The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(54)

An indescribable feeling of anxiety crashes over me. I tell myself not to hesitate and just do what I need to do.

I slip inside and carefully close the door behind me.

Gripping my penlight in my teeth, I slip on a pair of rubber gloves.

The body bag takes up half the van. From the shape under the black rubber, it’s obvious rictus set in with her limbs in an awkward position.

Now is not the time for me to analyze the agony she went through.

I’ve done dozens of dissections in school. This should be no different—except for the degree of decay.

My day pack has sample vials, but I forgot to pack a mask. Ugh. This is going to be unpleasant.

No time to dwell on that oversight. I slide back the zipper.

The smell is overpowering. I try to avoid breathing.

Where it’s not covered by blood and dirt, Chelsea’s corpse is as white as chalk.

Finding a wound isn’t difficult. There are so many of them.

Her body is riddled with slashes, like stripes on a tiger.

I understand why they think this is an animal attack. It’s so vicious. Her head is nearly torn off.

In the face of this, I’m beginning to have my own doubts.

There’s no time for that. I have to remind myself that science led me here. No matter what I think I see, there are more precise tools to understand what happened.

I fill a few small vials with thickened blood and tissue from three different wounds: one on the neck, another on her arm, and one from a gouge just below her left breast that ripped open her shirt.

Looking at the tracks in some of the wounds, I can see where the medical examiner also made collections.

If I want to do my bacterial experiment, I’ll need a sample from Chelsea’s skin in a location where she wasn’t wounded.

Underneath her jeans, where one of the elastic bands for her underwear is still tight, I’m able to make a dirt-free swab.

This should be enough. At some point I’ll need to get some samples from the burial site. It’s probably swarming with police right now.

That can wait a few days.

A few days . . .

I have to be back in Austin.

Maybe if I drive out here after class and return Sunday night?

This isn’t the time or place to go over my academic calendar.

I shove the containers into my pocket, then carefully zip up the bag.

Just like that, she’s back inside her pouch. I doubt that even if the ME knew someone else had taken samples, he could tell you where.

My gloves are covered in dirt and dried blood, so I peel them off inside out and pocket them.

When I put my ear to the door to listen for anyone, it’s silent.

I have a moment of panic when I can’t find the latch to open the door. What if this van can’t open from the inside?

My fingers grasp a handle, and I feel a wave of relief. The thought of being stuck back here with this stench all the way to Helena is frightful.

Slowly, I lift the handle and ease the door open just wide enough for my body to slip through.

I set one foot on the pavement and sense something is wrong.

Over the odor of Chelsea’s rotting flesh, I smell smoke.

When I turn around, I see Officer Gunther toss aside a cigarette and glare at me. “What. The. Fuck.” His hand goes to his gun. “On the ground, now!” he screams.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


FALL GUY

Human psychology is a concept I can grasp in the abstract, usually after a given moment has passed, but there’s something about the anger in Gunther’s eyes and the primal way his nostrils are flaring that tells me that he’s furious with me—and not just because he caught me trespassing. There’s some kind of connection between him and Chelsea beyond being cousins. I violated that.

I also realize that in a few moments I’m going to be on the ground, handcuffed and facing felony charges for tampering with evidence, as well as whatever this state’s laws are concerning stealing material from a corpse.

My little inquiry, finding out what happened to Juniper, my life—all of that is going to take a detour if I don’t find a way out of this situation.

I remain standing and try my first option. “I just wanted to take a look at the wounds.”

“On the fucking ground.” His words come out like white-hot metal spittle.

He draws his pistol and aims it right at my face. I’m one centimeter away from a trigger being pulled and a bullet shooting through my forehead, puncturing my skull and leaving a two-inch exit circle in the back of my head, spraying my brains behind me.

“I can find out who did this . . .”

I notice that my hands are already up. Psychologically, this means that I’ve already committed to his authority. He caught me doing something wrong, and I physically admitted to it by taking on a subservient posture.

If I could have taken this back a few seconds, I would have smiled and not acted surprised when I saw him—instead of gaping at him in surprise, a startled, scared man giving off all the body language of guilt.

In a moment, if I don’t fully submit, he’s going to take a step forward and place the gun against my head as he uses his handcuffs to arrest me. He’s trained not to shoot someone standing still—but someone resisting an arrest in any way that threatens his safety is fair game.