The Last Sister (Columbia River)(2)

Someone had tried to burn the house and failed miserably. The siding was scorched, and a few bushes wouldn’t survive.

“Not a lot of intelligence in that maneuver,” Ava commented. “Maybe the fire was an afterthought?”

“They brought gasoline,” said Zander.

“We’re in a rural area. I bet plenty of people carry a gasoline can in the back of their truck.”

“True. Possibly one of them panicked and thought they could cover up some evidence by burning down the house.”

“They underestimated Oregon rain.”

Zander stared at the darkened siding for a long moment, disturbed that it felt unconnected with the rest of the scene.

He moved up the concrete steps to the back door and slipped booties over his wet shoes. Ava joined him and covered her shoes too. They still wore gloves from their first quick pass through the house.

They stepped into the immaculate but aged yellow kitchen. He’d already looked for an indication that a knife was missing but hadn’t been able to tell. The Fitches had a drawer full of mismatched utensils. No knife set. Black fingerprint powder coated the cupboard and drawer handles.

A dried trail of smeared blood passed through the kitchen and out the back door.

More black powder. More evidence markers.

Moving down the narrow hallway, he balanced carefully, keeping his feet on the few bare inches of carpet close to the wall, avoiding the wide bloody track.

Zander and Ava paused in the doorway of the largest bedroom. Signs of brutal violence covered the room. A large dark stain indicated where Lindsay Fitch had bled out on the carpet next to the bed. Lindsay’s body had been loaded into a vehicle to be delivered to the morgue, but he and Ava had viewed the woman before entering the scene. He was accustomed to coming late to crime scenes where the bodies were usually long gone.

Squares of the carpet had been cut out and removed by the state crime lab’s evidence team. Torn, tiny chunks of discolored carpet pad dotted the exposed plywood. Arcs of blood swept up the walls, splattered on the ceiling, coated the headboard, and left streaks on the lampshades. More blood covered the sheets. The metallic odor filled Zander’s nose as he snapped a few photos with his phone.

Why does our body’s liquid essence smell like metal? A nonliving substance.

Sean’s blood had been tracked from the far side of the bed and into the hall, the swath dotted with occasional yellow markers.

Again Zander agreed that at least two people must have been involved. It appeared both victims had been surprised and quickly subdued. Each had only a few defensive wounds on their hands or arms. A mishmash of bloody tread marks crossed the bedroom’s carpet. Zander believed he saw two distinct treads, but he knew the boot prints of the responding deputies had to be eliminated.

He exhaled. How was Sheriff Greer not raging about his department’s response?

“The bodies need to go to the main Portland medical examiner’s office,” Ava stated as she scanned the room. “Not a satellite examiner’s office. Dr. Rutledge should oversee this.”

Zander nodded. The rest of the case needed to be handled without flaws. The state’s top medical examiner needed to step in. There was no room for more errors.

Racial overtones. Scene contamination.

From here on out, the deaths would get the proper investigation they deserved.

Zander heard the sheriff stop in the hall behind them.

“Has Bartonville ever had its own police department?” Zander asked. He and Ava had reviewed the logistics of response coverage in the rural area before they had left the FBI office in Portland. A few fluid layers of outside law enforcement extended over the tiny town where the murders had occurred.

“No. The city of Astoria responds occasionally, but our county department in Warrenton is closer to Bartonville, so usually we do.” Sheriff Greer cleared his throat. “State police step in when we need technical support or more manpower. Usually pretty quiet around here. Picks up during tourist season. State would help us out if I gave them a call.”

Zander caught the subtext. The FBI isn’t needed.

“What kind of suspect first came to mind when you saw this scene, Sheriff?” Ava asked politely. Zander recognized the tone. She was angry. He’d worked with Ava for more than five years and knew her every mood. He admired her; she was relentless and sharp.

The sheriff pulled at the skin under his chin as he thought. “Dunno. We have our share of idiots and drunks and meth heads, but I can’t imagine this kind of violence from any of them. Probably wasn’t a local.”

“You said the Fitches had only lived here a year?” Zander asked, hoping the protectiveness the sheriff showed for his residents and deputies wasn’t affecting his ability to conduct the investigation. His reluctance to consider that the murders were homegrown was the equivalent of viewing the case through a peephole.

“About that long. I believe they moved here because Sean got a position teaching history at the high school. Lindsay’s a waitress.”

“I’d like to talk to your responding deputy,” Ava stated.

Zander instantly pitied the deputy. Ava’s good looks and dark-blue eyes didn’t reveal that she was a ferocious interrogator. The man wouldn’t see it coming.

“After I questioned him,” said the sheriff, “I sent him back to the department to get started on his paperwork while the events were fresh in his head. He knows he screwed up. Feels bad about it. I suspect he’s gone home by now.”