Page 81 of Water's Edge

She nods.

“And Joey is?”

“Sorry. Deputy Joe Fischer.”

The tech is crouching by the body and raises a hand without turning around.

“That’s me,” he says, getting up and coming over to us. “Captain Martin said he was patrolling this bay and spotted her. He called and here we are. My partner found the hanging man.”

I don’t care for his attitude.

“Good job,” I say.

This body is different from the others in that she’s completely nude. Her eyes, however, are open just like the others’ were.

I move toward the body.

“Just don’t touch her,” he says.

Ronnie snaps on latex gloves.

“Can I go with you, Megan?” she asks.

“Stay behind me,” I say, “and don’t trip and fall on the body in those clunky big boots.”

“I promise.”

The tech points to other tracks in the sand where he made his approach. We will stay in his footsteps.

The sun glints off of something metal or glass halfway buried in the sand. I turn to the tech. “Something’s in the ground there.”

Joey plants a marker flag in the sand beside the item.

I continue and stop two feet from the body. There’s deep bruising on the chest, ribs, and stomach. I squat down for a better look. Her knees are scuffed. I can’t see the palms of her hands, but the knuckles are definitely rubbed raw and scabbed over. There are bruises on her shins, and the ribs have deep purple and yellow bruises the size of a fist or a boot. Her red hair has been spread out around her head like a fan. It looks to have been done on purpose. Her blue eyes stare up into nothingness. Her lips are slightly parted but not split like the other victims’ lips. In fact, her face is unscathed by injury.

The deputy in the woods yells down to us.

“Detective, you might want to come back up here.”

I make sure Ronnie moves back out of the scene with me before I return up the trail.

“I found a purse over there by that downed tree,” he says. “Some clothing is a few feet away. A dress and bra, by the looks of it. I took pictures of the purse if you want me to collect it while you’re here.”

“That would be perfect,” I tell him. “And check around here to see if you find any kind of symbol, will you?”

He gives me a questioning look.

“The other cases I’m working,” I say. “A symbol, about the size of your palm, was scraped or carved into a rock or a tree trunk.”

While the tech goes to get the purse, I examine the tree and the body. The tree is a young alder, maybe a foot in diameter. The rope is draped over a limb and Boyd’s toes are just touching the ground. Of course, his neck is stretched a few inches. I try to picture him coming here and doing that to himself.

It doesn’t feel right.

If I were going to hang myself, I would tie the rope to the trunk and then throw the line over the limb. Then I would stand on something, tie the rope around my neck, and kick the stand away. There is nothing to stand on here. I’ll have to wait for the pathologist’s report.

“Can you get a picture of the limb where the rope is touching?”

The tech agrees. “You want to see if there are any burn marks,” he says. “Like the body was hoisted up and then tied off.”

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