“I’m guessing she was dead for only a few days before her body was discovered.”
“Where was she found?” Maggie asked and watched Wenhoff nod his head toward Turner for him to answer.
“Shenandoah County.”
“That’s northern Virginia,” Maggie tried to picture the area. But she also knew there were four district offices in Virginia’s medical examiner system. Wenhoff was the forensic pathologist for the Central District. Shenandoah County wasn’t his jurisdiction.
“Filmer’s on vacation,” Wenhoff told her. “I’m covering for him. Lucky me.” He pointed to the counter. “Forest worker noticed a flash of color in the woods.”
On a separate tray sat one lone running shoe. Despite the mud, Maggie could see the shoe was a fluorescent orange.
“Any chance she got lost while out for a run?”
“From what I understand there’s only one service road that winds into the forest,” Turner said. “That forest isn’t open to the public. Almost 600 acres. No trails. No hunting. No fishing. No access.”
“So she could have gotten lost.”
“And wandered around for two weeks?” Wenhoff shook his head. “I know that area. She would have needed to drive there. It’s an old watershed at the base of the mountain. The land was donated to the state, and about all they could do with it was make it into a wildlife sanctuary. It’s called Devil’s Backbone. Not exactly someplace you go to jog.
“Who knows how she ended up out there,” he continued. “But she definitely was left stranded to fend for herself. She’s dehydrated. Undernourished. Welts from insect bites. Scratches and cuts on her legs and arms.”
The medical examiner put down his scalpel and reached around to grab a basin. Maggie and Turner both leaned forward to see inside. When Wenhoff announced that it was the women’s stomach contents, Maggie heard Turner suck in air. She avoided looking back at him. Wenhoff either didn’t notice Turner’s discomfort or he didn’t care, because he poked around the goop, eager to show off what he had discovered.
“Tiny little berries. Maybe crabapples. I’m not sure. And this,” he stabbed at a more solid piece. “I think it’s some kind of raw fish.”
“Not sushi?” Turner asked, almost hopeful.
Wenhoff shook his head. “No, the scales are still attached.”
A moan from Turner and she heard him take a step back.
“You’re saying she may have had to eat raw fish that she caught? So she could have gotten lost in the woods,” Maggie persisted.
“I said stranded, not lost.”
“What’s the difference?” Turner asked.
“Lost suggests she did this to herself. Stranded implies someone left her in the middle of nowhere.” Wenhoff placed the basin back on the counter and returned his attention to the corpse. “She didn’t do this to herself.”
He reached and pulled down the cloth he had draped over the woman’s lower body. Immediately Maggie could see what the medical examiner meant. The woman’s left calf had been pierced with an arrow and part of it was still intact.
Turner let out a low whistle. “I knew I should have read the entire sheriff’s report.”
“Someone shot her with a bow and arrow?” Maggie leaned in for a closer look.
“A crossbow,” Wenhoff corrected her. “I’m speculating about that, but I do believe much more velocity would be needed. Lots of crossbow hunters in these parts. But these carbon arrows? There’re difficult to break. Can splinter and cut your hands.”
Wenhoff pointed at her hands. The palms were covered in small cuts.
“At least she knew not to pull it out,” Turner noted.
“Looks like the wound started to heal around the arrow,” Maggie said, examining both sides. “That’s why you think she was stranded in the forest for several days.”
“Correct.”
“If a lot of hunters use crossbows these days, you sure this wasn’t an accident?” Turner pointed out.
Wenhoff shook his head, and he looked a bit frustrated with Maggie and Turner. “Still doesn’t explain this.”
Now the medical examiner grabbed the cloth where it had bunched up at the victim’s feet and pulled it completely off.
The woman’s big toe on her left foot was missing. It had been cut off.
5
Warren County, Virginia
From his perch on the pasture road Stucky had watched the black pickup turn into a long winding driveway just on the other side of the curve. The officer obviously knew where the pickup was headed because he moved at a leisurely pace. In fact, Stucky had parked his car and waited for a good ten minutes before the cruiser came by then parked at the end of that driveway.
Through the trees Stucky could see a double-wide trailer and a couple of other outbuildings. He pushed aside the small cooler and grabbed his duffle bag from the floor on the passenger side. Without dipping his eyes from the cruiser or the double-wide, he let his hand dig deep until he felt the binoculars. The pickup was parked alongside a dirty tan SUV in the front yard. Sheets whipped on a clothesline like bright sails in the breeze. He couldn’t see beyond the trailer’s curtained windows.
The asshole stayed parked on the side of the blacktop about twenty feet from the driveway’s entrance. Stucky wondered what the occupants of that black pickup had done to warrant such attention. And rile such emotion.
He checked his watch. Susan R. Fuller wasn’t going anywhere even if she woke up. He started the car and slowly backed farther uphill on the pasture road, careful to keep to the tires to the worn tracks. He didn’t need to get stuck in the mud out here in the middle of nowhere. There was a line of trees on one side of the path and on the other were thick woods that would hide him and the vehicle from view.
He cranked the steering wheel and the front tires to the right then shoved the parking brake into place so the car wouldn’t roll back down the hill. He wanted to get a better look from up here. Just as he grabbed his binoculars and climbed out, he saw the cruiser making its way over the winding driveway.
What the hell are you up to?
He hurried into the thick growth of trees now scrambling for a better view of the front yard and the double-wide. He saw movement and shoved at the branches in front of him. The officer was out of his vehicle, walking to the front door of the trailer.
Damn it!
Stucky couldn’t see the front door. There were too many trees and they stretched all the way down to the property. He could only see slivers—bits and pieces.
Maybe if he climbed a bit higher.
He rushed now, anxious and breathing hard. Branches slapped in his face. Vines snagged his pant-legs. Pine needles crunched underfoot. He needed to see what this asshole was up to.
What made you so angry?
It was a long way to go just to give somebody a ticket.
Finally Stucky found an opening and swung the binoculars to his eyes. He pinched and turned the focus knob, frustrated that it was taking too long. The magnified blur was making him dizzy, and he leaned against a tree trunk. The trailer became crystal clear. But he still couldn’t see through the curtains. Once he thought he saw a shadow move, but that was all. He was too far away to see or hear anything.
Stucky checked his watch. Fifteen minutes passed but no one came out the front door. Back behind the trailer he saw motion. Maybe it was only the laundry whipping around on the clothesline. The binoculars gave him tunnel vision only showing him magnified pieces. When he pulled them away from his eyes he was certain something or someone was back behind the trailer.
Damn it!
He was missing whatever was happening.
His eyes searched the forest. Farther downhill he noticed another pasture road. This one was closer to the property. There’d be enough trees to hide his vehicle. He needed to see what this asshole was up to.
He jogg
ed now, watching his feet as he weaved through the trees and jumped over fallen branches. By the time he got back to his vehicle his heart was thumping, his pulse raced. He climbed in and immediately heard a tapping sound coming from the trunk.
“Go ahead and kick out the other taillight, Susan,” he yelled over his shoulder. “No one can hear you.”
When the engine started, the tapping stopped. He thought about a second injection. Glanced at the duffle bag on the floor. Checked his watch. No time if he wanted to see what was going on over at that double-wide.
His excitement rammed the accelerator. The mud sucked at the tires and sent the car swerving.
Slow down, he told himself while he lifted his foot off the pedal and kept it from slamming on the brakes. He hadn’t realized how steep the incline was when he had backed up the hill. Coming down was starting to feel like a mudslide. He jerked the gearshift into neutral. The tires continued to slide but the momentum slowed the car until finally it skidded to a stop. And that’s when he heard a banging coming from the trunk.
He shoved the gearshift into park. Slammed down the parking brake and shut off the engine. With teeth clenched he grabbed the duffle bag, digging into the side pocket where he kept an extra loaded syringe. Then he swiped his hand under the driver’s seat and picked up the hunting knife. Before he opened the car door he noticed movement out of the corner of his eyes. Down below on the main road. It was the police cruiser.
Son of a bitch.
Stucky slouched down in the seat until he could barely see over the steering wheel. His vehicle was only about a hundred feet from the main road. Would the trees be enough to hide him? Because the bastard was headed back this way.
The banging grew louder.
He swore he could feel the entire car rock with each thud. And yet he caught himself holding his breath as if that would make a difference as he watched the cruiser getting closer and closer. He sat perfectly still, clutching the syringe in one hand and the hunting knife in the other, prepared to use both.
Sweat slid down his back. His jaw was clenched so tight it began to ache. And now the thump of his heartbeat joined the tempo coming from the rear of the car. Then suddenly he saw the cruiser speed up. In seconds it flashed by the entrance to the pasture road. Stucky could see the silhouette behind the wheel, the officer’s hat still in place, low over his brow. The sunglasses facing straight ahead. He didn’t even glance Stucky’s way.
He watched the taillights blink only for a second before they disappeared around the curve. Then he was gone.
Stucky stayed put, waiting, almost expecting the asshole to backtrack. He checked his watch and endured another five minutes. He was used to waiting and watching. Used to blending in and becoming invisible. Although Susan R. Fuller was unraveling his last bit of patience.
Another five minutes passed and the cruiser never returned.
Stucky tossed the syringe back into the duffle bag. He slid the hunting knife into his jacket pocket. Then he shifted into gear.
“Okay, let’s see what the hell you did.”
6
Warren County, Virginia
The rain had started with a light drizzle and by the time they arrived at Ollie’s Bar and Grill Maggie regretted not bringing along her FBI windbreaker. Who knew it could be this chilly in the middle of summer?
Turner had talked her into having drinks with him and Delaney. He insisted she needed to help him go over the autopsy details.
“I’ll never do it justice,” he told her.
Having drinks with Turner and Delaney after work was beyond inviting her to the cool guys table in the cafeteria. It wasn’t like she had never had drinks with her co-workers after hours, but it was usually a whole group, meeting for some celebration like a birthday. This was different. This was talking about a case, after hours, like colleagues.
She left a voice message for Greg, though it hardly mattered. Ever since he made partner at his law firm he’d been working long hours and most weekends. She couldn’t remember the last time they sat down to dinner with each other. They were like roommates, crossing paths and leaving messages for each other. Maggie usually found herself eating takeout food at the kitchen counter. She actually didn’t mind all the alone time.
Who was she fooling? She preferred the alone time. It beat listening to Greg berate and lecture her about her job. Recently he decided he didn’t like his wife being an FBI agent, and he no longer bothered to keep that opinion to himself.
Delaney looked exhausted, his short hair tousled and damp from the rain. But he smiled and waved them over to the coveted corner booth he’d managed to snag. Coveted for sure. The place was packed.
“Everything good?” Turner asked him.
Only then did Maggie remember that Turner had said Delaney had a family emergency. No, not an emergency. A family “thing.” On closer inspection she noticed his eyes were bloodshot. He rubbed at his jaw, a full palm over and across. So when he answered Turner with, “Yeah, everything’s good,” Maggie knew it wasn’t.
She scooted into the booth across from Delaney. Turner slid in next to her, and he was already searching for a waitress. Maggie continued to study Delaney while pretending to be interested in Ollie’s single sheet menu.
“You can’t go wrong with a burger,” Delaney told her.
“Is that what you’re having?”
“Just beer for me. I’m meeting Karen later.”
Karen was his wife. And now Maggie wondered if perhaps the “family thing” wasn’t quite finished. That Delaney had simply interrupted whatever was going on just to meet about the autopsy.
Stop it, she silently admonished herself.
Lately she did this with everything and everyone. She examined and analyzed as if her mind couldn’t shut down. As if every piece of information about anyone became a means for profiling. A test exercise. Yesterday she caught herself coming up with an entire profile for the grocery store clerk. In her own defense, the line of customers was long and the clerk exceedingly slow. The poorly concealed bruise above the woman’s left eye didn’t help matters.
Turner managed to snag a waitress.
“Sweetheart, you are a lifesaver!”
He rewarded the young woman with a wide smile. Maggie had seen him do this before. He might look like a badass linebacker but the man knew how to be charming. And now he extended that charm to Maggie when he told the waitress, “I think we’re looking at some dinner. Whadya say, Maggie?”
He was allowing her the courtesy of ordering first. Ordinarily she bristled at male agents being polite with her, but she squelched the impulse. The fact that she was here with Turner was because he respected her expertise.
She remembered that all she had eaten for lunch was the greasy French fries and a Diet Pepsi on the drive to the autopsy. So she ordered a burger and side salad. Added a bottle of Sam Adams. By the time the food arrived Maggie had to pace herself. She wanted to scarf it down. Instead, she took small bites in between describing the murder victim’s wounds and ignoring Turner’s groans.
“It was pretty gross, man,” Turner told Delaney. “What kind of madman shoots an arrow into a woman’s leg then takes a toe as a trophy?”
“Is the toe a trophy?” Delaney asked.
When Maggie glanced up from her salad she realized he was asking her.
“From the looks of it, the toe was obviously taken post mortem,” she said as if that answered his question. Both men continued to stare at her, waiting, and she realized it obvious only to her. “Yes, I think he took it as a trophy.”
“Twisted bastard,” Delaney said.
Turner shook his head and pushed his plate away even as Maggie took another bite of her hamburger.
“That’s a bit over the top, right?” Turner’s eyes were on Maggie. “I mean, we know it’s not random. And we can pretty much toss out some revengeful boyf
riend or pissed off husband, right?” He took a sip of his beer, still looking to Maggie, waiting.
“Killers have taken all sorts of odd things as trophies: underwear, teeth, drivers’ licenses. Jeffrey Dahmer kept a collection of penises in his refrigerator.”
Turner winced and Delaney smiled at his reaction.
Maggie continued, “Jerry Brudos stored the sliced off foot of one of his female victims in the freezer. He liked to pull it out and try on his collection of stolen high heels.”
“A toe doesn’t sound so weird after all,” Delaney said. “But you’re talking about serial killers. You think this guy’s killed before?”
Maggie stopped with her forkful of salad in midair. Again, both men stared at her, waiting for a response that she thought was obvious. Maybe the only thing obvious was that she spent way too much time researching and studying serial killers.
“I have no way of knowing whether or not he’s killed before,” she told them. “But I can tell you this, one-time killers rarely take a trophy.
7
Devil’s Backbone State Forest
Miserable rain!
If only he hadn’t taken a detour and spent his afternoon off spying on that stupid bastard. He could have missed the downpours that now made this forest road a muddy obstacle course. Stucky’s reward, however, had almost been worth his botched plans. What he found at that double-wide trailer surprised and impressed him. He couldn’t wait to return. Already he was anxious to watch and see the reactions of the first responders.
His next shift didn’t start until tomorrow evening. In the morning he planned to call the county sheriff’s department. He knew exactly which pay phone he’d use—a busy gas station off of the interstate. The next exit after the one he’d barely left when Officer Tough Guy stopped him. His mind played over and over what he’d say, “Can someone please check. I think something awful has happened.”
Then he’d give them the address of the double-wide.
He knew the sheriff’s dispatcher would want to know who he was and his relationship to the occupants. But he prepared himself for that, as well. Being an expert at impersonation wasn’t just about physically changing hair or eye color, gaining or losing weight or developing a limp. He knew how to play each role, and he was certain he could do whispered hysteria.