While the Savage Sleeps (15 page)

She was lying stomach-down, with her head twisted awkwardly off to one side. Animals appeared to have gone on a feeding frenzy, chewing off part of her nose and an ear. In addition to that, the skin on her cheek had been gnawed all the way down to the bone. There were flies too, lots of them, crawling over her face, across her lips, and in and out of the open, rotting wounds.

Slowly, Cameron moved his gaze along the rest of the body. Brand names from head to toe: Tommy Hilfiger blouse, Lucky Brand Jeans, and shoes courtesy of Kate Spade; she was no vagrant.

Nor was she a local. Although occasionally seen, designer brands were as uncommon as they were impractical in an agricultural community like Faith.

Cameron pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snapped them onto his wrists, then reached down and gently pulled back her hair. As the silky strands parted, he saw a dark bruise on the throat, then lighter ones moving upward toward the back of the neck. Strangled, in all probability, although not necessarily—choking someone to death is harder than it looks on TV, and many attackers often move to a quicker, easier method. It would be the medical investigator’s job to determine the exact cause of death.

When Cameron rolled the body over, a foul odor hit him, so strong he had to turn away just to catch his breath. The stench of death; he’d smelled it when he first arrived. Turning the body face-up seemed to unearth its full potency, a volatile combination of urine, feces, and decaying flesh. The pounding heat hadn’t helped matters much, either.

He knelt over the body, covering his mouth and nose with his hand, and took a closer look. Just below the ribcage was a gaping hole. He pressed his fingers against it and could see into the body cavity. The intestines were chewed through, and beyond that, so were several other internal organs. Animals hadn’t wasted any time working on her insides.

Cameron shook his head. He’d left Amarillo to get away from violent crime.

He looked back down at the girl. Deputies hadn’t found any personal effects—no purse, wallet, or ID of any kind, and with the face in this condition, making positive identification would be a chore. He hoped at least the hands were still intact and the fingerprints readable.

Before leaving the immediate scene, Cameron stepped back a few feet, taking one last look at the victim.
Who is she?
he wondered.
How did she end up here?

Then he remembered what he’d learned while working homicide back in Texas:
Never put yourself in the victim’s shoes; put yourself in the suspect’s.

He stood up and scanned the ground—no signs of a struggle there. It seemed unlikely she’d been murdered at the bottom of the ditch. Somebody had probably killed her elsewhere and dumped her here. Somewhere out there, maybe just a few feet away or perhaps even farther, was the primary crime scene where it all went down, where the victim came face-to-face with both her killer and her own mortality.

Cameron felt sadness tugging at his gut as the image of his son floated before his eyes. He pushed it away. Still, it was a reminder: he’d just been looking at somebody’s daughter. Painful, the thought, but also, it kept him grounded, allowing him to view victims as actual people, not just cold, nameless corpses. Whether or not their hearts still pounded or lungs drew air was irrelevant; they were all still human beings. All had a history—every one of them did—and most had loved ones who cared about them. Their lives mattered.

Cameron moved up the incline, careful to travel the same path he’d used coming down.

When he reached the top, something caught his attention: drag marks in the dirt. Perhaps even more telling, upon closer inspection, he discovered what appeared to be tiny drops of blood mixed in with them. The trail went from the side of the road to the edge of the trench. Cameron remembered a few cuts on the victim’s arms. Most likely, the source. Just as he’d suspected, she was probably killed elsewhere, then dragged from a vehicle and dumped there.

Then it hit him.

Ben was already dead by the time this girl was murdered. As for Ryan Churchill, he was too young to have a driver’s license; besides, the victim’s condition here was tame compared to that of the others, and the method of killing couldn’t have been more different.

Cameron knelt down and picked up a fistful of sand. Opening his fingers, he watched as the tiny granules slipped through them, falling quickly to the ground. He looked up for a moment, squinting in the bright sunlight.

Ben Foley was dead. Ryan Churchill was still missing. And in their wake, a shocking revelation: someone else was out there.

Another monster.

Like the grains of sand slipping through his hands, so too was the sense of comfort, of security everyone in Faith had always known, even taken for granted. Nobody was safe anymore.

The sound of screeching tires jolted Cameron from his thoughts. He looked up to see a news van slamming on its brakes, skidding forward several feet, and almost plowing right into his car. He shook his head with disgust as he watched the crew pour out from the van.

Once again, the vultures had landed.

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Highway 10

Faith, New Mexico

Cameron watched as the side door of the news van burst open. A petite, blonde woman appeared, wearing a suit the color of a traffic cone. Pinned to her lapel, a gold number nine shimmered in the afternoon sunlight, the same one splashed across the side of the news van.

As if executing a parachute drop, the tiny woman leaped from the vehicle with excitement, literally hitting the ground running. She immediately headed toward the crime scene with the determination and vigor of an Olympic sprinter, arms pumping, and clutching onto the microphone as if it were her torch. A chubby cameraman waddled behind her, barely successful in his attempt at keeping up.

The reporter stopped abruptly at the edge of the embankment, staring down at the corpse, her expression more one of exhilaration than concern.

“
Psssst! Quickly!” she whispered loudly to the cameraman, poking her finger in the direction of the body, and oblivious of the crime scene investigation happening all around her.

Deputy Avello moved in. Placing a firm hand on her shoulder, he pointed her to the area behind
the yellow tape.

Head tilted, mouth agape, and ego visibly bruised, she reached for her cell phone and called the station. Her cameraman stood faithfully behind her like a trained dog, waiting for his next command. Avello remained in front of her, arms crossed, determined, and immovable.

Just then, another news van came sliding into place right behind the other. More people filed out and ran toward the scene. Confusion quickly turned to chaos, and Cameron decided enough was enough. He stepped directly into the TV reporter’s personal space, but with little effect; she continued her phone conversation as if he weren’t even there.

He stepped even closer.

Unable to ignore him now, she raised her index finger into the air in a
just a minute
sort of way.

Cameron responded by shaking his head in an
I don’t think so
sort of way.

She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and shot him a terse look. “Do you
mind
?” she demanded.

“
Actually, I do,” Cameron said firmly. “Please move back
behind
the yellow tape—

that is, unless you’d prefer I arrest you for disturbing a crime scene.”

She jumped back to her phone call. “I gotta go, Chris … Call you back in a few, hon … uh-huh … Yeah. Sure will. Okay.”

Cameron cleared his throat, loudly, then pointed toward the yellow tape. “We’re conducting a murder investigation, and
you
need to step back
.
”

“
And you would be …?” she asked in a tone that managed to be both dismissive and condescending.

“
I would be Cameron Dawson, assistant sheriff, and I’m asking you to step back—now.”

The reporter’s face suddenly changed, blossoming into a pleasant shade of
kiss-up
. Seizing the moment, she thrust her microphone into Cameron’s face. “Sheriff Dawson! Great to meet you! Can we get an on-camera with you right-quick?”

“
Actually, Miss …” He paused and waited for her to say her name.

“
Casey Gold, Channel Nine News,” she said quickly and eagerly, then pushed the microphone closer.

Cameron was about to speak, but stopped and pushed the microphone away. “To be quite honest, Ms. Gold, I have nothing for you. We arrived here shortly before you did, so we’re hardly prepared to give any interviews. Please move aside
now
. We have a job to do.”

Disarmed, but only for few seconds, her indignation rose. So did her tone of voice. “We have rights too, you know!”

Cameron had more important things to do than deal with an overzealous reporter. He’d already wasted too much time here. “Miss Gold, listen to me very closely. Your rights end where that yellow tape begins. If you continue to be a nuisance here, I’ll arrest you on a variety of charges ranging from disturbing evidence to disturbing the peace. It’ll make great headlines, good video too … and just in time for the five o’clock newscast. Now get behind the tape before I put handcuffs on you.”

Casey shot Cameron a dirty look, then, pivoting around on one heel, marched toward the crowd, shaking her head in disbelief. Other news people who had slowly crept around her followed closely behind.

Cameron stood, arms crossed, eyes following them as they walked to the outer perimeter. He kept them trained on the group as he spoke.

“
Avello,” he shouted.

The deputy looked up, giving Cameron his full attention.

“
Stay on top of these people, will you? Arrest anyone who gets in your way. This is a murder scene, not a damned circus.”

Chapter
Thirty

Sheriff’s Station

Faith, New Mexico

“
She was nineteen years old. From Ruidoso. On her way through.” Cameron told Frank.

Frank looked up from the mound of paperwork on his desk with interest. “Coming
from
Ruidoso, or going
to?”

“
On her way to Albuquerque,” Cameron said, “and headed for the University of New Mexico.”

“
A college kid,” Frank said with a nod. “Makes sense. But if she was driving, where’s the car?”

“
Found it shortly after we found
her
, just a few miles up the road from where she got dumped. Parked along Old Highway 80. Suspect probably ditched it there after getting rid of her, then headed out on foot. Nice car, too, a BMW. Purse and ID were inside.”

“
Find anything else in there? Blood? Hair?” Frank asked.

Cameron shrugged. “Deputies are processing it.”

“
How ‘bout signs of a struggle?”

“
Some blood on the ground nearby.”

“
Could be our primary murder scene, then,” Frank agreed. He paused, rested his chin between his thumb and index finger, thinking for a second or two. “Who was she?”

Cameron slid a manila folder across the desk. “She wasn’t just any college student. She was a college student whose mother just happens to be state sena–”

“
Senator Connie Champion,” Frank interrupted, reading from the report, then letting the folder drop onto the desk, “
Christ
… it can’t be
.”

“
It is,” Cameron affirmed. “Felicity Champion was murdered within our city limits, or at the least, dumped here. Now she’s
our
headache.”

“
That’s one huge fucking headache,” said Frank. He removed his glasses, then rubbed his temples. “
Jeez-us.
This means the feds. Guaranteed they’ll be here, if they aren’t already.”

“
If they’re not, the media will sure as hell sound the alarm,” Cameron said.

“
And if we’ve got a serial-kill going on here,” Frank added, “they’ll
have
to step in.”

Cameron shook his head. “Not so sure we do.”

“
Then what
do
we have?”

“
I was at all four crime scenes, Frank. While there’s similarities with a few, each one’s different in its own way. Alma’s killer was methodical, organized down to the last detail. Even the manner she was killed … it was very clinical … and he brought his own weapon.”

“
And with Witherspoon,” Frank added, “while he was also left hanging, the weapon and methodology are still very different.”

“
Exactly. The rage, the anger, and he improvised.”

“
And this one?” Frank asked.