Jeffery Deaver - The Empty Chair

Absently she said, "The blood pattern. There're a few small drops here." She pointed to the ground. "Consistent with blood falling about six feet – that's from Billy's head. But that big spray pattern – which'd have to be from a severed carotid or jugular – starts when he was on the ground… Okay, Rhyme, I'm going to start the search."

Walking the grid. Foot by foot. Eyes on the dirt and grass, eyes on the knotty bark of the oaks and willows, eyes up to the overhanging branches ("A crime scene is three- dimensional, Sachs," Rhyme often reminded).

"Those cigarette butts still there?" Rhyme asked.

"Got 'em." She turned to Lucy. "Those cigarette butts," she said, nodding at the ground. "Why weren't they picked up?"

"Oh," Jesse answered for her, "those're just Nathan's."

"Who?"

"Nathan Groomer. One of our deputies. He's been trying to quit but just can't quite manage to."

Sachs sighed but managed to refrain from telling them that any cop who smoked at a crime scene ought to be suspended. She covered the ground carefully but the search was futile. Any visible fibers, scraps of paper or other physical evidence had been removed or blown away. She walked to the scene of this morning's kidnapping, stepped under the tape and started on the grid around the willow. Back and forth, fighting the dizziness from the heat. "Rhyme, there isn't much here… but… wait. I've got something." She'd seen a flash of white, close to the water. She walked down and carefully picked up a wadded-up Kleenex. Her knees cried out – from the arthritis that had plagued her for years. Rather be running down a perp than doing deep knee bends , she thought. "Kleenex. Looks similar to the ones at his house, Rhyme. Only this one's got blood on it. Quite a bit."

Lucy asked, "You think Garrett dropped it?"

Sachs examined it. "I don't know. All I can say is that it didn't spend the night here. Moisture content's too low. Morning dew would have half disintegrated it."

"Excellent, Sachs. Where'd you learn that? I don't recall ever mentioning it."

"Yes, you did," she said absently. "Your textbook. Chapter twelve. Paper."

Sachs walked down to the water, searched the small boat. She found nothing inside. Then she asked, "Jesse, can you row me over?"

He was, of course, more than happy to. And she wondered how long it would be before he fired off the first invitation for a cup of coffee. Uninvited, Lucy climbed in the skiff too and they pushed off.

The threesome rowed silently over the river, which was surprisingly choppy in the current.

On the far shore Sachs found footprints in the mud: Lydia 's shoes – the fine tread of nurse sneakers. And Garrett's prints – one barefoot, one in a running shoe with the tread that was already familiar to her. She followed them into the woods. They led to the hunting blind where Ed Schaeffer had been stung by the wasps. Sachs stopped, dismayed.

What the hell had happened here?

"God, Rhyme, it looks like the scene was swept."

Criminals often use brooms or even leaf blowers to destroy or confuse the evidence at crime scenes.

But Jesse Corn said, "Oh, that was from the chopper."

"Helicopter?" Sachs asked, dumbfounded.

"Well, yeah. Medevac – to get Ed Schaeffer out."

"But the downdraft from the rotors ruined the site," Sachs said. "Standard procedure is to move an injured victim away from the scene before you set the chopper down."

"Standard procedure?" Lucy Kerr asked abrasively. "Sorry, but we were a little worried about Ed. Trying, to save his life, you know."

Sachs didn't respond. She eased into the shed slowly so she wouldn't disturb the dozens of wasps that were hovering around a shattered nest. But whatever maps or other clues Deputy Schaeffer had seen inside were gone now and the wind from the helicopter had mixed up the topsoil so much that it was pointless to even take a sample of the dirt.

"Let's get back to the lab," Sachs said to Lucy and Jesse.

They were returning to the shore when there was a crashing sound behind her and a huge man lumbered toward them from the tangle of brush surrounding a cluster of black willows.

Jesse Corn drew his weapon but before he cleared leather Sachs had the borrowed Smittie out of the holster, cocked to double-action, and the blade sight aimed at the intruder's chest. He froze, lifted his hands outward, blinking in surprise.

He was bearded, tall and heavy, wore his hair in a braid. Jeans, gray T-shirt, denim vest. Boots. Something familiar about him.

Where had she seen him before?

It took Jesse's mentioning his name for her to remember. "Rich."

One of the trio they'd seen outside the County Building earlier. Rich Culbeau – she remembered the unusual name. Sachs recalled too how he and his friends had glanced at her body with a tacit leer and at Thom with an air of contempt; she kept the pistol pointed at him a moment longer than she would have otherwise. Slowly she aimed the weapon at the ground, uncocked it and replaced it in the holster.

"Sorry," Culbeau said. "Didn't mean to spook nobody. Hey, Jesse."

"This's a crime scene," Sachs said.

In her earphone she heard Rhyme's voice: "Who's there?"

She turned away, whispering into the stalk mike, "One of those characters out of Deliverance we saw this morning."

"We're working here, Rich," Lucy said. "Can't have you in our way."

"I don't intend to be in your way," he said, switching his gaze into the woods. "But I got a right to try for that thousand like everybody else. You can't stop me from looking."

"What thousand?"

"Hell," Sachs spat out into the microphone, "there's a reward, Rhyme."

"Oh, no. Last thing we need."

Of the major factors contaminating crime scenes and hampering investigations, reward and souvenir seekers are among the worst.

Culbeau explained, "Mary Beth's mom's offering it. That woman's got some money and I'll bet by nightfall, the girl's still not back, she'll be offering two thousand. Maybe more." He then looked at Sachs. "I'm not gonna cause any trouble, miss. You're not from here and you lookit me and think I must be just bad pay – I heard you talking 'bout Deliverance in that fancy radio gear of yours. I liked the book better'n the movie, by the way. You ever read it? Well, don't matter. Just don't go puttin' too much stock in appearances. Jesse, tell her who rescued that girl gone missing in the Great Dismal last year. Who ever'body knew was gone to snakes and skeeters and the whole county tore up about it."

Jesse said, "Rich and Harris Tomel found her. Three days lost in the swamp. She'd've died, it wasn't for them."

"Was me mostly," Culbeau muttered. "Harris don't like gettin' his boots dirty."

"That was good of you," Sachs said stiffly. "I just want to make sure you don't hurt our chances of finding those women."

"That's not gonna happen. There's no reason for you to get all ashy on me." Culbeau turned and lumbered away.

"Ashy?" Sachs asked.

"Means angry, you know."

She told Rhyme and told him about the encounter.

He dismissed it. "We don't have time to worry about the locals, Sachs. We've got to get on the trail. And fast. Get back here with what you've found."

As they sat in the boat on the way back over the canal Sachs asked, "How much trouble's he gonna be?"

"Culbeau?" Lucy responded. "He's lazy mostly. Smokes dope and drinks too much but he's never done worse than broke some jaws in public. We think he's got a still someplace and, even for a thousand bucks, I can't imagine him getting too far from it."

"What do he and his two cronies do?"

Jesse asked, "Oh, you saw them too? Well, Sean – that's the skinny one – and Rich don't have what you'd call real jobs. Scavenge and do day labor some. Harris Tomel's been to college – a couple years anyway. He's always trying to buy a business or put some deal together. Nothing ever pays out that I heard of. But all three of those boys have money and that means they're running 'shine."