Dr. Whitmore lifted the girl’s blouse to expose her abdomen and inserted the probe into her liver. The digital device beeped almost immediately. “I have to compensate for environmental, but she hasn’t been dead more than two to four hours. I’m calling preliminary time of death,” he checked his watch, “between eight and ten a.m. today. Her corneas are almost perfectly clear.”
Approaching the body, Kay looked at the victim. With hesitant fingers, she gently removed the strands of hair clinging to the pale face, holding her breath, as if afraid the girl could come to life, startled by her touch. Her lips were red, probably tinted with one of those expensive lip stains that guaranteed twenty-four-hour color with one application. Her skin was alabaster pale, contrasting with her dark hair. Her eyes were still open, almost lifelike. Maybe it was the dim light in the cave where the worklights didn’t reach, but her eyes still seemed fearful, terrified, as if her assailant was still there, blade in hand.
“This looks execution style to me,” Elliot said. “Did she bleed to death?”
“There was still blood in the water when I got here,” Dr. Whitmore replied. “I took a sample and tested it. The water had a red hue and that was unusual.” He shrugged, then gestured to the cave behind him with a gloved hand. “Like everything else about this murder.”
“Was she killed here, Doc?” Kay asked. She wondered how the girl was lured there, to the place of her demise. Tourists hiked there all the time; maybe she’d been a hiker too, accompanied by a man she trusted.
Because only a man would’ve been able to lift that boulder and place it over her body, to pin her down. A man with significant upper body strength.
“Yes, she was killed here,” Dr. Whitmore replied. “The water we’re standing in holds enough of her blood to support that theory.”
The sound of the zipper being pulled shut signaled they were ready to leave the cave at Blackwater River Falls. Kay smiled sadly, thinking how appropriate the name was. Maybe the river had been named Blackwater, or Katseka in the old language of the Native Pomoan tribe, because of the iron oxide staining the rocks, or maybe the torrent had been tinted by blood before.
Leaving the cave, she blinked into the sunlight a few times, until she could bear to keep her eyes open. She was anxious to head out to the sheriff’s office, eager to pull up old missing person reports involving a locket.
She was about to climb out of the fall’s basin when Dr. Whitmore caught up with her and touched her forearm with frozen, ungloved fingers.
“Preliminary cause of death is exsanguination due to severed carotids,” he said, his tone firm, professional, but seeping sadness. “She bled to beath. No hesitation marks, significant strength in the assailant, and expertise in taking lives. You’re looking for a man, Detectives, a strong man who’s killed before. Many times before.”
4Runaway
Six Days Ago
My life sucks.
Kirsten stared at the stained ceiling for a good, long moment, then cursed loudly. If her mother would’ve heard her, she would’ve slapped her silly. But even if she were home, she wouldn’t’ve been able to hear a thing with the ruckus in the living room.
She hated when her mom worked second shift at the hospital. She hated it even worse when she worked graveyard. That’s when her stepdad’s friends would gather in the living room, holler and drink and snort all night, forgetting to leave. Hostage in her room, Kirsten spent her evenings trying to ignore the roars, hoots, and screams mixed with profanities sprinkled generously at every other word, while trying to postpone the moment she’d have to leave to eat or use the bathroom. While wishing they’d be gone already.
Another chorus of hollers preceded a hearty round of cackles. She slammed her science book shut and took out her phone. She texted her best friend, Marci, who didn’t need too many words to figure out what was going on.
Hey, it’s happening again. Need your science homework tomorrow. Come early, please?
She waited a little, then her phone chimed and shut down. It was out of power. She plugged it in on her nightstand, then tiptoed to the bathroom, hoping the men were too much into it and wouldn’t notice.
When she came out of the bathroom, three of them were waiting for her, standing on the narrow, dark hallway with excited grins on their faces.
“Hump said you’ll let us snort some blow off your belly,” one of the men said, the one whose potbelly overflowed his belt buckle. Hump was short for her stepfather’s last name, Humphrey. She hated that name, and the day she’d become legally obligated to wear it.
The other, a bald and heavily tattooed thug who worked with her stepfather, let out a loaded groan and grabbed her arm, dragging her into the living room. There, the third man, a thin guy with mean eyes who’d just got out of jail, cleared the table with one quick swipe, then grabbed her and set her on it, forcing her flat on her back. She kicked and screamed, clawed at their faces, but her resistance only fueled their frenzy. She soon settled. Unfortunately, she’d done that before; she knew her chances. Her slender body was no match for three intoxicated men.
Really, really sucks, she thought, as eager hands pulled
