Page 72 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“It does.”
“So would the imported candy. We don’t know where the mining company originated, but it could be American and if so, it could be shipping supplies over the Alaskan border.”
Dalton nods. “With the clothing and the multi-tool and the fact we’re on their side of the boundary line, my first thought was that he’s one of them. Then I wondered, if a miner went missing, wouldn’t they tell us? Ask for our help?”
I consider that. “They did ask for it with the bear-man, but I don’t think they’d be quite that fast to ask for our help with a missing employee. Not with how cagey they’ve been. And if this is their man, I doubt they’ll let us take him to Haven’s Rock for an autopsy. We can offer but…”
Dalton goes quiet enough for me to know he’s thinking something. Then he says, “Yeah, I don’t think they’d let us take him, and I’m not sure we should offer … or tell them we found him.”
I frown at him.
He continues, “If we don’t think we can get the body for an autopsy, then maybe we don’t want them knowing we’ve found him and have potentially done a little crime-scene investigating.”
“I want to do as much as I can here,” I say. “Nothing invasive, but a thorough external exam. First, though, I want to get back to that cabin and see whether we pick up a trail while it’s fresh.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
Storm finds Max’s trail. She does not find Max.
She managed to follow his trail for long enough that I really did get my hopes up. He left the shack and went deeper into the mining company’s territory. At several points, when the forest thickened, Dalton could find signs of what seemed like running, where the undergrowth was trampled and torn.
Does that indicate Max and his captor on the run after his captor killed a miner who’d stumbled too close to the shack? At one point, I’d even dared hope that Max had escaped. We found two of his footprints, clear in a muddy patch. But then farther down, we found his print plus a larger one. Both of them running, then, his captor agitated enough that they didn’t carry Max or make any attempt to hide their trail …
Until they did.
Until Max’s captor obviously calmed down enough in that mad flight to realize they were laying a clear trail and took to a stream instead. It’s the classic way to lose a dog, and it works. We find where they went in, and we cannot find where they came out.
We mark the spot to keep searching in the morning. Then we return to the dead man to continue my examination.
* * *
I’ve conducted my exam, and now I’m back to recording.
“Victim has sustained thirty-three wounds,” I say. Then I list the locations. All are on his back side, over half on his back itself.
“Victim is in good physical condition, heavyset but also muscular. Further examination of his hands reveals calluses that seem relatively recent. Distinguishing features are two tattoos and several scars. One tattoo is Celtic knotwork encircling his right biceps. The other is a Celtic cross on the underside of his left forearm. There is one surgical scar on his right calf and a possible surgical scar on his chest, plus a scar indicating a past injury on his right knee. Photos of all have been taken. There is also…”
I shine the flashlight on his shoulder blade, where what looks like a recent small scar has been healing, almost hidden by one of the knife wounds. I describe that. It’s an interesting place to get a scar, particularly one that looks almost surgical in its precision. Had he cut himself there? How? The stab wound mangles most of the already small scar tissue, and I might have missed it if my flashlight beam hadn’t caught the skin in just the right way for me to see the raised mark.
I note all that for the recording. Then I continue, “Returning to the stab wounds, the pattern suggests attack from behind. One penetrated between his ribs and likely was the cause of death. The blade went in at what seems like exactly the right angle, suggesting intent rather than accident. Other wounds appear more random, with varying degrees of penetration, many seeming more slashes than stabs.”
I ease back and shut off the recorder before I glance at Dalton. “Anything to add?”
He shakes his head. I’ve taken photographs of all injuries for my sister, which is the most I can do, as much as she’ll complain that it’s no substitute for a proper autopsy. She’ll also complain about the tentative conclusions I’ve drawn in my verbal report. But we’re not down south, where I’d need to be more careful and more formal. No defense lawyer or judge will ever hear those recordings. They’re just for us.
Once that’s done, we reclothe the body and return it to where it lay, positioning it as we found it. Then we take another half hour making sure we haven’t left any trace. If we’re going to pretend we never found this body, we need to do a thorough job of erasing ourselves. We’ve been wearing gloves, keeping Storm out of shedding distance, and watching where we set our feet, but now we comb through and remove every sign that we were here.
By the time we’re done, it’s fully dark, and a glance at my watch says it’s been that way for a couple of hours.
“Do we need to get back?” I say. “I hate leaving when we’ve found Max’s trail, even if we lost him. He’s been out here, recently, and going back to town feels…”
“Like abandoning him? We’ve got enough to stay out overnight.”
“Good. Thank you.”
* * *
