“I heard this girl might just be a runaway,” one of the searchers said.
“Not likely. According to our witness, there’s a significant amount of blood at the cabin. That means we’re not gonna find our subject holed up doing coke with her boyfriend in an Idaho Springs motel room. So what say we quit shooting the shit and haul our tails up to Frank’s place?”
Chapter 15
Thursday, October 24
5:15 P.M.
Frank’s Cabin
Eagles Nest Wilderness
Colorado
“There’s blood all right. Everyone keep back and let the techs do their thing.” Standing on the porch of Frank’s Cabin with paper booties on his feet, Hatcher put up a stop sign with one hand and motioned his CSIs inside with the other. The wind was blowing hard and carried with it the tang of spilt blood mixed with something less familiar. The final result was an odor noxious enough to trigger Spense’s gag reflex, and he had a well-seasoned, cast-iron stomach.
The rookies had been designated to either track traps or containment, leaving Spense, Caity, Ranger Pandy, and Hatcher to conduct the hasty search. Except Hatcher would probably need to stay back and manage the troops.
“I’ll join you in a minute—but I wanna get a preliminary read from the techs first,” Hatcher said, confirming Spense’s assumption.
And then there were three.
Spense cast his gaze over at Caity and Pandy. Ideally, the searchers would pair up—hard to manage when all you had was a trio.
“Subject’s not inside,” Hatcher continued. “But according to Cayman, Laura was wearing a green dress at dinner with Ron Saas on Monday night. As advertised, there’s a green dress on the cabin floor.”
“Bloodied?” Spense asked.
“Not at first glance, but I didn’t touch anything. We’ll find out when we get a good look-see.”
“Based on the amount of visible blood inside, you think she’s alive?” Despite his itch to check out the cabin himself, Spense knew it was best to stick to his assigned duties. They were short on both daylight and personnel. He took time to ask only because Laura’s condition, assuming that’s who belonged to the green dress on the cabin floor, would inform their search. If she’d been badly wounded, she wouldn’t make it far, and there might be a blood trail to guide them. If she was dead, they’d be looking for a concealed body or shallow grave. As they jogged the trails, they’d be homing in on a whole different set of indicators.
Hatcher wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
It was as cold outside as Angelina Antonelli’s unsolved murder, but the detective was sweating. Clearly, this case meant more to him than most—redemption perhaps.
“I’ve seen a lot worse where we still got ourselves a survivor. But something bad happened in there—no question about that. There’s plenty of gore to go around, and we got feces and vomit, too.”
That explained the other smells.
Hatcher covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. “Trust me, you’re better off on search duty.”
“As a shortcut, let’s assume it was Laura who fled out the back. We still don’t know that it’s her blood in there.” Spense could hear the note of hope in Caity’s voice.
And she had a point. Given the green dress, odds were good Laura had been in the cabin, but that didn’t mean that any or all of the blood was hers. “The hiker who called it in did say the female subject took off quickly. A mortally wounded victim wouldn’t have been able to flee at all.”
Hatcher’s expression remained grim. “Maybe it was the perpetrator who ran. Or one of those off-the-grid types, someone who might’ve wanted to use the cabin for shelter, but found a crime scene instead.”
“Or someone who found Laura and did her harm.” Best to consider all angles. “It’s off season. Road’s closed. They’d be expecting the cabin to be vacant. And even though the dress is a good indicator Laura was here, it doesn’t tell us when or how she got here. If it wasn’t her fleeing, we have to consider the possibility we may be looking for her body,” Spense said gravely.
Caity’s face fell. “You’ve got mountain folk up here?” she asked Pandy.
“I’m afraid so, on occasion. Most of them loners—sort of paranoid only not crazy—I know there’s a term for that . . .”
“Schizoid,” Caity said.
“Right. Schizoid personalities. The type who don’t like to hang out with other people. But, we haven’t had any reports of mountain men . . . or women recently.” Pandy swung her slender frame in a full circle as if expecting one of the hermits to appear. She kept her hand on the weapon at her side.