Chapter Twenty-One
In a woodedarea near Bison Peak, Sheriff Wexler stood with several of his deputies, looking at the bones in the shallow grave. He glanced to his side and saw the two hikers who had made the frantic call. His jaw worked overtime, chewing the two sticks of gum he had in his mouth; he always chewed gum because it calmed him and made him think clearer.
The bones on the ground were discolored, and the skull had long strands of light brown hair. A red tattered blouse and a patterned scarf were partially covered by seasonal debris. He opened a large plastic bag and placed the worn items inside.
“Cordon off two hundred yards and see if you can locate any more bones,” Wexler said as he went down on his haunches. With a steel rod, he lifted the skull and examined it; there was a large hole in it and a few teeth still intact. He knew that, to make a dental identification, his deputies would have to find more of the person’s teeth. Based on the remoteness of the location, the shallow grave, and the hole in the skull, the sheriff turned to one of the deputies and stated, “Looks like we got a homicide here.”
Doug Wexler had been the sheriff for Alina for the past twelve years. In his twenty-two years in law enforcement, he’d learned to ask for help in cases that mirrored big city ones since his deputies didn’t have the experience to investigate them properly. Alina had maybe one murder a year or every other year. Of course, the sheriff wasn’t counting the “taking care of business” the Night Rebels engaged in. He had a tacit agreement with them to keep hard drugs out of the county, and in turn he’d look the other way for some of their illicit activities. It was a tenuous relationship, but it seemed to work.
Staring at the skull and bones, he knew his department was in over its head. He needed the expertise of a team that investigated murders every day. Taking out his phone, he plugged in the number for the sheriff’s department in Durango—a larger city an hour north of Alina.
“This is Sheriff Wexler of Alina County. I need to speak to your captain in homicide.”
Fifteen minutes later, he cracked his gum, then cleared his throat. “Durango is sending over CSI and a homicide detective. They should be here in a while. In the meantime, let’s sift through the soil to see if we can find any teeth or bone shards.” He went over to interview the hikers.
Less than two hours later, a navy blue sedan pulled into the area and four men stepped out; two looked to be in their early forties, the other two in their late thirties.
The man with the tan pants, brown sports coat, and yellow-striped tie held out his hand.
“I’m Detective Feliz Contreras with the Durango Sheriff’s Department.” He introduced Vince Onofrio as his partner, then Brandon Manning and Roberto Anchondo as the CSI team. After a short briefing, the men went to work, scouring the area.
A half hour later, one of Wexler’s deputies cried out, “I found another skull and some bones.”
The sheriff and the Durango law enforcement team went over and stared at another skull. This one had two holes in it: one in the back and one in the right temple. A pair of worn black jeans, a badly soiled blue windbreaker, and a black baseball cap were near the skeletal remains. The men silently went to work collecting and bagging evidence. They didn’t have to say anything: they had another victim.
Wexler wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.Shit. A double homicide.From the clothing, it seemed that the skull and bones might have been a man in life.
As the CSIs worked the scene, bagging and labeling evidence, Contreras came over to the sheriff. “The holes in the skull look like bullet holes. We found a bunch of bones and some teeth about two hundred yards from the original site. From the way it looks, I’d say the victims were killed at the site. Your men are sifting through more of the soil, so hopefully we can find most of the teeth. Since the bones were scattered, we have to assume there was some animal scavenging. CSIs will collect and screen the soil and seasonal debris.”
“Once you have a report, I can try and see if our Jane and John Doe are in the missing person’s database.”
“We’ll call in a forensic anthropologist to analyze the bones so we’ll know the age, sex, condition and any other particulars of the victims. Hopefully we can put a name to them.”
“I’ll look for that report,” the sheriff said as he watched bags of evidence being removed from the scene. Grim-faced, he walked to the patrol car, his footsteps muted by the fallen pine needles.
