In the last two hours, Bryce had distanced himself from the images of the mutilated body. It was not intentional but a survival mechanism learned on the battlefield. During the mission, the dead ceased to be human and were reclassified as evidence. Later the images would return, reinvigorated and magnified, like all the other ghosts.
“I’d like to be present when the autopsy is conducted,” Ann said.
Joan glanced toward Bryce, brow raised, but she said nothing.
“Sure,” Bryce said.
“Was the first body found close to Interstate 90?” Ann asked.
“Relatively,” he said.
“Close to bike or hiking paths?”
“Yes, but it was the fire that alerted locals and then the cops.”
“There are plenty of places in Montana to bury a body so that it’s never found,” Ann said.
“Why draw attention to the remains?” Bryce asked.
“He wants his work discovered.” Inhaling a steadying breath, Ann studied the face closely. “But the fires and the facial mutilations are connected. The killer is erasing the victim’s identity.”
“Look what I’ve done,” Joan said. “Now guess who I did it to?”
“Maybe,” Ann said. “Have you identified the first victim?”
“No,” Bryce said. “This killer might want our attention, but he also doesn’t want to get caught. I think stripping the bodies is a precautionary move. As destructive as fire could be, buttons, rivets, buckles often survive and later give clues about the victim.”
“The first victim’s face was not found, and so far, neither has this one’s. Is it a trophy?” Joan asked.
“Trophies are common with serial killers,” Ann said. “Whatever they take from the victims helps them relive the crime during that cooling-off period I mentioned. Often there’s a sexual element. As the crime is mentally reenacted, the killer can masturbate.”
“But remember, no signs of sexual assault on the first victim,” Bryce said.
“Sexual stimulation comes in many forms,” Ann said. “Sometimes the act of witnessing the victim’s pain gets the killer excited. They can’t achieve sexual gratification without another’s suffering. Penetration isn’t always required.”
“That’s why I’ve got you here,” Bryce said. “You understand this kind of thinking.”
She looked up at him. “I’ve studied it, comprehend it on an academic level, but I don’t claim to understand this type of killer. If anyone says they do, they’re lying.” Defensiveness stiffened her tone.
“You still know more than me,” Bryce said. “I’ve never had cases like these two.”
“Do you have any theories about the Helena victim?” Ann asked.
“I’ve discussed it with the lead detectives at length. Our assumptions that the first kill was domestic don’t fit anymore. Though we could still be dealing with cartels or human traffickers,” Bryce said.
“I suppose this could be a message to rival gangs. Violence is often used in those organizations to control not just the victim but the survivors. But this kind of killing takes planning. The victim has to be selected, the materials gathered, and the site chosen,” Ann said. “This killer is organized, and he’s not stupid.”
“You think the victims were chosen in advance?” he asked.
“Yes I do,” Ann said. “He likely was stalking or grooming them for days or weeks. Are there any missing-person reports that match the first victim’s approximate age and race?”
“No. We reached out to police in Wyoming and Idaho,” Bryce said. “There were a couple that were possibilities, but the women have since been located.”
“Will he do it again?” Joan asked.
“If I had to guess, I’d say yes,” Ann said.
“Jesus,” Bryce muttered.
“May I read the files from the first case?” Ann asked.
Bryce was pleased to see she was not running to the safety of her university office.
“I’ll hand deliver them to you myself,” Bryce said. “Name the place.”
“I rented a house in town and will be there the next couple of days nonstop getting it set up before the school year starts. Tomorrow, Nate is going camping with his cousin, my brother, and Joan. That means four days of silence, so I’ll have time to work.”
Joan chuckled. “My first camping trip.”
Ann smiled. “I’d trade places with you, if I could.”
Bryce understood how solitude could coax the past and its demons out of the shadows. “I’ll drop them off this afternoon.”
“We should have the body out of here in under an hour,” Joan said. “Likely the autopsy will be tomorrow. I wish I could be there. Maybe I could join Gideon and the boys later in the day.”
“No, you go. It’ll be good for you all. I’ll attend,” Ann said.
“You been to an autopsy before?” Bryce asked.
“First time for everything, Sergeant McCabe,” Ann said.
Challenge hummed under her words, and he preferred her throwing punches instead of retreating.
“I remember my first,” Bryce said.
She arched a brow. “If you’re suggesting it won’t be easy, you’re correct, Sergeant McCabe. But don’t worry about me. I don’t bolt.”
A grin tugged at the edges of his lips. “I wasn’t suggesting you would.”
“Yes, you were. But it’s a justified worry. I’m untested.”
“You’ll hang tough,” Joan said.
He sensed Ann was not as sure of herself as she pretended to be. “Exactly.”
While Joan stayed with the remains, Bryce walked Ann down the hill. As they passed the tire tracks, she paused and studied them. They were covered in footprints.
“Most of the footprints belong to the deputy who came in on foot. The tire tracks were made by the killer, likely after Monday night’s rain.”
“Can you figure out what kind of vehicle he drives?” Ann asked.
“Might be able to.”
They continued over the now sun-dried grass poking up from the soft dirt. Her long legs matched his strides easily.
“Thanks again, Doc,” he said. “I’ll see you later today.”
She stripped off her gloves and shoved them in her pocket before she removed her hat, revealing a fine sheen of sweat banding her forehead. Blond hair twisted into a low knot. “Let’s hope I can help.”
Ann started her car and opened the window, breathing in fresh mountain air before she drove away from the crime scene. Scents of singed flesh lingered in her nasal passages and clung to her skin. Images of the mutilated body were branded into her memory.
A glance in her rearview mirror caught Bryce McCabe watching her drive away. His grim expression had suggested that he fully expected her to rethink her involvement in the case and decline to help. That was not going to happen, but he did not know that. Yet.
Known for his direct, if not abrupt, style, Bryce McCabe had been on tenterhooks around her, as if he were juggling a dozen fragile eggs. His underestimation irritated her, but of course he really was not so different from everyone else in Missoula. Since her husband’s death in the fire he had set, those who knew her, as well as strangers, tiptoed around her. Most did not know what to say. They wanted to be kind, but they were also curious about Clarke. How are you feeling? Did you know what Clarke was doing? Tell us all the dirty little secrets. Bryce had never once brought up Clarke when she’d visited his office, and that was a point in his column.