Page 19 of Not This Night

"Place looks like it's baking in its own oven," Ethan commented, shielding his eyes from the glare.

"The only thing missing is the vultures," Rachel replied, her boots kicking up fine silt as they made their way to the entrance.

Her phone vibrated. Sheriff Dawes’ name flashed on the screen. She hesitated, thumb hovering over the decline button.

"Again?" Ethan asked, eyebrow raised.

"Persistent," she muttered, silencing the call with a swift tap. The sound of the ringtone replaced by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.

"Going to keep putting him off?" Ethan's voice cut through the silence that had settled between them.

"Until I have something to report." Her words were terse, final, as she slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"Fair enough," he conceded, pushing open the door to the coroner’s office.

The coroner's office was an antiseptic world starkly contrasted against the rugged desert outside. Rachel’s eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lighting, taking in the figure who stood like a sentinel among the stainless steel and white tile.

"Ranger Blackwood," the woman greeted, her voice as crisp as her lab coat. Dr. Susan Marquez was meticulous by nature, every strand of her salt-and-pepper hair anchored in a tight bun that seemed to pull her eyebrows into a perpetual state of alertness. Her glasses perched halfway down her nose, magnifying sharp, hawk-like eyes that missed nothing.

"Dr. Marquez," Rachel nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze meeting those scrutinizing eyes.

"Ma'am," Ethan tipped his hat slightly.

"Two victims," Rachel prompted without preamble. "Heather Sinclair and Jenna Amos."

"Ah, yes," Marquez said, turning on her heel to lead them deeper into her domain. "Can't say much about how they were left." She glanced over her shoulder. "But I did find something curious."

"Curious?" Rachel echoed, her interest piqued.

"Indeed," Dr. Marquez stopped beside two gurneys shrouded in solemnity. Pulling back the sheet from the first, she revealed the pale, lifeless legs of what once was Heather Sinclair. She pointed to a series of small, raised bumps - scars upon the calf. "See here?"

Rachel leaned in, her detective's eye taking in the details. "Scars?"

"Similar marking on Jenna Amos," Marquez said, revealing the second set of legs with the same pattern. "Old. Healed. They're tribal, most likely. From childhood, I'd wager."

“That’s odd… neither of them are Native. Possible they’re more recent?”

“No. At least a decade old. The epidermal regeneration is too complete for recent scarring."

Rachel felt a chill of realization. The tribal marks, the beads... It was more than coincidence now. There was a connection, one that traced back to the native tribes. And possibly to their main suspect, Scott Hawkeye.

Rachel strode to the head of the gurney, her gaze sharpening.

"Cause of death?" she asked, her voice steady as her eyes met those of the coroner.

"Ms. Sinclair," Dr. Marquez began, motioning to the first body, "had her neck slit. Clean, precise." Her hand mimicked the cut's path, a silent swish in the air. "No hesitation."

"Premeditated," Rachel murmured, processing the information with a clinical detachment that years on the job had honed.

"Looks that way," Marquez concurred. She moved to the second gurney. "Jenna Amos, however," she said, pausing over the matted hair darkened by dried blood, "blunt force trauma to the head. The ferocity..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"Crime of passion?" Rachel ventured, already noting the contrasting nature of the attacks.

"Very possibly," the coroner replied.

“Amos was killed first,” Rachel said. “Maybe it was an accident. Triggered the second murder?”

“Possibly. That’s not my area of expertise.”

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