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"Follow me," the coroner instructed, leading them past the yellow tape that fluttered like a cautionary banner in the gentle wind.
They tread carefully, the ground beneath their boots crunching with the residue of the fire that had consumed everything in its wake. Dr. Hayes stopped at the center of the dump site, gesturing to the most intact of the victims.
"Two of them were cops from the reservation," he said, his tone clinical yet not devoid of compassion. "Identified by the badges found near the bodies."
Rachel's eyes narrowed as she regarded the twisted metal badges lying beside the scorched remains. Her heritage stirred a personal chord within her.
"Any leads on the perpetrators?" Ethan asked, scribbling notes with focused intensity.
"Nothing solid yet," Dr. Hayes admitted. "But I'm sure you'll find something."
"How did they die?"
"Hard to say," he replied.
"I was told they were all shot."
"Yes. Yes, definitely markings of gunshots."
The coroner glanced at them, adjusting his coke-bottle glasses. "But they were placed here post-mortem," he said quickly, standing at the edge of the hole, and peering down at the three charred corpses.
Amidst the ashen remains, Rachel's keen eyes fixated on a peculiar anomaly—a distinct mark etched into the scorched neck of one victim. It stood out, a silent scream against the backdrop of blackened flesh and bone.
"Dr. Hayes," she called out, her voice cutting through the desert wind, "this mark here—could it be...?"
The coroner squinted at the singularity, his brow furrowed as he leaned in closer. "Unusual," he admitted with clinical detachment. "Not consistent with the fire damage around it."
Ethan stepped forward, concern etched on his stern features. "Mean anything to you?" he asked, his gaze lingering on the aberration.
Rachel pondered, the wheels in her mind turning furiously. The mark was badly disguised by scorched flesh, but it had the angle of a practiced knife cut.
"Could this be the cause of death, not the gunshots?" she queried.
"Won't know yet," Hayes said. "But possible. All three victims were shot... but maybe it was post mortem."
"Why would anyone shoot someone post mortem?" Ethan asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Let's get them back to the lab," Dr. Hayes responded decisively, breaking Rachel’s contemplative stance. "We'll need a full autopsy to determine the exact cause of death."
Rachel nodded. "Good," she said quietly, her gaze never leaving the marked neck.
Two more men in lab coats hurried over, and a woman guided a metal stretcher towards the location, leading a trail from a parked coroner's van. As the forensic team began the careful process of transporting the bodies, she scanned the ground around the burn pit.
The dust swirled up from the road, settling on Rachel's boots as she surveyed the scene. She paced slowly, scanning the ground and searching for even the faintest abnormality.
As a professional tracker, she knew the slightest detail could make all the difference.
She noticed a small, charred object half-buried in the dirt: a cigarette butt, its filter stained with lipstick. She crouched, the sun casting long shadows behind her.
"Over here," she called out to Ethan, her voice a low drawl against the backdrop of murmuring officers and the idling engines of emergency vehicles.
Ethan approached, watching as she pulled a pair of tweezers and a plastic evidence bag from her kit. With practiced care, she plucked the cigarette from the ground and sealed it away.
"Think it's his?" he asked.
"Or hers," Rachel replied, eyes narrowing.
"A woman?"
