Beth put her hand over her mouth.
“No. This one’s been dead for a long time. Years.”
I shook my head at Beth. “Where are you?”
“About three miles upriver from Spalding, right alongside the road. Couple of kids saw a rolled-up tarp and checked it out.”
“I’m on my way.” I disconnected and told Beth what Chief Kus said. “Car?”
Beth nodded. “Of course. When do you think you’ll return?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you eaten anything since breakfast?”
I paused in packing my forensic kit. “Now that you mention it, no.”
She stood and went to her room, returning with a banana, an apple, and a bottle of water. “Thank you again, Beth. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The corner of her mouth curled up. “Where would Ben be without Jerry, peanut butter without jelly, macaroni without cheese?”
“Now I’m starving.” I grabbed up Beth’s car keys, patted Winston, and headed to the car.
Stowing my kit in the back seat, I slid in and headed to the scene, eating my impromptu meal on the way. I soon reached the site—a wide spot in the road next to a bridge crossing the Clearwater. Behind a line of Jersey barriers, parked tribal police cars blocked the view from Highway 12. An officer impatiently motioned rubbernecking motorists to keep moving.
The sun had drifted behind a line of storm clouds, casting dark cerulean-blue shadows on the rolling mountains. The tiny body had been left on a cracked and grimy stretch of asphalt, rolled in an incongruously cheerful blue tarp.
Chief Kus motioned me over.
I pulled my kit from the back seat, took a deep breath of ozone- and petrichor-scented air, and walked to where the officers stood. My footsteps slowed as I approached. It was always like this, the moment when I’d first see a body before my professional side could take over.
The men parted as I approached. The tarp had been pulled open and very little was left of the body—bones held together by tattered remnants of clothing, tangled brown hair with a pink plastic clip.
Feeling the officers’ gazes on me, I made sure my voice wouldn’t come out all wimpy. “A girl. Any idea who she is?”
“We’re checking.” Seth Kus rubbed his chin. “He dug her up and put her here, making sure we’d find her.”
“Interesting.”
Seth gave a tiny jerk of his head, then moved away from earshot. I followed.
“You have something?” he asked.
“Two things.” Overhead a magpie chattered his wock, wock, wock. A raindrop splashed on my arm. Great. I’d forgotten to ask Beth to pack a raincoat. “After the forensic anthropologist finishes up, if you don’t have an identification, I can do a skull reconstruction.”
“Okay. But I could see you were struck by something.”
I looked over at the remains. “I’m not a profiler—”
Seth waved his hand.
“That body was dug up and left for you to find. Why?” I bit my lip and thought for a moment. “Part of his signature changed.”
“So you think this is a serial killer.”
“I think it’s too much of a coincidence for a body to show up roughly the same age and sex of the missing Beatrice.”
A few more drops of rain hit my head.
“Do you have a raincoat or umbrella?” the chief asked.
“No.”
He jerked his head for me to follow him to his car. Opening the rear door, he took out a navy-blue raincoat with Nez Perce Tribal Police printed across the back. “Here.”
“I can’t take your coat.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and he tugged out a second identical jacket. “Part of my emergency supplies.”
The slight sprinkle became a steady rain just as I slipped into the coat and pulled up the hood. The jacket was enormous, with the sleeves hanging completely over my hands and the hood drooping to my nose. I tilted my head backward to see.
The chief quickly yanked on his jacket and bent closer to be heard over the steady patter of the rain. “What did you mean by ‘part of his signature changed’?”
Heat radiated from him. I wanted to step away. Or move closer. I remembered Blake’s embrace, and I cleared my throat before continuing. “Stop me if you already know this . . .”
Seth gave me an encouraging nod.
“Modus operandi and signature are different. Modus operandi refers to the actions someone takes to commit a crime. These actions follow a learning curve as the killer hones his craft. If something works, great. If he makes a mistake, he’ll change to become more successful. The signature is why—the psychological motive for the crime. What fantasy was he playing out? You could think of it as his calling card. The third part of this triad is the choice of victim.”
“Okay.”
“MO can change, but the signature usually remains the same. Usually, though not always, the choice of victims doesn’t change. Displaying a past victim is a signature, and this hasn’t happened before—at least not that you know of, right?”
“Right. So what do you think it means?”
“It means he knows his attempt to throw off the case by staging those notes didn’t work. Now he’s introducing himself to us. He wants us to know he’s the killer.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALL OF THE OFFICERS NOW WORE MATCHING NAVY RAINCOATS and, with the hoods up, looked identical. Someone had pulled the tarp back over the body. The van from the coroner’s office arrived and parked nearby. A man got out, opened an umbrella, briefly examined the remains, then had the officers load her onto a stretcher. After shutting the doors, he approached the chief. “Seth. Good to see you. Sorry it took so long.”
“Not a problem. This is Gwen Marcey, a forensic artist from the Interagency Major Crimes Unit out of Missoula.”
“Ma’am.”
“If you can’t get an ID right away,” Seth said, “she can help with a facial reconstruction.”
“I’ve read about those.” The coroner stuffed his hand into his pocket. “I’ll let you know.”
“Anything you can tell me now?” Seth asked.
“Well, she’s been in the ground for a few years. No obvious signs of trauma. That’s about all I can say until the autopsy.” He headed toward his van.
“Thanks,” Seth called after him, then turned to leave.
“Chief Kus?” I didn’t want to ask him, but I had no choice. “I . . . um . . . may have a lead on something.”
“On something?”
“It’s a long shot, but it has to do with a missing child a long time ago. A cold case. Maybe a kidnapping. I . . . um . . . think there may be a connection with other cases. I don’t want to draw any conclusions just yet, not until I find out a few more things, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
He didn’t speak for a moment and I became aware the officers were leaving. All but one. From the body build I could tell it was a female officer. It wasn’t until she lifted her head and I could see her face that I recognized Officer LoneBear. Her jaw clenched and she stared daggers at me.
I couldn’t help it. I laid my hand on the chief’s arm and gave her a slight smile.
LoneBear jumped into her car, slamming the door so hard I expected the windows to shatter, and spun away.
The chief looked after her retreating vehicle, frowned, then glanced down at my hand still resting on his arm. His right eye narrowed in what I had figured out was a concealed smile.
I snatched my hand away.
“Having a bit of a catfight?” he asked.
“Mm.” My face burned and I suddenly found the tip of my shoe fascinating.
“So what is the connection you want to pursue?”
“I’m looking into two people who may have lived around here over twenty years ago. And there’s a plane crash that occurred thirty-some years ago. I want to go there.”
“Where did it crash?”
“The Clearwater National Fore
st.” When he didn’t respond, I gave up studying my shoe and looked at him.
He rubbed his chin. “You do know that the Nez Perce– Clearwater National Forest is four million acres, at least half of which is designated wilderness?”
I gave a half shrug, folded my arms, and waited. The rain slowed, then stopped.
He stopped rubbing his chin and squinted his eye. “What would your boss say?”
“Well. He’d . . . um . . .”
“That’s what I thought. Since the things you want to look into are in the past, and I have a missing child right now, you can do your chasing on your own time. I have some video in the car that my task force collected on the Easter egg hunt. I want you to look at it.”
I slowly nodded. “Of course.” Following him to the car, I tried to think of a way to convince him I had a possible lead. The problem was, I just didn’t have enough evidence.
After handing me a white Walmart bag, he bent forward, pulled a notepad from his pocket, clicked a pen, and wrote something. “Here.” He handed it to me.
He’d written a name, Dan Kus, and phone number. “When you’re done helping me, if you’re going to be fumbling about in the wilderness, you’ll want to find a guide or an outfitter. Dan Kus volunteers at the Nez Perce National Historical Park. He’s a virtual encyclopedia of the history and geography of this area. He can recommend someone or ask around for an expert to take you to the crash site. But remember, on your own time.”
“Any relation?”
“Yeah. He’s my dad. Retired.”
“Should I tell him you sent me?”
Seth nodded and his right eye crinkled. “And be sure to tell him you got LoneBear’s goat.”
Night had fallen, and the heavy rain had returned. My thoughts bounced from the present murders and abduction, to the upcoming change to the parenting plan for Aynslee, to my own checkered background. I was soon parked at the Two Rivers Bed-and-Breakfast. My cell rang.
“Mom, Dad just told me I was to, like, pack up my stuff from home and that, like, I’ll be living here in Big Fork.” Aynslee’s voice was shrill. “Is that true?”
“Ah, no. I don’t think so. Just wait until I get back. Put your father on.”
“He’s not here. He and Caroline have gone out.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything will be fine.”
“When are you coming home?”
I hesitated, thinking about all the work I had to do for the police and how I would find time to pursue my own investigation. “Soon.”
“Whatever.” Click.
I sat in the car until my fingers relaxed from their claw shape. Running into the old house, I found Eric filling the coffee machine in the parlor.
He smiled a greeting. “Still raining?”
“Cats and dogs.” Winston rose as I entered the game room and slammed his massive head against my leg to let me know he needed attention.
A fresh oversized sheet of foam board sat on the easel, blocking the photos from the murder scene. Beth still sat where I’d left her, now surrounded by white take-out boxes of food. The pungent odor of curry filled the air.
“Chinese?” I asked.
“Thai. Try that and that.” She pointed at two boxes. “Do you like spicy? No. Don’t answer that. The only two dishes I’ve ever seen prepared by you are frozen pizza and tuna noodle casserole.”
“What’s wrong with my casserole?”
“Ask anyone who’s tried it.” She pointed again. “Stay away from that one and probably that one.”
I picked up a paper plate and loaded it with the remaining food items. “Whaja fin out?” I said around a mouthful of something with rice.
Beth tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I did an Internet search for Holly Greene and Idaho to limit the search. Here’s where it gets interesting. Or creepy. Six years ago, a Holly Greene started writing letters to the editor that would appear in Kamiah’s local weekly paper.”
The skin on my neck prickled. “So Holly’s alive! No other information?”
“The dates of the letters varied, the last one written over a year ago, and the subject was usually pretty bland. The initials SHN appeared after her name.”
“Maybe a clue to another name? Maybe Jacob’s new name, or . . . I don’t know.”
Beth shrugged. “I tried SHN as an Internet search. It yielded almost eleven and a half million hits, so I needed to narrow it down more. I went back to the Kamiah area and kept digging. I typed SHN along with the names of the different towns around here.”
“And?”
“One interesting hit came up when I typed in SHN and Orofino, a small town between here and Kamiah. Though Orofino has just over three thousand residents, it has several things that caught my attention. It’s home to a prison and a mental hospital.”
“Prison . . .”
“Specifically, a men’s prison. But SHN might have referred to State Hospital North. It’s the mental hospital.”
I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants. “Go on.”
“I took a chance, called the hospital, and asked to speak to Holly Greene. They said no one was there by that name. But”—Beth grinned— “ just as I was about to hang up, they said they did have a Lucinda Holly Greene.”
“So—”
“So your Holly Greene is not only alive, but living there.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AS I STROLLED FROM ONE CORNER OF THE ROOM TO the other, my brain examined the news of Holly’s whereabouts from every angle. Why was Holly committed to a mental hospital? How long had she been there? And where was Jacob?
“Gwen.” Beth stood in front of me and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I know finding out about Holly is a shocker, but you’re upsetting your dog again.”
Sure enough, Winston was sitting up and panting with nervous, ropy drool hanging from his dewlaps. I sat on the floor beside him and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry, old boy.”
Winston slimed my pants with his drool and gave me a juicy burp.
“By the way, did you hear from Aynslee?” Beth asked.
“Oh. Yes. How did you know?”
“She called me. She seemed upset.”
“Why did she call you?”
Beth tilted her head. “She hoped I could give her a better idea of when you were coming home.”
“I’m afraid I was rather vague with her.” I rubbed my eyes, hoping a headache wasn’t forming. Do I have other family? Why didn’t anyone look for me?
“Maybe what you should do is treat your mysterious past like one of your cases.” Beth moved to my forensic art kit and pulled out a sketchpad. “Write those known and unknown columns?”
“Of course! Why didn’t I think of it?” I took the sketchpad from her.
“You have a bit on your mind right now. Double homicide, missing child, stolen car, not to mention this new job.”
“And Aynslee’s upcoming custody—” I clamped my mouth shut, but it was too late.
Beth spun in my direction. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, nothing, just let it go.”
“Is that why Aynslee called? There are days I’d just like to shoot Robert.”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
Pulling out the DVDs from the Easter egg hunt, I settled down with my old computer. “I need to look at these, but in the meantime, could you start the second piece of foam board with all we’ve gathered so far on my past, Holly, Jacob, the plane crash, notes, and so on?”
The video was typical amateur filming, with the operator moving too fast and jerking up and down. After twenty minutes, I was seasick, my eyes gritty, and that headache was forming. The shots were probably taken by the parents or grandparents of three different sets of children, and the focus was on them. A beautiful Beatrice appeared in all three. In spite of myself, my eyes filled with tears over the priceless little girl. Please, Lord, keep her safe.
I looked at the faces of men, their body language, clothing, and shoes. Unlike composites
, which are usually just the face, in video I could watch movement.
None of the brief appearances of Beatrice showed anyone paying her undue attention.
Finishing up the work, I wrote up a report and e-mailed it to Chief Kus. My morning meeting with the task force would prove to be another disappointing report.
Yanking out a sketchpad, I wrote Known on one side of the paper and Unknown on the other. Under Known I wrote recognized Two Rivers house, locations where we moved and when we moved (roughly every year), Jacob, Holly. I added admitted to state mental hospital after Holly. Under Unknown I wrote Why taken? What happened to Holly and Jacob after I left? Any connection with me and current homicide? I added When Holly admitted to mental hospital?
“What can I do to help?” Beth asked.
I tapped the paper with my pencil and thought for a moment. “Could you look up visiting hours at the mental hospital?”
“Are you going to see her? Will you recognize her after all these years? What do you think happened to her son? Do you think this house is somehow related to all that happened to you?”
“Mmm.”
“Gwen, hello? Where are you? You usually answer me like, ‘Yes, probably, I don’t know, possibly.’”
“Well, see? You’re learning something.” I sounded lame.
Beth bent over her laptop for a moment. “They list visiting hours as ‘reasonable.’”
Glancing outside at the thick blanket of darkness, I sighed. “I suppose—”
“Yes. It’s too late. Get some rest.”
Winston trailed me into the room and flopped on the floor. I pulled the curtains and undressed, pulling on a smoky-gray cotton lounge outfit. I didn’t think sleep was possible as I slid between the crisp white sheets.
Winston erupted with frantic barking.
Adrenaline shot through me. I leaped from bed. The clock said two in the morning.
Winston was focused on the window. I patted him to quiet his barking, then peeked out the curtains. My room overlooked a lawn and a corner of the parking lot. A dim yellow streetlight illuminated small sections of asphalt wet by rain and cast deep pools of shadow. Grabbing a jacket, I snapped on Winston’s leash, then stuffed my Glock in my pocket.
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