We study the scene in companionable silence. Even though I’m wearing two pairs of socks inside waterproof boots, my feet ache with cold. I’m tired and discouraged and overwhelmed. The press of time is heavy on my shoulders. Any cop worth his weight knows the first forty-eight hours of a homicide investigation are the most vital in terms of solving it.
“I’d better get those supplies,” Glock says after a moment.
I watch him traverse the bar ditch, slide into his cruiser and pull away. I turn back to the field where drifting snow whispers across the frozen earth. From where I stand, I can just make out the bloodstain from the victim, a vivid red circle against pristine white. The crime scene tape flutters in a brisk north wind, the tree branches clicking together like chattering teeth.
“Who are you, you son of a bitch?” I say aloud, my voice sounding strange in the predawn hush.
The only answer I get is the murmur of wind through the trees and the echo of my own voice.
Twenty minutes later Officer Skidmore arrives on the scene. He slinks out of his cruiser toting two coffees, a don’t-ask expression, and a half-eaten doughnut clutched between his thumb and forefinger.
“Why the hell can’t people get murdered when it’s seventy degrees and sunny?” he mutters, shoving one of the coffees at me.
“That’d be way too convenient.” I take the coffee, pop the tab and brief him on what we know.
When I’m finished he considers the scene, then looks at me as if expecting me to throw up my hands and tell him the whole thing is a big, ugly prank. “Hell of a thing to find out here in the middle of the night.” He slurps coffee. “How’s T.J.?”
“I think he’ll be okay.”
“Fuckin’ kid’s gonna have nightmares.” His eyes are bloodshot and, as Glock had predicted, I realize he’s sporting a hangover.
“Late night?” I ask.
He has powdered sugar on his chin. His grin is lopsided. “I like tequila a lot more than she likes me.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan, Skid lost his job with the police department there because of an off-duty DUI. Everyone knows he drinks too much. But he’s a good cop. For his sake, I hope he can get a handle on it. I’ve seen booze ruin a lot of lives, and I’d hate to see him added to the heap. I told him the day I hired him if I caught him drinking on the job I’d fire him on the spot. That was two years ago and so far he’s never crossed the line.
“You think it’s the same guy from back in the early nineties?” he asks. “What did they call him? The Slaughterhouse Murderer? The case was never closed, was it?”
Hearing the sobriquet spoken aloud raises gooseflesh on my arms. The local police and FBI worked the case for years after the last murder. But as the evidence grew cold and public interest dwindled, their efforts eventually slacked off. “It doesn’t feel right,” I offer noncommittally. “It’s hard to explain a sixteen-year gap in activity.”
“Unless the guy changed locales.”
I say nothing, not wanting to speculate.
Skid doesn’t notice. “Or he could have been sent to prison on some unrelated charge and just got sprung. Saw it happen when I was a rookie.”
Hating the speculation and questions, knowing there will be plenty more in the days ahead, I shrug. “Could be a copycat.”
He sniffs a runny nose. “That would be odd for a town this size. I mean, Jesus, what are the odds?”
Because he’s right, I don’t respond. Speculation is a dangerous thing when you know more than you should. I dump my remaining coffee and crumple the cup. “Keep the scene secure until Rupert gets back, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“And give him a hand with the impressions. I’m heading to the station.”
I anticipate the heater as I start for the Explorer. My face and ears burn with cold. My fingers are numb. But my mind isn’t on my physical discomfort. I can’t stop thinking about that young woman. I can’t stop thinking about the uncanny parallels of this murder with the ones from sixteen years ago.
As I put the Explorer in gear and pull onto the road, a dark foreboding deep in my gut tells me this killer isn’t finished.