As she approached the open side door, the air filled with death. Bracing herself, she looked inside the door. The bin was filled with white trash bags as well as a collection of beer bottles and a couple of broken chairs. When she scanned the space, she saw the collection of gold bracelets ringing a discolored slim wrist.
The forensic technician took pictures to document the surrounding area as well as the interior. Knowing this would go on for at least a half hour before anyone crawled into the dumpster, she shifted her attention to the crowd, which had grown to nearly a dozen.
She raised her phone and took video footage of everyone before she crossed the parking lot and held up her badge to the group of onlookers. There were two couples, a group of four women, and three single males.
“Why are you taking our pictures?” The question came from a midsize man wearing faded jeans, a plaid shirt, and work boots.
“I’m FBI special agent Spencer. I’m investigating a murder.”
“But why do you care about us?” the man challenged.
“Perhaps you witnessed something. And your name, sir?”
“Rich Houston.”
“And what are you doing here, Mr. Houston?” The man smelled of cigarette smoke, fast food, and beer.
“Enjoying the show like the rest of the crowd. Why do you care?”
“Do you live around here?” she asked.
“I’m staying at the motel. I’m a truck driver and had to pull in here when my rig broke down.”
“How long have you been here?” Zoe asked.
“Three days. And before you ask, I didn’t see nothing.”
“Where are you based, Mr. Houston?” she asked.
“North Carolina. I make runs up and down the mid-Atlantic.”
“I saw something,” a woman to her left said.
Zoe kept her gaze on Houston a beat longer before turning. “And you are?”
“Theresa Kittredge. I work at the motel.” Kittredge was in her early fifties and had a thin, wiry build with hunched shoulders.
“What did you see?” Zoe asked.
“A guy lingering by the dumpster.”
She knew a dumpster in this area could easily see its share of illegal dumping. “What was he doing?”
“He opened the door and just stared inside.”
“Did he put anything in the dumpster? Did he take anything out of it?”
“No. He just stood there.” The afternoon sun caught the silver streaking her dark hair.
“When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
“Any alarm bells go off for you?” Zoe asked.
“No. We get all kinds around here. I thought at first he was dumpster diving, because restaurants dump here sometimes. But like I said, he didn’t take nothing.”
“Did he see you?”
Kittredge rubbed her hands over her arms as if chilled. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “Average. Wore a ball cap and a full jacket, so it was hard to tell. I remember thinking in this heat that the jacket must have been miserable.”
Eyewitnesses could be the most unreliable. Not only did people lie, but even the truth tellers did not always get it right. Human brains had a way of filling in details that fit their own personal worldviews.
Zoe scribbled down the woman’s name and contact information. She spoke to the others standing around, but most were passersby and had nothing to add.
She approached the dumpster just as the first technician crawled through the door and stood over the body, which was covered in debris. He snapped more pictures before he handed out the broken chairs to another tech, who set them on an outstretched tarp.
It took another half hour before the trash and debris were cleared off the woman’s body. The process was painstaking because the body lay under at least a dozen bags, which had to be carefully removed in case evidence was attached. Each sack was also opened on a nearby tarp and searched for any additional possible evidence.
The victim lay on its side, and sightless eyes stared from a discolored face that was drawn tight and also disfigured by what appeared to be animal activity. Her arms were crisscrossed, and her knees and ankles were drawn up toward her midsection. Her long blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears.
She wore nice gold earrings, several rings on her exposed hand, and a bloodstained, gray, fitted athletic jacket that skimmed what appeared to be full breasts and a narrow, fit waist. Purple leggings covered athletic legs and matched the sneakers.
She looked very much like Hadley Foster.
But she was not Hadley.
And the odds of two random women who shared a similar look potentially dying within miles of each other were too slim to calculate.
“Galina Grant looks like this woman, and so does Hadley,” Vaughan said.
The technician took dozens more pictures as well as sketches of the body and its position. Seemingly satisfied with his documentation, the tech carefully pulled the victim’s hair away from her neck.
Zoe’s gaze was drawn to the violent slash mark across the victim’s long neck. The shriveled skin, though discolored by decomposition, was also eerily pale. It could be symptomatic of someone who had bled to death.
“Note the two-inch wound on her neck,” the technician said. “Judging by the bloodstains soaking the front of her blouse, her attacker sliced an artery. The medical examiner will make the final call, but right now I’d say she bled to death.”
Small yellow evidence tents marked the scattered blood spots in an unnatural trail that stopped ten feet from the dumpster. It stood in stark comparison to the massive stains in the house and Lexus.
“There’s very little blood on the floor of the dumpster,” Zoe said.
“I’d bet this woman was stabbed and bled out somewhere else before she was dumped here postmortem,” Vaughan said.
“Why the dumpster? Was he making a statement or just being practical?” Zoe asked.
“He’s done the deed, and now he has to get rid of her. He pulls up, likely late at night. When he’s certain no one is watching, and any camera footage would be poor, he carries her from his car, dripping some blood as he goes, and lays her in the dumpster. Then he takes the time to tuck her hair behind her ears before he covers her in debris.”
Absently, Zoe tucked her own hair behind her ear. “It’s almost a loving kind of gesture.”
Vaughan’s scowl deepened. “Assuming it’s the same guy, why dump this victim here, but leave Galina in the motel room?”
“He’s evolving,” she offered. “Different set of circumstances? Maybe he had more time with Galina. Maybe he was angry at this woman or another one who looked like her.”
“And then he snatches Hadley and Skylar from their house?” Vaughan asked.
“Each kill is a little riskier than the last,” Zoe suggested. “Because he’s cocky? Reckless? Out of control? Or trying to cover up a motive.”
“The first three are a given. This guy sat and ate a pizza on the end of the bed while Galina lay there, bleeding to death.”
“If this murder and Galina’s can be linked to Hadley and Skylar’s abduction, it would help Mark Foster’s case,” Zoe said. “If I were his attorney, that’s exactly how I’d present it to the jury.”