Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“Seventy-five. Ten-four, Julie. I’m fifteen from the gate.”

“Copy. Brian will meet you there and take you in, Cal.”

Meckler hit his siren and lights and sped toward the state park.

Klassen County didn’t see many murders and he didn’t want to screw this up as the first responding officer for the county. He went through a mental checklist of what he’d need to do. Then he advised his dispatcher to alert Ned Sloan, the investigator for Klassen County, the agents in Rennerton with the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. They’d also need the BCA forensic team, and the medical examiner to dispatch somebody out of Ramsay.

“Because it’s close to the reservation we should also alert the FBI’s resident agent in Bemidji.”

“Already on it, Cal.”

Brian Fahey, an officer with the park, wasted no time when Meckler arrived at the gate. He gave him a quick wave, threw his SUV into gear and began leading him to the scene. Meckler killed his siren but kept his emergency lights going, in keeping with procedure.

Fahey led him along the park’s main dirt roads for a couple of miles before his brake lights brightened. He stopped, left the road and cut into the dense woods. They swayed along an ancient logger’s trail overgrown with scrub and brushwood. The smells of pine and spruce filled Meckler’s car. The light had dimmed because the treetops formed a natural canopy blocking the sun. Meckler’s emergency lights splashed red and blue onto the trees, creating a dreamlike air.

For several miles the undergrowth scraped along the undercarriage, while leafy branches slapped and tugged at the sides of their vehicles. The snap-crack of their progress echoed. Meckler caught a glimpse of chrome and recognized a second wildlife SUV ahead at a clearing.

They pulled up behind it.

Meckler checked in with his dispatcher, then began logging the date, time and details in his notebook before stepping out to confer with Fahey and Ashlee Danser, Fahey’s partner, who’d been waiting at the scene. The trio huddled out of earshot of the vehicles and Meckler nodded to man and woman in the back seat of Danser’s SUV.

“Those are the people who made the find?”

“Yes, bird-watchers, Dan Whitmore and Vivian Chambers, retired couple from Omaha.”

Danser’s face was taut, as if she were grappling with something.

“Okay,” Meckler said. “I’ll get a statement from them. Where’s the scene?”

“That way, go about fifty yards through the woods.” Danser pointed. “You won’t miss it. I flagged it with some yellow scene tape. It’s really bad, Cal, really bad. I just glanced, I couldn’t bear looking.”

“So you walked into the crime scene?” Meckler made notes. “I don’t see any other tape to cordon the area.”

“There’s nobody else around, Cal.”

“We can’t risk other hikers happening on it. We need to protect the scene. I’ll get my tape from my trunk. Can you guys use it and yours to form a perimeter to seal the whole scene?”

“Sure, Cal,” Fahey said.

“I’ll need you to show me the path you took in, Ashlee, but first I’ll talk to our witnesses.” Meckler walked to the SUV.

The elderly woman was sitting in the back with her elbows on her knees, holding her face in her hands while the man rubbed her shoulders.

“Excuse me, Mr. Whitmore, Ms. Chambers. I know this is a difficult time. I’m Deputy Cal Meckler with the Klassen County Sheriff’s Office. Could you please tell me how you came upon the discovery?”

“Oh, my God, it’s horrible! It’s just-” Vivian stifled a sob.

“We’ve already told the young officer there everything,” Whitmore said. “I’m sorry, I forget her name.”

“I know, and my apologies, but you’ll have to talk to a number of other investigators before we’re done. And we’ll need to verify your identification. It’s all part of the procedure, given the gravity of the events here.”

“We were just looking at birds!” Vivian said to no one. “Just looking for owls and a kingbird when we found it! Dear lord!”

“Take it easy, Viv. Have some more water.” Whitmore passed her a bottle, then turned to Meckler. “Son, as a doctor, I’ve seen a lot of terrible things. I was a medic in Vietnam and I saw every kind of battle wound you can imagine, but what we saw in there exceeds comprehension. I…tried to clear away-I…tried…to see if there were any signs of life-even though I knew there were none. I still-I’m sorry.”

Whitmore looked toward the scene, dragged the back of his dirt-stained hand across his mouth, regained his composure and recounted the discovery.

Afterward, Meckler went to his trunk. He slipped on shoe covers, tugged on latex gloves, got his camera, his notebook and followed the same line Ashlee Danser had taken into the scene. The air was pleasant with birdsong as he followed a widened pathway into the forest. Parts of the underbrush were flattened, indicating a vehicle had passed through.

He stopped to take several photos before moving on.

Soon he saw the foot-long yellow strip of tape affixed to a tree branch and lifting in the breeze as if beckoning- or daring -him to continue. He stepped toward the clearing and the fallen tree where Vivian Chambers had been sitting a short time ago.

He scanned the area but saw nothing.

Then he heard the drone of flies and stopped dead.

It was under the dappled light.

The victim was a white female.

In his short time as a deputy Meckler had seen the results of most tragedies-people who’d died in wrecks, fires, drownings; suicides by gunshots or hangings.

He’d experienced the toll and the aftermath up close.

But this was different from any death he’d ever seen.

It was as if some malevolent force had ripped its way into this world from a nether region to break down all that we know as human.

As he stared at the scene gooseflesh rose on his arms. The tiny hairs at the back of his neck stood up and all the saliva in his mouth evaporated.

Two bare and pale human hands were jutting from the earth, exposed down to the forearms. The hands were about three feet apart, as if the owner had raised them from underground, breaking the earth’s surface in a macabre cheer.

Dirt had been clawed frantically from around the head with a tree branch, as the doctor had described.

The mouth was agape.

Clusters of insects were feasting inside.

Flies encrusted her face.

The eyes were wide-open in a frozen silent scream as if still imploring Meckler to save her.

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

Several hours after the bird-watchers had made their grisly discovery, a Minnesota State Patrol helicopter thumped over the scene.

Lester Pratt watched from his Ford as he finished off the coffee his wife had made for him, then resealed the cup on his Thermos with a snap. He resumed studying the images on his laptop. The chopper was transmitting live video as it photographed the site, determining the size and boundaries of the crime scene.

Because the primary crime scene was in the state forest and Klassen County had few resources, it was decided that the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension would lead the investigation with support from local agencies and the FBI.

“Ever see one like this, Les?” Ben Koehler, Pratt’s partner, was concentrating on his phone and photos of the victim and the scene they’d taken when they’d first arrived.

Pratt was a seasoned cop partial to the Vikings and Springsteen. He was near retirement. As a BCA agent Pratt had led or worked on nearly one hundred homicides. He peered over his bifocals at his laptop to make a small sketch in his case notebook.