“You don’t know the half of it. See you there in ten.”
Exactly nine minutes later, Maggie left the highway after the sign for Crown Pointe High School and followed Ocoee Parkway as it curved into darkness. She came to a small roundabout and went right, then hit the brakes, throwing herself forward against the seat belt, suddenly in no rush to reach her destination.
Less than one hundred yards ahead, flashing police lights projected red-and-blue specters on the curbside trees. Half a dozen EMS vehicles, including a big red Ocoee FD ambulance, were crowding the roadway leading to the school. Fifty yards away, where yellow-and-black police tape was strung across the full width of the road, a white sheriff’s cruiser was parked at an angle across the lanes. Slightly closer still, a gray minivan was parked against the curb.
Although Ocoee Parkway had been rerouted since the last time she’d been here, the sudden feeling of familiarity was striking, overwhelming even, and the coolness still lingering in her belly grew into a chill.
“Get a grip,” she told herself. “It was a lifetime ago.”
Even so, Maggie’s sudden sense of dread was real, and it required focus to push down the memories trying to claw their way to the surface.
Not now.
A deputy sheriff spotted her car loitering at the roundabout and began to walk toward her, waving his flashlight. Maggie drove toward him, pulling up behind the minivan. The deputy looked to be thirtyish, with a crispness to his olive-green shirt that spoke more of his obsessiveness than it did his pride in wearing the uniform.
“Ma’am,” he said as she climbed out, “I’m afraid you can’t be here. We have a situation back there. You’re going to have to get back in your vehicle and . . .” His words trailed off as his flashlight blinded her. “Detective Novak?”
She squinted from behind her hand. “It’s me. Can you . . . ?”
He lowered the flashlight. “I apologize, ma’am. I didn’t recognize you there for a second. Not with all the”—he rotated a finger—“Halloween stuff going on.”
In her haste to ditch the dress, Maggie had completely forgotten to wipe away the gothic makeup that Nora had insisted on applying, as though the witch costume hadn’t been torture enough. Added to the white forelock sprayed into her dark hair, and it was no wonder the deputy hadn’t recognized her right away.
She blinked at the afterimages flashing in her vision. “It’s Deputy Ramos, right?”
He seemed surprised that she remembered his name, and maybe even a little flattered. With more than one thousand active deputies spread across the county, her recognizing him by sight alone must have seemed impressive.
But Maggie had a thing for faces.
“How’s your little boy?” she asked.
Now, his surprise was even more conspicuous.
“Doing great,” he said, face brightening. “Thanks for asking. His doctors expect a full recovery.”
“That’s wonderful.”
She’d first met Deputy Ramos about six months ago at a suicide by hanging in Azalea Park. At that point, he’d been on patrol less than a week, unlucky enough to be the first responder at the scene. She remembered his pallor that day being as green as his uniform, but not because of the young man’s body hanging from the light fixture. That same week, Ramos’s five-year-old son had been diagnosed with a critical illness, and things had been touch and go.
Maggie knotted her flyaway hair into a loose ponytail. “You’re the responding officer on this one, too?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Happy for me to take over as officer in charge?”
“Absolutely.” It looked like a weight had lifted off his shoulders. “It’s all yours.” He gestured for her to take the lead, and they began to make their way toward the cordon.
Maggie stole a peek inside the minivan as they passed, noting the child seats in the back and the tiny overlapping handprints on the glass.
“When did you get here?”
“Approximately fifty minutes ago. I took brief statements, after which I secured the scene and contacted dispatch to notify Deathtectives.”
Maggie smiled at his remark.
Deathtectives was the team name that Homicide Squad had adopted during an internal softball tournament a few years back, and it had stuck. There was even a trophy in the department cafeteria with the word Deathtectives engraved on its silver plaque. Some of her colleagues in Homicide Squad objected to the nickname, saying it diminished the department’s stature, but Maggie thought the nickname gave the squad added gravitas.
Don’t mess with the Deathtectives.
She clipped her holstered gun to her belt. “It was a local kid who called it in, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. His name’s Tyler Pruitt.”
“What do we know about this Tyler Pruitt?”
“Seventeen. Lives in Pine Hills. In his senior year, here at Crown Pointe.”
Maggie switched her gaze to the dark outline of the high school across the street, partially obscured by foliage and the fading light. As with the roadway leading here, the school had been completely rebuilt from scratch in recent years, and then renamed. Its shapes and angles were strange to her, and yet the mere sight of it compounded the coolness in her belly.
“The girl’s name is Lindy Munson.”
Maggie swung her gaze back to the deputy. “She’s the victim?”
For a second, the deputy looked confused. “No, ma’am. Munson is Pruitt’s girlfriend. Also seventeen and also from Pine Hills. She’s the one who found the body.”
“But it was Tyler who raised the alarm?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie made a mental note to listen to the 911 call. Valuable information could be gleaned from the words people chose to use in an emergency situation, and those they didn’t.
“Did Lindy say how she came to find the body?” she asked as they ducked under the police tape.
“She’s a mess. Not saying much. Aside from her details, I couldn’t get anything else out of her.”
They arrived at the sheriff’s cruiser, its flashing lights dazzling.
“So what were they doing out here, Lindy and Tyler?”
The deputy opened the driver’s door. “I couldn’t get a straight answer on that one. But my guess is, they were being typical teenagers—if you catch my drift. Pruitt’s car is parked near the head of the trail.” He reached inside and reemerged holding a clipboard. “This road is one big loop, but it dead-ends at the school. Once the caretakers are done for the day, pretty much nobody comes down here after dark.”
“Except for hormonal teenagers and murderers.” Maggie saw his mouth open and close in response to her comment. She took the clipboard from his hand. “Where’s the body located?”
“Down by the lake.”
“The clearing?” The chill in Maggie’s belly expanded into her chest.
“There’s a trail,” he said. “It leads through the woods to the water’s edge. Even with a flashlight, it’s a little tricky to navigate.”
She knew it well, but didn’t share the information. She wrote her name below Loomis’s on the sign-in sheet, jotting down her time of arrival. “Did they say how often they come down here after school?”
“She says often. He says never.”
“Okay.” Maggie handed back the clipboard. “Let’s speak with the kids.”
Tyler Pruitt and Lindy Munson were sitting underneath the raised trunk of a white Ford Explorer with green Sheriff’s Office decals. Two deputies stood at one side. The teenagers hadn’t been separated, but there was a noticeable gap between them.
Maggie showed them her badge on the end of the chain necklace. “Detective Novak. Orange County Sheriff’s Office. Everyone okay here?”
No response.
Maggie took out her phone and opened the camera app. “Okay. I know this has been a difficult evening for you guys, and I’m mindful of it. But your ongoing cooperation and patience is appreciated.”
Aga
in, neither of the teenagers responded to her introduction.
It looked like it would be one of those nights.
The girl was a leggy blonde with tear-swollen eyes and an angry graze on her chin. She had on a red tank top and a short denim skirt, and she was shivering despite the evening heat.
Maggie snapped a picture with her phone.
The boy was thick-set from the waist up, with an unruly mop of dark hair and a prominent chin that was probably the product of an underbite. He had on a navy-blue Crown Pointe sweatshirt and cream pants, his arms folded defensively across his chest.
“What’s with the photo?” he asked.
“Reference material.” Maggie checked the image quality before switching the camera app to video mode. “Plus, memory can be unreliable. It’s the reason why I’m also going to record this.”
“Isn’t that a violation of our rights?” he said.
“Not at all. There’s no expectation of privacy here.”
The boy looked slightly disappointed, probably because his smart comment hadn’t proven smart enough. Maggie saw his jaw muscles clench, and right away she had a handle on the kind of person Tyler Pruitt was: a kid with a box of matches and a fascination with fire.
Maggie positioned the phone so that both teenagers were in the frame. “Okay,” she said, starting the video recorder. “Let’s get down to business. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get you both home. First things first. Can you confirm your names for me?”
The boy scowled. “We did that already.”
“I need for you to do it again.” She saw his lips narrow into a defiant line. “But if it’s too much trouble, Deputy Ramos here can give you a ride back to the Sheriff’s Office. Get all your details on record. Could take the best part of the night, though.”
“Tyler Pruitt,” he snapped.
“What’s your address, Tyler?”
Instead of vocalizing it, he dug a hand into a pocket and produced his driver’s license, which he angled in front of Maggie’s phone. “There. Now can we get out of here?”
“Soon.” Maggie turned her attention to the girl. “It’s Lindy, right? Lindy Munson?”
The girl glanced up again, her gaze snagging on the phone before finding its way to Maggie’s face. She looked like she’d had the fright of her life and couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Maggie hadn’t forgotten the first time she’d seen a dead body, and the sight of it had disturbed her sleep for weeks. Even now, hundreds of dead bodies later, the memory of that first time still haunted her more than any other.
Maggie positioned her phone closer to the girl’s face, focusing on the welt on her chin. “That’s a nasty-looking scuff you’ve got there, Lindy. How’d you come by it?”
For the briefest moment, the girl glanced sidelong at Tyler, as though seeking his permission to answer, or looking at him to step in and save her.
“She fell,” he said, his own gaze never moving from Maggie. “It was an accident. When we saw that thing, we just ran. Lindy caught her foot on a tree root.”
“Is that right, Lindy? Did you fall?”
The girl seemed to think about it for a second; then she nodded stiffly. “Please,” she said, her voice barely audible, her gaze imploring. “I just want to go home.” Then she started to sob, her whole frame shaking.
Maggie stopped the recording. “Okay. Clearly, this isn’t working. How about we continue with this tomorrow, after you guys have slept and things aren’t quite so raw?”
This time, they both responded with a nod.
“But I will need you both to come down to the Sheriff’s Office to provide separate statements. We’ll also need you to provide exemplars while you’re there.”
“Exemplars?” the boy asked.
“Samples of your fingerprints, hair, footprints, that kind of thing.”
“Why?”
“To rule you out of the crime scene evidence we collect. We’ll also need the clothes you have on right now, tonight, before you leave.”
The boy’s scowl returned. The girl just sobbed some more.
“Don’t worry,” Maggie said. “We’ll get you fixed up with throwaway coveralls. You can get changed one at a time in the ambulance.” She handed them each a business card. “I’ll expect to see you with your parents at the Sheriff’s Office. The address is on the card. Let’s say twelve noon. Any problems, you call the number right there. In the meantime, once you’re both changed, we’ll give you a ride home.” She saw the boy’s expression switch from aggravated to stressed.
“Thanks, but I’ll drive myself,” he said.
“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that, Tyler.”
“What?” Now he looked appalled.
Maggie thumbed over her shoulder. “See the police cordon on the way down here? It means your vehicle is technically inside a crime scene. Leave your keys with Deputy Ramos here, and we’ll get your vehicle back to you tomorrow, just as soon as it’s been cleared.”
“No way!” He dropped to his feet. “How am I supposed to get around?”
“I’m sure you can use your imagination, or even the bus.” Maggie turned to Ramos. “Can I borrow your flashlight?”
“Sure.” He handed it over.
“Where’s Detective Loomis?”
“Lakeside, as far as I know.”
“Okay. These two are all yours.”
The boy glared at Maggie as she walked away.
A dozen yards behind the EMS ensemble, a dusky-red Dodge Charger was parked half on the curb, at the head of a sandy trail that snaked down a steep grassy slope before disappearing into a densely wooded copse.
Maggie hesitated with one foot on the roadside grass, the other still rooted to the pavement, her heart suddenly thudding.
Twenty years ago, this whole area had been untamed brush, the trail winding through it like a maze. A decade later, the school’s remodelers had scraped away the unsightly shrubbery, introducing the prettier Bahia grass. But the original path remained, like a stubborn scar, enticing teenagers into the woods.
Maggie followed it, her footfalls heavy, the chill in her chest reaching for her throat.
A spell of afternoon rain had left the ground soft, spongy, and each step was heavier than normal, as though gravity was stronger here. She could smell the stale dampness characteristic of swampland, and a trace of something else. Something like charcoal infused in the humid air.
At the entrance to the woods, more police tape was strung between the trees. Maggie hesitated again, her sense of dread on the rise.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she told herself quietly as she ducked under the tape. “Pull yourself together.”
Easier said than done.
She had memories of this place that she couldn’t fully dismiss. Memories that were bittersweet at best.
The flashlight chased shadows through the trees. Maggie followed the trail as it zigzagged between the prickly palmetto, trying to focus on the task ahead instead of what she’d left behind. Eventually she came across Loomis pacing back and forth at the edge of a clearing. When he heard her approaching, he blew out a sigh of relief.
“Thought you’d stood me up,” he said, focusing his own flashlight on her. At six feet four and 180 pounds, Loomis was the definition of gangling. “Broomstick troubles?”
Maggie grimaced playfully. “Don’t even go there. I was this close to being Dorothy.”
“What stopped you?”
“A dress size and a baby sister. What monster were you tonight?”
“Myself.” He raked his fingers through his dirty-blond hair. “Don’t give me that look, Novak. The twins have just turned one. They can wait at least another year before I introduce them to devil worship.” From his pocket, he handed her a pair of blue plastic overshoes and latex gloves.
“Your turn will come,” Maggie said as she slipped them on.
“I am in no doubt. Until then, the candy is all mine.” He hoisted up the police tape. “After
you.”
At first glance, the sandy clearing didn’t appear to have changed much since Maggie had last been here. Maybe a little smaller than she remembered, a little more overgrown, but essentially the same hollow dome of hooked trees and tangled vines with a circular opening on the far side, where a mud beach gave way to black water. Even twenty years ago, no one had known whether the clearing that everybody knew as Devil’s Landing was man made or a natural formation. Back then, she and her fellow high school seniors had hung out here, smoking pot and playing hooky. Judging from the empty beer bottles and fast-food cartons scattered around its periphery, the clearing was still as popular as ever.
“Welcome to the love nest”—Loomis aimed his flashlight at the center of the clearing—“where there’s nothing like a dead body to dull the mood.”
Working homicide for the last five years had desensitized Maggie to the sight of dead bodies. It was inevitable. Corpses came with the job. On any given week, Homicide Squad averaged a dozen new callouts, with at least one of those turning out to be a new murder case. On a regular basis, people turned up dead in a variety of ways—mangled, decapitated, mutilated, shot, crushed, exploded, decomposing, mostly due to natural causes, some through accidents, one or two in suspicious circumstances—but this was the one type that Maggie always felt hardest to stomach.
The body was on its back on the sand, its legs slightly spread apart, its arms positioned so that the hands completely covered the face.
And it had been burned—not cremated to ash and bone—but burned to a crisp, blackening all of the flesh not in contact with the sand.
She drew closer, curiosity outweighing her unease.
If it hadn’t been for the stench of seared skin, the corpse could have been mistaken for a discarded store mannequin, torched by kids. The hair was completely gone, the scalp blistered to the bone, and most of the clothing had burned away, leaving black flakes on the sand. Bloodred fissures crisscrossed the torso where the deeper dermal layers had shrunken and split under the intense heat. Melted fat pooled like yellow candle wax in the concaves and cracks.
But it was definitely the remains of a woman; Maggie had seen enough burned bodies in her time to recognize the telltale signs. Even though the fire had made the sex indeterminable to an untrained eye, there were specific clues she knew to look for, including the ratio of flesh on the torso against the size of the abdomen, as well as the larger width of the pelvis. Both were present here, both dead giveaways.
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