The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [2]
The White Oak Trail was a short loop in the Kettle Moraine State Forest. Twelve minutes tops, Roelke thought. “Call it in,” he told Skeet. Marie would do it if she could, but there was still a chance that Marie would be able to keep Bonnie on the phone. To keep Bonnie talking. To keep Bonnie alive.
Skeet radioed for backup: Waukesha County, Department of Natural Resources, Eagle Fire and Rescue. Roelke switched on the flashers. He shot through a stop sign, then veered around a pickup that was too slow to yield.
“Hit the siren!” Skeet urged, as they left the village behind. He sat with feet and arms braced.
“No.” Roelke’s hands tightened on the wheel as they flew around
a curve on Highway 59. “Maybe she’s having second thoughts. If she hears us coming, she might pull the trigger.”
“She didn’t sound like she might have second thoughts.”
“There’s always a chance. Hold on.” Roelke braked hard and turned onto a side road. The small parking area that marked the White Oak Trailhead was ahead on the right. Gravel flew as he swerved into the lot.
A white Cimarron sat in the shade of a huge old oak tree. No one was in sight. “Tell the EMTs to stage around the bend,” Roelke said, as he pulled in beside the car. Maybe there was still time. Maybe—maybe—maybe.
He jumped from the squad—leaving the door open, still worried about noise—and hit the trail at a run. Twenty steps … ninety seven … one hundred thirty-two …
At one hundred and eighty-six he rounded a bend and stopped abruptly. “God damn it.”
The body lay on the trail beside an old stump and a clump of ferns. Sunlight sifting through the canopy dappled the garbage bag that partly shrouded the woman’s head and shoulders. Jean-clad legs, feet in yellow high-heeled leather sandals with thin straps, extended from the bag. The woman’s left hand was visible too, resting against the earth, palm-down. Her wedding band glittered with tiny diamonds.
The top of the garbage bag was not intact. Shreds of brown plastic and gray matter splattered the dirt and dead leaves nearby.
Roelke crouched on the right side of the body and carefully pulled aside what was left of the bag. He instinctively reached to check her pulse, but there was nothing left beneath her jaw to touch. In almost any circumstance he would begin CPR, but in this case . . . “God damn it!” he exploded again. A 9 mm Smith and Wesson had fallen from Bonnie’s hand, and lay near her throat.
Skeet emerged from the trees and skidded to a halt. He stared for a long moment, then leaned over, hands on knees, panting. Roelke didn’t know if the other man was struggling with heat or exertion or nausea.
Roelke was struggling with searing rage. “I could have helped you,” he muttered. “If you’d just given me a chance, I could have helped you!”
_____
Within half an hour Roelke had carefully photographed the scene, tucked the handgun and shell casing into evidence bags, and established a perimeter. The medical examiner, a pudgy man with dispassionate eyes, arrived and did his own assessment of the body and its surroundings. Then he and Roelke watched two EMTs secure the body in a Stokes Basket for transport to the parking lot. Bonnie had positioned the gun under her chin, damaging the airway and eliminating any chance of keeping the physical body resuscitated long enough to harvest organs for donation.
Marge Bandacek, a Waukesha County deputy, sidled closer. “You want me to call in our evidence team?”
Roelke shook his head. “No need.”
“We’ve got better equipment—”
“No need,” Roelke repeated. As first on the scene, he’d taken command. He’d examined the area carefully, collected everything there was to collect, documented everything there was to document.
Marge opened her mouth, as if about to argue. Roelke fixed her with a stare. Although he’d bundled his anger deep inside, it hadn’t diminished. This was state forest land, but the DNR responders weren’t second-guessing him. He was in no mood to take any crap from Marge Bandacek.
Marge hitched up her belt as