Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“No,” he said without looking away. “Not like this.”

At that point Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler was approaching Pratt’s vehicle, prompting Koehler to smile.

“Jeez, that kid must’ve roped off a twenty-mile perimeter,” Koehler said as Meckler stepped up to Pratt’s side.

“We’ve cordoned the scene.” Meckler wiped his brow. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Thank you,” Pratt said. “We’ll need help with the canvas. But we’ll take that up at the meeting after we’ve learned more from our forensic people to help guide us in what we’re looking for.”

“And when and where will that meeting take place?”

“Likely tomorrow morning in Rennerton.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there, willing to help, even if I’m off duty.”

“We appreciate that, son.”

“I’ll search the roadside leading to the scene for anything tossed.”

“The canine team already went through it but go ahead if you want.”

After the deputy left, Koehler shook his head, amused.

“He’s a keener, Les.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

Pratt had been keen himself, especially after he was shot in the leg after he’d stopped a speeding car near Duluth when he was a greenhorn state trooper. While he was recovering, he decided to become a detective.

Then you blink, twenty-five years go by, and you’re confronted with this.

Pratt’s stomach twisted again at the gruesome pictures of the victim’s hands and head.

No, he’d never seen anything like this.

The thing that hit home: Pratt’s two daughters were about the same age as this young woman.

We’ve got to find the animal that did this, he thought, glancing toward the wooded area where the crime scene people were working. Pratt was counting on them to find something to guide him.

They were very good.

A little deeper into the woods from where Pratt and Koehler’s vehicle was parked, Staci Anderson, coordinator for the BCA’s Crime Scene Team, glanced at the sky, hoping the weather would hold.

Outdoor scenes were tough-rain could wash away trace evidence.

Anderson took stock of her team, clothed in white coveralls, shoe covers, latex gloves. They were forensic scientists, expert in their disciplines such as chemistry, biology, latent prints, firearms and trace analysis. They worked well with the group that came up from Midwest Medical Examiner’s Office in Ramsey.

All members knew their jobs. They worked quietly, efficiently.

Anderson and her team were devotees of the exchange theory of forensics, which held that with every scene the killer leaves a trace of something and leaves with something from it.

It’d been a long day already, Anderson thought, reviewing the work done and the work ahead. They’d taken great care removing all the soil from around the body. It would be sifted for trace and other analysis. They were meticulous about collecting samples of vegetation and soil for study and later comparison. The trees and nearby brush and shrubs were examined for hair, thread, fibers, other materials or broken branches, anything indicative of a struggle.

They scrutinized the area for traces of phlegm, saliva, seminal fluid and other biological material, knowing that it was susceptible to rapid destruction by the elements. Additionally, they searched for shell casings, knives, anything that may have been used as a weapon.

It would be dark soon. That’s when they’d prepare a solution of water, sodium perborate, sodium carbonate and luminol to spray on the area in a process known as chemical luminescence, to detect blood. If the solution contacted blood it would react glowing blue under ultraviolet light.

They painstakingly identified foot and tire impressions, first eliminating those of the witnesses, local law enforcement and any known service vehicles. Fortunately, the scene was pristine in that regard. They photographed and made casts of the impressions they found for further analysis and comparison.

Things were going well, Anderson thought, as she collected her tablet and left the scene. She followed the flagged path of entry and exit to update Pratt, who got out of his vehicle when he saw her.

“Where’re we at, Staci?”

“The ME says they’ll be ready to transport the body before dark for an autopsy in Ramsey.”

Pratt nodded.

“We’ll do our spraying for blood then.”

“What about time frame on death? How long was she there?”

“Hard to pinpoint, we’ll defer to the ME. But the way things look, with insects, status of decomposition, et cetera, I estimate less than a week, maybe even three or four days, hard to say.”

“All right.”

“Once we can analyze the tire impressions we may have a suspect vehicle for you.”

“That would be good.”

“One other thing.” Anderson cued some clear photographs on her tablet. “Take a look.”

They were very tight, clear pictures of marble-sized, circular impressions in soft soil in a grouping of three in a triangular shape.

“What’s that?”

“We’re fairly certain these are impressions of a tripod. Now, given this is bird-watching country, they could’ve been made by birders.”

“Right.”

“They could’ve also been made by the killer.”

“Are you saying he may have recorded this?”

Anderson nodded.

New York City

Sirens echoed in the night when Kate got out of the cab at 6th Avenue near Times Square and walked along West 46th Street.

A few hours ago, Hugh Davidson had called her at home, excited that he’d arranged a meeting with a computer network security expert who was an ex-contractor with the CIA and the NSA.

“We have to meet him tonight,” Hugh said. “We’re lucky. These people rarely step out of the shadows. Our guy’s been involved in some nefarious projects.”

The bar where they’d arranged to meet was slivered between the Cafe Ocho and Samantha’s Hair Salon. Kate arrived early and stayed outside to scan the street for people coming and going. There was nothing unusual, just another night in Manhattan after spending a frustrating, fruitless day following leads.

This meeting with Hugh’s contact could be something.

Now, while waiting on the street for him, Kate used her phone to check on the competition. She read the latest Associated Press story on Rampart, a situational piece containing no real news. It emphasized the challenges of identifying the staggering number of new victims. It’s only a matter of time before they identify my sister. Kate pushed the thought aside and stood firm, drawing on Nancy’s encouragement to never give up her fight to learn the truth about Vanessa.

That’s why she’d come down here tonight. Plus, she was still on the story. She followed her personal rule to avoid taking the subway after dark. Having been alone much of her life, she knew how to take care of herself. When it came to meeting news sources who were strangers, especially those with questionable backgrounds, she kept her guard up.

My name and face are out there, along with a lot of freaky people.

Twenty minutes and still no sign of Hugh. Kate texted him. Maybe he’s in the bar already? When she didn’t get a response, she went in.

Live piano music was playing above the laughter of the after-work crowd blending with the conversations of the night crowd. As the TVs above the bar flashed with sports and news, Kate searched for Hugh.

It was futile.

Fortunately a booth nearby was emptying and she moved fast to claim it. A server cleared the table, Kate ordered a diet cola, then her phone vibrated with a text from Hugh.