on the GPS and went l-looking.”
She dissolved into shivers and tears. I saw Cherry catch Beale’s eye, nod toward the couple. Beale looked back, confused.
“What you want?”
“Get their statements, Sheriff Beale. Did they see anyone else on the way here? Cars, hikers, that type of thing.”
He patted his pockets. “Got something I can write in?”
Caudill said, “There’s a pad in the car, Chief. I’ll go fetch it.”
“Bring me a goddamn pen, too.”
Cherry and I trudged back to the body. She opened the bag and pulled out evidence bags, latex gloves, scene tags, a camera and other necessaries, photographing the scene from every possible angle. We splashed into the creek and wrestled the woman from the water and laid her supine on the ledgerock.
She was a woman who had been attractive while alive. Even at her age - which I guessed as late forties - her body was well-sculpted, slender and heavy-breasted. Her black corset laced through the front, plump white breasts spilling from hard cups. The boots were knee-length, laced. A black leather collar circled her neck, and centering the collar was a stainless steel O-ring. The blue rope was attached to the ring with a carabiner.
“Captive somewhere?” Cherry suggested.
“Looks that way.”
“The boots are maybe three sizes too big,” she said, wiggling the boots as water dripped out. “Plus that corset get-up isn’t laced tight, and doesn’t look like it would. One item’s too small, the other’s too large.”
“You don’t think the boots and boogie gown are hers?”
“No,” Sheriff Beale interrupted from behind us. “Not a chance.”
Cherry and I turned. Beale had finished his note duties and dismissed the kids. “You know the victim, Sheriff?” Cherry asked.
“Tandee Powers. Lives in Hazel Green, not too far from here. Churchy lady. Used to be a teacher who did stuff for orphan kids and that. Took a real pervert to dress her like a whore.”
He looked sick and walked away, acting like he was checking the bushes for clues. We inspected the body, noting some bruising and several deep scratches, but no major wounds. The local ambulance company arrived, ready to transport the body to a nearby funeral home. It neededchilled storage until the Kentucky crime lab could add it to their backlog.
When the body was gone, we scoured the area for evidence. Cherry and I walked with our heads low, studying. Beale and Caudill stomped in circles. McCoy wandered with his GPS unit in hand. I watched him head upstream until he disappeared around a bend. Finding nothing in the vicinity of the body, the four of us trotted after McCoy.
We found him staring into a pool of muddy water, sixty feet long or so, twenty wide. At the downstream end was a rough concrete dam, three feet high, crumbling where it met the shore. In the middle was a horizontal metal wheel, two feet in diameter. The wheel operated the gate, a solid door that controlled water flow.
“Weird,” I said, seeing a small man-made pond in the middle of a thickly forested nowhere, stark rock cliffs rising at our shoulders.
“Not if you know the history,” McCoy said. “Fifty years ago one of the logging companies kept a crew shack by the base of the cliff. This was their swimming hole. I’ve taken a dip here a time or two.” He pointed to the center of the pool. “That’s where the GPS coordinates actually lead, oddly enough.”
“You mean the waypoint is in the pond?” I said.
“Might not mean much. GPS units aren’t accurate to more than a couple dozen feet, the older ones are worse.”
“But the other coordinates were almost dead-on, right? The ones leading to the first bodies?”
He nodded. “Under fifteen feet, all of them. For GPS, that’s an arrow dead-center in a target.”
I looked at the wheel on the dam gate. Wheel and screw rusted. Probably unused in decades. “Let’s see if we can open the gate,” I said to Beale. “Let some water out.”
“Hunh?” Beale
She dissolved into shivers and tears. I saw Cherry catch Beale’s eye, nod toward the couple. Beale looked back, confused.
“What you want?”
“Get their statements, Sheriff Beale. Did they see anyone else on the way here? Cars, hikers, that type of thing.”
He patted his pockets. “Got something I can write in?”
Caudill said, “There’s a pad in the car, Chief. I’ll go fetch it.”
“Bring me a goddamn pen, too.”
Cherry and I trudged back to the body. She opened the bag and pulled out evidence bags, latex gloves, scene tags, a camera and other necessaries, photographing the scene from every possible angle. We splashed into the creek and wrestled the woman from the water and laid her supine on the ledgerock.
She was a woman who had been attractive while alive. Even at her age - which I guessed as late forties - her body was well-sculpted, slender and heavy-breasted. Her black corset laced through the front, plump white breasts spilling from hard cups. The boots were knee-length, laced. A black leather collar circled her neck, and centering the collar was a stainless steel O-ring. The blue rope was attached to the ring with a carabiner.
“Captive somewhere?” Cherry suggested.
“Looks that way.”
“The boots are maybe three sizes too big,” she said, wiggling the boots as water dripped out. “Plus that corset get-up isn’t laced tight, and doesn’t look like it would. One item’s too small, the other’s too large.”
“You don’t think the boots and boogie gown are hers?”
“No,” Sheriff Beale interrupted from behind us. “Not a chance.”
Cherry and I turned. Beale had finished his note duties and dismissed the kids. “You know the victim, Sheriff?” Cherry asked.
“Tandee Powers. Lives in Hazel Green, not too far from here. Churchy lady. Used to be a teacher who did stuff for orphan kids and that. Took a real pervert to dress her like a whore.”
He looked sick and walked away, acting like he was checking the bushes for clues. We inspected the body, noting some bruising and several deep scratches, but no major wounds. The local ambulance company arrived, ready to transport the body to a nearby funeral home. It neededchilled storage until the Kentucky crime lab could add it to their backlog.
When the body was gone, we scoured the area for evidence. Cherry and I walked with our heads low, studying. Beale and Caudill stomped in circles. McCoy wandered with his GPS unit in hand. I watched him head upstream until he disappeared around a bend. Finding nothing in the vicinity of the body, the four of us trotted after McCoy.
We found him staring into a pool of muddy water, sixty feet long or so, twenty wide. At the downstream end was a rough concrete dam, three feet high, crumbling where it met the shore. In the middle was a horizontal metal wheel, two feet in diameter. The wheel operated the gate, a solid door that controlled water flow.
“Weird,” I said, seeing a small man-made pond in the middle of a thickly forested nowhere, stark rock cliffs rising at our shoulders.
“Not if you know the history,” McCoy said. “Fifty years ago one of the logging companies kept a crew shack by the base of the cliff. This was their swimming hole. I’ve taken a dip here a time or two.” He pointed to the center of the pool. “That’s where the GPS coordinates actually lead, oddly enough.”
“You mean the waypoint is in the pond?” I said.
“Might not mean much. GPS units aren’t accurate to more than a couple dozen feet, the older ones are worse.”
“But the other coordinates were almost dead-on, right? The ones leading to the first bodies?”
He nodded. “Under fifteen feet, all of them. For GPS, that’s an arrow dead-center in a target.”
I looked at the wheel on the dam gate. Wheel and screw rusted. Probably unused in decades. “Let’s see if we can open the gate,” I said to Beale. “Let some water out.”
“Hunh?” Beale
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