Web of Secrets (Agents Under Fire) (4 page)

Chapter Five

ONCE SAM TOLD Connor about a second body, he hightailed it over to Forest Park, not caring if Kait kept up. He stopped to talk to the officer of record posted as a sentry at the path leading up to the crime scene.

“Add Agents Rebecca Lange and Kaitlyn Murdock to your list of approved visitors,” Connor told him. “They should be here soon.”

Connor waited for the officer to jot down the names, then he started up the path lined with big leaf maples and alders. Enormous ferns peeked through rusty leaves beaten down to the ground in the heavy rain.

Connor reached a bend and paused to shift his bag and catch his breath. This was one of the most difficult paths to traverse in a park that covered more than seven miles of the eastern slope of the Tualatin Mountains. The trail’s difficulty meant it was used less often than easier trails—a perfect place for Van Gogh to dump a body without being seen. It also meant Van Gogh had to be in reasonably good shape to haul the girls up the steep path. Connor was struggling enough with his bag—he couldn’t imagine carrying a hundred-plus-pound girl over his shoulder. With that kind of load, he would have to stop to rest, and he worked out daily.

He started off again, keeping his focus on the sides of the trail, looking for any hint of evidence that Criminalist Dane Harwell or Sam might have missed on the way up. Sam had briefly described the setting, mentioning that a lack of blood near the body indicated the girl hadn’t been killed at the burial location. Connor stopped at a spot that had been recently trampled, and saw Dane’s evidence marker number, A1, sitting next to a cigarette butt. If Van Gogh had climbed this path with a girl, he wasn’t likely a smoker. Still, Connor snapped a quick picture for his records and continued on up.

Near the apex of the trail, a small clearing covered in ankle-high green grass opened to the left. Hills surrounded the area with tall pines and maples fighting for sunlight under gray skies. Rain had carved the thick grass into a deep gully running from the top of the hill to the bottom. Connor couldn’t see the girl from his location, but the spot was cordoned off with crime-scene tape. Sam and Dane stood fifty yards to the east. Sam wore his usual jeans, boots, button-down shirt, and a PPB windbreaker. Dane’s clothes were covered in a white Tyvek suit, and his head was bent over as he slowly moved around the edge of the clearing.

Connor started toward the body, his feet sinking into the waterlogged earth. The pungent, rotting decay of human flesh drifted on the breeze, and Connor swallowed hard. No matter how many murder scenes he’d witnessed in his career, it was never easy. He stepped under the fluttering yellow tape, and Sam greeted him from a distance with a grim shake of his head.

Connor took his first look at the girl. His lunch came rushing up, and he swallowed hard. He’d seen dead bodies in his five years as a homicide detective. Some murdered. Some dead from natural causes and car accidents. But today? The sight of the recently murdered young girl peeking from the shallow grave, clumps of clay soil hugging her body, brought him as close to hurling on scene as he’d ever come.

He’d make her as mid-teens, fitting Van Gogh’s preference. She was dressed in a white gown that looked like satin with lace trim. A demure gown, like a young girl might wear to bed. Her arms were folded across her chest, her legs crossed, her mouth open in a scream, her ears missing. Sawed off.

Connor gagged again and went to join Sam and Dane who was still staring at the ground. A former patrol officer, Dane carried himself like a cop with confidence and an assessing eye. He was near six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and had a muscular build from his recent commitment to working out. Criminalists were sworn staff members at PPB, which meant Dane carried a gun just like any other officer, but it was hidden under his protective suit. He’d served seven years on the street, and that time had taught him to think like a criminal, a valuable skill for a criminalist.

As Connor drew closer, he saw something poking out of the ground. It looked like a stick. Maybe it had been used in the crime somehow, but Connor didn’t immediately get the importance. Maybe it had to do with the second body Sam had mentioned on the phone.

“Not a pretty sight over there,” Sam said in greeting.

Connor nodded his agreement. “So what’s everyone looking at?”

“A foot, or more precisely, a toe.” Dane squatted and used a fine brush to remove dirt from the item Connor had thought was a stick until it became clear that Dane had indeed located a bone.

“Looks like a metatarsal,” Dane said. “Big toe. The phalanges either washed away or never surfaced.” Dane stood. “I’m no expert, but the bone is small so, I’m guessing it belongs to another girl.”

“I know this is kind of an obvious question, but did you check to see if the first girl has all of her toes?”

“You had to ask?” Sam mocked pulling a knife from his chest.

“Okay, fine. Just double-checking.” Connor focused on the bone and moved his gaze across the grass to where he would expect her head to be located. “Ground’s intact.”

“Which means she’s been here awhile.” Sam ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“You’re positive it’s a human bone?” Connor asked.

“Positive, no. The ME can weigh in, but I think we’ll need the OSP forensic anthropologist for a firm confirmation.”

Connor had already expected they’d need resources from the Oregon State Police on this investigation. He just didn’t expect that would include an anthropologist. They’d have to call their lieutenant to arrange it.

“I’ll get her out here ASAP,” Sam said, his eyes going to the trail.

A fiery redheaded woman wearing coveralls rolled up at her ankles crested the hill. It didn’t take Connor long to recognize her as Marcie Jensen, the best medical examiner on the team. She was accompanied by Tim, her often acerbic tech. He was a string bean of a guy, who usually made the business of collecting bodies more difficult than it had to be. Still, he was competent, or Marcie would have fired him long ago.

“I’ll go meet Marcie.” Sam looked at Connor. “Dane will secure this area. It’d be great if you’d start mapping the scene.”

Connor dug his sketchbook from his field bag as Sam stepped off in long strides. Connor traced each tree, each large boulder, the gully with the grave, and the path, while Marcie and Sam studied the body. Connor labeled everything in neat block letters, making sure it was legible. He then used his surveyor’s wheel to plot the precise location of each item of evidence Sam and Dane had marked A2 through A17. And as he did so, he looked for additional evidence. Dane was doing the same thing, but Connor believed in being thorough. They could compare notes when Dane completed his drawing to be sure they hadn’t missed anything.

Connor ended back at the second body, now identified by Dane’s crime-scene tape.

Connor wondered who this poor girl might be. What had her dreams been? Whatever her aspirations, they’d been cut short by the lunatic Van Gogh. A thought suddenly hit him, and his heart sank.

“Hey, Dane,” he called out. “Can you come here a minute?”

Dane strode over to him. “Whatcha need?”

“This bone. How long would it take to become skeletonized like this?”

“Depends. It could happen quickly if the body wasn’t buried the whole time. A few weeks, I’d guess. Or if she’d been buried, six months or longer. Or we could be looking at a girl who’s been here for years.”

“Like sixteen years?”

“Sure.”

Connor resisted letting his mouth fall open. This toe, this little bit of a human being, might be part of Molly’s body. And today could be the day Becca found out her foster sister hadn’t escaped Van Gogh’s clutches after all.

HE WAS BACK, AND Becca couldn’t breathe.

She forced herself to plant one foot in front of the other to make her way up the path. The air was thick with moisture, and large raindrops hit her in the face. She swiped a hand over her forehead to dislodge hair matted against her skin and paused to catch her breath.

“Tough climb.” Kait panted next to Becca.

“Imagine carrying a body.” Becca swigged her water and started up the path again.

Her mind went to the sight that she knew awaited them, and her skin crawled.

She’d had nightmares of this day. Dreamt about it over and over for sixteen years. Awoke sweating. Terrified. Unable to breathe. Much of the time, she’d been seeking Molly who’d run away, becoming a whispery shadow on the horizon, and Becca had never been able to catch up to her.

It was fitting, considering that Becca had run from Molly. Just as Van Gogh made the first cut into Becca’s ear, Molly had offered herself instead. Distracted, he turned his attention to Molly without properly securing Becca. The chance to escape opened up, and Becca had taken it.

She’d run. Fast and far. Telling herself with each step that she was putting enough distance between them to be able to find help without risking capture. But she’d raced past help. Run hard. Down the road. Around corners . . . until she’d collapsed. Until she could run no more. Until she had no idea how to get back to the house where Van Gogh held Molly.

And Becca had never seen Molly again.

What kind of person left her foster sister to die at a lunatic’s hands? A terrible person. One who thought only of herself.

They crested the hill. Becca’s gaze went straight to the grave. Sam charged across the field and stepped in front of Kait. Becca slipped past him, not bothering to see if they followed. She didn’t care. She’d left Molly alone, and she deserved to be alone, too.

Connor stood on the far side of the grave talking to the medical examiner. She didn’t make eye contact with him, but could feel him carefully watching her. He was worried for her, and he wasn’t bothering to hide it. She appreciated his concern, but she hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t asked for anything from him. All she wanted was to be treated like a fellow colleague. This monster of a mess was the reason. She could never share her secret. Never tell anyone else she’d abandoned Molly. If she did, they’d run the other way. So even if she did feel more than a physical attraction for Connor—which she wasn’t saying she did—she wasn’t about to do anything about it.

And then there was the possibility that Van Gogh could find out she was alive and come after her again. Maybe hurt someone she cared about in the process. That was why she chose not to tell Kait or Nina. And no matter how big and tough Connor was, she wouldn’t risk exposing him to Van Gogh, either.

She moved closer, catching the fetid smell as she looked at the grave. The girl, the poor, poor girl wore the same style of nightgown Van Gogh had dressed Becca in, right before putting the pearls in her ears. Before the knife came out and he paused to stare at her, a sick smile plastered on his face.

Was he here, watching now? Did he see her? Did he somehow know, after all this time, that she was Lauren? That she was alive?

She searched the area and honed in on the trees, looking for life, for the man who’d terrorized her and Molly for days. She saw nothing, but he could be there. Deeper in the woods, binoculars in hand. Enjoying her distress.

Her throat closed. She could barely breathe.
No.
He couldn’t win. She forced her mind back to today and looked at the girl’s face. The mouth and eyes were open. Terrified. The face morphed into Molly’s face. This wasn’t Molly. The body was too young to be Molly’s. Besides, this girl hadn’t been dead for sixteen years. But still, Molly would have felt the same terror.

A strangled cry escaped Becca’s throat.

Connor grimaced and started for her, skirting Marcie with a deft foot. He gently took Becca’s arm and turned her away from the horrific sight. She usually reacted to his touch, but she was so frozen in shock and fear, she barely felt his hand.

“I’m thankful for your help.” He rested a hand on her shoulder and gave her a tender look that brought tears to her eyes. “But I wish you weren’t here.”

All she wanted to do was melt against his chest and let him hold her until the horrible memories of the night in the damp cellar disappeared, but she was here as an FBI agent and she needed to remember that. “I’m a law enforcement officer, just like you, Connor. I’m trained for this.”

“Training and actually viewing a decomposed body are two different things. I oughta know. I deal with homicide victims all the time.”

She wanted to heed his advice, but if she didn’t check out the details, she couldn’t help bring the monster Van Gogh to justice. “I’m good, Connor. Really I am.”

She stepped around him. The foul odor caught on the wind.

For Molly and the others
, Becca reminded herself and made her feet move forward.

Marcie looked up, smiled tightly, then focused on Connor. “Before you ask, my initial assessment is that the girl’s been here for about a week. But there are so many factors when a body is buried that I can’t be certain. We do have the presence of coffin flies, and putrefaction has started. Her face is swollen and her abdomen full of gasses so she’s definitely—”

“That’s enough, Marcie.” Connor held up his hand. “We trust your skills and don’t need the details of how you came to your conclusion.”

She transferred her gaze to Becca. “Odd to see you here, Becca. You working a case that involves a murdered girl?”

“Becca’s an expert on Van Gogh,” Connor explained, grabbing Marcie’s attention. “Any ID on the victim?”

“No, but then we didn’t expect it, did we? Not if Van Gogh’s behind this.” Marcie shook her head. “Again, I’m not certain of her age yet, but this girl appears to fit his preference for fifteen-year-olds.” Marcie fisted her hands and looked like she wanted to punch someone. “At least, if she’s in the foster care system, we’ll be able to narrow down the field a bit. There will be fewer missing girls to look for.”