Page 26 of The Burning

I tighten my grip on the phone. “Tread marks?”

“I got better than that. The son of a bitch dropped a pair of pliers.”

I reach for the door handle, slide into the Explorer, see Tomasetti do the same. “Fingerprints?”

“We can hope. Deputy is personally delivering those pliers to BCI as we speak.”

“On my way,” I tell him, and disconnect.

Township Road 3423 is a desolate stretch of timeworn asphalt that runs parallel to Dogleg Road, with a three-hundred-yard stretch of woods between. The lights of two sheriff’s department cruisers light up the naked treetops. The overgrown pullover is already cordoned off. The BCI crime scene van idles just outside the perimeter. I park behind the van.

Tomasetti and I disembark simultaneously and start toward a deputy who’s unrolling a line of yellow tape from tree to fence post to tree in an effort to protect as much of the scene as possible.

“We’re not going to be able to get in there.” Tomasetti states the obvious as we approach the tape.

“Might be able to get a look if we’re lucky,” I say.

We stop a few feet from the tape. From where I’m standing, I can see the opening in the trees, demarking the mouth of a trail. In the summertime, raspberries flourish in these woods. I’ve picked them myself a time or two. Families come here to pick berries or hike along the creek. It’s a pretty, private tract, surrounded by eighty-foot-tall trees. At night, teenagers come here to drink. Lovers come to park.

Looking frustrated, Tomasetti sighs. “How well do you know the area?”

“Walked it plenty of times.” I fish my cell from my pocket, tap a few keys, and tilt the screen so that Tomasetti can see the map I pulled up. “We’re here.” I indicate the spot with my index finger. “There’s a trail that cuts through the woods and goes all the way to the township road. Probably half a mile or so. Small creek there.” I slide my finger slightly right. “Body was found about here.”

He gestures to the pullover behind us. “Why would the killer park here, when Dogleg Road is closer to where the victim was burned?”

“More private on this side,” I tell him. “Both roads are quiet. Lots of trees for cover. It’s part of a floodplain, which means no farms or houses.”

“So the killer is likely familiar with the area,” he murmurs.

“Or he did his homework.”

He raises his gaze from the phone, looks around. “Any idea how the victim spent his last hours?”

“Not yet.”

“So let’s say the killer brought him here. Parked in that pullover. They got out of the vehicle. At that point, the killer marched or dragged the victim through the woods, along the trail, all the way to the clearing. Once there, he tied the vic to the post. Set the fire.”

“Dragging the victim would explain the broken bone in his wrist.” I think about that a moment. “If the victim was conscious, how did the killer subdue him? Control him? Did he carry him? Drag him?” Not for the first time I entertain the possibility that there were two of them.

“We also have the broken hyoid bone,” he says. “Maybe the killer overpowered him. Strangled him to unconsciousness.”

“Tomasetti, if Mona and Skid are right about the scream they heard, the victim was still alive. The killer may have seen them coming and left. Or been on his way out.”

“Or watching the victim burn to death,” he says darkly.

“If Skid and Mona did interrupt him, he probably left in a hurry.”

“Might explain the pliers.”

“Kate!”

I glance over to see Sheriff Mike Rasmussen slide from his cruiser and stride toward us, his expression grim.

“Anything?” I ask.

The three of us exchange handshakes. “Nothing yet.”

“You get a photo of the pliers?” I ask.