Joel Goldman: Chasing The Dead

Jared walked straight from his tent to the edge of the creek, turning north and taking a few steps downstream before Rossi stopped him.

“Is this the route you took? Right along the creek here?”

He didn’t turn around. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s real helpful, Jared. How about we keep a little farther from the edge. You know this area but I don’t, and it’s dark. I don’t want to take a chance I might slip and fall in the creek and you’d have to pull me out.”

Rossi was a little unsure of his footing after drinking his way through his late dinner, but he had other reasons for cautioning Jared. He wanted Jared to believe that he was depending on him, giving Jared another reason to trust him. It was like telling a woman he’d just met in a bar that she was the best thing that had happened to him all day. And he wanted to make sure they didn’t contaminate the scene by trampling the exact route Jared had taken.

Jared moved inland about ten feet. Rossi followed him, sweeping his flashlight along the edge of the creek. The grass was upright, dew glistening on each blade, none of it matted with Jared’s footprints, as it would have been if he’d taken that route. He grunted, satisfied he’d caught Jared in his first lie. Rossi counted their steps, measuring each pace at three feet, until Jared stopped, close to seven hundred feet north of his tent.

“She’s over there,” Jared said, cocking his head toward the creek, keeping his distance.

Rossi scanned the landscape behind him, checking sight lines for possible witnesses. It was empty. The tents on the east side were behind them to the south. He shined his light across the water. Wherever the nearest tent on the west side was, it was beyond the reach of his flashlight.

“Stay here,” Rossi said.

Rossi walked to The Creek bank and turned off his flashlight, wanting to see the body the same way Jared claimed to have seen it. It was an hour and a half since Jared had called 911, longer since he had found her. The moon was lower in the sky but still shining.

The body was five feet below him, faceup and eyes open, head resting near the bank, arms and legs splayed. He focused his light on her neck. The ligature marks Jared had described were easy to see, a purpled narrow band with a pattern he’d seen in other cases where the killer used an electrical extension cord to strangle the victim. There was a cross-shaped abrasion above her left breast as if something had been compressed into the skin, maybe a crucifix.

Scanning the rest of her body, he didn’t see any obvious defensive wounds, though the water and his distance from the body made it impossible to rule out whether she had struggled against her killer.

From his vantage point above the body, it appeared that she hadn’t been in the water very long. There was no evidence of decomposition, though he couldn’t tell whether any rigor was present without getting a closer look. He aimed the flashlight at her legs, not finding any signs of lividity in the dependent areas of the body, knowing that the bluish discoloration took six to eight hours to become severe. The coroner was on the way and would give him a better approximation of time of death.

He took his time examining the bank directly above and to either side of the body, noting the partial footprints pressed into the mud, the rounded edges of shoes climbing the bank easy to pick out. He couldn’t find tracks leading down the bank and into the creek, but the crime scene investigators would find them if they were there.

“Jared,” Rossi said, “come over here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there where you climbed down to the water?”

“Yes, sir. Right here.”

Rossi let his flashlight play across Jared’s muddy shoes.

“Those the shoes you were wearing?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rossi examined the bank with his flashlight, not finding any evidence of descending footprints. He pointed his flashlight at the body, watching Jared’s reaction.

“Look at her. Is that the way you found her?”

“Yes, sir. Just like that,” he said.

“And then you got down in the water with her?”

“Just long enough to make sure she was dead.”

“Did you touch her?”

He shook his head. “No, sir. No need. I could tell she was dead.”

“You were right about that. Who is she?”

Jared pushed away from the creek, stood, and turned, his back to Rossi.

“I don’t know her name.”

Rossi fronted him. “But you do know her?”

“Seen her around.”

“Here? At Liberty Park?”

“Some. In town too.”

“Where?”

“Over in Northeast. I seen on her on Independence Avenue once or twice, on the street.”

Independence Avenue was a favorite hangout for prostitutes.

“You saying she was a hooker?”

Jared wrapped his arms tight around his middle, tossing his head from side to side. “I’m not saying that. I’m only saying that’s where I seen her.”

Rossi was feeling the bottle of wine he’d put away before he went to bed, his mouth cottony and his gut swimming in acid. All he wanted was to clear this case, put it on Jared if he was the killer, and go home.

Jared’s facial muscles were quivering. He looked past Rossi, then at the ground, and then at the stars, repeating the rotation over and over. Rossi doubted Jared’s story about how he’d found the woman, and his body language screamed Crazy-Guilty-Crazy-Guilty, like a flashing neon sign. But none of that was proof.

He sighed. “What did you do after you found the body?”

“Went back to my tent and got out of my wet clothes. Then I walked to the pay phone and called 911.”

“The water isn’t more than a foot deep. How’d you get wet?”

“Slipped and fell, I guess.”

Rossi told the paramedics to remain with the body until the crime scene investigators showed up, then motioned to Jared.

“Let’s go back to your tent, same way we came.”

Officer Schmitt was still standing outside Jared’s tent.

“We’ve corralled the campers on both sides of the creek. You can question them soon as you’re ready,” Schmitt said.

“Is that it? Can I go now?” Jared asked, shifting his feet and glancing in all directions.

“Take it easy, Jared. I’m talking to Officer Schmitt,” Rossi said.

“Well, I’m not waitin’ out here. I don’t like all this commotion.”

He ducked into his tent. Rossi and Schmitt followed him, Schmitt banging his head on a lantern hanging from a hook in the center of the tent ceiling, spraying shadows against the walls.

There was a sleeping bag on the floor and a coffee can resting on a soiled pillow. Thirty-gallon black trash bags filled to capacity with cans and bottles and tied off at the top lined one side of the tent. A damp pair of shorts and a T-shirt hung from another hook dangling on a sidewall.

“Why you rushing off?” Rossi asked.

Jared whirled around. “I showed you the body. Nothing else for me to do. And I don’t like people barging in on me.”

“Just a couple more questions,” Rossi said, “and we’ll be on our way. You don’t mind, do you?”

Jared didn’t answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing up down.

“What’s in those bags? Cans or bottles?”

Jared swallowed. “Some of both.”

“You get much for them?”

He shrugged. “Enough.”

Rossi pulled the wet shorts off the hook. “This what you were wearing when you found the body?”

Jared nodded and stepped back, knocking the coffee can over, watches, rings, bracelets, and other jewelry spilling onto the floor. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to shove them back into the can.

“You have receipts for that stuff?” Rossi asked, taking a step closer, still holding on to the wet shorts.