The Naturalist (The Naturalist #1)(8)

I don’t have one, which, I suspect, is a reaction in and of itself. My first fear was that he was going to say the name of someone close to me—of which there aren’t that many. The hand in the photo could have belonged to a half dozen women I’ve worked with or the daughter of an acquaintance.

The only woman I’ve been involved with recently—and that’s stretching it—is Allison. I think I’d recognize her hand immediately. I’d spent long nights caressing her wrists and intertwining our fingers as we talked about everything from old Bob Hope road comedies to the smell of the desert air in the Gobi.

If it had been her in the photos, my body would have reacted first with some kind of primitive physiological response—dilated blood vessels, skin hackling, a knot in my stomach.

Right now I feel a fleeting sense of relief that I don’t recognize the name. Fleeting, because a higher emotion—the kind our social brains tell us to feel based upon internal, not external, experiences—tells me I should feel guilty. Guilty like a chastised dog sitting in the corner, not because he knows taking food from the table is bad, but because he’s done something inappropriate he doesn’t understand.

My nonreaction is observed by Detective Glenn. While it may support my innocence, it probably reinforces his perception that I’m more detached from the people around me than usual. I’m a caricature of the aloof scientist.

I’m bad with names. I roll Juniper’s through my head over and over. Did he mean June?

June isn’t a vivid memory. She was a student of mine when I started teaching full-time six years ago. I was close enough in age to most of my class that it made it difficult to manage the need to be professional with the desire to be accepted by what would appear to be my peer group.

She was a zoology major, considering a jump to ethology, the study of animals in their environments. I’d been teaching my holistic approach to understanding systems. Forget the names and conventions we’re accustomed to: invent your own. Not every animal with an identical name behaves the same when it’s in a different ecosystem. An Inuit who survives by hunting whales weighing more than the mass of everyone he’s ever met lives a vastly different lifestyle than a San Francisco vegan who never eats anything that doesn’t spend its life cycle buried in dirt.

We had a handful of conversations after class. I think I went out for pizza a few times with her and some other students after a lecture. She never worked in my lab, and as far as I know, we never exchanged texts or talked on the phone.

I glance back to Glenn, after what has been a very long moment. “What happened to her?”

“Do you remember her?”

“I believe so. She called herself June. Maybe she felt Juniper was a bit much.”

“Three days ago, we got a call from her mother. Juniper was out here doing some research and hadn’t checked in. We sent someone to her motel room. She hadn’t been there in at least as long. Everything was intact. The only thing missing was her car. Which we found at a repair shop getting a new transmission.

“This morning two hikers found her body. It went from a missing-persons case to a potential murder investigation. The first thing we do in a situation like this is identify anyone who might know the victim.

“Your name came up.” Glenn doesn’t elaborate, keeping his cop secrets to himself as he waits for me to say something.

Is this where I protest or stay quiet?

After waiting a beat, he continues, “Two scientists who knew each other in the same area doing research . . .”

I guess it’s my turn to respond. “I had no idea she was here. Juniper and I haven’t spoken in years.”

Glenn gives me a noncommittal shrug. “She had your book on her iPad. Some of your research, too. That led us back to you again. A little too much Law & Order, first act, I know. But real life sometimes plays out like that.”

“But now you know I didn’t do it?” I try to make it a statement, but it comes across as a question, a desperate one at that.

“I think we can reasonably rule you out. If it makes you feel better, we also pulled in the mechanic at the car shop and had local police question her ex-boyfriend. You weren’t our only suspect . . . just the most interesting one.”

“What’s changed in the last hour?” I’m afraid to ask too many questions. Just as quickly as the accusing finger points away, it can point back.

“Our medical examiner was able to make a more thorough examination. I would say we can conclusively rule you out as a suspect.”

My eyes dart to the photo of her elegant hand dangling in despair. “Okay, but who did this to her?”

“Not who, Dr. Cray. What.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


ISLANDS

“As you’ve no doubt gathered, the injuries were quite severe,” Detective Glenn begins. “At first it appeared to be a knife attack of some kind. One arm was almost detached and the head nearly severed. We found bloody footprints and handprints stretching for almost a hundred yards. She was attacked and chased down. Possibly repeatedly. She was then dragged under a log. It took place less than a half mile from the interstate. Not exactly deep woods. But these kinds of things can happen anywhere. As you’re now aware, our policy is to get as much evidence as possible before it goes cold.”

“These kinds of things?” I try not to focus on the graphic images.