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A strange atmosphere hung over the place.
Another death, as if the hands of a reaper had reached from a grave.
She stood up, slipping the fabric into an evidence bag. As she approached the body, she saw that it was a woman, her once-beautiful face now contorted in agony. Rachel felt a pang of sadness for the woman, who was no doubt someone’s daughter, sister, or mother.
She knelt down beside the body, careful not to disrupt any of the evidence. She donned a fresh pair of gloves and began her preliminary examination. The woman’s neck bore deep bruises, and her clothing was torn and bloodied. Rachel took note of these details as she worked.
The reason she’d been called was evident.
Black oil along the woman’s lips, dribbling from each nostril, staining her clothing.
Drowned in oil.
Rachel shivered, staring at the apparent marks.
She studied the body more closely and then turned to look at the ground. The earth could tell tales that humans refused to allow past their lips.
She stared at the earth.
More footprints. Matching the ones she’d followed to the fabric.
She turned now, studying this trail, picking it out. To most, the footprints would’ve appeared like nothing more than mud. The faintest of lines here, the occasional tread mark there.
But to her trained eye, it told a story.
“Ranger Blackwood?” a police officer was saying behind her.
But she barely heard. She stood up and moved away from the body, her eyes attentive to every little indentation in the mud.
As she surveyed the scene, the first drops of rain began to fall. Rachel looked up; the moon had disappeared, swallowed by the heavy clouds. She could feel the moisture in the air, indicating that the rain would soon intensify. The storm had come quick, and now it seemed ready to unleash its fury upon the small town.
Better work fast before this rain washes away any more evidence,she thought, watching as two cops began pulling a plastic tarp from their trunk to cover the body. As the rain began to pelt down harder, she glanced back at the crowd of onlookers. Grudgingly, they were beginning to disperse, though a few of the more stubborn gawkers raised papers over their heads to block out the rain.
“Hey!” Rachel called out to one of the officers standing nearby. “I need you to preserve these tracks before the rain erases them!”
“Right away, Ranger Blackwood!” he replied, hurrying off to grab another tarp.
“Thanks,” she said.
Rachel’s eyes scanned the muddy ground surrounding the victim, her intuition urging her to dig deeper. She crouched down and ran her fingers through the soil, feeling its dampness and observing the way it clung to her fingertips.
She noticed something jutting out from under the woman. Rachel reached down and tugged a small billfold.
She slipped a plastic identification card from inside the wallet.
Her deep brown eyes scanned the information presented before her. The victim was Emily Thompson, thirty-two years old, working as a local schoolteacher. A gold band adorned her left ring finger—married, but no mention of children.
“Emily Thompson,” Rachel repeated under her breath, committing the name to memory. As she slipped the ID back into its sheath, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness in her chest. This woman had a life, dreams, and people who cared for her. And now it was up to Rachel to bring justice to her memory.
“Forensic team’s here, Ranger Blackwood,” an officer informed her, snapping her out of her momentary reverie.
“Good. Let’s get to work,” Rachel replied, her determination burning like a wildfire as she directed the team to collect soil samples.
The raindrops continued to fall, and she could feel the water soaking through her clothing now.
But she ignored it.
The rain had always been a friend as far as she was concerned. The steady drops continued to fall, tapping on the brim of Rachel’s Stetson like a funeral march. The drops slid down to the corners of her eyes, blurring the crime scene before her. Yet even through the veil of water, she could feel the weight of Emily Thompson’s lifeless body.
