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"Oh, gotcha... Umm, everything good?"
His eyes searched hers for a moment longer, a silent conversation passing between them—one she cut short with a turn of her heel. "Fine... Gotta go. Thomas said we're hurrying."
"We gonna be first on scene?"
"No. But bodies are still there."
"Oh, shit. Okay. Well... So, where is this place?"
Rachel said, "Kickapoo Reservation." She glanced at her phone.
"Nice! Never been. Should be fun..." Ethan rattled off these words rapidly, with an energy of vocabulary to match his energy of movement. She wondered how he managed to stay so... positive and eager.
She was frowning at her phone now, though, distracted.
"What?"
She stared at the notification from Thomas. "Looks like our missing person case just became a homicide."
"What? They found Whitehorse's daughter... She's dead."
"Wait...Whitehorse? Is he that mayor, or something, on that viral clip."
"Councilman. Yes. That's him."
"Shit. That was a real cluster last year. People at my old department were working overtime just to clean up the political shitstorm."
Rachel nodded. "Not going to be an easy one, that's for sure."
She strode down the sidewalk, towards where their unmarked vehicle waited.
***
Rachel emerged from her vehicle as the sun beat down with oppressive intensity on the desolate sprawl of the abandoned gold mining town. The location was just north of the Kickapoo Reservation, on private land turned tourist attraction.
Weathered structures, once teeming with life and greed, now stood as hollow sentinels over the crumbled dreams of fortune-seekers. Ghosts of past fervor lingered in the air, a stark reminder that human desires could carve scars into the earth that not even time could heal.
Rachel Blackwood's boots kicked up clouds of dust as she navigated the labyrinth of decay. The place was a patchwork of territories now, claimed by disparate groups who found value in the forgotten: scrappers salvaging metal bones, historians sifting through the detritus of yesteryears, and prospectors—stubborn or crazy enough to believe the depleted veins still held secrets.
"Ranger Blackwood," a voice called from the shadow of an askew timber frame. It was one of the local officers, a man in a beige uniform. He held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the sun. The man was handsome, in a neat, pressed sort of way. And he didn't much look like his expensive loafers or charcoal suit belonged in the Texas heat.
"Are you Officer Ortiz?" she asked.
He nodded. "Was told to wait here for you two."
Ethan followed close behind, raising a hand in greeting. "So where was Chey Whitehorse found?"
"Up this way..."
The officer began trudging up a dark, muddy trail which led away from the weather buildings in the valley. Rachel spotted a couple of other officers lining the trail, keeping an eye out. She ignored their curious gazes.
Ahead, she spotted a creek, the water glistening under the sun, and station at the mouth of the creek was a dam.
She approached the beaver dam—nature's reclamation project—where the officer pointed. Ethan cursed softly under his breath. Given his religious upbringing, it took a lot to extract such words from him.
But Rachel chorused the sentiment as she stared at the dam.
A grotesque centerpiece marred the intricate woodwork, half-submerged and entangled in the branches. The body, unmistakably human, bore the brutal signature of violence: multiple stab wounds gaping like dark, accusatory eyes.
