When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(31)

“Morning, ma’am.”

“Hot coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Kimberly had learned early in her career it was the little things that got the job done. Now, they all took a moment to unload their gear, unpack bags. They made sure to stay well clear of the grave to prevent cross-contamination, though Kimberly could tell everyone was anxious to get a look.

The deputies were dismissed back down the mountain to get some sleep. Eventually, two new ones would arrive. It never hurt to have an oversight crew, keeping their attention on any approaching threats—whether coyotes or gawkers—as the forensic team’s efforts would be focused on the dirt.

Rachel directed her team to get set up. Maggie unpacked the Total Station, an instrument first used by survey crews to create 3-D models of major roads and traffic patterns, then adapted to render 3-D images of complex crime scenes. As Kimberly had already related to Mac, the remains were not laid out in a neat and orderly fashion. Instead, best she could tell, the bodies had been tossed in together. Then, over time, as flesh and sinew gave way, the remains had collapsed in on one another.

Back in the lab, Dr. Jackson would carefully rebuild each skeleton, while digital images from the Total Station would be used to preserve information from the original scene.

Once they had their supplies sorted out and organized, Rachel consulted with Dr. Jackson on the plan of attack. In spite of what people sometimes assumed, the FBI’s Evidence Response Team’s main goal was to collect evidence, not to analyze it. None of them were forensic experts, though some, like Harold, had developed areas of interest over the years.

Dr. Jackson had donned coveralls over her hiking ensemble. She now passed out additional garments, and they all suited up, grimacing at adding an extra layer of clothing over their sweaty gear.

Birds chirped in the distance. There was a nice wind in the trees as Dr. Jackson stepped gingerly over the lines and made her way to the middle of the grid. Kimberly already knew what she would see: a slight depression in the earth, next to a mound of dirt. Lay people assumed the mound was the grave. Not true. The depression was the grave, the mound of dirt was the earth the killer had dug out of the ground, then left to the side after dumping in the bodies. Over time, decomp reduced the mass in the grave, causing the earth to settle, and creating a distinct pattern all crime scene techs learned to identify: one mound plus one depression equaled one unmarked grave.

Or in this case, one unmarked grave with three rounded skulls already peering out from the loose soil.

Dr. Jackson picked up the first trowel. They got to it.





CHAPTER 14





FLORA





I CAN’T EAT ANOTHER BITE. You do it.”

“Me? I don’t think that’s the point.”

“Please, I double-dog dare you to tell me these ribs taste any differently than the ones before them, or the ones before those.”

I glare at Keith, my eyes daggers of contempt, until he has no choice but to rise to the challenge.

“Double-dog dare. Well, if you’re that serious.” Keith gamely picks up a knife and fork, slices off a bite of barbecued meat.

“Who uses a knife and fork to eat ribs? Authentic experience. Come on!”

“You’re very cranky,” he informs me, but sets down the silverware, picks up the bone with his fingers.

“I have good reason to be cranky.”

“And yet, what does it change?”

I glare at him again. He shrugs a shoulder, then takes a delicate bite of pork and chews thoughtfully. “I would say these ribs have a tad more vinegar than the ones before. Or maybe it’s a hint of cloves.”

“You are making that up!”

“Yes. I am.”

Keith sets down the bone. I can’t help myself, I half sigh, half explode in exasperation, throwing myself against the back of the booth.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I don’t remember. I was too busy being grateful for food, any kind of food. I was scarfing and inhaling and chewing like a goddamn animal. I didn’t notice sauce, or flavor or seasoning. I was fucking starving and I ate like a starving woman.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh shut up.”

Another shrug. I want to scream. Or tear out my hair or rip apart this booth. I want to run so far, so fast, that this awful food and those awful memories can never catch me and I’ll never have to think about Jacob again.

Keith had identified two restaurants in Niche that had the same owner-operators for the past ten years. A diner and a pub. So we’d started there, the owners trying to protest it was too early to be serving dinner, me staring them down until the entire menu suddenly became available. It was creepy how easy it was to select entrees. Oh, Jacob would love this, Jacob would like that. Like picking out food for an old friend, or long-lost lover. Which brought back other memories, the chili dog in St. Louis that exploded down his shirt after the first bite and I burst out laughing before I could catch myself. Then froze, thinking he’d smack me, except he started laughing, as well. He’d ordered two more and we’d eaten them greedily at the truck stop, talking about nothing in particular, enjoying our time in the sun.

Who enjoys a sunny afternoon with their own rapist?

And yet that was Jacob, too. He wasn’t a monster all of the time. Or maybe he realized that the moments of normalcy made his monstrousness all the more frightening.