Alex Kava: A Perfect Evil

“Hold on.” He stopped her again. “I think I have some boots back here.” He climbed inside the doorway, stopping in midair as he realized the inappropriateness of his actions, again. He avoided her eyes and waited until she slid to the other side and was a safe distance away. Then he stretched over the seat. Thankfully, the rubber work boots were within arm’s reach.

“Are you sure those are necessary?” She looked at the black boots as though they were shackles.

“You’ll never get anywhere in this mud. It’s worse by the riverbank.”

He had already begun undoing the laces. He handed her a boot and began on the other, distracted when she slipped off her expensive leather flats. Clothed only in sheer socks, her feet were small, slender and delicate. He watched her slide her foot into the oversize boot. It swallowed her foot, and even her attempt at tucking in her pant leg wouldn’t guarantee that the huge rubber boot would stay attached.

As they began their hike through the mud, he was impressed that she kept up with him despite her clumsy footwear and her shorter stride. The area was still cordoned off by yellow tape strung from trees. Sections were torn, flapping in the breeze, a breeze that grew stronger as the fast-moving clouds rolled overhead. Nick pulled up the collar of his jacket. His hair was still damp. A shiver slipped down his back. He glanced at O’Dell, who wore only a wool suit jacket and matching trousers. She buttoned the jacket but showed no other sign of feeling the cutting cold.

He watched her step carefully around the impression of the small body that still remained pressed into the grass. She crouched down, examined the blades of grass, scooped up a fingerful of mud and sniffed it. Nick winced, remembering the rancid smell. His skin still felt raw from scrubbing the stench from his body.

O’Dell stood and looked out at the river. The bank was only three or four feet away. The unusually high waters churned, slapping at the banks.

“Where did you find the medallion?” she asked, without looking at him.

He walked to the spot and found the white stake one of his deputies had placed there. “Here,” he said, pointing to the plastic marker sunk into the mud, barely visible.

She looked at the spot, then back at the boy’s resting place. It was only a couple feet away.

“It was the boy’s. His mother identified it,” Nick explained, still regretting that he couldn’t give it back to Laura Alverez when she had pleaded. “The chain was broken. It must have gotten pulled off in the struggle.”

“Except there was no struggle.”

“Excuse me?” He looked back at her for an explanation, but she was on her knees again with a small tape measure stretched between the marker and the pressed grass.

“There wasn’t a struggle,” she repeated calmly, getting to her feet and wiping at the leaves and mud she had gotten on her trousers,

“What makes you say that?” He was annoyed by her matter-of-fact attitude. She had been here only minutes and seemed to have it all figured out.

“You fell here when you tripped, right?” she said, pointing to the torn grass and the indent in the mud.

Nick winced again. Even his report made him look like a putz. “That’s right,” he admitted.

“The trampling around the perimeter is obviously from your deputies.”

“And the FBI,” Nick added defensively, though he knew she wasn’t concerned with those details. “They were in charge until we ruled out a kidnapping.”

“Other than this spot and where the body lay, there is no torn grass or any beaten down. The victim’s hands and feet were bound when you found him?”

“Yeah, back behind him.”

“My guess is that he was like that when they arrived here. Does the coroner have an approximate time and place of death yet?” She brought out a small notebook and jotted down details.

“He was killed out here, probably less than twenty-four hours before I found him.” The nausea was back. He wondered if he would ever be able to get the image of the dead boy out of his mind. Those wide, innocent eyes staring up at the sky.

“When did the victim disappear?”

“Early last Sunday morning. We found his bike and bag of newspapers against a fence. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”

“So the killer had him for at least three whole days.”

“Jesus,” Nick mumbled and shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the time between the abduction and the murder. They had all been so sure the boy had been kidnapped by his father or someone who would demand a ransom. Nick had believed the boy was being well cared for.

“So how did the chain get broken?” Nick wanted to think of something other than the torture the boy may have endured.

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the killer pulled it off. It was a silver cross, right?” She looked to him for assurance. He only nodded, impressed that she had equipped herself with so many details from his report. She continued as if thinking out loud. “Maybe the killer didn’t like staring at it. Maybe he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to do as long as the victim was wearing it. Its religious significance is some sort of protection. Perhaps the killer is religious enough to have known that and have been uncomfortable.”

“A religious killer? Great.”

“What other trace do you have?”

“Trace?”

“Other evidence-other objects, torn pieces of fabric or rope? Was the FBI able to pull any tire tracks at all?”

The tire tracks again. How many times would he need to be reminded of his screwup.

“We did find a footprint.”

She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of impatience.

“A footprint? Excuse me, Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but how were you able to isolate a footprint? From what I can tell, there must have been over a dozen pairs of feet out here.” She waved her hand at the shoe impressions trampled in the mud. “How do you know that the prints you found weren’t one of your men or the FBI?”

“Because none of us were barefoot.” He didn’t wait for her reaction but moved closer to the river. He grabbed on to a tree branch just as his boots slid partway down the bank. When he looked up, O’Dell was standing over him.

“Right here.” He pointed to the set of toes imprinted in the mud and highlighted with remnants of casting powder.

“There’s no guarantee those are the killer’s.”

“Who else would be nuts enough to be out here without shoes?”

She grabbed the same branch and slid down next to him.

“You mind giving me a hand?” She extended a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to hang on while she bent down and stretched over the impression without sliding into the water.

Her hand was soft and small in his, but her grip was strong. Her jacket swung open, and he made himself look away. Jesus, she certainly didn’t look like an FBI agent.

After a few seconds she pulled herself up and immediately released his hand. Back on solid ground, she started writing in the notebook. Nick stared up at the thick, gray clouds. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else. The last forty-eight hours had drained him. His calf muscles ached from the 10K race he had pushed himself to run that morning. And now, here he was feeling incompetent and nauseated again, remembering Danny Alverez’s white body, those wide eyes staring up at the stars. A flock of snow geese honked as they passed overhead. Nick caught himself wondering what had been the last thing Danny had looked up at. He hoped it had been some geese, something tranquil and familiar.

“The puncture marks and the carving in the boy’s chest were exactly like the Jeffreys murders,” he said, forcing his attention back to O’Dell. “How could anyone have that information?”