Page 52 of Not This Soon

"What do you make of these?" she asked, gesturing to the marks as the coroner approached.

The man squinted, leaning in for a closer look. "Could be drug use," he suggested, his voice thin and reedy. "Wouldn't be the first time we've seen something like this out here."

Rachel shook her head, unconvinced. The marks were too precise, too evenly spaced to be the work of a desperate addict. Another thing: the injection sites were clean, devoid of the telltale bruising or irritation common among intravenous drug users. No, these had been administered by a professional. Or at least someone with training.

Rachel turned and then crouched beside the victim's purse, her gloved hands rummaging through its contents. Sand bunched up under her shoes as she shifted her posture, looming over the abandoned bag like a gargoyle. Lipstick, a compact mirror, a half-empty pack of gum. Then, her fingers brushed against a piece of paper. She pulled it out, unfolding it carefully.

She frowned, staring.

The desert wind picked up, causing her hair to flutter about her like a banner.

She checked and double-checked the paper. A hospital discharge form, dated just two days ago. Eleanor Hartley had been treated for a foot injury.

Rachel's brow furrowed, her gaze darting to the victim's feet. Sure enough, one was wrapped in thick, white bandages. She turned to the coroner, holding up the form. "What do you make of this?"

The coroner took the paper, studying it closely. "Looks like she was treated for a disease that was spreading up her leg: an infection caused by the aggressive bacteria, necrotizing fasciitis. Often called flesh-eating disease."

Rachel's gaze moved to Eleanor’s bandaged foot. The medical gauze seemed almost inadequate against the harsh terrain of the desert.

"Doctors don't take such infections lightly. She should’ve been in hospital care, not wandering around a desert."

Rachel processed the information, her mind churning with questions. She looked at the coroner, her eyes narrowing. "What about the bullet wound? The calibre?"

"Difficult to say without extracting it," the coroner replied, peeling off his gloves and stuffing them into a pocket of his white coat. "But from the entry wound, I'd say .22, maybe .25."

Rachel nodded, her thoughts already moving ahead. She was an expert in firearms; hunting was a part of her heritage she deeply respected. Her guess aligned with that of the coroner’s. A small caliber bullet – not typically used for self-defense or by law enforcement. And certainly unusual in a murder case.

She stood up and turned away from the body, her eyes scanning the surrounding desert. Nothing stood out against theendless expanse of dry earth and scrubs, but Rachel knew better than to trust appearances.

She frowned, turning away from the body and studying the terrain. Her eyes moved to the dusty bridge in the distance, a weathered construct barely visible against the sagebrush and sand. She stared at the bridge, then looked back out at the sand dunes. The bridge stood out as the sole vantage point. She frowned towards the desolate, silhouetted structure, her eyes narrowed.

She found herself scowling as she addressed the nearest officers milling about the crime scene.

"We need to scour the area around the bridge," she said firmly, pointing in its direction some distance away. "Send a few units. Be careful.”

The two nearest officers nodded in unison, quickly moving to fulfill her orders. Rachel turned back to the crime scene, her focus returning to the ground beneath her boots.

The coarse desert sand had an uncanny ability to preserve signs of recent activity. It was one of the few small mercies this unforgiving landscape offered. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the ground for any sign of disturbance.

Her eyes caught something peculiar: a series of imprints on the sand. The small lines and squiggles were unmistakable to her trained eyes. Bootprints muddled the site, but another set of tracks stood out distinctly.

She crouched down, studying the peculiar zigzag patterns. "Snakes," she muttered to herself, her gaze following the trails crisscrossing through the sand.

"Three of them," she declared aloud, half to herself and half to anyone within earshot. She pointed at the patterns, tracing their routes with her gloved finger. "Two are dead inside that cage, with our victim. But there was a third."

A nearby officer looked over at her statement, doubt clear in his expression. "You sure about that, Ranger?"

Rachel straightened up, meeting his gaze with a sharp nod. "Yes," she said confidently.

She turned back to the victim's body, resting her hands on her hips as she studied Eleanor's lifeless form once more. Her mind was already racing ahead, piecing together what little evidence she had uncovered thus far.

Rachel moved back towards the corpse once more and knelt down next to Eleanor’s bandaged foot. She examined it closely, speaking without looking away from Eleanor’s remains.

"Get in touch with the hospital where Hartley had been treated," she directed towards where Ethan was now approaching her, wearing a frown on his face.

“The cartel member isn’t talking,” Ethan said. “His lawyer is denying everything, though.”

She just nodded absentmindedly. “The cartel didn’t kill this woman.”

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