scribble a word on it and hand it to Ginger-mottled-with-French-lilac. “Give me a call when it’s ready. If I’m not available, ask Diane to come pick it up.” I tap her name where I’ve written it on the card.
“Special Tracking Unit,” Ginger reads off the card. “That sounds cool.”
I make my exit before he can ask me how to join up.
CHAPTER SIX
June 21, 5:57 A.M.
Betsy descends from the clouds and banks left as Les lines her up for a landing at Redding Municipal Airport. The early morning sky is clear and blue, promising a beautiful and hot California day.
Sleep eludes me on these short flights, but sleep tends to keep its distance from me anyway, as it did last night; as it did the night before. The only gifts the Sandman chooses to bestow upon me these days are nightmares, and nightmares of nightmares. Jimmy studies the bags under my eyes but doesn’t say anything.
The call came in at 7:35 last night, halfway through a recorded episode of Jericho , and just as we were winding down DD5. It was more of the same: a woman’s body found by a hiker at the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area just west of Redding. Foul play suspected. Details are few and sketchy, but the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office had secured the scene overnight pending our arrival, keeping everyone out but the crime scene investigators (CSIs), who, in this case, were not full-time CSIs but cross-trained deputies.
Betsy kisses the runway at 6:05 A.M. and taxies to the U.S. Forest Service hangar; the USFS has graciously allowed us to use their facilities while here. When the door opens and I start down the ladder to the tarmac, I breathe deep and take in the dawn; it’s crisp, almost tart. The sun has been up less than twenty minutes and night’s chill is still in the air. Broken fragments of dissipating shadow cling to the west side of the hangar, the airport terminal, and the hills to the north. The sounds of morning are everywhere.
I’m already tired and the day has just begun.
A dark blue Ford Expedition pulls up as our hiking boots touch the runway. While it’s unmarked, it’s clearly a law enforcement vehicle, evidenced by the collection of antennas on the roof and the hidden lights in the grille and windshield. As the driver swings the door wide and steps out, I see the uniform of the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, complete with four stars on the shoulder boards. He’s a large man, at least six-four, in his fifties, with shoulders like a linebacker and size-fifteen shoes that actually look small under him.
“Sheriff Gant, I presume,” Jimmy says as we meet halfway between the plane and the SUV. Jimmy’s hand is dwarfed by the sheriff’s bear paw as they shake.
“Call me Walt,” the sheriff says in a strong, rumbling voice.
We do the whole small-talk thing for about five minutes and I learn that Walt has a deep, genuine laugh and a love for his job and the people he serves. It’s refreshing and I find myself wanting to help this guy as much as I can … if I can.
That depends on the body and the crime scene.
Two identical folders are waiting on the front and rear passenger seats. Sheriff Gant’s people are nothing if not efficient. Each folder contains a complete case synopsis, maps, a half dozen eight-by-ten glossies, and a one-page directory of hotels and restaurants in the Redding area. They even marked the hotels that offered a law enforcement discount. I climb in the back and let Jimmy ride shotgun.
“A nice couple named Jim and Valerie Bartowski found her,” Walt says as we turn off Muni Boulevard onto Knighton Road, heading for I-5. “I’ve never met them until last night, but I recognized the name when I heard it. Valerie trains dogs and has quite a reputation; very well respected.”
“Dogs?” I say.
“Cadaver dogs,” Walt clarifies. “They happened to have one of their pups with them on the hike and he led them off-trail to the body.”
“How far off-trail?” Jimmy
“Special Tracking Unit,” Ginger reads off the card. “That sounds cool.”
I make my exit before he can ask me how to join up.
CHAPTER SIX
June 21, 5:57 A.M.
Betsy descends from the clouds and banks left as Les lines her up for a landing at Redding Municipal Airport. The early morning sky is clear and blue, promising a beautiful and hot California day.
Sleep eludes me on these short flights, but sleep tends to keep its distance from me anyway, as it did last night; as it did the night before. The only gifts the Sandman chooses to bestow upon me these days are nightmares, and nightmares of nightmares. Jimmy studies the bags under my eyes but doesn’t say anything.
The call came in at 7:35 last night, halfway through a recorded episode of Jericho , and just as we were winding down DD5. It was more of the same: a woman’s body found by a hiker at the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area just west of Redding. Foul play suspected. Details are few and sketchy, but the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office had secured the scene overnight pending our arrival, keeping everyone out but the crime scene investigators (CSIs), who, in this case, were not full-time CSIs but cross-trained deputies.
Betsy kisses the runway at 6:05 A.M. and taxies to the U.S. Forest Service hangar; the USFS has graciously allowed us to use their facilities while here. When the door opens and I start down the ladder to the tarmac, I breathe deep and take in the dawn; it’s crisp, almost tart. The sun has been up less than twenty minutes and night’s chill is still in the air. Broken fragments of dissipating shadow cling to the west side of the hangar, the airport terminal, and the hills to the north. The sounds of morning are everywhere.
I’m already tired and the day has just begun.
A dark blue Ford Expedition pulls up as our hiking boots touch the runway. While it’s unmarked, it’s clearly a law enforcement vehicle, evidenced by the collection of antennas on the roof and the hidden lights in the grille and windshield. As the driver swings the door wide and steps out, I see the uniform of the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, complete with four stars on the shoulder boards. He’s a large man, at least six-four, in his fifties, with shoulders like a linebacker and size-fifteen shoes that actually look small under him.
“Sheriff Gant, I presume,” Jimmy says as we meet halfway between the plane and the SUV. Jimmy’s hand is dwarfed by the sheriff’s bear paw as they shake.
“Call me Walt,” the sheriff says in a strong, rumbling voice.
We do the whole small-talk thing for about five minutes and I learn that Walt has a deep, genuine laugh and a love for his job and the people he serves. It’s refreshing and I find myself wanting to help this guy as much as I can … if I can.
That depends on the body and the crime scene.
Two identical folders are waiting on the front and rear passenger seats. Sheriff Gant’s people are nothing if not efficient. Each folder contains a complete case synopsis, maps, a half dozen eight-by-ten glossies, and a one-page directory of hotels and restaurants in the Redding area. They even marked the hotels that offered a law enforcement discount. I climb in the back and let Jimmy ride shotgun.
“A nice couple named Jim and Valerie Bartowski found her,” Walt says as we turn off Muni Boulevard onto Knighton Road, heading for I-5. “I’ve never met them until last night, but I recognized the name when I heard it. Valerie trains dogs and has quite a reputation; very well respected.”
“Dogs?” I say.
“Cadaver dogs,” Walt clarifies. “They happened to have one of their pups with them on the hike and he led them off-trail to the body.”
“How far off-trail?” Jimmy
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