Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler 3)

“Can’t remember—or don’t want to?”

“Both.”

They ate in silence for several minutes before he spoke. “Deputy Bennett has scheduled a press conference for this afternoon, but before that, we have an appointment with the medical examiner in Roanoke. Tobi Turner’s remains are ready for review. Afterward, we can pay a visit to Bruce Shaw and ask him about his sister.”

She checked her watch. “It’s only five a.m. I better get back to my motel room and sleep for an hour or two.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Nevada sat at the desk in his home office and turned on his computer. As he waited for it to boot up, his thoughts turned to Special Agent Macy Crow. He respected the hell out of her because she was one of the best.

But when he thought about Macy, the most primitive neurons of his limbic system demanded sex. A few times when she hadn’t been looking, he had glanced at her breasts, her lips, and the curve of her hips. She’d dropped weight and muscle tone, but as far as he was concerned, she was still hot as hell.

When he had arrived back at his grandfather’s farm, he had taken a hot shower and changed into clean jeans, a blue pullover that read SHERIFF over the left pocket, and his steel-tipped boots. As the coffee had brewed, he had attached his gun and badge to his belt.

At his computer, he searched the case he’d worked with Macy in Kansas City. A few photos featured the two of them standing side by side in the background as the local police chief spoke at the podium. He remembered that day and the sex they had shared that evening.

Shifting the Internet search to Macy, he pulled up familiar pictures. The first image caught her descending a long set of marble stairs in a Virginia courthouse. She was wearing a poker face, but the wind caught her long blond hair and it gleamed in the light. She wore heeled boots, not the black, thick-soled boots she now favored. That image vibrated with a youthful sense of invincibility.

He typed Cindy Shaw’s name into the search engine.

The search didn’t grab any hits on Cindy Shaw. Her disappearance was only mentioned once in the media, and that was in conjunction with Tobi Turner.

Assuming she was living in another state, there were no outstanding warrants for Cindy Shaw, and she also didn’t have a financial or digital trail. The universe, it seemed, had swallowed her up.

Nevada checked his watch. Realizing time was getting away from him, he finished his coffee and got in his car. At eight a.m., he pulled up in front of Macy’s motel room. She came out seconds later and slid into the front seat. They’d worked well together in Kansas City, and he felt they hadn’t missed a beat.

“How far is it to Roanoke?” she asked while responding to a text.

“Less than an hour.”

“Great. I received a response from the FBI forensic artist. She’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Perfect.” He pulled out onto the main road. “Did you get any sleep?”

“About an hour.”

“Good.” He clicked on a local rock station. “The music is tame by your standards.”

She smiled. “As long as it’s not about horses and broken hearts, I’ll survive.”

“You must have gotten your fill of country music in Texas.”

She rolled her head from side to side, seemingly working stiffness from her neck. “You have no idea.”

They drove in silence for most of the trip, each lost in thought as the rolling countryside passed. He took the Salem exit just past Roanoke to where the Western District Office of the Virginia State Medical Examiner was located.

He parked close to the main entrance. He noticed it took her a moment to work the kinks out of her leg after the hour trip, but he said nothing. They made their way inside, showed their badges to the receptionist behind the glass partition, and soon were escorted to the office of Dr. Russell Squibb.

Dr. Squibb was in his midfifties and stood about five foot eight inches. He had a round belly, a balding head, and a firm handshake.

“We appreciate you seeing us,” Nevada said.

“I had another call from Tobi Turner’s father this morning. That’s the hardest part of this job.”

“We understand,” Macy said. “If you can take us to her.”

“Of course.”

They followed the doctor down a long nondescript hallway to a large examination room outfitted with several sliding refrigerated drawers where they kept the bodies. Dr. Squibb opened drawer 210 to reveal the sheet-clad remains.

Nevada was good at detaching himself from the horrors of death, but he never wanted to forget the victims were somebody’s loved ones. He remembered the girl’s pictures hanging on her father’s walls. She was bright eyed and smiling as she played soccer and T-ball, sang at her church, and laughed with friends at the beach. He wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

Macy shifted, and he saw her left hand curl into a fist. He knew exactly what she was thinking.

The doctor handed them both latex gloves, which they snapped on in seconds. Neither spoke as the doctor removed the sheet to reveal a set of discolored bones laid out in anatomical order.

Dr. Squibb pulled out a pair of glasses from his lab coat pocket, put them on, and proceeded to lift the skull. “We were able to positively identify her through her dental records. The cavities and even the crown on her front tooth to repair a crack were perfect matches.”

“How did she fracture her tooth?” Macy asked.

“It happened when she was twelve, according to her father. She was trying to hit a soccer ball with her head, and the ball caught her in the mouth.”

With only bones remaining, there was no way to definitively determine what kind of soft-flesh injuries Tobi Turner had suffered. The killer could have raped her before or after death, or he could have masturbated on her backpack. Unless a killer confessed, there was just no way of knowing.

“What was her cause of death?” Macy asked.

“Strangulation. The small hyoid bone in her neck appears to have been crushed.”

Those horseshoe-shaped bones were delicate and easily fractured. “Can you tell if he choked her once or multiple times?” Macy asked.

“Sorry,” Dr. Squibb said. “Bones can tell us a lot, but they can’t always give us the complete picture.”

“Your examination results are a big help,” Macy said. “This offender has a distinct pattern.”

Dr. Squibb rotated the skull sideways. “There’s also a circular crack behind her left ear. The fractures radiate out like a spiderweb. He hit her with a blunt object. And given the damage I see here, she was rendered unconscious.”

“Would the blow have led to her death?” Macy asked.

“Not likely.”

“Any other injuries?” Nevada asked.

“She did have several fractures on the fingers of her right hand,” Dr. Squibb said. “They appear to be defensive wounds.”

“She fought back,” Macy said.

“I would concur.” Dr. Squibb lifted up a long flat bone. “This was her sternum.”

Macy studied the bone closer. “Is that a hairline fracture?”

“It is,” the doctor said.

“What would cause that?” Macy asked.

“It’s consistent with a fall, blow to the chest, or even CPR.”

“CPR? He tried to save her?” Nevada asked.

“Possibly,” Dr. Squibb said. “Perhaps he strangled her and panicked.”

“Or m

aybe he tried to revive her so they could keep playing,” Macy said.

“God, I hope you’re wrong,” Nevada said. “No kid deserves to die like this.”

Anger and sadness strengthened Macy’s drive to solve this case as she laid her hand on the top of the skull. “Tobi, your dad said he loves you.”

As she pulled back her hand, a heavy silence settled in the room. The doctor carefully covered Tobi’s bones and then closed the drawer.

After Macy and Nevada left the medical examiner’s portion of the building, they crossed the lobby to the forensic side. Macy felt a bit like a wimp pushing the elevator button instead of taking the stairs to the third floor. However, she needed to be practical. The less mileage on the leg meant the farther she could go. This wasn’t about her proving her stamina. It was about catching a killer. Nevada, to his credit, didn’t make a comment.

On the third floor they found their way to the office of a John McDaniel, the forensic expert who’d examined Tobi’s backpack. McDaniel was a pudgy man in his late sixties. His graying hair curled over the edges of his collar, and a thick mustache gave him a quirky, almost cartoonlike appearance.

“Mr. McDaniel.” Nevada introduced them both, and each showed their badges. “We understand you have Tobi Turner’s backpack.”

McDaniel stood, shook both their hands with a surprisingly iron grip, and nodded for them to follow. “It’s in the other room on the light table.”

In the next room, there was a fingerprint chamber, microscopes set up at various stations, and a gun ballistics firing chamber. Resting on a light table was a faded red backpack, unzipped and opened. Beside it was a series of items that they hoped might tell the tale of Tobi Turner’s last hours.

“I ran the backpack through a fingerprint chamber to see what I could pull. I did get a partial thumbprint off the strap of the backpack. It’s a match to a print lifted from Susan Oswald’s windowsill. I’ve run it through AFIS, but so far no matches.”

“What’s in the backpack?” Macy asked.

“Have a look. Pair of jeans, a sweater, sneakers, textbook, pencils, lipstick, hand sanitizer, a candy bar, and a condom. There’s also a set of keys, including a car key that matches the make and model of the Turner family van.”