Full Tilt (16 page)

36

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

T
he textbooks,
Tactical Investigation
,
Deductive Assessment
and
Scene Work
, bounced with the course binder on the passenger seat of Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler’s patrol car.

Since his girlfriend was visiting her sister in Wisconsin he’d decided he would put in a few hours of study when his shift ended.
Gotta keep working on the dream.
He sipped coffee as he drove, reviewing his life plan to leave Klassen County for the Minneapolis PD, make detective, then ultimately go to the FBI.

He was twenty-three and policing for the county was fine, for now. But, as his old man used to say each day after working the farm in Moss Valley, a man needs to keep looking down the road.

Meckler’s shift was nearly over and he was on his way to Blake Fossom’s place to issue a summons for noise. Blake liked to party, play his heavy metal and tune up his Harleys, all at the same time, something his neighbors didn’t exactly embrace.

As the Dodge pickup rusting on cinder blocks came into view, the signpost for the Fossom property, Meckler’s radio crackled with a call for his unit.

“Seventy-five. From LR, a couple of birders reported a ten-sixty-two that the COs are verifying as a ten-ninety-one.”

Catching the subtle emotion in the dispatcher’s voice, Meckler sat up. The conservation officers had a corpse that was a homicide at Lost River State Forest.

This takes priority over Blake Fossom.

Meckler keyed his microphone.

“Seventy-five. Ten-four, Julie. I’m fifteen from the gate.”

“Copy. Brian will meet you there and take you in, Cal.”

Meckler hit his siren and lights and sped toward the state park.

Klassen County didn’t see many murders and he didn’t want to screw this up as the first responding officer for the county. He went through a mental checklist of what he’d need to do. Then he advised his dispatcher to alert Ned Sloan, the investigator for Klassen County, the agents in Rennerton with the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. They’d also need the BCA forensic team, and the medical examiner to dispatch somebody out of Ramsay.

“Because it’s close to the reservation we should also alert the FBI’s resident agent in Bemidji.”

“Already on it, Cal.”

* * *

Brian Fahey, an officer with the park, wasted no time when Meckler arrived at the gate. He gave him a quick wave, threw his SUV into gear and began leading him to the scene. Meckler killed his siren but kept his emergency lights going, in keeping with procedure.

Fahey led him along the park’s main dirt roads for a couple of miles before his brake lights brightened. He stopped, left the road and cut into the dense woods. They swayed along an ancient logger’s trail overgrown with scrub and brushwood. The smells of pine and spruce filled Meckler’s car. The light had dimmed because the treetops formed a natural canopy blocking the sun. Meckler’s emergency lights splashed red and blue onto the trees, creating a dreamlike air.

For several miles the undergrowth scraped along the undercarriage, while leafy branches slapped and tugged at the sides of their vehicles. The
snap-crack
of their progress echoed. Meckler caught a glimpse of chrome and recognized a second wildlife SUV ahead at a clearing.

They pulled up behind it.

Meckler checked in with his dispatcher, then began logging the date, time and details in his notebook before stepping out to confer with Fahey and Ashlee Danser, Fahey’s partner, who’d been waiting at the scene. The trio huddled out of earshot of the vehicles and Meckler nodded to man and woman in the back seat of Danser’s SUV.

“Those are the people who made the find?”

“Yes, bird-watchers, Dan Whitmore and Vivian Chambers, retired couple from Omaha.”

Danser’s face was taut, as if she were grappling with something.

“Okay,” Meckler said. “I’ll get a statement from them. Where’s the scene?”

“That way, go about fifty yards through the woods.” Danser pointed. “You won’t miss it. I flagged it with some yellow scene tape. It’s really bad, Cal, really bad. I just glanced, I couldn’t bear looking.”

“So you walked into the crime scene?” Meckler made notes. “I don’t see any other tape to cordon the area.”

“There’s nobody else around, Cal.”

“We can’t risk other hikers happening on it. We need to protect the scene. I’ll get my tape from my trunk. Can you guys use it and yours to form a perimeter to seal the whole scene?”

“Sure, Cal,” Fahey said.

“I’ll need you to show me the path you took in, Ashlee, but first I’ll talk to our witnesses.” Meckler walked to the SUV.

The elderly woman was sitting in the back with her elbows on her knees, holding her face in her hands while the man rubbed her shoulders.

“Excuse me, Mr. Whitmore, Ms. Chambers. I know this is a difficult time. I’m Deputy Cal Meckler with the Klassen County Sheriff’s Office. Could you please tell me how you came upon the discovery?”

“Oh, my God, it’s horrible! It’s just—” Vivian stifled a sob.

“We’ve already told the young officer there everything,” Whitmore said. “I’m sorry, I forget her name.”

“I know, and my apologies, but you’ll have to talk to a number of other investigators before we’re done. And we’ll need to verify your identification. It’s all part of the procedure, given the gravity of the events here.”

“We were just looking at birds!” Vivian said to no one. “Just looking for owls and a kingbird when we found it! Dear lord!”

“Take it easy, Viv. Have some more water.” Whitmore passed her a bottle, then turned to Meckler. “Son, as a doctor, I’ve seen a lot of terrible things. I was a medic in Vietnam and I saw every kind of battle wound you can imagine, but what we saw in there exceeds comprehension. I...tried to clear away—I...tried...to see if there were any signs of life—even though I knew there were none. I still—I’m sorry.”

Whitmore looked toward the scene, dragged the back of his dirt-stained hand across his mouth, regained his composure and recounted the discovery.

Afterward, Meckler went to his trunk. He slipped on shoe covers, tugged on latex gloves, got his camera, his notebook and followed the same line Ashlee Danser had taken into the scene. The air was pleasant with birdsong as he followed a widened pathway into the forest. Parts of the underbrush were flattened, indicating a vehicle had passed through.

He stopped to take several photos before moving on.

Soon he saw the foot-long yellow strip of tape affixed to a tree branch and lifting in the breeze as if beckoning—
or daring
—him to continue. He stepped toward the clearing and the fallen tree where Vivian Chambers had been sitting a short time ago.

He scanned the area but saw nothing.

Then he heard the drone of flies and stopped dead.

It was under the dappled light.

The victim was a white female.

In his short time as a deputy Meckler had seen the results of most tragedies—people who’d died in wrecks, fires, drownings; suicides by gunshots or hangings.

He’d experienced the toll and the aftermath up close.

But this was different from any death he’d ever seen.

It was as if some malevolent force had ripped its way into this world from a nether region to break down all that we know as human.

As he stared at the scene gooseflesh rose on his arms. The tiny hairs at the back of his neck stood up and all the saliva in his mouth evaporated.

Two bare and pale human hands were jutting from the earth, exposed down to the forearms. The hands were about three feet apart, as if the owner had raised them from underground, breaking the earth’s surface in a macabre cheer.

Dirt had been clawed frantically from around the head with a tree branch, as the doctor had described.

The mouth was agape.

Clusters of insects were feasting inside.

Flies encrusted her face.

The eyes were wide-open in a frozen silent scream as if still imploring Meckler to save her.

37

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

S
everal hours after the bird-watchers had made their grisly discovery, a Minnesota State Patrol helicopter thumped over the scene.

Lester Pratt watched from his Ford as he finished off the coffee his wife had made for him, then resealed the cup on his Thermos with a snap. He resumed studying the images on his laptop. The chopper was transmitting live video as it photographed the site, determining the size and boundaries of the crime scene.

Because the primary crime scene was in the state forest and Klassen County had few resources, it was decided that the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension would lead the investigation with support from local agencies and the FBI.

“Ever see one like this, Les?” Ben Koehler, Pratt’s partner, was concentrating on his phone and photos of the victim and the scene they’d taken when they’d first arrived.

Pratt was a seasoned cop partial to the Vikings and Springsteen. He was near retirement. As a BCA agent Pratt had led or worked on nearly one hundred homicides. He peered over his bifocals at his laptop to make a small sketch in his case notebook.

“No,” he said without looking away. “Not like this.”

At that point Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler was approaching Pratt’s vehicle, prompting Koehler to smile.

“Jeez, that kid must’ve roped off a twenty-mile perimeter,” Koehler said as Meckler stepped up to Pratt’s side.

“We’ve cordoned the scene.” Meckler wiped his brow. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Thank you,” Pratt said. “We’ll need help with the canvas. But we’ll take that up at the meeting after we’ve learned more from our forensic people to help guide us in what we’re looking for.”

“And when and where will that meeting take place?”

“Likely tomorrow morning in Rennerton.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be there, willing to help, even if I’m off duty.”

“We appreciate that, son.”

“I’ll search the roadside leading to the scene for anything tossed.”

“The canine team already went through it but go ahead if you want.”

After the deputy left, Koehler shook his head, amused.

“He’s a keener, Les.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

Pratt had been keen himself, especially after he was shot in the leg after he’d stopped a speeding car near Duluth when he was a greenhorn state trooper. While he was recovering, he decided to become a detective.

Then you blink, twenty-five years go by, and you’re confronted with this.

Pratt’s stomach twisted again at the gruesome pictures of the victim’s hands and head.

No, he’d never seen anything like this.

The thing that hit home: Pratt’s two daughters were about the same age as this young woman.

We’ve got to find the animal that did this, he thought, glancing toward the wooded area where the crime scene people were working. Pratt was counting on them to find something to guide him.

They were very good.

* * *

A little deeper into the woods from where Pratt and Koehler’s vehicle was parked, Staci Anderson, coordinator for the BCA’s Crime Scene Team, glanced at the sky, hoping the weather would hold.

Outdoor scenes were tough—rain could wash away trace evidence.

Anderson took stock of her team, clothed in white coveralls, shoe covers, latex gloves. They were forensic scientists, expert in their disciplines such as chemistry, biology, latent prints, firearms and trace analysis. They worked well with the group that came up from Midwest Medical Examiner’s Office in Ramsey.

All members knew their jobs. They worked quietly, efficiently.

Anderson and her team were devotees of the exchange theory of forensics, which held that with every scene the killer leaves a trace of something and leaves with something from it.

It’d been a long day already, Anderson thought, reviewing the work done and the work ahead. They’d taken great care removing all the soil from around the body. It would be sifted for trace and other analysis. They were meticulous about collecting samples of vegetation and soil for study and later comparison. The trees and nearby brush and shrubs were examined for hair, thread, fibers, other materials or broken branches, anything indicative of a struggle.

They scrutinized the area for traces of phlegm, saliva, seminal fluid and other biological material, knowing that it was susceptible to rapid destruction by the elements. Additionally, they searched for shell casings, knives, anything that may have been used as a weapon.

It would be dark soon. That’s when they’d prepare a solution of water, sodium perborate, sodium carbonate and luminol to spray on the area in a process known as chemical luminescence, to detect blood. If the solution contacted blood it would react glowing blue under ultraviolet light.

They painstakingly identified foot and tire impressions, first eliminating those of the witnesses, local law enforcement and any known service vehicles. Fortunately, the scene was pristine in that regard. They photographed and made casts of the impressions they found for further analysis and comparison.

Things were going well, Anderson thought, as she collected her tablet and left the scene. She followed the flagged path of entry and exit to update Pratt, who got out of his vehicle when he saw her.

“Where’re we at, Staci?”

“The ME says they’ll be ready to transport the body before dark for an autopsy in Ramsey.”

Pratt nodded.

“We’ll do our spraying for blood then.”

“What about time frame on death? How long was she there?”

“Hard to pinpoint, we’ll defer to the ME. But the way things look, with insects, status of decomposition, et cetera, I estimate less than a week, maybe even three or four days, hard to say.”

“All right.”

“Once we can analyze the tire impressions we may have a suspect vehicle for you.”

“That would be good.”

“One other thing.” Anderson cued some clear photographs on her tablet. “Take a look.”

They were very tight, clear pictures of marble-sized, circular impressions in soft soil in a grouping of three in a triangular shape.

“What’s that?”

“We’re fairly certain these are impressions of a tripod. Now, given this is bird-watching country, they could’ve been made by birders.”

“Right.”

“They could’ve also been made by the killer.”

“Are you saying he may have recorded this?”

Anderson nodded.