Cold Case Murder. Shirlee McCoy
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would take a lot of force to crack a skull like that.” She spoke the thought out loud, wanting to pick the skull up and examine it more closely but knowing she couldn’t.
“A lot of force or a lot of rage.”
“Any sign of the weapon?”
“Nothing. From the looks of the injury, we could be searching for anything. Baseball bat, butt of a gun, a club.”
“Maybe something metal. A pipe?” Jodie responded by rote, her gaze riveted to a pile that lay beside the skulls. It looked as if a rodent had made a nest there, creating it from faded cloth and long strands of fine hair. Blond hair, from the looks of it. Even time and dirt couldn’t quite hide the fact. More tufts of it were visible beneath the facedown skull. These were even easier to identify. Long. Straight.
White-blond?
If so, they were the same color as Jodie’s. The same color her mother’s had been. She shuddered, leaning in a little closer, trying to see more of what remained.
“You’re getting a little close to the remains, ma’am. Maybe you should back up before you disturb something.” The words were gruff and loud, and Jodie whirled toward the speaker, her flashlight illuminating a tall, dark-haired man who stood beside Sam.
“I’m not in the habit of disturbing crime scenes.”
“Good to know.” He strode across the room, his movements as lithe and graceful as a jungle cat’s, his gaze so intense Jodie was tempted to look away.
“I take it you’re the forensic anthropologist.” She stood, careful not to step any closer to the skeletons.
“Harrison Cahill.” His eyes were oddly light in a craggy face, his lips turned down in a scowl.
“Jodie Gilmore.”
“I take it you’re the agent working with Sam? And a fairly new one, right?” He said it almost absently as he moved up beside Jodie, his gaze moving from her to the mounds of cloth and bones.
“Does it matter?”
“I guess we’ll find out.” He met her eyes for a moment, then crouched down next to the skeletons, dismissing her with an abruptness that bordered on rude.
“Don’t mind Cahill. He’s like that with everyone.” Sam moved in close, his voice filled with humor that spoke of familiarity.
“But more so with people who pull me away from big weekend plans,” Harrison complained as he pulled out a digital camera and began taking pictures.
“Big weekend plans?”
“I’ve got six cases I’m working on for the New Orleans police.”
“Then I’m doubly appreciative of your efforts here. Hopefully we can a get quick resolution.” Sam crouched down next to Harrison, and the two men began discussing the remains. Male. Female. Early thirties.
Jodie watched silently, feeling useless. Completely unnecessary. Obviously not needed. The feeling was a bitter echo of the way she’d felt as a child when her father had pursued one woman after another and she’d been left alone, desperate to belong.
She shoved the feeling and the memories aside, refusing to acknowledge them. She was an accomplished professional, not an insecure kid. To prove it, she squatted down next to Sam, watching as Harrison snapped more pictures.
Harrison shot a look in her direction, his eyes telling her to back off.
She ignored him, focusing her attention on the dusty cloth that lay over the skeletons. A blanket of some kind? As the camera flashed, she saw other things. Bits of fabric printed with what might have been tiny flowers. A silver wedding band. The camera flashed again, and Jodie caught sight of something lying near the wall. Half-covered by dirt, the dull piece of metal could have been just about anything but looked like something very familiar.
She trained her light on it, squinting to get a better look. “Is that a bullet?”
Harrison shifted his attention from the scene he was documenting and looked in the direction the female agent’s light was shining.
Jodie, she’d said her name was.
A young-sounding name for a very young-looking woman. Too young. Too inexperienced. Too much invading his space. He liked to take his time when he worked a scene, documenting it slowly, making sure he had a visual record of everything before anything was moved. He did not like people standing over his shoulder, distracting him from his methodical approach. “Looks like it. Now if we can find the weapon that fractured our victims’ skulls, we’ll have an even clearer idea of what went on here.”
“And if we can’t find the weapon?” The woman’s voice was husky rather than sweet, and it didn’t at all match her delicate looks.
“Then we’ll figure out what happened other ways.”
“What—”
“Look.” He lowered his camera and met Jodie’s eyes. “I know you’re new to the job and gung ho to know everything there is to know about everything, but I don’t have the time or patience to explain my methods to you.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for an explanation of your methods, Mr. Cahill. I was going to ask what I could do to help.” To her credit, she didn’t sound defensive or offended by his blunt comment.
“Call me Harrison. And I appreciate the offer of help, but I prefer to work alone.”
“This case is part of an ongoing investigation, so you’d better get used to having Jodie and me around. Mind if I grab that bullet?” Sam stepped toward the wall where the bullet lay, and Harrison was tempted to tell him that he did mind. He didn’t want anything touched or moved until he was good and ready for it to be. And he wasn’t ready.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the one calling the shots. The FBI was paying for him to be here. They’d want to have a say in how things were handled.
“Let me just snap a few more photos. Have you got a weapon you want to try and match it to?”
“No weapon, but we’ve got three other murder victims. Two were hit over the head and then shot.”
“Recently?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it isn’t likely the cases are connected. These two have been here for a long time.” Harrison took the photos and then stepped back, bumping into something warm, soft and most definitely female. He didn’t have to turn around to picture Jodie—white-blond hair, heart-shaped face and wide, sad eyes.
“Sorry about that.” He stepped quietly to the side, inhaling spring rain and summer flowers, his heart jumping in acknowledgment.
If Jodie heard his apology, she didn’t acknowledge it or him. “What caliber is it, Sam?”
“Looks like a nine-millimeter.”
“Does it match the caliber used to kill Dylan Renault and Earl Farley?”
“Yes, but a matching caliber doesn’t mean a matching weapon.” Sam placed the bullet in an evidence bag and moved toward the tunnel that led out of the room. “I’m going to take this out. See if I can get expedited ballistics testing on it. If the weapons are the same, we may be looking at the work of a serial killer.”
“Seems like a long time between victims.” Harrison leaned forward, gently lifting the blanket that covered the remains and folding it into an evidence bag.
“Yeah, it does. But maybe there are other victims we don’t know about.” Sam’s words were grim, and he walked into the tunnel, his footsteps fading away.
Jodie remained in the room, and Harrison braced himself for the questions he was sure she’d ask. Instead of speaking, she watched silently. Harrison could feel her tension mounting as he began the process of cataloging and bagging one bone after