Page 31 of High Frequency

“Look up there,” Dan says, tapping on my shoulder as he points at a jagged rock jutting out from the wall about fifteen feet up.

A little strip of yellow fabric is stuck to the end. I lift my camera and take a few shots.

Because of the position of the body, my assumption had been that they came from above—either fallen or pushed—but this is actual evidence in support of that theory.

“I can get up there and collect it, if you want,” he offers.

“That would be helpful after I’m done processing.”

Which will never happen if I don’t get my ass in gear. Snapping pictures to avoid what is the most important piece of evidence is not moving things along. I take in a fortifying breath and finally focus my attention on the body.

From this distance, I can see the hand is almost skeletonized, but I can’t see much of the rest of the body. I keep snapping pictures as I approach, creating an artificial barrier from the horrific vision through my viewfinder.

I’m pretty sure the body is female from the clumps of long hair that cling to the skull, but also the clothing still covering parts of her. That is, the parts that remain. One of her legs looks to be wedged between the boulder and the rock face, but the other leg is missing. Her head is actually separated from the rest of her body. It’s clear at some point animals were at her.

“Jesus,” I hear Dan mumble behind me.

I swallow the bile down and grit my teeth as I force my mind to focus on details and not the horror of the whole picture. I need to be as meticulous as I can in processing the evidence so I don’t miss anything.

Even though I’ve had some training, the occasions where I’ve had to use my acquired skills were far and few between. I’m not a crime scene, or forensics tech, and neither am I a coroner, but we don’t have the luxury of a team with all those specialties at our fingertips here.

Speed is of the essence in collecting and preserving the body and any related evidence, when a scene is exposed to outside elements. Hell, even a late summer rain or a good stiff wind could wash away something that might’ve been key evidence in solving this case.

So, although it’s not ideal, the job is on me and I have to do the best I can.

For the next while, I forget time and any signals my body is sending. I’m so immersed in the work, I don’t notice we’re losing daylight until Dan turns on one of the flashlights to help me see what I’m doing.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“How much longer do you figure?” he asks. “It won’t take long to get completely dark down here and these lights may not be enough. We also still have to set up camp.”

Shit. I’d forgotten about that.

“Okay, okay. I’d like to get her into the body bag, along with the evidence bags, but I’ll need your help for that.”

I’ve taken pictures of every conceivable angle, I’ve collected every little scrap of what looked like it might be evidence I could find, and there really isn’t much more I can do.

The task of getting the remains in the body bag is by far the most unpleasant one. There isn’t a whole lot holding her together, other than perhaps connective tissues and her clothes, but we manage to get the job done.

“Any idea how long she’s been down here?” Dan wants to know when I zip her securely inside the bag.

“It’ll take the coroner to figure that one out more accurately, but given she was wearing a winter jacket, I’d guess at least five or six months. I found a receipt in the jacket pocket dated January twenty-first of this year, so some time after that.”

“Nothing else to identify her?”

“Only the receipt, which is from a gas station in Pablo.”

Pablo is a small town with a largely Native American population near the Pablo National Wildlife Refuge. It’s also the seat of government for the Flathead Indian Reservation.

The girl’s hair is very dark, she could be Native American, but Pablo is a good two-and-a-half to three-hour drive from here. How would she have ended up here?

“I want to get a call in to Junior,” I mention. “See if there are any young girls reported missing from that area.”

“You’re sure she’s young?”

“Pretty sure. Based on her clothes and the unicorn charm she had clipped to the zipper of her jacket. Probably not much older than Chelsea Littleton.”

“Fuck,” he curses. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

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