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“The backpack was wedged in the chute,” Sherman said. “I guess that’s what kept the body from falling. The pack was protected from the sun and rain, so it’s still in pretty good shape.”
Nevada clicked on a flashlight and directed the beam onto the red backpack, which lay on its side. The initials TET were embossed on the outside, and there was a yellow yarn pom-pom attached to the zipper. It was old. Clearly long forgotten.
“I’ve got daughters of my own,” Sherman said. “I can’t imagine one coming home without her pack. They carry everything in it. Like my wife’s purse.”
Nevada removed latex gloves from his pocket and tugged them on. “Did you open it?”
“Shit, no. Soon as I spotted that skull, I had my men clear out.” Sherman rubbed the back of his neck. “Still makes my skin crawl when I look at it.”
Nevada took several pictures of the bag and the bones scattered around it with his phone. He looked up at the chute and tried to imagine how the bag and the body had gotten in there. The pack would have gone in first and then the individual after it. This could be a case of murder or just a damn tragic accident.
He pulled out a roll of yellow crime scene tape and tied it to one post, wound it around another, and knotted the ends to the horse stall gate.
With Sherman standing outside the tape now, Nevada spread out a white cloth and set the backpack on it. The red fabric was heavily stained on the top with a dark substance that smelled faintly of must and death. When the body had decayed, it would have bloated with gas until it burst, secreting its contents onto the pack.
“When’s the last time this barn was used, Sherman?” Nevada asked.
“It’s been close to thirty years,” he said. “When I played ball, we came out here on Thursday nights before the games. Hell of a lot of fun.”
“Did you play on the Dream Team?”
“I wish. Those boys came along about five years after me. Took it all the way to the state championship.”
“When did the bonfires stop?”
“Sheriff Greene put an end to them shortly afterward.”
Nevada bent down and carefully tugged on the zipper. It slid smoothly for several inches, then caught in a crimp. Carefully, he added pressure until the zipper gave way.
Inside were books, along with a pair of girl’s jeans, a dark cable-knit sweater, and sneakers. He set the still-folded clothes aside on the cloth and picked up a book for advanced calculus.
Many of the pages were seized together, but after he gently tugged the cover a few times, it opened. On the inside flap was a LEASED TO stamp followed by five lines. The names on the first three rows were crossed out. The last name was written in clear block letters. It read TOBI TURNER.
TET. Tobi Elizabeth Turner.
Anyone who’d lived in Deep Run was familiar with the girl.
In early November 2004, Tobi Turner, a junior at Valley High School, had borrowed her parents’ van to attend an evening study session. However, Tobi had never arrived. No one had sounded any alarm bells until she didn’t make it home by curfew. The girl’s father had called Greene, who made a critical mistake in the investigation: he didn’t launch a full-on search until morning.
In a child abduction case, the first hours were crucial. The survival rate plummeted with each passing hour.
Police had located the Turner family van at a truck stop along I-81 late on the second day, but there had been no sign of Tobi. She had simply vanished.
Volunteers had posted flyers of the girl’s picture on street corners, in bars, and in grocery stores. The media had broadcast her story for months. Milk cartons and roadside billboards had featured Tobi’s likeness. But no credible leads had ever panned out.
She’d disappeared.
Until now.
“Mr. Sherman, it’s going to be a while before I can let you back on this site,” Nevada said.
Sherman ran his hand over his head. “Shit. Do you really think that’s Tobi Turner?”
“Most likely.” If this was Tobi, her family was facing more heartache. In his experience, grim discoveries didn’t bring closure.
“That poor girl. We searched every corner of this county.”
Volunteers from around the state had walked the woods, checked dumpsters, and conducted room-to-room searches in abandoned buildings. “Were you on a search crew?”
“Just about everyone volunteered.” Sherman shook his head. “She was here all this time.”
Nevada had witnessed enough human carnage to know evil walked among them. Part of the reason he’d tried to take a break in June had been to escape the darkness closing in on him. Now, it seemed, it had found him again.
Nevada called his deputy, who he’d recently promoted to chief of investigations. Deputy Brooke Bennett had been with the sheriff’s department for ten years. In her early thirties, she was raising a fourteen-year-old son with the help of her mother. Bennett would likely have his job one day.
“Deputy Bennett.” Her tone was crisp and cool.
“It’s Nevada. Call the state police. We need their forensic people down here ASAP. I think we’ve found the Turner girl.”
“Tobi Turner?” Shock, sadness, and anger all vibrated around the name.
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched over the line for a moment before she offered a terse “Where?”
“The Wyatt barn.”
“I’m on it.”
“Good.” He surveyed the pitched roof and the darkened corners. It was the perfect place for a monster to do his work.
“Sheriff, the timing isn’t great, but I received the results on the rape kits.”
When Nevada had been elected, he had immediately sent the entire set of rape kits to be tested. He’d also asked Bennett to visit the surrounding jurisdictions and collect untested DNA sexual assault evidence.
“What did you find out?” Nevada asked.
“We only have results on eight from Deep Run. Three samples were badly degraded, and the reports on them were inconclusive. Two matched known felons who are currently incarcerated. And the last three . . .”
Her heavy tone told him there was one more shoe to drop.
“The same perpetrator committed those three rapes,” she said.
He stared at the math book lying open on the white cloth. “When did these attacks occur?”
“These three all date back to the summer of 2004.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I pulled the files myself.”
Nevada’s gaze drifted to the scattered bones. “The same year Tobi Turner vanished.”
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday, November 16, 11:45 p.m.
In the early days, he hadn’t had the nerve to kill. He’d been afraid. A coward. So he had tracked his targets. And for a time, he had felt a sense of mastery over the weakness that stalked him.
But it hadn’t been long before simply watching wasn’t enough. He had needed to do more to prove to himself that he could master anything. So he had begun entering women’s homes, first when no one was there and then when they were sleeping. He had loomed over them while they had lain tucked in their beds and watched the slow rise and fall of their chests. He had savored the sound of their soft moans and watched as they rolled into different positions as their unconscious minds wrestled with the sensation that something was wrong.
To commemorate his visits, he had stolen personal items as trophies. One earring. A shoe. A scarf. Nothing huge. Small mementos of the time they had shared alone.
The first time he decided to rape a woman, he hadn’t really prepared. He’d been watching her in the dark and knew if he left without taking her, that little victory would have been hollow. So he had climbed on top of her. Her strength had surprised him, and he had scrambled to bind her hands and shove himself inside her. It had been a victory, but a narrow one.
He had planned more carefully after that. He had begun leaving behind rope under their beds, knowing the bindings would b
e waiting for him when he returned.
The next woman had been easier to control. The rope had allowed him to tie her spread eagle to her bed. His body had grown harder when he’d seen the fear in her eyes as he’d shoved her panties into her mouth. He had savored the salty taste of the sweat beading between her breasts as he’d thrust into her. He had loved the bang, bang, bang of her racing heart when his hands had wrapped around her neck.
Alone in the room with her, he had realized he was God. He had the power of life and death. Win or lose. It was an intoxicating sensation. With each new conquest, he had taken his partners closer to the brink of death.
When the opportunity to kill had arrived, he had seized upon it. Squeezing the life from her body had provided a greater rush than even he had imagined. It had surpassed any victory or reward the regular world offered. It had put him above everyone. It had been the ultimate win.
And once he had crossed the line, he’d known it wouldn’t be long before he was chasing that exquisite high again.
By then the police had been looking for his first murder victim, whose face had appeared daily in the evening news. Her body hadn’t been found, but everyone had known something terrible had happened. As the cops had pieced together her last day, he had stitched together an alibi, silenced threats, and kept his head low.
