Stone Cold Heart (Tracers #13)(25)

“This is a different victim than you dug up Sunday?” the chief asked.

“That’s correct.” She glanced at Nolan, who was watching her with an unreadable look on his face. “We recovered forty-three bones today. The remains include a skull, a pelvis, and two femurs, which is good news from an investigative standpoint.”

Nolan lifted an eyebrow.

“The teeth are important for identification,” she explained. “The shape of the pelvis indicates a female decedent. And the long bones help us determine stature and age.”

Hank stared at her for a long moment. So did Nolan. Neither said anything, so she continued.

“Regarding the bones, no duplicates. In other words, I have no reason to believe we’re dealing with more than one skeleton in that particular area. From what I’ve seen so far, I believe these are the scattered remains of one individual.”

The chief looked at Nolan.

“Also, I don’t believe that individual is Kaylin Baird.”

Hank’s brow furrowed. “You can tell already?”

“I’ll confirm back at the lab. But I’ve seen Kaylin’s dental records, and they don’t match up with what we recovered today.”

Nolan leaned forward on his elbows. “You’re telling us we’ve got two separate bodies in White Falls Park, and neither one of them is Kaylin?”

“That’s right.”

“What about clothes or jewelry? Anything like that?” Hank asked.

“We zeroed in on a few objects using the metal detector—stray coins, bottle caps—but I doubt they’re associated with these remains.”

The chief heaved a sigh. “These bones, how were they scattered, exactly?”

“It can happen any number of ways when a body is left in the open or buried in a shallow grave,” she said. “Coyotes, feral hogs, carrion birds. I’ll have a better idea when I get back to the lab and check for postmortem artifacts—scratches, teeth marks, that sort of thing.”

The door opened, and the patriotic receptionist leaned her head in. “Sorry to interrupt. The sheriff is on line one, Chief.”

Hank stood up and nodded at Sara, then walked out without a word.

The door whisked shut, and silence settled over the room. Nolan gazed at her, long and hard, and she got the feeling he could read her mind.

“You’re holding back. What else do you need to tell me?”

Sara took a deep breath. “This situation is . . . disturbing.”

“Damn right it’s disturbing. We’re talking about potentially three victims.”

“There’s something else.”

His expression darkened as Sara unzipped her backpack and took out an iPad.

“I keep coming back to the twine we recovered Sunday,” she said as she powered up the tablet.

“Did you find any today?”

“No, not today.” She tapped the screen a few times, opening a photo of the twine from Rattlesnake Gorge.

“I’ve seen a lot of bindings over the years, and these are unusual.” She slid the tablet in front of Nolan. “That isn’t some haphazard knot; it’s very intricate.”

Nolan’s brow furrowed as he stared down at the picture. “This is from the gravesite Sunday.”

“Correct.” She looked at him. “After analyzing the evidence, I believe this victim was kidnapped by her killer. I believe he bound her hands with twine so he could control her throughout the attack, which could have lasted hours or days. I believe he killed her—”

“How?” Nolan’s gaze was sharp.

“I don’t know yet.” She paused. “I believe he killed her and then dumped her into that ravine where we were today, and her body moved downstream during a flood. After dumping the body, the killer could have been back on the highway in less than two minutes. And yes, I also believe he could have done it not just once but multiple times. Everything I’ve seen makes me think he’s experienced and deliberate.”

Nolan rubbed his jaw as he stared down at the photo.

“Let me show you something else.” She tapped the tablet and opened another file, this one containing photos Clifton Underwood had sent in response to her email. She slid the tablet back to Nolan.

His face became a stony mask as he gazed down at the picture. It was a close-up of a woman’s wrists. Her hands were bloated and discolored, her fingernails greenish-black. Her wrists were bound together with purple twine.

“This is the last time I saw similar bindings. I was a graduate student in Knoxville, working under one of the nation’s top forensic anthropologists at the anthropological research center known as the Body Farm.”

Nolan’s gaze locked with hers, and the question burned in his eyes.

“It’s an open case,” she said.

He didn’t react. He didn’t so much as blink. He just looked at her.

Sara pulled the iPad back and opened another photo: yet another tangle of purple twine, this one on a stainless steel table in an autopsy suite.

“Five years ago, two bodies were pulled from a lake in western Tennessee. Rocky Shoals Park. The finds occurred eight months apart.”

“Both victims were female?”

“That’s right. One was identified as a nineteen-year-old runaway, Lena Langley. The second woman is still unidentified.”