Page 18 of Mile High Mystery

“What are you doing here?”

She whirled to find Zach Gregory stalking toward her. She forced herself not to flinch or step back. He was a big man. Intimidating. And despite all the stories Camille had told her about her smart, funny, kind brother, Shelby didn’t really know him. Grief changed people, and not always for the better. For all she knew, Zach Gregory had a violent streak his sister had never seen. “I’m trying to find out everything I can about Camille’s death,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “Is that why you’re here?” She should have thought of that before. Maybe Zach hoped to feel closer to his sister by revisiting the place where she had died.

He came to stand beside her. Uncomfortably close. She caught the scent of pine, perhaps from where he had brushed against the piñon branches, and heard the heaviness of his breathing, as if he was struggling to control his emotions. “I looked around,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”

“I was wondering about that tree.” She nodded toward the broken trunk. “You probably know more about these things than I do. Do you think it just fell, or did the killer push it over or do something to make it fall?”

The question surprised him; she could tell. He glanced at her, then walked over to the trunk. “It looks pretty rotten,” he said. He kicked at it, and bark flaked off. He bent closer and she did also, her face close to his. He had a scar by his left eye from where he had fallen on his bicycle when he was eight and had to have stitches. There was something so intimate about knowing that story, especially when he knew nothing of her childhood.

“You can see where it broke.” He pointed to the jagged surface of the stump, the wood in the center dry and crumbling. “And it looks like there was a hole here.” He pointed to a vacant area just above the roots on one side. “Maybe an animal dug this out to use as a den. That would have weakened the tree on this side.”

“So maybe the killer saw that and shoved the tree over?” Heart beating a little faster, she moved over to the trunk. “Where would he have pushed, do you think?”

Zach joined her in examining the trunk. He stepped over it, then rolled it toward her slightly. “The hole I was talking about is right here.” He pointed to the broken end of the trunk, the smoothed edge of a hole clearly visible. He stepped back over the trunk to stand beside her, then carefully tipped that side up.

“Is it heavy?” she asked.

“Not very.”

He was several inches taller and more muscular than the man Brent Baker had described seeing leaving Camille’s camp. “Could a smaller man, one not in as good shape, have pushed it?” she asked.

He straightened, and his gaze burned into her. “You have a suspect?”

“We have a description of a man who was seen leaving Camille’s campsite about the time she probably died,” she said. “We don’t have a name or any definite identification.”

“What’s the description? Who saw him?”

“One of the other campers saw him. And the description isn’t much—about six feet tall, on the thin side. He wore dark clothing and a rain shell with the hood pulled up, so we have no idea of his hair color or what his face looked like. He moved like a runner.”

Zach looked back toward the tree. “If the guy was in decent shape, he probably could have pushed over this rotten tree.”

Shelby bent to examine the tree trunk once more, estimating where the killer might have put his hands. “If you were doing something like that, how would you do it?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, would you put your hands on the trunk and shove, or find a big branch and whack the trunk?”

“I’d put my shoulder to it and give a big shove,” he said. “Get some leg strength into it, as well as upper body strength.”

She visually measured the trunk again. “So his shoulder would have been about here.” She touched the tip of her fingers to a spot on the trunk.

Zach bent to examine the spot. “Up about six inches, I think.”

She brushed her hands up six inches, studying the rough bark. Then she stilled, holding her breath. “Is that a hair?” Zach asked.

The single hair, perhaps six inches long, glinted in the sunlight, then disappeared as she straightened enough to reach into her jacket and pull out her phone. She snapped several photos, hoping they would show the hair in place. Then she tucked the phone away and pulled out her keys. “Go to my car and open the trunk. There’s a small duffel bag in there. Inside the duffel is another smaller, black zippered pouch. Bring that to me, please.” She kept her hand on the trunk, afraid if she moved, she would never find the hair again.

Zach took the keys and loped away. He was back a few moments later. She unzipped the pouch and took out a plastic evidence pouch. “Hold this.” She handed the pouch to Zach, then felt in another pocket of the pouch for a small case, from which she withdrew a pair of tweezers. She used the tweezers to ease the hair from where it was caught in the bark. She carefully inserted the hair into the pouch, then sealed it. She labeled it with the date, time and location where it was collected, then signed across the seal.

“Can I see?” Zach asked.

She held the pouch up to the light so they could both look. The single hair, a light brown or dark blond, glinted in the light. She said a silent prayer of thanks that the hair was not dark, like hers and Zach’s. She didn’t have to worry that one of them had inadvertently deposited their own hair on the log in the process of examining it. “Do you think that belongs to the killer?” Zach asked.

“I don’t know.” She tucked the bag into the pouch and zipped it closed. “It could belong to another camper who stayed here. But if we do find a good suspect for the murder, DNA might help prove he was here in the camp, and that could go a long way toward a conviction, depending on what other evidence we have.”

“They had an eyewitness statement for Judge Hennessey’s murder,” he said. “That wasn’t enough to get a conviction.”

“We’ll need to do better next time.”

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