Page 39 of Not This Place

“Dr. Hart.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your aunt,” Hart said quietly.

Rachel frowned. “That news making the rounds?”

“If someone takes a shot at one of our own…” Hart shrugged, trailing off. Her hair was dyed, judging by the pale roots under a reddish fringe.

Her eyes studied Rachel. Speculative, cautious eyes that somehow made Rachel think of a crow in how dark they were and the way

they flickered furtively around, gathering information.

"Thank you," Rachel nodded, her voice succinct. "What can you tell me about the body?"

Dr. Hart nodded, her gaze turning to the sprawled figure of Jake Shields. Her gloved hands sifted through the tools in her bag before she pulled out a small flashlight. She clicked it on and bent down to examine the body, the bright beam focusing on the gruesome wound at his throat.

"Judging by the state of rigor mortis, I'd estimate he's been dead for more than thirty hours," Dr. Hart said, her voice measured as she took note of the signs of lividity on the corpse.

"Thirty hours," Rachel echoed, noting down the time frame in her mind.

"That seems about right," Ethan chimed in beside her, his gaze focused on the body as well. He crouched down next to Dr. Hart, glancing at Jake's hands before his eyes landed on something peculiar.

Dr. Hart nodded, her face a mask of professionalism. She embodied her role—clinical, composed. Her dark hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, and her glasses sat perched on a wide nose. Gloved hands rested on her clipboard, a barrier between her and the carnage.

"Exact time will be confirmed post-autopsy, but the rigor progression suggests the window accurately," Dr. Hart continued, her eyes skimming her notes.

"Understood." Rachel's reply was terse, her brain already leaping ahead to piece together the new timeline. She glanced at the coroner, noting the precision in her gaze, the way she held herself—shoulders back, chin level. This was a woman familiar with death, unshaken by its grimness.

"Keep me posted on any new findings," Rachel said, locking onto Dr. Hart's measured gaze.

"Of course, Ranger Blackwood." Dr. Hart gave a curt nod, then turned back to her work, leaving Rachel to the sound of rustling leaves and distant murmurs.

Rachel watched for a moment, noting the efficiency as Dr. Hart directed her team, every move deliberate, every action steeped in years of experience. Then, Rachel crouched beside the body, her gaze sharp as she scanned Jake Shields' lifeless form.

Rachel's eyes lingered on the corpse's bare feet—pale against the dark soil. "His shoes. They're missing."

"Looks intentional," Ethan mused, squatting opposite her. His hand hovered over a notebook, ready for any sliver of information. "The rest of the clothes are fine."

"Could be," Rachel admitted. She stood, her knees protesting the movement. The absence gnawed at her. No scuff marks. No debris. Just clean socks on a dead man.

"Maybe they were taken after," Ethan suggested, his brows knitting together in contemplation.

"Maybe." Rachel's mind raced. A thousand scenarios played out in quick succession. Theft? Unlikely. Personal? Possibly. A message? Perhaps. She needed more.

Rachel circled the body, her boots pressing into the damp earth with a purposeful tread. The morning air hung heavy with the scent of dew and decay. She crouched beside Jake Shields' lifeless form, her fingers hovering over the hem of his trousers, eyes tracing the line where fabric met skin.

“Why would anyone steal the shoes?” Ethan murmured.

Rachel frowned, considering this puzzle.

"To hide evidence, perhaps?" She suggested, her eyes never leaving the corpse. "The killer might have cut himself. Maybe blood reside on the sole of the shoes."

Ethan grunted, jotting down the theory in his notebook. "It still doesn't make sense. If Jake didn't put up any resistance—"

She stood abruptly, dusting her hands off on her pants and turning to Ethan. "What if it's...the soil?"

Ethan looked up at her, brow furrowed in confusion. "The soil?"

Rachel began to explain, her tone steady despite the gnawing uncertainty in her gut. "Unique soils can be as good as any fingerprint. The killer might have wanted to hide the soil on the boots. Back in my big game hunting days, soil trails were some of the most useful in tracking a creature. We could find the exact region the animal came from just by examining the soil on their hooves or claws."

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