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Authors: Spencer Kope
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asks.
“Maybe thirty feet, but it’s pretty overgrown in that area. Doubtful anyone would have found her anytime soon if it wasn’t for the dog.”
“If she’s been dead two or three months,” I say, “how come no one smelled decomp and reported it?”
“I’m sure plenty of people smelled it, but most would have likely written it off as a dead deer or squirrel. If time-of-death is accurate, she’s been there since sometime between mid-March and mid-April. Not as many hikers out there that time of year.” Leaning over, he taps at one of the eight-by-tens in Jimmy’s lap. “Not much left, I’m afraid; mostly skeletal. We couldn’t find the skull. Probably some animal ran off with it.”
“Is there an incline where the body was found?” I ask without looking up, my eyes busy dissecting the photos one by one.
Walt breathes a long drawn-out hmmm . “I believe there is,” he says at length. “Hard to be certain with the trees and underbrush, but the whole area has its ups and downs, so I’m guessing it does.”
“Skulls tend to roll downhill after detaching,” I say in a matter-of-fact voice. “We should be able to find it, provided the killer didn’t take it as a souvenir.” Walt chuckles, and then realizes I’m serious.
“You’re sure this is female?” Jimmy says.
“Pretty sure.”
“How do you know?”
Walt hesitates. “There’s one photo I didn’t include in your folder.”
“Why?”
He just shakes his head. “Better you see it with your own eyes.”
* * *
Buck Hollow Trail is a pleasant stroll through hell; an oppressive chaparral thick with mossy oaks, rotting logs, and pollen. Jimmy loves it. The trail follows an old logging road north, passing streams, belching frogs, and a forest floor untidy from deciduous decay. A musty wet flavor taints the air; I taste it on my tongue, smell it in my sinuses, feel it in my throat.
Dead leaves.
Dead earth.
Worms.
Three hundred yards up the trail we come across an armada of deputies, detectives, and U.S. forest rangers corralled by yellow crime-scene tape. Two small generators and a dozen portable lights sit idly to the side, no longer needed with the coming of dawn. A trail, now well worn, has been hacked through the thick scrub to the west, leading some thirty feet to where a man in slacks, dress shoes, shirt, and tie stands juxtaposed against the wild.
“Steps, Jimmy, I’d like you to meet Dr. Noble Wallace, our coroner.”
“Call me Nob,” the doctor says without emotion. “Noble is too regal and Dr. Wallace makes me think you’re talking to my father.”
After the traditional round of palm-mating and arm-pumping, Jimmy asks, “What do you know so far?”
And then I see her.
On the other side of the good doctor, dumped unceremoniously on the ground, is a sad stretch of bones. Most of the flesh is gone, and several of the ribs with it. Other bones have been pulled away from the body and gnawed upon by teeth of every size.
I pull my lead-crystal glasses off, and the crime scene suddenly erupts with neon shine. If I paid any attention, the flood of color would be exhilarating: like static electricity pulling at every hair follicle on my body. But I don’t pay attention. Even the coolest sensation dulls after ten thousand repeats. Folding the metal earpieces down one by one, I slip the glasses into their leather case before turning my attention back to the body.
The skeleton is problematic.
As the flesh surrenders to rot and rodent, so goes the shine. On the ground around the corpse are no less than two dozen distinct shines, any one of which could be the killer. I need to find something that sets him apart from the others.
“Female,” Nob begins. “Based on bone fusing, I’d place her age at around twenty-four, give or take a year. I’ll be able to firm that up once I take X-rays. Height was between five-two and five-four and she was fairly trim. We don’t have the skull, so dental records won’t do
“Maybe thirty feet, but it’s pretty overgrown in that area. Doubtful anyone would have found her anytime soon if it wasn’t for the dog.”
“If she’s been dead two or three months,” I say, “how come no one smelled decomp and reported it?”
“I’m sure plenty of people smelled it, but most would have likely written it off as a dead deer or squirrel. If time-of-death is accurate, she’s been there since sometime between mid-March and mid-April. Not as many hikers out there that time of year.” Leaning over, he taps at one of the eight-by-tens in Jimmy’s lap. “Not much left, I’m afraid; mostly skeletal. We couldn’t find the skull. Probably some animal ran off with it.”
“Is there an incline where the body was found?” I ask without looking up, my eyes busy dissecting the photos one by one.
Walt breathes a long drawn-out hmmm . “I believe there is,” he says at length. “Hard to be certain with the trees and underbrush, but the whole area has its ups and downs, so I’m guessing it does.”
“Skulls tend to roll downhill after detaching,” I say in a matter-of-fact voice. “We should be able to find it, provided the killer didn’t take it as a souvenir.” Walt chuckles, and then realizes I’m serious.
“You’re sure this is female?” Jimmy says.
“Pretty sure.”
“How do you know?”
Walt hesitates. “There’s one photo I didn’t include in your folder.”
“Why?”
He just shakes his head. “Better you see it with your own eyes.”
* * *
Buck Hollow Trail is a pleasant stroll through hell; an oppressive chaparral thick with mossy oaks, rotting logs, and pollen. Jimmy loves it. The trail follows an old logging road north, passing streams, belching frogs, and a forest floor untidy from deciduous decay. A musty wet flavor taints the air; I taste it on my tongue, smell it in my sinuses, feel it in my throat.
Dead leaves.
Dead earth.
Worms.
Three hundred yards up the trail we come across an armada of deputies, detectives, and U.S. forest rangers corralled by yellow crime-scene tape. Two small generators and a dozen portable lights sit idly to the side, no longer needed with the coming of dawn. A trail, now well worn, has been hacked through the thick scrub to the west, leading some thirty feet to where a man in slacks, dress shoes, shirt, and tie stands juxtaposed against the wild.
“Steps, Jimmy, I’d like you to meet Dr. Noble Wallace, our coroner.”
“Call me Nob,” the doctor says without emotion. “Noble is too regal and Dr. Wallace makes me think you’re talking to my father.”
After the traditional round of palm-mating and arm-pumping, Jimmy asks, “What do you know so far?”
And then I see her.
On the other side of the good doctor, dumped unceremoniously on the ground, is a sad stretch of bones. Most of the flesh is gone, and several of the ribs with it. Other bones have been pulled away from the body and gnawed upon by teeth of every size.
I pull my lead-crystal glasses off, and the crime scene suddenly erupts with neon shine. If I paid any attention, the flood of color would be exhilarating: like static electricity pulling at every hair follicle on my body. But I don’t pay attention. Even the coolest sensation dulls after ten thousand repeats. Folding the metal earpieces down one by one, I slip the glasses into their leather case before turning my attention back to the body.
The skeleton is problematic.
As the flesh surrenders to rot and rodent, so goes the shine. On the ground around the corpse are no less than two dozen distinct shines, any one of which could be the killer. I need to find something that sets him apart from the others.
“Female,” Nob begins. “Based on bone fusing, I’d place her age at around twenty-four, give or take a year. I’ll be able to firm that up once I take X-rays. Height was between five-two and five-four and she was fairly trim. We don’t have the skull, so dental records won’t do
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