Angel Fire - Lisa Unger [49]
“Hey, Chief,” Jeff said as he approached Morrow. “Who found the body?”
“Some hunters from New York were looking for big game and they came across the body instead.” He motioned to a group of men, who for all their weathered toughness, rifles, and orange hunter’s attire, looked pale and shaken.
Lydia regarded the grotesque body of Maria Lopez. Throat slashed, a gaping wound from her sternum to her belly, eyes wide and glassy, skin tinged black-and-blue, the naked body lay discarded by the killer without regard. Lydia could tell instantly by the careless disposal that the killer did not care for Maria, had not known her in life. She was less than trash to the person who had killed her. Lydia wondered if the killer was becoming disorganized, descending into a careless rage to murder Maria so brutally and then dispose of her like a hated piece of furniture. Or maybe he was becoming cocky, having killed, presumably, three times without even raising suspicion.
She did not feel moved by the body. Life had abandoned it. It was nothing more than an object, arousing only wonder in her, as if she had spied a single shoe lying dirty and flattened in the middle of a city sidewalk. She stood up and circled the body. This was a dump site and not a true crime scene. He had not killed her here. There was not enough blood. He had carried her here in the body bag and opened the zipper, hoping, probably, that the scavengers would find her before the park visitors did.
It had not rained since Maria was taken from her apartment, but the ground was soft and damp so maybe they would get lucky—footprints, tire tracks. He could have driven only part of the way to the dump site. He would have had to then park the car on the dirt road below and carry her up the incline that Lydia and Jeffrey had just ascended, moving through the trees. Had he known this area well? Or had he just driven in during regular park hours and dumped her, hoping he wouldn’t be seen? It was very risky behavior, if that’s what he had done. Maybe, more likely, he had come and stayed at one of the campsites and done his deed under the cover of night. She wondered if there was a visitor registry or a list of license-plate numbers of park visitors. “Lydia, check this out,” Jeffrey called.
Lydia walked over to where Jeffrey stood. He pushed aside some weeds, revealing a partial footprint. The rest of the area was more exposed to the wind, but the weeds had preserved the top half of a large boot. Lydia glanced over at the hunters.
“It could belong to one of them, or to another hunter. We should check their boots before they leave.”
“Gentlemen, could you help us out over here?”
One by one, each man removed his right boot and compared the tread to the track in the ground. There were no matches.
The crime-scene photographer came over and took some shots as Jeffrey directed.
“Chief, can you get someone over here to take a mold?” Jeffrey inquired.
“I don’t know how well a mold will take. The ground is pretty soft,” Morrow replied.
“We should at least try,” Lydia snapped, annoyed by what she considered to be his laziness.
“Fine,” Morrow replied curtly, angry at her tone but feeling powerless. He walked off to the squad car to use the radio.
“He’s right, Lydia. There’s no need to be so hard on him.”
“Back off, Jeffrey.” Lydia was still angry from their argument earlier in the afternoon. She always held a grudge for a little while, at least, and didn’t like being criticized at the best of times.
“Fine.” Jeffrey walked off toward the squad car as well.
You’re the most popular girl at the crime scene, she thought.
Lydia walked back over to the body and scrutinized it for anything she might have missed before. Around Maria’s neck hung a small gold cross. Lydia bent down, covering her mouth and nose against the stench, and leaned in to get a better look at it. It was plain, thin and light, a cheap piece of gold if it was gold at all. Had she seen something like this in the case at the church? She couldn’t remember. She