The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(53)

Whitmyer picks up the thumb drive and plants a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to make sure Fish and Wildlife gets a copy of this.”

“Great. Great,” I reply before it sinks in. “Wait? Fish and Wildlife? What about the law enforcement agencies?” I look around the room, confused.

“I know this is stressful for you,” Whitmyer says. “I spoke with Sheriff Tyson and Detective Glenn about the prior incident. Grieving is hard to deal with.

“We’re happy to find you some help. We have a few counselors out here. Good ones.”

I search their faces for an explanation. “What about the murder investigation? What about getting the killer?”

Whitmyer exchanges glances with Tyson and Glenn. “Theo, I know you don’t want to accept this. But it was a bear. Just like Juniper. Dr. Wilson, the chief medical examiner for the state, is returning with the body right now. He says all of the wounds are consistent with a bear attack.”

“But she was buried . . .” My voice begins to rise.

“Bears do that,” says Glenn. “And she was out there a long time. You pointed out yourself how erosion would help conceal the body.”

I’m having another flashback to the last time I was in this situation. Getting excited only put me in a jail cell.

From the way Tyson is watching me, I can tell she’s counting down the seconds until I lash out.

I want to flip the fucking table over and scream. I don’t.

I stay calm.

“What about Amber Harrison’s statement?”

“I took her initial one,” says Whitmyer. “She was as high as a kite. And she mentioned the possibility of a bear.”

“She’s convinced that it’s a man now,” I reply, trying to keep the edge off my words.

“Maybe so. But a statement made now, if we could find her, wouldn’t carry much weight. How reliable are memories the farther out you get?”

Not very. I just nod my head. “But they’re going to do a full forensics examination?”

“Absolutely.” He gives me a smile.

“And the data I collected?”

“I’ll look it over myself. But just listen to me. Fish and Wildlife might get a lot out of this. So don’t throw that out.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “May I leave?”

Whitmyer escorts me to the lobby. “I want to shake your hand. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Long ride back. Are you leaving today?”

“If you don’t need anything else,” I answer quietly.

“I’m sure we’ll be talking a lot on the phone.”

I say goodbye and step outside. I can feel his eyes on me as he watches the sad Professor Don Quixote walk away.

There’s nothing left for me to do.

I tried.

I really tried.

Time to go home.

A van pulls into the parking lot. It’s marked MONTANA STATE MEDICAL EXAMINER.

Inside is Chelsea’s body.

I shouldn’t care. But I do. I should be leaving. But I don’t.





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


RESURRECTIONIST

Science is filled with people who had to step outside what was considered socially acceptable. Roman physician Galen and Renaissance genius Leonardo da Vinci were forced to exhume bodies to better understand how they functioned. Because of this transgression, both men saved countless lives with their discoveries.

I tell myself I’m trying to save lives and this isn’t just a matter of proving that I’m right. There’s a killer out there, and the room full of people I just left can’t see the obvious.

I have to psych myself up for this. If I think about it too much, nothing will happen.

Stepping behind an SUV, I observe two men in medical examiner jumpsuits exit the van and enter the police station’s rear entrance.

If it had been any other kind of van, I never would have considered this. If her body was locked away in a morgue somewhere, it would be as far away from me psychologically as the surface of Mars.

But the van I’m staring at is a Dodge Sprinter. The same type used as an ambulance. When I worked as an EMT, the Sprinter was as familiar to me as my office.

It’s the familiarity that makes me feel like this isn’t a trespass. There’s also the fact that I could have taken samples from Chelsea’s body when we found her.

I didn’t, because I thought investigators would do a more thorough job of tracking down her murderer. I was wrong.

I wouldn’t know how to pick a lock if you put a gun to my head. Luckily, all of the Sprinter ambulances I worked with had a secret switch for unlocking them in the event you lose your keys while responding to a call.

A lockout could cost lives.

It doesn’t start the vehicle. It just opens the doors. All of them.

On mine, the switch was in front of the driver’s side front wheel.

I make sure nobody is around, then step over to the vehicle and reach down and feel for the button.

Nothing.

I try the same spot on the passenger side. My fingers touch something rubbery. I press it.

Click.

My skin tingles. Adrenaline floods my body. It’s the sensation of solving a complicated puzzle.

I move to the back of the van and try the door. The handle lifts and opens.