I proceeded slowly, meticulously. Clothing off. Folded. Placed in plastic bags.
"Both bodies are female," I say. "Both in an advanced state of desiccation. I'm going to make preliminary observations, which I will research later to determine time of death. I'll ask Dr. Atelier and Deputy Anders to assist in those observations."
We're making notes on the state of the bodies only. Mathias offers interpretations as well. He's sure I'm right about the order of the deaths, which only makes sense. The first victim dies and is later disposed of in that crevice. When the second also dies, she's immediately dropped there.
As for cause of death? "There is significant damage to the back of both skulls," I say. "All three of us agree death appears to be from blunt-force trauma."
I think of Sutherland's bloodied toque. I think of that pipe, heading for the back of my head.
"Given the state of the bodies, it is difficult to determine lesser forms of trauma. We do see some postmortem injuries, presumably arising from their environment and the manner in which they were discovered." The investigator landing on them and then having to squeeze them through very tight passages. "But we do see evidence of a broken and badly healed ankle with the first body. Rib damage with the second. There are also signs of..." I'm about to say enforced captivity, but I'm extrapolating. Instead, I list my observations. Untreated dental decay. Evidence of malnutrition. Hair and nail damage.
Signs that these women were not captured, killed, and dumped in quick succession. Signs that we are looking at Nicole's intended fate: held in a hole until ...
Until what? She became too malnourished? Until her captor found a replacement? Or simply until he tired of her?
The door opens. Dalton walks in, papers in hand.
"We're just finishing up," I say. "I was just going to do another check for identifying features. Not that I expect we'll identify them but..." I shrug. "It'll help."
He walks to the second body and lifts her arm, his gaze going to her wrist. He rubs his thumb over the skin, smoothing it, and as he does, something I missed in the wrinkled, desiccated skin. Lateral scars. Then I realize he went straight to it. As if he knew exactly what he was looking for.
A chill slides over me. "Eric?"
He walks to the first body and checks the knees. There are surgical scars there--I'd noted them. He takes a closer look and then nods.
"Eric...?"
He lays a photo on the first body. A photo of a woman about my age, brown skin, dark wavy hair. Like the body on the table. On the second he places a photo of a woman about the same age, with long dark hair and blue eyes, matching the corpse beneath it.
He turns to the first body. "Robyn Salas. Disappeared March 20, 2010." Then to the second. "Victoria Locke. Disappeared July 3, 2012."
TWENTY-SIX
We're on the back deck at the station, tequila shots in hand. I've taken one already. So has Anders, leaning against the railing, bundled up and trying not to shiver. He's eyeing his second shot. Tequila isn't really his thing, but it looks mighty good right now, a defense against the cold and the mood, both settling around us.
He downs his. I follow and put my glass aside. Two's my limit, and not for any reason other than that there have been times in my life when a third looked so good. And a fourth and a fifth. I've seen too many cops go down that road, never to return. Up here, restraint is even more important. It's too easy to use alcohol to push back the darkness.
Dalton hasn't poured himself a second shot. Two is for home, when it's just me, and he doesn't care what he says and, sometimes, says what needs saying. Tonight it's one.
He's been talking about the dead women. About Nicole, too. Until now, we haven't spoken much of her as a person. That's not disrespectful. It's oddly the opposite--she's here and alive, therefore it's wrong to talk about her. But now we do, both men giving their impressions of her before she disappeared into the forest.
As I'd already gathered, neither had known Nicole well. She'd been here only about six months, and she herself had said she hadn't mingled much.
"I ran into her now and then," Anders says. "I'd talk for a few minutes, try to get to know her."
"Did you sleep with her?" Dalton asks.
Anders looks at him. Just looks.
"What?" Dalton says. "Valid question. Percentage-wise, you've worked your way through, what, half?"
"At least I'm sociable."
"That what you call it?"
"Guys...," I say.
"Percentage-wise, maybe ten," Anders says. "Which is better than your zero." He looks at me. "Sorry. One."
"Ten percent? Math isn't your strong suit, is it?" Dalton says. "If we've got about fifty women here--"
"Whatever. How about the earlier victims, boss? I seem to recall stories about you getting around back in the day. Or am I not supposed to talk about that in front of Casey?"
"Casey is absolutely fine with it," I say. "Casey is grateful for those women who took it upon themselves to school a young man. And Casey would be equally fine if one or both of the women in question had slept with Eric. While she'd like to point out that this is an inappropriate topic of conversation about victims, Casey also recognizes that this is Rockton. It is actually, as Eric says, a valid question. Were either of you that close to them? Close enough they may have divulged information there that they wouldn't have otherwise."
"The answer is no," Anders says. "No pillow talk--or sex--with Nicki or Victoria. I postdate Robyn. And by that I mean I arrived after she vanished. There was no actual dating involved."
"And they all postdate my youthful adventures," Dalton says. "But, yeah, let's talk to friends and lovers. For Nicole and the others."
The others.
Robyn Salas. Aged thirty-three. Ballet dancer in Toronto, she'd had an obsessive fan who turned into a stalker. When she took out a restraining order, he lay in wait and rammed her with his car, breaking her knees so badly she'd never dance again. He got free on a technicality and came after her to "finish the job." Someone gave her a line to Rockton and she fled here, where like Nicole, she flew under the radar, just another of the dozens of residents that Dalton knew only in passing. She'd vanished four months after she arrived. When a search party failed to turn up anything, Dalton's father had ruled it death by exposure.
Victoria Locke. Aged thirty-five. Victoria had been one of the white-collar criminals who bought her way in. She'd run a Ponzi scheme with her sister. The sister took off with most of the money, leaving Victoria to the police, with just enough cash to buy two years in Rockton. After she vanished, they'd found her jacket, clawed and covered in blood, and after more searching, Dalton had to admit it seemed like she'd been killed by a bear.
As for her personality? "An odd one," Dalton says. "Not like Nicole or Robyn. They just seemed quiet. Victoria wasn't a whole lot different than some of the guys out in those woods. Reclusive. Kinda paranoid. Just wanted to hunker down and wait out her term. I used to think she'd be happier if we just gave her a damn cave--" He stops himself. "Fuck."
Fuck, indeed.
Three missing women. Two dead bodies. One man presumed dead. Zero leads.
*
During the murders this past fall, I'd marveled at how the town stayed calm. People trusted Dalton to resolve it. Only when we confirmed Abbygail's murder did that change as the town mourned one of its most popular residents.
This is different.
We have a woman who was kept captive for fifteen months. We went looking for a missing man and returned with two bodies. People have connected the dots. They know what we have out there. And they are not angry. They are afraid.
We go to the Lion for dinner. It doesn't occur to the guys that this might be problematic. I keep my mouth shut, wanting hot food made by someone else and hoping this will be the same as before. Sure, we'll get those brave souls sidling up and saying, So, about what's going on ... but one look from Dalton will send them scurrying.
That's all we get until we're mi
dway through our meal, and it's as if they waited until we were comfortable and unlikely to flee. Then they descend.
Is it true you found two more victims?
Who are they?
What's going on?
Is it someone out there?
Is it someone in here?
What's going on?
Where's Shawn?
Are you still looking for him?
What's going on?
And what are you going to do about it?
Dalton's glowers and snarls send them scattering, but he's like a dog in a rat pit, beset on all sides, snapping at one assailant only to have another leap in from the unguarded side.
I promise a public update at daybreak. Right now, we're exhausted, just exhausted.
But they are afraid. They don't say that. I hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes.
Is it one of us?
Are we safe?
How are you going to keep us safe?
Dalton won't rush through dinner to escape. Like that dog in the pit, he holds his ground. Finally, it's over, and we get about ten paces down the road before someone grabs my arm. Dalton spins, all the anger and frustration bubbling up as he knocks the hand off, sending the person--Trent, one of our local handymen--stumbling back.
"I just wanted to ask--" Trent begins.
"And you think you're the only one? The only fucking person who wants an update?" Dalton's voice rings down the dark road.
"I just--"
"What's our job?"
"I just want to know--"
"I asked you, what's our job? Are we the goddamn local news? Or are we the ones trying to catch a killer?"
"I just wanted to ask Casey--"
"You're not going to stop, are you? Your personal concerns are more important than our detective returning to work on this case."
Dalton jerks his chin, telling me to keep moving. I take a step. Trent's hand lands on my arm again.
"Just tell me--" That's as far as he gets before Dalton's right hook hits. Trent goes down. Then he's up again, hauled to his feet by Dalton, who drags him, stumbling, to the station.
Even with that brief altercation, we've attracted a crowd, those lurking about, not daring to approach, but hoping someone like Trent would and they'd overhear the details and reassurances they want. As Dalton drags Trent through town, people pop out from houses to watch.
The first time I saw Dalton do this, I was horrified. It seemed textbook police brutality. But this isn't beating the shit out of a suspect behind closed doors and then claiming he fell down the stairs. Everyone who watches knows what has happened. Everyone knows this is what will happen if they interfere with our case. Everyone agrees, in silent accord, that this is fair, and as they watch, they roll their eyes and shake their heads at the dumb-ass who crossed Dalton.
Trent gets tossed in the cell, where he'll spend the night. Once Trent's situated, Dalton is up on the station front porch, as Anders and I wait at the bottom. Dalton's gaze travels over the growing crowd. Then he motions to me. I climb to stand in front of him.
"You want answers," I say to the crowd. "We get that. You know we do. But you also know we can't respond to each of you individually. Everyone has the same questions. Everyone will get the same answers. Tomorrow. Nine A.M. Right here. Until then, Eric, Will, and I are still on the clock. Still figuring things out. Still getting you answers."
"As Detective Butler has been doing since she found Nicole," Dalton says. "Since she and Deputy Anders went after Shawn Sutherland, got trapped in a fucking snowstorm, found Nicole, and brought her back through another fucking snowstorm. And they went back out there today, to that cave, finding two more victims, which they have spent the fucking day studying to get you your fucking answers. Understood?"
"Fuck, yeah," says one of the militia guys, and that gets a laugh, and people relax, easing back, nodding, voices rippling through with murmurs of thanks and offers of help and apologies for the "assholes" who bothered us, because, you know, it sure wasn't them.
"Now, if you'll excuse us," I say. "We have a puppy to pick up. If anyone has concerns unrelated to recent events, Deputy Anders has five minutes to answer before he joins us to continue working the case."
"You bringing him tomorrow?" someone asks.
I look at Anders. "Depends on if we can drag his ass out of bed that early."
"The puppy. Are you bringing the puppy?"
"I'll consider it."
Dalton moves forward. "Only if no one else accosts her trying to walk down the damn road. Now--"
Jen steps into my path.
"No," Dalton says. "Hell, no."
"I need to speak to you," she says to me.
"Did you not hear a word I said?" Dalton says. Then he turns to Anders. "I told you we need more cells."
"Jen?" Anders says. "Casey is exhausted. If you want to talk to me, I've got a few minutes. Or you can speak to her in the morning."
"It's about the case," she says.
Dalton is ready to sweep her aside, but I say, "Do you have information?"
"I want to help. I want to join the militia."
"What the hell?" Dalton says. "You haven't wanted to do anything since you got here, and now you want to join the militia? The hell you do. You just want inside information, and you think this is the way to get it."
"No, I want to--"
"Detective Butler?" a woman steps from the shadows. I know who it is, but I stare, as if I must be wrong, because it seems to be Val. Out of her house. At a town conference.
Dalton seems ready to snarl at her, too, but he stops himself and looks at me, silently asking first. Do I feel up to dealing with Val? If not, he's happy to threaten her too--it's not as if their relationship can possibly get worse.
I say to Val, "Sure, I can spare a few minutes. Jen, talk to me about that later, okay?"
Dalton's lips tighten at that last part. He's warning me I shouldn't encourage Jen--since I got here, she's been nothing but a bitch to me, and I have every reason for refusing to even entertain her request. But I'll listen. I have to give her a chance.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I shouldn't have gone with Val. Anders and Dalton weren't exaggerating--I'm beyond exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally, each seeming to sap energy from the others. In short, I am in no condition to deal with Val.
We get inside, and she says, "These murders. Do you think they were committed by the same man who took Nicole?"
I open my mouth to give a neutral response and instead say, "Does it matter?"
Val blinks. "What?"
"Oh, sure," I say. "It matters to me. Huge implications for the investigation. And it matters to the average citizen. Are we looking at a serial pattern here? Or are there multiple monsters preying on Rockton women? But does it matter to you, Val? Does anything? You sit here with the blinds drawn and wait for it to all go away. Wait until you can go away. What even is your purpose here? You're not the town leader. You're a glorified telegraph operator ... and we barely send a telegraph a week. It's the worst example of bureaucratic inefficiency in a town that can't afford any inefficiency."
She stares at me.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm tired. Very, very tired. I'll come back tomorrow and answer your question properly."
I get up and start for the door.
"Wait," she says.
I stop, my hand on the doorknob.
"I know what you think of me, Casey, and I would argue that I do much more than operate the satellite radio, but I suspect you know that. You are tired. Tired and frustrated, and perhaps, with me, you have reason to be."
I stay where I am.
"I would like to hear your thoughts on these crimes," she says. "If you have a moment."
I turn to face her. "On the understanding that I may say things I shouldn't?"
Her lips twitch, just a little. "I believe I already know that."
I go back to the living room.
"My gut says one perpetrator," I sa
y as I sit. "But I'm being careful not to jump to that conclusion. I need proof beyond the fact that all three victims were from Rockton and found in that cave system."
"And the condition of the bodies? Would it ... suggest...?"
"Suggest Robyn and Victoria had been held captive, too? It's hard to tell, given how long they'd been there, but there were signs of prolonged captivity, consistent with what we see in Nicole. I still can't presume it's one perpetrator without proof. That would seriously affect my investigation. First, it would mean he couldn't be from Rockton."
"Here? Why would he be from here?"
Of all people, she should know, but she seems genuinely shocked, and if I explain, I'll tumble headfirst into anger again.
"A single perpetrator means the only locals who've been here long enough are Eric and Isabel," I say. "Nicole last saw her captor the day before we rescued her, when Eric was in Dawson City. And her captor was clearly male, so it's not Isabel. Therefore, one perpetrator would mean an outsider."
"Which it is. It must be."
"If it's not multiple perpetrators, the killer could be someone who is no longer here. Or the captor would be someone still here. That would imply separate cases. More likely, it'd be two perpetrators working together. Mentor and student, their times in Rockton overlapping enough for them to discover their shared interests."
"It's not someone from Rockton, Casey. It's one of them. Out there." She straightens her blouse. "I realize we have some people here who have committed crimes. But they are not the kind who'd do this. This is, as you said, a monster. Or monsters. We don't have that here."
Does she know that for a fact? Or is she toeing the party line?
The first time I met Val, she struck me as classic middle management, from her attire to her demeanor. In many ways, that's what she is, which means that while she has to know more about Rockton than us mere employees, she may not know the worst of it.
Dalton thinks she knows what we have here--he jokes that's why she never comes out of her house. But looking at her now, something in her expression tells me she believes what she's saying. Or she wants to. Desperately wants to.