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“We’re close!” she called out over the storm. The path, barely visible amongst the overgrowth, guided her and she walked quickly—hoping they were not too late already.
She ran forward when she saw the carving on the tree.
“Here!” she said, darting toward the grave.
She inhaled deeply as she came to a stop. The blonde lock of hair was still there, but it was muddy now. The fingertip was barely visible. Water was pooling around the grave and Bethenny’s hope of preserving the crime scene sank like a ship hitting an iceberg.
She put her bag on the ground, pulled a tarp from the forensics kit and some zip ties.
Lachlan moved forward, grabbing the edges, and within seconds they had it secured. Not a word had been communicated, but they coordinated effortlessly.
Bethenny pulled on a pair of gloves and knelt beside the grave, under the tarp. She looked up to Lachlan and he nodded. He passed her a camera and she took several photographs.
Then he carefully wiped away some of the mud using a small brush, starting above the victim’s head. It didn’t take long to reveal her face, and Bethenny inhaled deeply.Blonde, Caucasian, blue eyes, she thought, but they had turned cloudy now and it was hard to tell.
Bethenny stared at her eyes. It was possible they had been closed by the killer but returned to their natural position as the body entered rigor mortis, but she sensed that wasn’t the case. She had nothing to prove it, but that was her gut feeling, and she always trusted her gut.
Lachlan tilted his head, looking over her face a moment. His eyes narrowed, he inhaled deeply, then continued clearing the mud away, moving down her body.
Bethenny’s jaw locked when the cause of death quickly become apparent.
The victim’s throat had been slashed in a manner so violent that Bethenny could only assume it had been a kitchen knife or similar object. It was not a clean line, but multiple jagged cuts.
“Act of passion?” Lachlan asked, looking up at her.
“Act of something,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s likely the killer knew her.”
Lachlan moved to the hand and brushed away the mud.
He tilted his head, leaning forward, squinting.
“Look at this,” he said, and Bethenny knelt beside the body. She couldn’t immediately tell if the star was drawn on the victim’s hand, or if it was a tattoo.
“Tattoo. Fairly recent, I suspect, given the lack of fading,” Lachlan said, brushing one line of the star ever so carefully.
“It resembles a Star of David,” Bethenny said, though she was unsure if that was relevant.
“She’s likely Jewish,” he said, pausing before looking at Bethenny and asking, “Are there occult groups around here?” For a moment she was startled by the lucidity of his gray-blue eyes. They were so light in color but had a depth to them that told her there was a lot hiding behind them. She realized he hadn’t said a word about himself the entire time. She knew nothing about Lachlan Taylor.
Bethenny shook her head. “No occult groups that I know of, but that doesn’t mean much. I’ve been in Los Angeles for the past ten years. Mitch would be the best person to answer that question—he’s lived here his entire life.”
Lachlan nodded and returned his attention to brushing the muddy dirt off the victim.
A drop fell on Bethenny’s head and she looked up, unsure how long the tarp was going to hold. She looked over her shoulder at the black, rumbling sky and suppressed a shiver. She didn’t want to spend any more time in this storm, but she also refused to leave the victim here. She wondered where Mitch was, but knew he was at least another hour away.
A sharp inhale drew her attention back to Lachlan and it took her a moment to realize what had made him gasp.
Bethenny crouched down, sure she wasn’t seeing properly. But she was, and it made her stomach churn.
The grave ended short.
The victim’s lower body was missing.
She’d been cut into two, or maybe more.
Bethenny squeezed her eyes shut, saying a silent prayer for the victim, hoping she had been deceased when this was done.
She shook her head, disgusted with this world.
