“You said a pair of hikers found him after one of them got sick and were knocking on doors for help. They saw him through the window?” Dread pooled at the base of her spine. The heavy scent of copper and decomposition twisted Remi’s stomach as she cleared the path of a tech leaving the scene. The USMS didn’t normally investigate homicide cases. Remi and the team she supervised were specifically trained in fugitive recovery, prisoner transport, asset forfeiture and witness security, but she couldn’t ignore the detailed similarities between this victim and the memories she’d run from.
Sergeant Nguyen lifted his pencil from the notebook and motioned with the eraser end toward the back of the cabin. “The body is in the bedroom. They saw it through the window on the south side of the house. I collected statements from both hikers before EMTs took the female hiker—Annabell Ross—to the hospital. Seems she contracted a stomach bug from drinking straight out of a stream near here. The other one, a guy named Henry Sallow, is still here giving his statement. Neither of them saw or heard anything suspicious, as far as they remember. I pulled the property records and informed the owners about what happened. We don’t get a lot of homicides in Gresham. Have you been out here before?”
“No. Most of my cases keep me in Portland.” A stone fireplace took up most of the space in the small living room, a kitchen just beyond that to the right at the back of the structure. Shadows cast across the hardwood through the windows from a ring of pines stretching overhead outside. Remi took in the old sofa, a coffee table and the small built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. No personal effects or décor. No television. Not unusual for a place like this in the middle of nowhere. It was hard enough getting electricity let alone cable, but the place looked deserted. A rental? Or an opportunity the killer had taken advantage of?
A mountainous wall of muscle shadowed the doorframe behind her as Deputy US Marshal Dylan Cove stepped onto the scene, and every cell in Remi’s body rocketed into awareness. Well over six-two, with healthy, brown hair, a permanent scowl and gray eyes she found herself unable to avoid, the former private investigator locked his attention on her with an intensity that’d followed her all the way from Delaware. “Do we know how long the victim had been staying here?”
“Not yet, but there’s an overnight bag in the closet behind you with a few changes of clothes, so I’m thinking he was on vacation.” Nguyen leveled his gaze with hers. The glare from the sunlight reflecting off his silver badge prevented her from seeing his expression. Daniel Nguyen had been Gresham police longer than she’d headed her division. He was a veteran, experienced with homicide investigations and evidence collection, and was perfectly capable of handling this scene on his own. What were she and Cove doing there? The sergeant faced her. “Are you sure you’ve never been here?”
“Positive. We don’t get scenes like this in my division.” She would’ve remembered if one of her assignments had brought her out here. The closest she’d come had been to drive straight through Gresham on her way to Mount Hood during a case in which a senior deputy district attorney had been abducted and her team had been called in to provide backup. Her boots reverberated off the hardwood floors as she followed the sergeant toward the back of the cabin. Remi memorized the floor plan as they moved down the short hallway, past the secondary kitchen access and into the northwest corner of the house. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as heavy footsteps fell into rhythm behind her. Cove. Wall paneling dimmed the natural light coming in through the single window as she rounded the corner, and there, in the center of the bedroom, was the reason she’d been called to the scene.
Her throat worked to repress the bile churning in her gut. The victim—male, approximately six feet, maybe one hundred and eighty pounds—had been tied to a chair by the wrists and ankles. She zeroed in on the blood crusted under the ropes, evidence the cuts on his skin had more than likely resulted from his spending hours trying to escape. However, it was the dozens of other lacerations, the ones that’d most likely led to his death, that demanded her attention. Her mouth dried as the past collided with the present. Memories of a scene almost identical to this one threatened to escape the grave she’d buried them in when she’d left Delaware. The rope, the lacerations varying in width and length across the victim’s entire body, the lack of forced entry and isolated location. “Do you have a pair of gloves for me?”
Nguyen circled around one of the crime scene technicians and collected a pair of latex gloves then handed them off. “We recovered the victim’s wallet on the dresser over there. Delaware license belonging to Del Howe. You recognize the name?”
“Should we?” Cove donned his own pair of gloves and flipped open the victim’s wallet. He hadn’t showed any signs of surprise or recognition since coming into the room. Of all the investigators who’d worked the New Castle Killer case, she would’ve expected him to react to this scene.
“Doesn’t sound familiar.” Did Nguyen honestly believe because she and the victim were both from Delaware, she’d know him? Styled dirty-blond hair cascaded over Mr. Howe’s forehead, hiding most of his face as his chin rested on his chest. Bands of muscle roped down the victim’s arms and across his back, yet there was no sign of a struggle in the cabin. Nothing seemed out of place. “Del Howe obviously worked out, took care of himself. Makes me think he wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. His attacker must’ve been bigger, stronger, or he’d been
