“I can leave right now. I’m not dressed for work.”
“All the better. The terrain requires a little hiking.”
“Can you tell me anything about it?” Ann asked.
“Better you see for yourself, but if it will help, Joan said it would be your kind of case.”
She cleared her throat. “I’ll leave now.”
“Good. See you soon.” Seconds later her phone chimed with a text from Bryce.
The location was near a small town called Anaconda. It was a picturesque area known for the Anaconda Smelter Stack, a masonry structure that rose 585 feet out of a now-defunct ore smelter.
When she arrived, a deputy directed her to a gravel road toward a collection of cars on the top of a hill. She parked behind a dark SUV, gathered her box of mementos, and stowed it in her trunk. She changed out her sneakers for the old hiking boots.
After grabbing a wide-brimmed hat from the trunk, she settled it on her head, adjusted her sunglasses, and then rolled down the sleeves of her cotton shirt.
Ann spotted Bryce McCabe easily. He was taller than most men, standing at six foot five inches, and he had broad shoulders and muscled arms. He normally wore a suit, a tie, and his polished cowboy boots. However, he was dressed more casually today, as if the dispatcher’s call had pulled him off the range on that wild patch of land that he had inherited last fall.
Anxious to see why he had called, she marched forward past the yellow evidence tents. A dozen steps into her climb, a gust carried the traces of decay and charred flesh.
CHAPTER THREE
Anaconda, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
12:15 p.m.
Bryce saw Ann Bailey walking up the hill toward the forensic team’s tent and her long stride slow right about where the coiling scents thickened. She was a doctor of psychology, and though she had studied the criminal mind and understood patterns and practices, she had admitted in her training seminar that she had no real field experience. One thing to theorize about a serial killer and another to see, smell, or touch their vicious handiwork.
“The first homicide is always rough,” Joan said as she stood beside Bryce.
“You think she’ll make it?” Bryce asked.
“Even if it kills her.”
To Ann’s credit, she kept moving up the hill toward them. It was difficult to read her expression, shadowed by the glasses and the hat, but he suspected she had intended to shield her reactions as well as the sun. I read you—you don’t read me.
“Joan,” Ann said. “Sergeant McCabe.”
She gave Joan a quick smile and extended her hand to Bryce. His calloused palm scraped against her smooth skin, and if he had still been on the rodeo circuit, he would have scoffed and teased her about being a greenhorn.
But Ann Bailey was not totally inexperienced, and she was nobody’s shrinking violet. She had stood up to last year’s shitstorm caused by her late husband, and many who’d been so betrayed and manipulated would have hightailed it out of Montana. She had stood her ground and kept her job, and was teaching her boy to hold his head high.
Bryce had always been attracted to Ann Bailey’s looks. Blond, high cheekbones, full lips, and striking green eyes were damn nice in their own right. But combined with a stunning set of legs, full breasts, and a narrow waist, she had wheedled herself into his thoughts since he had first met her last year. Now that she was battle tested, she was all the more attractive.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said.
“You have me until two at the latest, and then I need to head back to town to get Nate.” Drawing her shoulders back, she shifted her attention toward the body. “What happened?”
“Autopsy will confirm what I’m about to say, but I believe the victim was stabbed to death, and then her remains were set on fire,” Joan said.
“Fire,” Ann said softly.
“Judging by the smell, I’d wager the accelerant was gasoline,” Joan said.
Ann regarded Joan, suggesting unspoken words passed between them. The women were survivors of a fire that had nearly killed them in college. So maybe later they would have a pointed discussion, but it would not happen in front of him.
She looked past them both to the blackened body lying out in the hot midday sun. “Joan mentioned a case similar to this one. It was in Helena, right?”
“Yes,” he said. “As far as we know, this is the second victim killed this way.”
“Two bodies in a little over a month. That’s a short cooling-off period between kills,” Ann said.
During the time between murders—the cooling-off period—the killer relived the crime, which energized whatever emotional payoff he enjoyed during the act. When remembering no longer satisfied his cravings, the search for a new victim began.
“Think we have a serial killer?” Bryce asked.
“Four weeks is a quick turnaround,” Joan said.
“The interval between murders can last years or decades,” Ann said.
“Or in this case, the guy burned through his memories in four weeks,” Bryce said.
“It’s not the fastest pace, but you’re right—it’s a short turnaround,” Ann said. “Can I get a better look at the body?”
“It’s rough,” he warned.
“No doubt.” Ann’s lips thinned. “But unless you two want to simply discuss the theory of serial killers, which I can do for hours, I’ll need to see this guy’s handiwork. Do you have gloves?”
Bryce handed her a spare pair and watched her long fingers slide into the gloves as if she were dressing for a night at the opera. Brave face, but the extra seconds she took knitting her fingers together suggested shaky nerves behind the bravado. He had done as much when he had stared down the length of a rodeo bull or marched into a narrow canyon in Korangal Valley. The real test did not commence until you saddled up and it was go time.
Bryce took the lead, moving at a slower pace, giving Ann time to retreat as the scents strengthened and the buzz of black flies grew louder. Out in this weather, the sun and critters would turn this body to dust in a matter of days.
She edged close to the yellow caution tape and studied the body, which lay on its back, its charred skull angled toward the western, pale-blue sky. “Was the other body positioned to the west?”
“Yes. On the side, arms tucked close to the body, legs closed.”
“Legs are closed in this case, but there doesn’t appear to be any clothing. Were there signs of sexual assault on the first victim?” Ann asked.
“No signs of sexual assault, but she was also stripped naked.”
“Also stabbed and then incinerated?”
“Affirmative.”
“May I get closer?” Ann asked.
He lifted the tape, and she ducked under it. Her jaw tightened, but she kept moving until she was feet away from the remains. As she stared at the scorched figure, the silence that followed stretched to breaking. Finally, she moved toward the head.
There was no lingering this time as she instinctively drew in a deep breath and stepped back. “Does fire destroy the face like this?”
“It can do a lot of damage,” Joan said evenly. “But we think the killer removed the face with a scalpel, like he did with the other one. There’s an outline along the hairline, cheek, and jawline. Again, the medical examiner will have to make the call.”