2. Maverick
MAVERICK
DRIVE
I made it in an hour.
The location Cruz gave me led to a slightly less developed area closer to the Silver Creek Reservoir. There are no cameras here, and the only lights come from perimeter lights Jesse and Evie requested Cruz’s men set up.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as the car rolls to a stop a safe distance away from the crime scene.
Naturally, I beat the rest of my team here, and the FBI forensics van is still on the way.
I step out of the vehicle and take a moment to scan the cordoned-off area from afar, letting the cool breeze calm my nerves.
The calm doesn’t last long.
Though I don’t need it, I unclip the flashlight from my belt as I walk toward the police tape. I spot Cruz standing on the edge, waiting for me.
Despite the gruesome crime scene, Cruz looks as put together as ever.
It’s 10 p.m., and this guy looks as though he just got ready for the day.
I know him well enough to know that his put-together appearance doesn’t match the rolling storm inside him.
One of the perimeter lights draws attention to his dark brown eyes, which reflect the dread and anticipation I feel.
“What do you know?” I ask Cruz as I reach his side.
“You made it in record time, Rhodes. Break any laws on the way over?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer.
He glances at the ambulance on the outskirts of the scene, and I follow his gaze. Paramedics attend to an older gentleman, sitting on the edge of the open truck.
“Owner’s brother was out surveying the area this afternoon and noticed a disturbance to the crop lines over there.
” He points his own flashlight to the hole in the center of the barricade.
“Robert,” Cruz continues with a chin nod in the ambulance’s direction, “said the crop lines should’ve been undisturbed since this area isn’t as developed.
There’s never really any foot traffic out this way, especially right now.
Jane Doe must’ve not been buried deep enough, or the thunderstorms over the last few nights must’ve caused a run-off.
He saw an anomaly in the soil, went over to check it out.
Didn’t take long for him to notice the coffin.
Called it in right away, but he’s pretty shaken up. ”
“The entire coffin was out?”
“No. Robert said the soil here is pretty uneven. If it’s not leveled properly, it typically runs down toward the reservoir. Add in all the rain, and I guess the mud drifted down and uncovered some of it. That’s what got his attention. The responding officers uncovered the rest.”
I wince, thinking of the evidence that may have been trampled. Not that I don’t trust his guys—I do—but when it comes to forensics and evidence collection, only two people have my complete confidence. And they’re not here yet.
Donning latex gloves and disposable shoe covers, I duck under the police tape. I keep the flashlight aimed at the wet soil beneath my feet, following the print path from the responding officers to the grave.
I hear Cruz behind me. I don’t need to see him to know he’s minding the path just the same.
We stop at the edge of the burial site. The sight that greets me causes me to close my eyes involuntarily. My heart beats against my ribcage as I reopen them and gaze down at the coffin.
Jesus. Fuck.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a victim buried in this manner, but the shock of seeing a lifeless body, face contorted in terror and hands bound by rope, never goes away.
I scan her hands and note the red, raw skin beneath the bindings on her wrists. Her fingernails are all but gone, fingers bloodied by a feeble attempt to open the box. The scratch marks are evident on the inside of the lid.
God. What a fucking terrible way to die.
I avert my eyes from the body and scan the surrounding area. I’d bet the unsub was counting on the thunderstorms to cover up his tracks, but it didn’t conceal everything.
About 2 yards away, I spot four small holes that don’t belong in the field.
I’m not able to get any closer without risking contamination, so I drop to my haunches and focus my flashlight on the indentations.
They appear relatively small—maybe the size of a quarter—but deep enough that mud hasn’t completely covered them up.
They’re not exactly equidistant: two circles are further apart than the other two, but the distinct shape of a rectangle is clear. My gut clenches at the familiarity.
“Cruz.” I stand and call out, nodding for him to come over when his eyes meet mine. “See those?” I wave the flashlight over the circles.
“What would’ve made them?” He crouches down next to me, careful to not get any closer but still wanting to examine the oddity further.
“If this really is our unsub, those are the markings of a portable table. We think he sets it up and uses it to hold his tools or whatever-the-fuck the sick bastard uses.”
At the rumbling sound of approaching vehicles, Cruz and I turn toward the makeshift parking lot. Arlo, Spencer, and Riley exit a black SUV just as the FBI crime scene van pulls into the space next to them, Jesse and Evie at the helm.
We watch as the team rounds the back of the van and begins to haul out the equipment.
“Can you tell your officers to help them set up the additional arc lights? Agents Hernandez and Baker are about to light this place up.” And knowing them, they’re going to expand the main crime scene to roughly 200 feet from the grave in every direction.
Cruz simply nods and carefully treks back to the RPD officers to relay the information.
It only takes around ten minutes before this side of the orchard looks as bright as a movie set. Jesse and Evie walk over to meet me at the edge of the burial spot, followed closely by Cruz and the rest of our team, each of them decked out in gloves and shoe covers.
“Hey, Rhodes. I’m going to video the murder scene within the perimeter, then start on the photos,” Evie informs as she checks the lenses on her camera.
Both Evie and Jesse are highly trained forensic scientists, but Evie specializes in photographic evidence.
She’ll record the scene exactly as it is before taking pictures.
When we make it to Rochester’s FBI resident agency office and sift through her work, it’ll look like we’re still at the scene.
“As soon as that’s done, I want to examine the victim’s fingers more closely.
My guess is she tore them up real good trying to escape, but if we’re lucky, maybe she tore him up real good at some point, too.
” Jesse’s role begins when Evie’s ends. His specialty lies in collecting trace evidence, but he’ll wait until Evie’s wrapped up before he starts his ritual.
He’ll make sure he collects anything that may get lost once the victim is transported.
“Obviously, we’ll have to wait for the medical examiner to determine the time of death, but it looks like the victim has been here for at least a week or two. Maybe even longer,” Riley, our criminal investigator, says just as the Southern Minnesota Regional medical examiner approaches.
Sammie Jamison made waves in the medical community as one of the youngest medical examiners in the state.
A year ago, her genius and achievement took over the news coverage, which is the only reason I recognize the woman walking toward us.
She’s definitely not what someone would expect to see when they think “medical examiner.” Her blonde hair is mostly pink and thrown into a messy bun on the top of her head.
Her brown eyes are slightly too big for her face, and the excitement of a new case is hard to miss.
She stops in front of the group, stepping her red sneakers into shoe covers and snapping on gloves. “Hi. I’m Sammie, SMR’s medical examiner. Anything I need to know before I take a look at Jane Doe?”
“I’m Special Agent Rhodes. This is Detective Cruz with RPD, and Special Agents Baker, Hernandez, Morgan, Anderson, and Grant.” As I introduce each of them, they offer Sammie a brief nod or a wave. “Special Agent Baker is just about to start on videos and photos.”
“Perfect! I’ll get caught up on the details while I wait, then watch her in action,” she says before casting her eyes on Cruz. “Detective Cruz. Walk with me?”
As Cruz leaves to update Sammie, I turn toward Spencer. “Were you able to get the missing person’s report from RPD?”
He nods. “I’m cross referencing the information with the missing reports from the other victims. Clara Santos was last seen at The Pour House on August 16th where she worked until 2 a.m. Arlo pulled the surveillance cameras.”
“Yup,” Arlo confirms. “I have the videos from The Pour House, both inside and outside. I also pulled external video from the surrounding shops and restaurants, including the ATM camera across the street. I’m going to sift through it all when I get back to the office.”
I don’t want to get my hopes up, especially after this shit show of a day. But it’s hard not to. This is the first time we’ve been able to hit the ground running before a body shows up.
Well, another one , I think as I look toward the activity humming near the victim’s grave.
There’s still a chance we can save Clara, and I’m going to do everything in my power to find her.
I let the others down. I won’t let her down, too.