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“Why does he think that?” I asked.
“Well, our guy is a lot shorter than he used to be.”
“Shiiiiiiit.” I knew what he meant. A head shorter. If this was a copycat murder, was the victim a zombie? Though that was pretty unlikely since pretty much no one but zombies knew the nature of Ed’s victims. “Is the head here?”
“They’re still searching the area. Got a dog out.” Nick waved a hand toward a far corner of the yellow tape where a German Shepherd sat patiently in one of the few non-muddy spots. A tall, dark-haired man with his back to me held the lead as he spoke with Detective Mike Abadie. Abadie was a solid detective and an asshole—at least to me. We’d settled into a mutual dislike of each other and traded insults and jabs whenever the opportunity arose. The dog handler talking to him had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. My gaze drifted further down to—
Holy shit. I knew that ass. Tactical Pants Man. He worked with a cadaver dog? My lustful thoughts poofed into smoke. My habit was to keep my distance from cadaver dogs and their handlers. Even if the guy had no clue that zombies were real, it would get his attention if his dog indicated that I smelled like a corpse.
“I don’t recognize the dog guy,” I said. “Is he new around here?”
“Nah, he’s not a local,” Nick said absently as he jotted notes. “The sheriff knows him, asked if he could come help out. Word is the guy has a ton of search-and-rescue experience, and his dog is top notch.” He looked up as a burly detective with a scruffy mustache approached us. Ben Roth, who I liked as much as I didn’t like Abadie.
“Sorry to make y’all wait,” Ben said. “Crime scene is still tagging and bagging crap by the body. Lucky
for us, one of those things was his wallet. No cash, but credit cards and driver’s license were in it.”
“Name on the DL?” Nick asked.
Ben consulted a pocket notebook. “Grayson Seeger, white male, thirty-four years old, from Venice Beach, California. ’Course, we don’t have a face to verify that’s actually our victim.”
“It’s a start,” Nick said. “We’ll try and verify with fingerprints.”
“Was he robbed?” I asked Ben while Nick jotted down the info.
“Looks like it. The pockets were turned out, but no way to know if that was the reason for the attack.”
I cocked my head. “Tell me the truth, Ben. Do you think Ed is killing people again?”
Ben gave a rueful smile. “Nope. I don’t think the sheriff does either, but it’s easier for him to get resources if he says it’s a possibility.” He shrugged. “Ed’s gone to ground, and he’s not stupid enough to come back and start that crap again. My theory is that it’s some asshole from the Zombie Fest pulling a copycat.”
“The Zombie Fest? Why?”
Ben snorted. “We found one of those stupid Bear’s Den zombie hunter survival kit duffels.”
Nick jerked his head up, blinked, then curled his lip in derision. “Way to leave evidence.”
The presence of the zombie hunter kit pretty much ruled out that a real zombie hunter had killed a real zombie. Way too cheesy. But maybe a clueless copycat got lucky and bagged a real zombie? Or was this an ordinary everyday decapitation? I sure as hell preferred the last option. “Maybe the duffel belonged to your victim?”
“It’s possible,” Ben said, “but my gut instinct doesn’t agree with that.” He patted his belly for emphasis. “We found a car a mile or so up the road. Tags came back as a rental, and the company confirmed it was rented to the vic. Looks like Mr. Seeger ran out of gas.”
“Cell phone reception is lousy out here,” I commented. “He couldn’t call for roadside assistance. He was probably hiking to the XpressMart.”
Ben nodded, grim. “That’s how it looks, and is why I don’t think the duffel belonged to the victim. It was found a hundred feet in the wrong direction if he was going to the XpressMart. Plus, the kits come with a bat and machete, and both are missing.”
I shuddered. “How many of those things did Bear sell?”
Ben blew out his breath. “A shitload. I just got off the phone with him. Between the website and the store, he’s sold a hundred and seventeen so far. He’s putting a list together of everyone who paid by credit card, but thirty-four were cash purchases.”
I boggled. “A hundred and seventeen? Are you serious?”
“Hell, fifty-five of those were through the website,” Ben said. “Several as far away as Oregon.”
Nick cleared his throat. “He’ll sell out of them before it’s over,” he said, eyes on his notes. “There are a lot of survivalist types who hang on his every word. If Bear suggested that artificial poultry would be useful in the event of a governmental collapse, there’d be a sudden run on rubber chickens.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ben said, mouth twisting, then looked around. “Unfortunately, the rain wiped out any footprints or tire tracks, so the duffel is the best lead I have. The lab’s going to try and get prints off the survival crap that was in there, but the mesh bag it comes packed in didn’t look like it’d been opened. As soon as I clear from here I’m gonna head into town and get the list of buyers and a copy of the surveillance video to try and track down people who paid cash.”
“Can you get fingerprints off the wallet?” I asked.
