Page 11 of Sinister Secrets

I don’t answer. Passing through the gate, I approach the pond and stare down at the impression a tire made in the soft mud along the edge. Scan the shoreline for anything I missed under the cover of darkness earlier but see nothing.

My gaze drifts to the naked body floating a dozen feet away. No clothes means less chance of finding trace evidence, especially after being submerged in water. Though I plan to search the path that the culprit and Jeffery took to get here, I doubt that I’ll find anything useful.

Chances are, this case is going to come down to old-fashioned detective work. Delving into every aspect of the victim’s life looking for someone who had the means, motive, and opportunity to have done this. Which means I need to get his face and hands out of the water as soon as possible, before the crayfish and minnows have any more time to feast, in order to facilitate a quick identification.

“What are you doing?” Kingston asks, a note of horror in his tone as I take a step forward into the pond.

“What does it look like? I’m going to get the body.”

I cast a glance over my shoulder and see his eyes bulging as he stares toward the far shore, where Chomp is sunning himself.

“You aren’t worried?”

“Not about him.” But about almost everything else, though I don’t say it.

The water is warm as it seeps into my shoes, along with a healthy dose of mud. It sloshes against my knees, then my thighs, then my waist as the sheriff mutters about me being crazy, but when I look at him, I find that he’s watching me with something like respect.

“Well, go on then,” he says, gesturing toward the body. “We’ve got to get him out some way. I suppose this is as good as any other.”

Nodding, I continue on, my movements getting slower as I get deeper. Though I know it would be quicker to swim, I’m hesitant. Something about having something beneath my feet makes me feel grounded.

I lean and reach, straining as I just barely manage to snatch the victim by the wrist. Pull him as I walk backward, inching us to shore. Once my ribs are above water, I shift my grip, careful to avoid the mud smears that stain the flesh in case they contain trace evidence. Then, taking a deep breath, I flip the body over.

Anxiety takes me firmly in its grasp, squeezing the air from my lungs. I blink once, twice, three times at the face until the spots clear from my vision and I’m able to confirm—it’s been completely destroyed. Something tells me this case isn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped.

CHAPTER 7

Everything is still. There’s not a whisper of a breeze. Not a peep from an insect. The sun beats down on me with an intensity that makes my skin sizzle, intensifying the stench of sulfur that fills my lungs and threatens to flip my stomach.

Holding my breath, I lean closer to the body, observing the gun powder burns that surround the gaping wound. The lack of bone fragments in the pulverized, ground meat-looking tissue of the opening. The beveling around the hole that’s been punched into the skull.

“What?” Kingston asks. “What’s wrong?”

Shaking my head, I grab the man by his wrist again and continue the journey back to land. I can’t shake the feeling that there are too many unknowns that I can’t see lurking. I need to get out of the water.

A low rumble fills my ears, slowly growing louder. I brace myself, anticipating the coming rush of heat and adrenaline that usually accompanies my panic attacks. Raise my head, needing to find a spot to focus on in the distance. Feel overwhelmed with relief when I discover that the noise is the approach of a vehicle and not the blood rushing through my head.

As I watch the medical examiner’s van slowly driving across the grass toward us, I find myself wishing that I could make this someone else’s problem. But that would be a luxury I can’t afford, not when I consider the price I’d have to pay in terms of lost sleep, anxiety, self-respect. The sense of security and safety I feel when I’m at home.

So I continue doing the same thing I’ve been doing since I woke up in a serial killer’s basement months ago—putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time I make it back to shore, Rich Bailey, one of the medicolegal death investigators from the ME’s office, has exited the transport van and is busy laying out a body bag on the grass. He holds up a hand to me in greeting.

“Agent Knox, it’s nice to see you again. Thanks for doing that for me, by the way.”

He shoots a pointed look at the sheriff, who responds with a withering glare. Puffing out his chest, Kingston takes several steps in my direction.

“Here. Do you need—?” The instant he sees the man’s face, his progress stops. The ruddy color drains from his skin, replaced by a sheen of sweat. He rubs a hand over his eyes like he’s trying to erase what he’s seen..

“What’s the matter, Lyle?” Rich asks. “I know this isn’t your first rodeo.” Kingston points wordlessly toward the body. Rich follows the gesture and whistles. “Pretty gnarly exit wound.”

“That’s the entrance,” I say quietly. “See the burns from the gun powder?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Rich says. “Even at close range, a bullet shouldn’t have made a mess like that.”

“Not a normal one, no.”

“Then what type would?”