Page 36 of Unnatural Death

“I sure do hate cutting through the hiking poles. But it’s the only way we can close the pouches,” I explain. “Make sure we capture it on video as we continue to make a record of what we do. And the goal is to avoid inflicting additional injury.”

Marino steadies the body on its side while I cover the hiking poles’ rubber grips with plastic cling wrap. I snap through the shafts front and back. The hollow composite sections quietly clack as I place them in a bag that Tron holds open.

“Just like the other ones,” Marino says as we zip up the pouches.

He explains that the four hiking poles impaling the victims are tactical and the same brand. They’re lightweight, telescoping into a small size one can fit in a carry bag. They also can be used for self-defense, and Wild World sells them.

“I bought a set of them a while back for when I treasure hunt,” Marino says. “Usually, there are different tips you can screw on, including ones that turn it into a weapon. It would be easy to spear someone through and through as long as you don’t hit bone.”

“I’m going to guess that was the final violent act, and meant to horrify,” I reply as we pick up the rescue basket, collecting our gear.

“Gratuitously cruel,” Lucy says as we return to the pup tent. “The work of a sadist who wants to scare people into submission. Someone who gets off on it, even finds it amusing.”

“Creating a sensation seems to be the goal.” Tron doesn’t react emotionally to much, but I can tell she’s unnerved.

“A need to completely overpower and mutilate, an effort to intimidate and make a mockery of us. To goad and taunt,” Lucy adds as if she has insight we don’t. “Payback.”

“For what?” Marino asks.

“Some people seem to be born seeking revenge,” she replies. “They arrive on this planet ready to punish. And if you give them a reason, they’ll never get past it. And whatever happens? It’s your own fault if you ask them.”

“Also known as a psychopath,” Tron adds. “That’s what we’re up against.”

“Which psychopath?” Marino keeps pushing for answers.

“Unfortunately, there’s more than one,” Lucy says.

“It will be helpful to hear what Benton thinks,” I reply.

“I don’t need fancy degrees to know that what was done to the Mansons feels personal,” Marino answers.

We set down the rescue basket next to the other one in the shade of a red maple, its leaves vibrant when touched by sunlight. The time is now half past twoP.M.,and the temperature is dropping as the sun dips lower. Another front is headed in our direction, this one leaving heavy snow. But the storm is expected to blow out to sea before reaching this area.

“Bottom line if these two people were taken out? This isn’t how a hit goes down.” Marino unzips his Mustang suit. “Usually, the killer is in and out like a shadow. He doesn’t draw attention like leaving anonymous phone messages taking credit and bragging about it. Whoever did this was familiar with the victims and probably resented the shit out of them.”

Pulling off sopping wet neoprene, he and I clean up and disinfect some more, and I’m grateful there’s no mirror. I must be quite the wilted sight, my hair plastered to my head, my nose sunburned. It’s important to stay hydrated and fed, and I pass around more bottles of water and snacks. We take care of other necessities before ferrying the rescue baskets and supplies through the woods.

Marino is in the lead, Lucy right behind him. Tron and two other investigators bring up the rear. It’s slower going with our unwieldy cargo, bumping and banging into trees, getting snagged in bushes. Trudging through wet leaves, we wait as a black rat snake sizzles into a thicket ahead of us. A red-tailed hawk watches from the high perch of a dead tree bleached pale gray.

A white-tailed deer bounds through brush, and there are other noises, other signs of life stirring. I’m aware of the canister of pepper spray on my belt, trying not to think about a massive bear or wildcat suddenly charging us. The forest is much more restless than before, and as we reach the dry creek bed clearing, I sense something wrong before I realize what it is.

* * *

“What the hell?” Lucy stops in her tracks.

The helicopter’s four main rotor blades slowly turn in the gusting wind. I notice the red tiedown straps some distance away. They’re piled on top of a large flat rock where Pepper the drone quietly awaits as if he flew here on his own. His lights are out, the power off.

“Fuck.” Marino’s hand drops closer to his gun.

“Nobody move.” Lucy sets down the hard cases she’s carrying. “Stay right where you are.”

She slides her .44 Magnum out of the holster. Walking closer to the Doomsday Bird, she again tells us to hold our position.

“I’m making sure we don’t have any unexpected company.” She has her gun in both hands, the barrel pointed up.

Walking closer to the tiedown straps piled on the rock, Lucy announces that they aren’t damaged.

“Nothing’s bent or torn that I can see. They’ve been unclipped and not forced.” She walks around looking for a possible explanation.

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