movin’,” Pappas said.
It took thirty yards to identify the source. The tunnel suddenly widened into a second room. Rainwater was dripping from the roof onto the top of a cast-iron stove.
“What the hell?” Pappas said.
“It’s an old stove.”
“Great detective work. What’s the fuck’s a stove doing down here?”
Beth raised her shoulders and ran the beam from her Maglite across the surface and sides, checking for a trap. At first she thought the slender, white object sticking out of the burner was a twig. When the realization that she was looking at a finger hit her, she recoiled, taking a step backward into Pappas.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Pappas saw the grisly object at the same time. “Sonofabitch,” he said. “I think we just found the source of your print.”
Beth fought down a wave of nausea and forced herself to move closer. Her legs suddenly felt like lead.
“Get a picture,” she told Pappas, pulling another plastic bag from her back pocket.
The camera’s built-in flash momentarily lit the room, revealing another ladder in the corner. At the top was a second trap door. She and Pappas spent several minutes examining the stove, floor, and ladder hoping to find more clues. There was nothing.
When Pappas took the bag from her and put the severed finger inside, she didn’t protest. It was slender and the nail was coated with red lacquer—clearly that of a woman.
Once they were satisfied the room had given up all its secrets, Pappas said, “Let’s get the hell outta here. I’ll go first. That door looks heavy.”
The detective started to climb but stopped three-quarters of the way up and shined his light near where his left hand was grasping.
“What is it?” Beth called up.
“Looks like a drop of blood,” he said. “I think I can dig it out with my knife.”
Pappas reached into his pants pocket and produced a small folding Buck knife and began to work the wood, eventually breaking off a piece. He bagged it.
“Maybe it’s the killer’s and we’ll catch a break with a DNA match,” Beth said.
“We should be so lucky,” Pappas said. “This bastard is playing some kind of game with these clues and the footprints.”
“He might have missed it,” Beth said without conviction.
The trap door was heavy, and it took an effort to lift it. A layer of sod covered the top, placed there for camouflage. They emerged, blinking into the gray daylight to find themselves only about fifty yards from the barn. The railroad tracks were no more than thirty feet away. As light flooded into the hole they’d just climbed out of, they saw what had not been apparent in the darkness: the dirt at the base of the ladder was dark brown, a different color from what was in the tunnel.
Beth and Pappas looked at each other and then at the soles of their shoes.
“Goddamnit,” Pappas said.
“Got to be the victim’s blood.”
Pappas pulled out his cell phone and called the sheriff again.
As Blaylock and Avilles made their way to them, Beth began to examine the area. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking her clothes and hair and running down the back of her neck.
“Dan, tell them to stay back. I need to work this area.”
Pappas nodded and moved off to intercept them.
Remembering as much as she could from her forensics class and watching techs over the years, Beth set up a ten-yard grid in her mind and began walking it, first one way and then the other. The killer and at least one of the victims had likely been in the tunnel. Hopefully one or both had left a clue behind.
On her third pass, something caught Beth’s eye. Another set of footprints she missed the first time was now visible, angling toward thewoods. She knew the train tracks crossed the road about a quarter mile from where she was standing because she’d driven over them on her way to the farm. More broken stalks of grass confirmed her suspicions.
This is how the bastard left.
Beth placed a call to Ben Furman at the
It took thirty yards to identify the source. The tunnel suddenly widened into a second room. Rainwater was dripping from the roof onto the top of a cast-iron stove.
“What the hell?” Pappas said.
“It’s an old stove.”
“Great detective work. What’s the fuck’s a stove doing down here?”
Beth raised her shoulders and ran the beam from her Maglite across the surface and sides, checking for a trap. At first she thought the slender, white object sticking out of the burner was a twig. When the realization that she was looking at a finger hit her, she recoiled, taking a step backward into Pappas.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Pappas saw the grisly object at the same time. “Sonofabitch,” he said. “I think we just found the source of your print.”
Beth fought down a wave of nausea and forced herself to move closer. Her legs suddenly felt like lead.
“Get a picture,” she told Pappas, pulling another plastic bag from her back pocket.
The camera’s built-in flash momentarily lit the room, revealing another ladder in the corner. At the top was a second trap door. She and Pappas spent several minutes examining the stove, floor, and ladder hoping to find more clues. There was nothing.
When Pappas took the bag from her and put the severed finger inside, she didn’t protest. It was slender and the nail was coated with red lacquer—clearly that of a woman.
Once they were satisfied the room had given up all its secrets, Pappas said, “Let’s get the hell outta here. I’ll go first. That door looks heavy.”
The detective started to climb but stopped three-quarters of the way up and shined his light near where his left hand was grasping.
“What is it?” Beth called up.
“Looks like a drop of blood,” he said. “I think I can dig it out with my knife.”
Pappas reached into his pants pocket and produced a small folding Buck knife and began to work the wood, eventually breaking off a piece. He bagged it.
“Maybe it’s the killer’s and we’ll catch a break with a DNA match,” Beth said.
“We should be so lucky,” Pappas said. “This bastard is playing some kind of game with these clues and the footprints.”
“He might have missed it,” Beth said without conviction.
The trap door was heavy, and it took an effort to lift it. A layer of sod covered the top, placed there for camouflage. They emerged, blinking into the gray daylight to find themselves only about fifty yards from the barn. The railroad tracks were no more than thirty feet away. As light flooded into the hole they’d just climbed out of, they saw what had not been apparent in the darkness: the dirt at the base of the ladder was dark brown, a different color from what was in the tunnel.
Beth and Pappas looked at each other and then at the soles of their shoes.
“Goddamnit,” Pappas said.
“Got to be the victim’s blood.”
Pappas pulled out his cell phone and called the sheriff again.
As Blaylock and Avilles made their way to them, Beth began to examine the area. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking her clothes and hair and running down the back of her neck.
“Dan, tell them to stay back. I need to work this area.”
Pappas nodded and moved off to intercept them.
Remembering as much as she could from her forensics class and watching techs over the years, Beth set up a ten-yard grid in her mind and began walking it, first one way and then the other. The killer and at least one of the victims had likely been in the tunnel. Hopefully one or both had left a clue behind.
On her third pass, something caught Beth’s eye. Another set of footprints she missed the first time was now visible, angling toward thewoods. She knew the train tracks crossed the road about a quarter mile from where she was standing because she’d driven over them on her way to the farm. More broken stalks of grass confirmed her suspicions.
This is how the bastard left.
Beth placed a call to Ben Furman at the
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