Read Online The Summerland by T. L. Schaefer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. L. Schaefer
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the crime scene had yielded to this point. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot.
The Modesto crime lab specialists had thoroughly combed each crime scene over the course of the day yesterday, taking photographs and any evidence in clear sight, but leaving everything else for the FBI lab technicians who had arrived late last night.
Even though the sun had been up for over three hours now, both men had decided to let the experts do their job unencumbered by amateur questions, so they reviewed the information the first team from Modesto had compiled.
Kimmie Ross’ body had yielded liberally scattered green silk fibers. The other bodies were skeletons in all actuality, so finding fiber fragments on the ground around them would be a miracle on the scale of the Fatima visitation.
Each victim had been positioned in a south-north configuration. In the southwest corner of the Ross circle, right next to the victim’s left ear, a small wreath of wilted lavender was discovered, almost hidden by fallen buck brush leaves. Searchers had been unable to find additional wreaths at the other sites, but that was probably due to the fact that they had been exposed to the elements for a lengthy amount of time and had naturally degraded.
Whelan’s ad hoc report on the discovery of candle wax was confirmed. At five equidistant points around the circle red and yellow candles had been used, with blue, red, gold and green placed precisely at the four points of the compass.
Left with this information, Ashton and Drebin now sat alone, with piles of paper surrounding them on the conference room table in the high school library. Off to one side of the table sat a stack of files neither of them wanted to look at. It contained every missing person’s report, correction, and every missing female’s report for the last ten years within Mariposa and the surrounding counties . The pile was depressingly high. While Bill wanted to look at each and every one personally, he knew it would be an exercise in futility. He could not, and would not, divide his attention between overseeing this case and getting down in the weeds with details. He made an on-the-spot decision to have Sergeant Doug Brewster, his most trusted protégé, head up the missing person’s investigation. With that decision made he was ready to move on to other things.
There was something there, just hitting at the back of his consciousness, something his tired brain just could not or would not pinpoint. Turning to Agent Drebin and reaching for his second cup of coffee of the day he asked, “So, where do we go from here?”
Drebin looked up, the strain of the past day showing on his expressive features. He’d been through dozens of these crime scenes and investigations, and they always hit him like a punch in the gut. Criminal profiling probably was not the best career choice for a man as attuned to human suffering as he, but it was one of the most rewarding things in his life, and the puzzle of actually putting together a human psyche was just too compelling to ignore. He knew what Ashton was asking, and knew that he wasn’t going to like the answer. Waiting was seldom the favorite pastime of cops, yet they seemed to do so much of it.
He snaked a long arm down the table, pouring a cup of coffee before answering. “Our top priority is going to be IDing those bodies. I need to know as much about the victims as possible to construct a profile. I know we’ve already established that he’s a single white male, 30-45 years old. But given the new crime scene elements, namely the candle wax and the cause of death, I have to revise my original opinion. If each of these women was strangled, then shot, then we’re beyond the scope of the ‘normal’ serial killer.”
He saw, actually saw , the light go on above the sheriff’s head. “What.” It was not a question, but a demand.
“ Shit. Things moved so fast this morning that I didn’t even catch it. One of our local oldsters came in
The Modesto crime lab specialists had thoroughly combed each crime scene over the course of the day yesterday, taking photographs and any evidence in clear sight, but leaving everything else for the FBI lab technicians who had arrived late last night.
Even though the sun had been up for over three hours now, both men had decided to let the experts do their job unencumbered by amateur questions, so they reviewed the information the first team from Modesto had compiled.
Kimmie Ross’ body had yielded liberally scattered green silk fibers. The other bodies were skeletons in all actuality, so finding fiber fragments on the ground around them would be a miracle on the scale of the Fatima visitation.
Each victim had been positioned in a south-north configuration. In the southwest corner of the Ross circle, right next to the victim’s left ear, a small wreath of wilted lavender was discovered, almost hidden by fallen buck brush leaves. Searchers had been unable to find additional wreaths at the other sites, but that was probably due to the fact that they had been exposed to the elements for a lengthy amount of time and had naturally degraded.
Whelan’s ad hoc report on the discovery of candle wax was confirmed. At five equidistant points around the circle red and yellow candles had been used, with blue, red, gold and green placed precisely at the four points of the compass.
Left with this information, Ashton and Drebin now sat alone, with piles of paper surrounding them on the conference room table in the high school library. Off to one side of the table sat a stack of files neither of them wanted to look at. It contained every missing person’s report, correction, and every missing female’s report for the last ten years within Mariposa and the surrounding counties . The pile was depressingly high. While Bill wanted to look at each and every one personally, he knew it would be an exercise in futility. He could not, and would not, divide his attention between overseeing this case and getting down in the weeds with details. He made an on-the-spot decision to have Sergeant Doug Brewster, his most trusted protégé, head up the missing person’s investigation. With that decision made he was ready to move on to other things.
There was something there, just hitting at the back of his consciousness, something his tired brain just could not or would not pinpoint. Turning to Agent Drebin and reaching for his second cup of coffee of the day he asked, “So, where do we go from here?”
Drebin looked up, the strain of the past day showing on his expressive features. He’d been through dozens of these crime scenes and investigations, and they always hit him like a punch in the gut. Criminal profiling probably was not the best career choice for a man as attuned to human suffering as he, but it was one of the most rewarding things in his life, and the puzzle of actually putting together a human psyche was just too compelling to ignore. He knew what Ashton was asking, and knew that he wasn’t going to like the answer. Waiting was seldom the favorite pastime of cops, yet they seemed to do so much of it.
He snaked a long arm down the table, pouring a cup of coffee before answering. “Our top priority is going to be IDing those bodies. I need to know as much about the victims as possible to construct a profile. I know we’ve already established that he’s a single white male, 30-45 years old. But given the new crime scene elements, namely the candle wax and the cause of death, I have to revise my original opinion. If each of these women was strangled, then shot, then we’re beyond the scope of the ‘normal’ serial killer.”
He saw, actually saw , the light go on above the sheriff’s head. “What.” It was not a question, but a demand.
“ Shit. Things moved so fast this morning that I didn’t even catch it. One of our local oldsters came in
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