She asked him about seventy-three more questions, and McCain answered every one patiently and with as much detail as he could. Her questions were thoughtful and smart, and he was impressed with how she was seemingly thinking everything through.
When they arrived back at the place where he had parked earlier, there was just one YSO rig remaining. And when they made it back over the hill to where the body was found, they discovered that Deputy Stratford had been assigned the duty of hanging out at the crime scene to keep the birds and any other scavengers away until the crime scene folks arrived. Stratford was sitting twenty yards or so from the remains, looking at his cell phone.
“You remember Agent Sinclair from the meeting the other day?” he asked Stratford as they walked down the hill toward him.
“Yes, I do,” Stratford said. “I’m looking forward to hearing your take on all of this.”
With that, Sinclair started looking closely at the gruesome mess that, at some point in time, had been a healthy woman. She took photos with her cell phone, some up close, others farther away. And, with an extending wand-type apparatus that she magically pulled out of her pocket, she poked and probed different areas of the bones and meat. She didn’t say a word.
When she was done, she looked at McCain and said, “Okay, we can head back now.”
McCain looked at Stratford, who looked back at McCain, and then they both turned and watched as Sinclair marched up the hill.
“Not one for a lot of questions or small talk,” Stratford said.
“You should ride up a bumpy road with her,” McCain said. “I’m her lift outta here, so I guess I better catch up. The crime scene people should be here shortly.”
And with that he gave the deputy a head nod, turned, whistled for Jack, and headed up the trail after Sinclair.
When they got back to the truck the guys with the State Patrol crime lab were just unloading a stretcher and other equipment. McCain showed them the now obvious trail to the body that was getting worn into the grass and dirt and wished them good luck.
Back in the truck, bumping down the two-track road, Sinclair turned to McCain and asked him what he thought about the discovery of the woman’s body.
“What do you think?” Sinclair asked.
“Well, I don’t think she was a lost hiker,” McCain said. “And, she wasn’t up here looking for mushrooms or antlers. The clothing is just not right. I think she was killed someplace else and dropped out here. Looking at the surroundings there were no signs of a struggle, and while there was some blood, there should have been more under the body.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Sinclair said. “And, I don’t think this woman was Native American.”
“Well, I guess that’s good, huh?” McCain said.
“Why would someone bring a body way up here?” she asked, almost to herself.
“Think about it,” McCain said. “It’s the perfect place to get rid of a body without being seen. And if someone does find the remains, they will most likely be a bleached-out bunch of bones scattered in nine directions.”
“Yeah, except for the two bodies that have been found recently. They weren’t a bunch of bones.”
“They weren’t too far from it,” McCain said. “Give them a couple more months, after the bones had been picked clean by the crows and magpies, and the summer sun had pounded away at them. Then they’d be hard to distinguish from any other animal’s bones out here.”
“Hmmm,” thought Sinclair.
“There could be a dozen other women’s bodies out here if someone has been doing this for a while,” McCain said.
“Or more,” Sinclair said.
They got back to Sinclair’s super sedan, and as she was climbing out of McCain’s truck, she said, “I haven’t eaten anything since I had a really bad energy bar at eleven. You want to go grab a bite someplace?”
About that time McCain’s stomach growled loud enough that both Sinclair and Jack turned and looked at him.
“I guess I could eat,” McCain said. “I know a great little pizza place that also has sandwiches and salads.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a steak and a baked potato,” she said. “But okay, if you need a salad to keep up your boyish figure, I’m good with that.”
“I have to drop Jack at home and feed him. How about we meet in a half hour?”
“Sounds fine. Give me the directions to the pizza place.”
Over dinner they talked mostly about the two bodies in the mountains and about work in general. He was surprised that Sinclair was so interested in his work and wanted to know how he had trained Jack to be a tracker. Of course, McCain hadn’t really done much training. Jack was a natural, and McCain had just allowed his abilities to come out.
They talked a little about their personal lives too. Sinclair had been raised in Northern California and had gotten her law degree from the University of Oregon before joining the FBI. He teased her about being a Duck, and when she learned he had graduated from Washington State University she razzed him to no end about how Oregon had been beating WSU like a rented mule in just about every sport there was.
“Hey!” McCain said defensively. “We beat Oregon in field hockey last year.”
“Field hockey!” she snorted. “Is that even a sanctioned sport?”
Later, as they walked out of the restaurant, McCain asked her if she had a coat hanger in her car.
“No, why?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve heard you Oregon Ducks all keep a hanger in your car. You know, just in case you lock your keys in there too.”
“What?” she asked. And then she burst out laughing.
That night, McCain
