounds: one on the neck, another on her arm, and one from a gouge just below her left breast that ripped open her shirt.

  Looking at the tracks in some of the wounds, I can see where the medical examiner also made collections.

  If I want to do my bacterial experiment, I’ll need a sample from Chelsea’s skin in a location where she wasn’t wounded.

  Underneath her jeans, where one of the elastic bands for her underwear is still tight, I’m able to make a dirt-free swab.