Cold Case Murder. Shirlee McCoy

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      “The forensic anthropologist I told you about. He’ll recreate the scene based on what he finds, then work to identify our victims. Come on in, but watch your head.” He stooped down and walked into the tunnel.

      Jodie borrowed a flashlight one of the officers offered and followed. “Our victims? Isn’t the case a local matter?”

      “It should be, but since we were in here following up on the Leah Farley case, the sheriff asked if we’d be willing to help with victim identification. I agreed.”

      “Who’s the sheriff around here now?” She hoped not the same one who’d been sheriff when Jodie was growing up.

      “Bradford Reed.”

      Of course it was the same sheriff. Otherwise things, would have been a little too comfortable. “I remember him.”

      “Good. The Leah Farley case may be connected to the murders that have occurred in town. Getting along with the local PD is imperative.”

      Then you shouldn’t have called me in to help.

      Jodie didn’t say what she was thinking. There was no way she wanted to explain her teenage years. The subtle rebellions that had, more often than not, gotten her in trouble.

      The scent of damp earth filled her nose, and cool, moist air settled on her skin as she stepped into a cavernous room. Her flashlight beam bobbed across a dirt floor littered with years of debris. Cloth. Plastic. A few old bottles. Near the far wall, a pile of rotted clothes lay amidst the other rubble. Even without getting closer, Jodie could make out the subtle shapes of the bones beneath. Two skulls lay side by side in the dirt, smooth and dingy yellow.

      She moved closer, doing her best to stay detached and unaffected as she surveyed the remains. Stale air, ripe with the remnant of something putrid and old, filled her lungs. She ignored it, crouching down to get a better look. A fleshless skull stared up at her, its empty eye sockets and grinning teeth a macabre reminder of the life that had once been. The other skull was facedown, a two-centimeter sliver of bone missing from the base. Closer to the top of the skull, the bone was cracked.

      “It would take a lot of force to crack a skull like that.” She spoke the thought out loud, wanting to pick the skull up and examine it more closely but knowing she couldn’t.

      “A lot of force or a lot of rage.”

      “Any sign of the weapon?”

      “Nothing. From the looks of the injury, we could be searching for anything. Baseball bat, butt of a gun, a club.”

      “Maybe something metal. A pipe?” Jodie responded by rote, her gaze riveted to a pile that lay beside the skulls. It looked as if a rodent had made a nest there, creating it from faded cloth and long strands of fine hair. Blond hair, from the looks of it. Even time and dirt couldn’t quite hide the fact. More tufts of it were visible beneath the facedown skull. These were even easier to identify. Long. Straight.

      White-blond?

      If so, they were the same color as Jodie’s. The same color her mother’s had been. She shuddered, leaning in a little closer, trying to see more of what remained.

      “You’re getting a little close to the remains, ma’am. Maybe you should back up before you disturb something.” The words were gruff and loud, and Jodie whirled toward the speaker, her flashlight illuminating a tall, dark-haired man who stood beside Sam.

      “I’m not in the habit of disturbing crime scenes.”

      “Good to know.” He strode across the room, his movements as lithe and graceful as a jungle cat’s, his gaze so intense Jodie was tempted to look away.

      “I take it you’re the forensic anthropologist.” She stood, careful not to step any closer to the skeletons.

      “Harrison Cahill.” His eyes were oddly light in a craggy face, his lips turned down in a scowl.

      “Jodie Gilmore.”

      “I take it you’re the agent working with Sam? And a fairly new one, right?” He said it almost absently as he moved up beside Jodie, his gaze moving from her to the mounds of cloth and bones.

      “Does it matter?”

      “I guess we’ll find out.” He met her eyes for a moment, then crouched down next to the skeletons, dismissing her with an abruptness that bordered on rude.

      “Don’t mind Cahill. He’s like that with everyone.” Sam moved in close, his voice filled with humor that spoke of familiarity.

      “But more so with people who pull me away from big weekend plans,” Harrison complained as he pulled out a digital camera and began taking pictures.

      “Big weekend plans?”

      “I’ve got six cases I’m working on for the New Orleans police.”

      “Then I’m doubly appreciative of your efforts here. Hopefully we can a get quick resolution.” Sam crouched down next to Harrison, and the two men began discussing the remains. Male. Female. Early thirties.

      Jodie watched silently, feeling useless. Completely unnecessary. Obviously not needed. The feeling was a bitter echo of the way she’d felt as a child when her father had pursued one woman after another and she’d been left alone, desperate to belong.

      She shoved the feeling and the memories aside, refusing to acknowledge them. She was an accomplished professional, not an insecure kid. To prove it, she squatted down next to Sam, watching as Harrison snapped more pictures.

      Harrison shot a look in her direction, his eyes telling her to back off.

      She ignored him, focusing her attention on the dusty cloth that lay over the skeletons. A blanket of some kind? As the camera flashed, she saw other things. Bits of fabric printed with what might have been tiny flowers. A silver wedding band. The camera flashed again, and Jodie caught sight of something lying near the wall. Half-covered by dirt, the dull piece of metal could have been just about anything but looked like something very familiar.

      She trained her light on it, squinting to get a better look. “Is that a bullet?”

      Harrison shifted his attention from the scene he was documenting and looked in the direction the female agent’s light was shining.

      Jodie, she’d said her name was.

      A young-sounding name for a very young-looking woman. Too young. Too inexperienced. Too much invading his space. He liked to take his time when he worked a scene, documenting it slowly, making sure he had a visual record of everything before anything was moved. He did not like people standing over his shoulder, distracting him from his methodical approach. “Looks like it. Now if we can find the weapon that fractured our victims’ skulls, we’ll have an even clearer idea of what went on here.”

      “And if we can’t find the weapon?” The woman’s voice was husky rather than sweet, and it didn’t at all match her delicate looks.

      “Then we’ll figure out what happened other ways.”

      “What—”

      “Look.” СКАЧАТЬ