Death Scent

by D. L. Keur

  Reaching the two of them, he saw Jessie putting shards of something into an evidence bag her father held open for her. “Find anything significant?” he asked, handing them each a cup and taking the last one of two remaining for himself.

  “Not really,” Jessica answered. “Just more bits and pieces. I think, totaled up, we’ve got two bodies scattered here, all of it scavenged by wildlife. Can’t find sign of the original dump site.”

  Far above, a dog yipped. Jessie Anderson and her dad both looked up toward the sound. So did Reid. “You stay. Finish your coffee,” Jessie said. “I’ll go.”

  Reid watched the young woman climb toward where a big, blonde shepherd stood. He watched her bend down, say something to the dog, then pull out a big evidence bag from one of her pockets. Then came the cameras, the camera flashes bright in the morning gloom. Finally, she reached down, picked up something round and big, then stuck it inside the evidence bag. “Skull number three,” she called down.

  Reid groaned.

  Oli Anderson shook his head.

  “We’re going to be here all day, again,” Reid said.

  “All week, you mean.”

  Reid didn’t want to think about it. But he had to. “Guess I’m going to have to listen to Martin and get us some help,” he answered.

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  *

  Calling the FBI, first, which netted him a promise of them being there late the following day, he called for help from surrounding counties, too. That netted him a small team of five skilled people to help collect and catalogue the evidence the dogs found. By the end of day three, they had found a total of seven skulls, some with flesh still on them. Those, in particular, made Reid’s stomach do flip flops. He wound up chewing antacids like candy to keep ‘the queasies’ at bay.

  Day Four had the FBI teams there, too—forensic criminologists and a profiling team, to boot. They brought a couple of FEMA HRD teams with them—a man and a woman, each with their own dog. They kept themselves respectful, a Special Agent Andy Newsome acting as a go-between liaison.

  Landon immediately felt comfortable around the man. None of them tried to run over the top of him with the usual arrogance and disdain for ‘country cops’ that his father had encountered the few times he’d called them in. Landon was grateful.

  Jessica’s father stayed with her the whole week as they worked on covering the south slope of Long Peak using an efficient grid pattern set up by the FBI. The ME, Dr. Lorenson, managed to get a couple of retired doctors, including Jessica’s grandmother, plus some forensic experts out of Spokane and from the ISP’s Meridian facility to help him, and, with teamwork, they began to be able to sort through what belonged to whom and get a basic timeline.

  Frieda Bates had, in fact, been among the victims, dental records confirmed. So had Lily Thompson. Two other missing persons in county records were among the victims, as well, but the identities belonging to three of the skulls remained a mystery. The FBI team sent a rush request on the DNA and dental scans to one of their labs, but got no hits, either.

  “Try Canada,” Reid suggested, and, sure enough, within a few days, they had an answer for two of the three remaining skulls—Canadians who had disappeared the previous summer. Those Canadians had, supposedly, never left Canada, though. There was no record of them having crossed the border. Canadian RCMP authorities—Mounties—arrived within a day of identifying them. Then, to Landon’s surprise, in a gesture of cooperation between countries, the RCMP stayed and pitched in their expertise—all of them forensic pathologists and criminologists. “Could be more of our citizens who are victims,” the Canadians said. “We’ve got at least another four who have disappeared without a trace, some leaving young children.” Reid had Barry Olmstead, who was stuck keeping things running in the office, get them booked into the best rooms of their best motel.

  “We need to inform the public,” Martin said.

  Agent Newsome shook his head ‘no’, but Landon agreed with Martin.

  “We need to make sure that folks know that, if somebody, especially a twenty-to-thirty something female doesn’t come home on time, to contact us immediately,” Martin pressed.

  “Oh, that’s going to be swell,” Barry said. “Put everybody in a panic, and, if somebody happens to stop to pick up something at the store, we’ve got hysterical phone calls coming in because they’re twenty minutes late.”

  “Better than having more dead bodies,” Martin shot back. “Besides, I’m betting most already know what’s going down, with all the civilians we’ve got helping with the roadblocks. Word travels.”

  They were sitting in Reid’s office, poring over the evidence reports. It was nearing nine at night, and Reid was feeling it. So, obviously, was everybody else. But Reid understood Barry’s predicament. It was Barry who was saddled with running the day-to-day operations now that half of them were either guarding the roads, doing perimeter duty, or traipsing all over Long Peak trailing after HRD dogs, and what little was left of his force was covering everything all of them usually handled.

  “Who are we looking for as a suspect, though? We’ve got nothing,” Barry pursued, frustration edging his voice.

  What he said was true. The murdered man, a Stewart Walsh, matched the DNA evidence found on both Sue Bigsby and Debbie Fergus. His thumbs also matched the strangulation thumb marks Lorenson and the ISP lab at Meridian had come up with. Who murdered Walsh, though, was a complete mystery. The only probable potential suspects—Sue Bigsby’s father and brothers—all had alibis. The dad and one of the brothers had been at work at the sawmill, and the other one had been getting ready for school.

  And there was still no sign of the red truck. The biggest mystery for Landon was why the perp or perps were focused on Long Peak as a dumping ground, and, now, a killing ground, too. “You know, Barry, I want a helicopter. Get one,” Landon said.

  Yet, again, Barry objected. “We don’t—”

  Landon rounded on him. “Captain? You know, for a master of organization and bureaucracy, and you are that, you always seem to want to throw up obstacles when it comes to spending money. We will have a helicopter for this office, if you and I have to go hat-in-hand to every citizen in this county for donations. I want a copter, and I want a pilot. On staff. Too much country in this county to be without one. Should have had one a long time ago. Now, get to it.”

  “Yes, sir. …That’s going to take time, though.”

  Landon felt himself deflate as suddenly as he’d gotten up on his high horse. Barry was right. It would. And he needed one now.

  His eye caught at the locked metal cabinet where Jessica Anderson’s drones were stashed. He turned back to Barry. “You get the paperwork started on getting us a bird and a pilot. Like I said, you’re real good at this kind of stuff, so be real good this time, and get them as fast as you can.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do. …Used bird okay?”

  “Yes. And a ‘used’ pilot is okay, too,” he said dryly. “Just make sure he or she is good. I’d prefer retired military.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ***

  35 – Return of the Drones

  “You’re losing weight, Jessica Marie,” her gram said, dropping four steaks on the smoking grill.

  Jessica reached up and turned the vent fan to high as her gram began to sear them, both sides, then turned the grill down when her gram nodded to.

  “I’m going to do scrambled eggs,” Jessie said. “How about peppers, onions, and mushrooms mixed in?”

  “That sounds good,” Ana-Mari said, flipping a steak. “We need to make some hash browns, too. Use the packaged ones in the freezer.”

  Jessica grabbed a big pack, sticking them in the microwave right in their package. Set the timer and power level, then hit the start button. “Started,” she called. She dropped bread into the twelve-slice toaster, but didn’t turn it on. That would happen after the eggs were about half done.

  “Got the warming oven on?” her gram asked. />
  “Oops.”

  “Someone’s just turned up our drive,” her granddad called.

  “Who is it?” Jessica asked.

  “Looks like the sheriff, maybe. Or one of his deputies. Think it’s the sheriff, though. Got that hat on.”

  “Grab another steak from the walk-in, Jessica,” Ana-Mari said.

  “Why?”

  Her grandmother rolled her eyes sideways at her.

  “Okay.”

  *

  Up way before he had been ready to be, Landon had hit the road at half-past-three. It was pouring rain—miserable weather.

  Passing out coffees to the men and woman manning the road blocks from four insulated totes he had in the back, he’d had to double back to get back to the east fork that led to the Anderson place. The difference between the county road and the Anderson drive was like night and day—no potholes. He stuck his foot into it, mindful of the gravel, came around a curve and hit the brakes, barely missing a small herd of cows that bolted. He kept his foot out of it the rest of the way, just hoping he’d make it before they left for the mountain.

  “Who has a mile and a half long driveway?” he muttered, pulling in, but he saw that, yes, indeed, the rigs were still there and the lights were on, though it was just four-thirty. Somebody noticed his lights—probably couldn’t help but, what with the ruckus the dogs were making. But, then, the Andersons had security cameras, too, so they probably already knew it was him.

  Sure enough, as he parked near enough the house so he wouldn’t have to tote the gear so far, the door opened and a thankfully unarmed Oli Anderson flipped porch lights on. “Coffee’s on,” the man said. “My mom’s making steak and hash browns for us, if you’re interested?”

  God, he’d love some. Didn’t feel comfortable accepting. “No. I just came to beg some help.”

  “Mom’s already put another steak on the grill for you. Don’t insult my mom. She can be formidable, as you know, and she’s very skilled with a scalpel,” Oli said, grabbing his crotch.

  Landon laughed. “Okay. I accept.”

  “Good. Now, what’s up?” Oli asked, and a frown came down. “You’ve already got our help. What more can we do?”

  “I need air power.”

  Oli looked him askance.

  “If you’d come help me juggle this gear,” Landon said.

  The man didn’t even hesitate, despite the downpour. Oli came up beside him, and Landon heard him grunt. Then he turned back toward the house and hollered, “Jessie, come here.” Returning his attention to Landon, he said, “Best let her.”

  “Okay.”

  When the girl—woman—finally arrived, her dogs bounding out around her as usual, she stopped dead, her face blanking, then suddenly going flushed in the glare of the security lights.

  That look said it all for Landon. He should have returned them a long time ago. If he’d known then what he knew now about metadata, he wouldn’t have taken them, at all, though how and why pieces of tech could be so important to her, he couldn’t fathom.

  *

  Jessie listened to the sheriff’s problem over breakfast. She listened to his idea of a solution. And she thought—out loud—so everyone could hear. “If I take off one of the cameras, I can extend their maximum outgoing flight time by fifty percent. For what you’re talking about, we don’t need infrared. If we find we need the IR, it’s a quick job to reattach those cameras.”

  “What is their flight time?” Reid asked.

  “With all the standard cameras mounted, it’s thirty minutes outgoing. If we dismount the IR, that increases to forty-five outgoing, with the roundtrip an hour and a half. We can also extend outgoing flight time if we use a crisscross search pattern, then bring them back on a straight-line trajectory. I’ve only flown them real time once, though, so I haven’t tested any of this. But it works in the simulator, and it’s what their spec sheets and manuals say.”

  “The flight you caught the perp on was their maiden flight?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Sorry.”

  “Me, too,” she said, and saw him blanch. “I don’t have a lot of practice using them, is what I mean, Sheriff Reid. I know the rules of authentication and the rules of chain of evidence in law enforcement. You did what you thought you had to.”

  “Is it doable?” her dad asked quietly.

  “Their proximity sensors seemed to work well when they were chasing the red truck. I can program them on a course, put them on semi-auto-pilot and allow them to self-adjust, so, yes, I think so.”

  “Who will run the dogs, though?” her grandmother asked softly.

  “Maybe Dad can,” Jessica said, but she was dubious.

  The subjects in question were watching, listening, and, Jessie had no doubt, probably catching a sense of quandary in their human’s voice—hers.

  Her dad shook his head. “Dicey.”

  “All we can do is try,” Jessica responded. “I think they’ll work for you. You’ve been out there with us all week.”

  “Yeah. Don’t I know it. Bones, bones, and more bones, some with remnant bits of gristle,” he said, spitting the words out like a bad taste.

  “It’s not fun for any of us,” Ana-Mari said softly. “I’m gaining much more respect for the job forensic pathologists do. And, honestly, I am very glad I chose to heal the living, not learn from the dead.”

  *

  They hit the mountainside a half hour later than usual. Luckily, the rain—snow, up here—had quit.

  Landon made his rounds. The reports were just the same—no movement except wildlife.

  Making his way back around to the south slope, he saw Jessie and her father working on getting her dogs comfortable with him as their handler. To his eye, it looked to be going well. What do I know?

  Not much.

  The crunch of boots….

  He turned to see Jessica Anderson coming down between the broken, pillar-like basalt columns that had fallen from the smaller upper falls area of the creek run. “Is everything going all right?” he asked her as she neared.

  “They’re confused, but trying. We’re bonded, so it’s tough for them not having me there.”

  “I bet.”

  “You know much about dogs?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing. Cat and horse person, here. I do admire the one you call Acer, though. That’s some dog.”

  “All men like Acer, but, all my dogs are something, once you get to know them. If you’re not doing anything, I could use your help to plot the search grid. I’m not exactly sure what you want to search for and how.”

  “Okay. Lead on.”

  She’d brought her Suburban, a huge, relatively old, and ugly vehicle that was obviously kept in excellent repair. He understood her father’s choice, because, yes, he’d checked. The vehicle had been bought for the girl—woman, he self-corrected yet again—by Oli before she’d gone off to university. It was a tough, versatile rig, custom-fitted with heavy reinforcements and rollbars. The man wanted to keep his daughter safe. Reid respected that. He wondered if the girl did.

  “Why are you staring at my rig?” she asked.

  Startled out of his reverie, he said, “Huh?”

  “You’re staring.”

  “Nothing. …I was just thinking that they used to build rigs with full frames like this. Not so much, now.”

  “You sound like Dad.”

  Yeah, but no crumple zones, he didn’t add.

  Opening the back, she pulled some cords out, hooked them to some batteries she had mounted against the third row seat backs, then plugged them into the laptop. Pulling other cords off the cases holding the drones, she laid the cases over and punched in the ID code that released their locks. Popping the case latches, she opened up the lids and there sat the UAVs.

  Reid pulled breath. They looked completely alien, like something out of a Sci-Fi movie. He backed away when she tried to hand him one. “Ah…. I might break it. Bull in a china closet, and all, you know.”
>
  She laughed. “Just hold it and don’t drop it. I promise it won’t bite.”

  Grabbing the other one in one hand, she touched something, and little feet popped down out of the one she was holding. She set it down.

  Coming over to him, she took the thing, again touched something to extend its feet, then set it down near the other one.

  “Now, for the hard part,” she told him.

  “Ah, you mind if I call Deputy Kins?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “Well…. I don’t know. But he flies these things, and he’d die and go to heaven watching.”

  “Sure.”

  Reid put in the call to the young man, then said, “He’ll be right down.”

  “He’s nearby?”

  “Yeah. Just up the road a bit.”

  “Great.”

  He saw her glance up the mountain, realized she was checking on her dogs. Opening her laptop, she brought up what looked like a satellite map. “This is here,” she said. “When I start the drones’ cameras….” She indicated an icon. “…This map will underlay the live-stream feeds, aligning by GPS. What I need from you, though, is where and how you want to search, and what exactly we are searching for?”

  “The truck,” he said. “It’s got to be still up here somewhere, even if the….” He almost said killer, then amended himself. “…Driver isn’t.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Signs of a human roughing it?”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you program all that in?”

  “Not really, but I can set up parameters like shapes, movement, colors—in this case, red—things like that.”

  “Is that inside those machines?” He nodded toward the drones.

  She shook her head. “It’s in the software analyzing the live-feeds.”

  “The software on your laptop,” he said, frowning.

  “Yes. The AI is pretty good, actually, but a lot of it is the operator—in this case, me—catching things as the drones deliver what they’re recording.”

  “Pretty amazing.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m here,” hollered Kins.