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Racinsky nodded at her. “Sometimes you can hear a conversation half a mile away that sounds like it’s at your neighbor’s house.”
“Which likely gave our killer plenty of time to get away, and if they’re from this area, they probably realized that.” She gazed back down the road. “Any reports of suspicious people or vehicles in the area, anything like that?”
“Nothing yet. We’re in the process of canvassing.”
Jo and Arnett reached for their PPE. “Great. Where are the neighbors that found her?” Jo said.
He pointed to the south. “Waiting at home to talk with you.”
“Got it. Thanks,” Jo said. When she and Arnett finished suiting up, Racinsky waved them under the tape.
Jo pulled out her phone and hit record. “Very secluded thanks to the dead-end road and all the foliage. The hill behind the house creates a perfect natural barrier from the outside road and the surrounding houses. I can see glimpses of other houses, but no real direct line of sight except over the lake. Great for privacy, but plenty of places for our perp to hide, especially in the dark before dawn.”
Arnett followed her line of sight. “Even in broad daylight, an entire battalion could hide out in those trees.”
Jo shifted her attention to the pier. Next to a bobbing Ski Nautique, Sandra Ashville, clad in black yoga clothes, sprawled over a cobalt-blue yoga mat, arms extended and legs crumpled under her as though she was twisting and struggling to right herself. Jo’s stomach roiled, and a vague memory pulled at her. As they neared, it came to her in a rush:Pompeii. The oddly twisted pose reminded her of the victims found at the ancient archaeological site who’d been frozen forever as struggling to escape the heat, gases, and ash of the sudden eruption. The posture was discordant with the serenity of the lake surrounding her, the comfort of the tea next to her, the careful, deliberate postures of yoga—why had it all been stripped from her without warning?
Marzillo stood and approached to greet them as they neared. “Jo. Bob,” she said abruptly and with a scowl in her voice.
Jo resonated with Marzillo’s mood. “Never a good day to lose one of our own.”
Marzillo gave a sharp nod. “Add to that an underwater scene.”
Jo grimaced. Marzillo preferred a hands-on approach to all aspects of her investigation, but underwater scenes required specially trained divers. “What do we know?”
“Not much yet, I’m still orienting myself.” She motioned them forward and squatted down near where Peterson waited.
Jo followed, and stared down at the now-visible head and face. Sandra had been a small woman who had managed to project more height and presence than she actually had; she dressed and coiffed flawlessly, and carried herself with dignity and power. But the woman in front of her looked almost like a child, helpless and chaotic, her light-brown hair matted with blood that dripped over the edge of the yoga mat and between the wooden planks beneath it. And nearly half of her face, including her eyes, was covered with a swath of blood-streaked white cloth. “Strange—usually when a killer blindfolds a victim and shoots them execution style, they also use restraints.”
Marzillo swapped out her gloves. “It’s worse than that.” She gently shifted down the top of the blindfold, revealing a bullet hole underneath.
Ice pricked at Jo’s spine. “There’s no hole in the blindfold. The killer must have blindfolded heraftershooting her.”
“What’s the point of blindfolding someone who’s dead?” Arnett asked.
“Exactly—it makes no sense,” Jo said. “And the entry wound is stippled, but not burned. So the gun was close, but not in direct contact.”
“Up to about thirty inches away,” Peterson said.
“Point-blank range. Rules out a sniper,” Arnett said.
Jo crouched and examined Sandra’s position. “She placed the yoga mat right up at the tip of the pier, which suggests she wanted to face the water. But the way she’s laying, she was facing back toward the house when she was shot.” She pointed to the earbuds lying next to Sandra’s right hand. “Someone snuck up behind her, and she didn’t hear them until they were close. But why bother to get that close to her? Were there signs of a struggle?”
“None that I can see so far.” Marzillo’s voice was cautious.
“And there’s plenty of cover here.” Jo stood and looked back toward the house. “Our killer didn’t need to do this face to face, they chose to. This was personal.”
Arnett squatted and peered at Sandra’s head. “Couldn’t have been easy, tying on a blindfold to a bleeding head wound without transfer?”
“That depends.” Marzillo carefully shifted Sandra’s head. “No exit wound, so penetrating, not perforating. Considerably less messy. And the knot is simple, so it wouldn’t take much.”
“They could have pre-tied it,” Peterson said. “Even easier to get on.”
Jo swiveled her head. “If she’d been facing the front of the pier, she’d have seen someone coming up the road in her periphery. She must have been facing that way.” She pointed northeast, diagonally away from the positioning of the yoga mat.
Arnett rubbed his chin. “The few times I did yoga, I don’t remember being in any one position very long. Our killer would have had to be extremely lucky to drive up unnoticed.”
Both Jo and Marzillo turned to stare at him.
