Chapter 8

The sudden dip of the pickup threw me off balance and ripped me from my thoughts, but thankfully the seat-belt caught and kept me from hurtling forward. After straightening in the seat and readjusting the belt, I looked around in bewilderment. I’d been so zoned out I hadn’t even been aware we’d left the city limits, let alone when we’d begun traveling down the dirt road.

Brice flicked on the pickup’s blinker then slowed, signaling he was turning into the pasture next to us, and after cranking the wheel, he maneuvered the pickup into its turn. As he steered it forward on the washed out and pot-holed drive, the springs of the pickup worked overtime.

A few moments later we reached a cattle guard and driving over it, we entered into a huge pasture. Though most of the pasture was grazing land, a thick forest of trees set to one side. I knew immediately this was not the visionary's crime.

Before the stand of trees was a gathering of law enforcement vehicles and as I looked the area over, I took in the remains of the yellow crime scene tape that had been stretched before the section of the trees, but now lay blowing in the wind, tattered and broken—a remnant of its former strength as a large herd of cattle milled about, stepping on and squishing the tape into the dirt beneath their hooves.

After the pickup had come to a stand still, I pushed open my door and climbed out, waiting for Brice to round the front of it.

Within minutes, we were approaching a small group of officers, and as two of them stepped forward, barring our passage, Brice gave a quick nod at them. One, who must have been the ranking officer of the two, held out his hand. “I’m Officer Bentley, and this is Officer Turner.”

As he shook Bentley’s hand, Brice acknowledged their names with a nod. “I’m Agent Rowland, and this is Agent Cody. Where will I find the officer in charge?”

Once we'd learned the person we needed would be an officer named Reynolds, we murmured our thanks and headed in the direction they had indicated. As we approached the other group of men talking among themselves, Brice inquired, “Reynolds?”

A sandy-haired man of about thirty stepped forward. “That would be me.”

In acknowledgement, Brice stuck out his hand, repeating his earlier words. “I’m Agent Rowland, and this is Agent Cody.”

Once they were done shaking hands, Reynolds motioned us toward where there was a small break in the tree line, however, there was no need to lead us to where the body lay, for the odor hit us before we’d even reached it. Though the smell intermingled with the cattle dung and decaying underbrush, there was no mistaking what it was. Some odors were as distinctive to their origins as the tangy scent of an Orange was to the fruit.

Death was no different: it was an aroma undeniable and unmistakable for anything else.

My stomach heaved in reaction, for it meant only one thing—we were dealing with a body, which had already begun to decompose. Swallowing thickly, I fought down the bile that burned at the back of my throat, unable even to draw a deep breath to help my situation. I covered my mouth and nose with the neck of my shirt before falling into step behind Brice and Reynolds.

Reynolds talked as we walked. He informed us the landowner, a man named Embry, had stumbled across the body in search of what he’d thought were the remains of a cow or a calf.

All too soon, we were standing before the victim where she lay in a natural opening. The sunlight peeking through the trees highlighted the ground, changing the dark, depressive murkiness into a rich cavern of green, and as I placed my bag on the ground, I almost gagged again as I peered at the flies buzzing around the bloated corpse. Huge, ragged chunks were missing from her body, where an animal or animals had used her as a meal.

Damn, I’d dealt with a lot of bad shit in my line of work, but never had I come across something this disturbing. Continuing to fight off the urge to vomit, I busied myself by digging out a facial mask to help with the odor. The mask would also help me keep out any airborne bacteria I could inhale into my sinuses and lungs.

After fitting the mask onto my face and gathering my camera, I stepped over to the victim, beginning to snap photos. I was careful not to disturb the body or the twigs and leaves that had accumulated on and around it.

Though rounded with bloat I could tell in her normal state the woman would have been of slight build. Her hair at one point would have been a wavy, shoulder-length, blonde. However, it was now, a deep, dark brown, matted through with dried blood, dirt, and debris as she lay on her back, almost nude. Her dark green shirt had been ripped and shredded, yet remained on her upper body. Her attacker had cast her tan shorts and panties aside, discarded in the undergrowth. The slashes on her torso revealed she’d been assaulted with a sharp object. Her wrists and ankles—bore ligature Tristans, showing evidence she’d been bound, and a multitude of burns adorned her flesh from God only knew what kind of instrument. Gasping, I took a step back in horror at seeing the labia, minor and major, were both cut away, and my thoughts scattered at the sight.

All I could think of was what this poor woman must have gone through and found myself sickened at the thought, and shaken to my core at the violent assault, I peered at her broken and bloody body through the lens of my camera. Shame washed through me that I had to document what one human could do to another. No, not human, her attacker was anything but human. In fact, the killer was the description of the word evil.

Continuing to gaze at her, I wanted nothing more than to cover her. To give her even the tiniest amount of respect she deserved. She’d been tossed aside like garbage, to lie exposed to the surrounding elements, an act that was the ultimate betrayal of her humanity. I had a job to do nonetheless, so I continued documenting the victim and crime scene area in still life.