by Dani Pettrey
“Thanks for coming.” He shook his friend’s hand.
Parker paused his work. “Hey, man.” He gave Declan a man hug—straight arm—pat on the back—more chest bump than actual hug, but still far too touchy-feely for Griffin’s taste. “Glad you could make it.”
“Griff said dawn, but I’m sure you were here hours ago.” He lowered his glasses, shifting his attention to Finley. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”
Griffin made the introduction. “Declan Grey, Dr. Finley Scott.”
“Glad to meet you.” She shook Declan’s hand, and Griffin tried to ignore the irritation Declan’s overly pleasant smile at Finley had on him. It was no wonder both he and Parker were flirtatious—Finley was gorgeous—but he didn’t have to like it.
“I hear you three go back quite a ways,” she said.
Declan glanced at Parker, his brown eyes filling with pleasure, or at least nostalgia. “You telling stories out of school again?”
“Just the good ones.” He winked.
“Actually,” Finley said, “all I’ve heard is that you used to play Little League together.”
“Which is more than enough background on us,” Griff said, needing to nip any further conversation on that topic in the bud. “We need to focus on the job at hand.”
Parker chuckled. “There’s the Griff we all know. Work. Work. Work.”
“Work is how stuff gets done.” Adherence to rules. Integrity. Focus. Not allowing feelings to intervene or emotions to distract. That’s how people got hurt.
“Speaking of work . . .” Declan said, stepping to the grave’s edge. At least one of his friends knew how to take work seriously, life seriously. “What do we have here, Dr. Scott?”
“A lot of work ahead of us. I’ve set up and mapped the grid. Parker will assist with collecting samples as well as photographing the scene.”
Declan arched his brow at Parker. “Don’t you usually have an assistant?”
“She’s out of town right now. Could have mustered someone up, but not the best on such late notice. Don’t worry, I know how to photograph a scene, and I’ll have my photographer run through all the shots when she returns tomorrow morning.”
“No problem,” Finley said. “Griffin, would you mind taking notes as we go? Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”
Parker knelt by the grave. “He won’t have a problem.”
Griffin gave him a death glare. If he brought up his job with the Baltimore PD or his sniper expertise . . . it would only fuel questions on Finley’s part—ones he most definitely did not want to answer.
Reaching for the sketchpad and pencil she held out, he flipped to a fresh page.
“Let’s get started.” She shifted naturally into her concentrated work mode that was such a pleasure to watch. “Let’s begin with surface surveying and recovery, then we’ll remove the top layer of soil and vegetation and progress to a bisection from there.”
“What kind of bullet caused that?” Parker asked, snapping a close-up of the victim’s head. He turned to Griffin at the same time Declan did.
Finley’s brows pinched. “Why are you both looking at Griffin?” What was the deal with him? His mastery over the situation in the woods—hearing something she never would have if he hadn’t stilled her, zeroing in on whomever was watching, which still had her shaken—and now everyone’s deference to his apparent ballistics knowledge. Clearly there was more to Ranger McCray than met the eye. She just wished he didn’t intrigue her so. He was not where her thoughts ought to be focused.
“Because Griffin is—” Declan said.
“I know something about bullets,” Griffin cut him off, kneeling to examine the wound. “My initial guess would be a 7.62 millimeter.”
Finley pursed her lips to speak, but Declan jumped in, interrupting her. “Any way to tell the distance?”
Griffin shook his head. “Not enough information. I mean, I can tell you it wasn’t at close range—that would have caused significantly more damage—but I’m sure Dr. Scott will be able to confirm specifics with her exam.”
What was it about Griffin that he or they didn’t want her to know? Uneasiness sloshed in her gut. She needed to be able to trust the people around her. It was essential.
“I’m done with this round,” Parker said, lowering the camera to his side, clearing them to move forward with the next level of samples and evidence collection.
Thankful for the need to focus, she shifted her attention to what they’d found so far—remnants of a battered Las Vegas 51s baseball hat and hair fibers.
She moved on to measuring the bullet wound, and Griffin was correct. The victim had been shot dead center of the forehead with a 7.62 mm bullet, but she still wouldn’t make any official declarations or rulings until her full exam had been performed at the lab. She had worked enough cases to know when to remain silent. Reporters were already lining the parking lots below; news spread like lightning these days.
Taking into account the graduation ring—with no obvious identifying details—baseball hat, and the minor root etching on the bones, there was no doubt they were dealing with a modern body dump. Based on the initial analysis, she’d guess sometime in the last year.
“How long has he or she been in the ground?” Declan asked.
“I can’t comment until I perform my exam,” she said.
“Are we dealing with male or female?”
“Again, I can’t comment until I perform my exam.”
“Can you estimate?” Griffin asked.
Of course Griffin felt a stake in this. The victim had been found on his grounds, his watch.
“I’d prefer not to. An incorrect estimation can start the investigation out on the wrong foot. Once astray it’s much harder to redirect to the right path.”
Griffin nodded. “I can respect that.”
“How soon can you start getting me results?” Declan asked.
“One step at a time. The first is to get the remains transported to the lab.”
A flurry of reporters had set up camp at the edge of the crime scene tape—they’d been able to secure a wide perimeter, but the reporters had flocked all the same. They always did.
And he’d blended in perfectly. Even asked a question or two. Just enough to get the necessary information.
They’d found her. He was sure of it.
Time to make the call.
6
Finley settled back for the ride to the lab, still surprised Griffin had offered to drive her. She shifted her focus to her surroundings, trying to both distract herself from the fact that she was alone with a man in his vehicle and to also learn as much as she could about said man, since a talker he was not.
She took mental inventory of the contents of his truck. A pack of sunflower seeds sat in the center console, a coffee tumbler in the cup holder, and a pair of Oakley sunglasses in the pocket of the overhead visor. An O’s decal decorated the glove box. So he was an Orioles fan.
She let the contents sink in, imagining what sort of person the owner would be if he weren’t present. It matched the picture she had in her mind of the man beside her, but after his interaction with Parker and Declan, it was clear he was hiding something. Question was, what?
Start subtle.
“Have you always been a park ranger?”
He glanced over without fully turning his head, his gaze on the road. “No.”
“What’d you do before?”
“Something different.”
“I figured as much.” She stared at his silence. Was he seriously going to ignore her question? “Such as?” she prodded. Clearly it involved ballistics knowledge.
He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. “How well do you know Parker?”
Was this his way of answering or avoiding her question? “We’ve worked together off and on for a year.”
“Just worked together?” His posture was relaxed, his left arm casually extended, his hand draped over the wheel, but something tol
d her this was no casual question. She studied the tightness of his jaw. Was he jealous? No way, this was Ranger McCray. Strong, stalwart, confident. Certainly not interested in her.
“Is it a complicated question?” he ventured.
He still hadn’t answered hers. “Was mine?”
His lips cracked into a smile, but infuriatingly, he still said nothing, so she returned the favor.
“Well?” Tightness edged the man’s voice.
He lowered his, still in the building. “They have her at the ME’s office.”
“And?”
“Waiting on a positive ID.”
“And Tanner?”
“I’m closing in.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You want me to strike preemptively?”
“If they ID our girl, it’ll lead them straight to our door. Make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Finley glanced at the clock. Where was John, the lab tech, with Jane Doe’s body? After arriving at the lab, she’d left the annoyingly silent Griffin in the lounge with Declan. What was he hiding about his past work? And why from her?
Parker had disappeared to his lab as usual when they had a new case, and she’d called to ask John to transport Jane Doe to the exam room nearly twenty minutes ago.
Five frustrating minutes later, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
Griffin and Declan remained in the lounge conversing, neither appearing to notice her pass by the open door. Her curiosity about their relationship along with Griffin’s knowledge of ballistics rose, but she remained on task, stalking down the dimly lit corridor toward the arrival bay.
Don’t focus on the darkness. You aren’t alone. It’s not the same. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore.
Frustrated she’d allowed herself to get worked up again, she chugged down a soothing breath as she turned the corner. I am safe. How many times did she have to work to convince herself of that?
“Give it time,” everyone said.
She was tired of giving it time. It’d been long enough.
She just wanted to feel normal again.
Wrapping her fingers around the cold steel handle, she pushed the door in.
John lay facedown on the floor, blood pooling around his head. “John!” She shrieked, rushing toward him, but movement shifted her attention. A man in black hefted Jane Doe’s bagged body onto a stretcher.
“Hey!”
He looked up, but the room was too dark to make out the details of his face—and he was wearing a dark hoodie pulled low to his eyes.
His right arm swung up and instinct urged her to hit the ground. She collided with the cold tiles as a shot whizzed overhead with a soft whir, lodging in the wall behind her.
As another shot collided with the steel she dove for the door and scrambled for the janitorial closet across the hall.
Her pulse throbbing in her throat, she reached the closet and shut the door, her chest rising and falling in rapid pace with her breath.
Please, Father . . . was all she could manage through the terror gripping her. Her heart ticking in her throat, she waited.
Listening for footsteps was nearly impossible over the hammering in her ears.
She waited, each breath labored, shallow, her chest tightening.
He wasn’t coming.
Relief filled her . . . but then the realization hit.
He is taking Jane Doe.
As petrified as she was, she couldn’t let him do that. Couldn’t let him deny Jane Doe her real name or her family closure. It’s why she did what she did—to bring justice to those who could no longer fight for themselves. Though she was weak, her Savior was strong.
Swallowing her fear, she cracked the door and with clammy hands gripped the edge, staring into the corridor.
Please, Father, help me to be brave.
Something squeaked to her right. Her heart racing, she leaned farther into the hall. The man was wheeling Jane Doe’s body away.
Griffin glanced at the hall. He’d heard something. It was muffled, but . . .
Declan cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought I heard . . .”
“What?”
“A gunshot.”
“Trust me, if there was a gunshot in the ME’s office, we’d all be on full alert.”
Griffin strode to the door. “It sounded like a silencer.”
“Silencer?” Declan followed him into the hall. “Then how did you . . . Never mind.” He shook his head.
Griffin moved toward the arrival bay, toward the origin of the sound. “It came from this direction.”
Finley’s silhouette darted down the side hall with a mop poised upright in her hands. What on earth? He looked back at Declan.
“This way,” he said. “We can cut her off.”
Following Declan around the bend, they froze as they reached the guard station. The guard was slumped sideways in his chair, blood trickling from his nose.
Heat flared in Griffin’s chest, spreading through his limbs. Finley.
The outside bay door opened, and he raced for it, pulling the fire alarm as he went, Declan fast on his heels.
Don’t be stupid, Finley.
Red lights whirled along the beige walls, intensifying his adrenaline rush.
Sirens shrilled nearby—the fire station only two blocks over.
Hammering through the bay doors he found Finley on the ground, her arms wrapped around the metal stretcher leg.
Was that Jane Doe?
A police cruiser and fire truck approached, their lights radiating out over the darkness, illuminating a black van as it sped away.
He dropped to the ground and lifted her onto his lap. “Finley?”
She groggily came to, blinking. “Hey.” She smiled. “You called me Finley.”
He smiled despite the dire circumstances.
Declan rushed past them, firing at the van tearing out of the parking lot.
Griffin smoothed the hair from Finley’s brow, checking her for signs of injury. “What happened?”
“That man killed John and tried to steal Jane Doe.”
“So you decided to stop him with a mop?”
“It’s all I could find. I jammed it through the stretcher wheel spokes, and he went flailing forward with his momentum. Unfortunately, I did too. Last thing I remember seeing was the metal stretcher edge in front of my face and emergency lights swirling in the distance. Good call on the alarm.”
“The benefits of having a police and fire station within walking distance.”
An EMT knelt at Finley’s side. “Let me take a look at you.”
She waved him off as another moved to John. “I’m fine.” But it was clearly too late for John.
“Looks like you took a knock to the head.” The EMT insisted on examining her. “This’ll just take a minute.”
She started to protest, but Griffin cut her off. “Let the man do his job.”
She nodded and then winced, clearly regretting the motion.
Declan returned.
Griffin didn’t have to ask—his friend’s angry face said it all. The man got away.
“I appreciate you offering to stay,” Finley said as Griffin accompanied her back toward her exam room and away from the chaos. “But it’s not necessary.”
“Yes it is.” Someone had broken into the medical examiner’s office, for goodness’ sake—had killed the lab tech, knocked out the security guard, and taken a shot at Finley. It was the definition of an unsafe environment, and his years in SWAT had trained him perfectly for such things.
“I won’t be alone. As you can see. . . .” She gestured to the spinning red-and-blue lights outside the corridor windows. “The cops are here in abundance.”
“They aren’t going to be in the lab with you.” Only on the perimeter after the building was deemed secure, if they followed standard protocol. That wasn’t good enough.
“Parker will be here. He won’t leave until he’s worked every piec
e of evidence. Trust me—I know him.”
That’s exactly what he’d thought too until . . .
Parker rushed into the exam room. “What happened?” His worried gaze shifted to Finley, and he stepped toward her. “Are you okay?”
She rubbed her arms. “I’m fine, but John’s dead.”
“What?” Parker’s eyes widened.
“And he tried to kill Finley too.” Outrage spewed from Griffin’s lips.
“I’m so sorry.” Parker grasped her shoulders. “I had my headphones on, and my lab doesn’t have a window. . . . It took me a moment to figure out what was happening. Any idea who he was?”
Finley shook her head. “I only saw him briefly and not well, but I didn’t recognize him.”
“What about security footage?” Griffin asked. The ME’s building had to be decked out with it.
“Police say the man kept his head down, hoodie on. They got no clear image,” Declan said, entering and leaning against the counter.
“Any idea why someone would try to steal the body?” Griffin asked, attempting to ignore the fact Parker’s hands were still on Finley’s shoulders.
Finley inhaled. “To prevent ID would be my best guess.”
“Which means the killer is aware we found her.” And was likely the same person they’d chased through the woods last night.
“Which means he’s close,” Declan said, echoing Griffin’s thoughts.
He looked at the bruise on Finley’s forehead. “Too close.”
He watched them through his scope. The same group from the crime scene, now all at the ME’s lab. They were going to work this one hard.
His jaw tightened.
Tonight’s events had taken an unexpected and decidedly unsatisfactory turn.
His finger itched to pull the trigger, but a dead forensic anthropologist would only stir the hornet’s nest.
He held his breath, wanting—no, aching—to squeeze the trigger, but he released his hold and rolled off his stomach.
Standing, he took one last glance over his shoulder, the distance too far to see them without the aid of a scope. This wouldn’t be the last time he had them in his sights, and next time—when the timing was right—he’d happily pull the trigger.