animals to gnaw on. Their souls, he assured her, would burn in hell. As befitted a whore and her bastard child.
That’s when Chad, who was almost thirteen, lunged past his mother and grabbed his father’s wrist. But the boy wasn’t as strong as his rage-maddened father, and the man shook him loose. He used the back of his hand to knock the boy aside, then raised the knife—
Maybe it was God’s will that the boy lived, Chad’s father told the court. Just as it had been God’s will that Abraham not slay his son, Isaac. More likely, the prosecutor rebutted, it was the determination of the boy’s mother that had saved his life. There were deep scratches on her husband’s arm where shehad grabbed it in an attempt to deflect the deadly blade away from her son.
In the midst of his parents’ struggle for possession of the knife, the truck hit water where Big Creek had overflowed onto the road. Chad’s father grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, fighting to regain control of the skidding vehicle. That was when Chad’s mother opened the passenger-side door and pushed her son out of the truck.
He landed in the water, somehow scrambling to his feet in time to watch as his father brought the truck under control. Then the driver-side door opened. Chad watched as his father jumped from the truck and waded through the knee-deep water toward him. For a moment, Chad was sure it would be all right, was sure that his father had regained his senses and come to rescue him. But as his father reached his side, a flash of lightning revealed that the knife was still clenched in his hand. He struck at his son again, a heartbeat before the boy flung himself into the deeper, fast-running water of the creek. That time, the blade sliced flesh.
A red Toyota sped by, the radar gun registering sixty. The posted limit was forty-five, so I hit the siren and the accelerator, and pulled the car over.
The driver was a pretty gal from up north who accepted the ticket philosophically. The gray-muzzled black Lab riding on a big cushion in the backseat of the car seemed predisposed to liking cops. After I’d issued the ticket, the driver and I spent a few minutes chatting about dogs in general, Labs and German shepherds in particular. But there was no doubt in my mind that she wished I was male, preferably young and cute. Chad, I suspected, would have let her off with a warning.
I smiled as I thought of a quip I wouldn’t repeat to Chad.
You know you’re a male cop if…you consider traffic stops a social event.
I crossed the street and spent a little time monitoring the speed of northbound motorists who today didn’t seem to be in the same hurry as those heading south. My thoughts turned toward the remains near Camp Cadiz. Within a day or two, we’d have definite information about sex and age and a more accurate determination of height. There were no dental records—Chad’s mother had never gone to a dentist. But if everything else fit, a test might just match Chad’s DNA—already on file—with the unknown victim’s.
For Chad’s sake, I hoped the victim was his mother, that he could finally lay her to rest. But, realistically, the remains probably belonged to someone else. Most likely a stranger. For many decades, bodies had been disposed of with some regularity in the forest. The sparse population, difficult terrain and dense woods made it likely they wouldn’t be found. Except by accident.
If the DNA didn’t match—if our victim wasn’t Chad’s mom—maybe we could send the skull off for facial reconstruction and eventually have some idea about the victim’s appearance. But chances were we would never discover the identity of the victim. And a murderer would continue to walk free.
Just like Katie.
Chapter 7
A call from dispatch saved a tanned, lean-faced young man from Ridgway from a ticket. I’d just pulled the white-on-cream three-quarter ton Ford pickup over and was discussing the need for a safety sticker
That’s when Chad, who was almost thirteen, lunged past his mother and grabbed his father’s wrist. But the boy wasn’t as strong as his rage-maddened father, and the man shook him loose. He used the back of his hand to knock the boy aside, then raised the knife—
Maybe it was God’s will that the boy lived, Chad’s father told the court. Just as it had been God’s will that Abraham not slay his son, Isaac. More likely, the prosecutor rebutted, it was the determination of the boy’s mother that had saved his life. There were deep scratches on her husband’s arm where shehad grabbed it in an attempt to deflect the deadly blade away from her son.
In the midst of his parents’ struggle for possession of the knife, the truck hit water where Big Creek had overflowed onto the road. Chad’s father grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, fighting to regain control of the skidding vehicle. That was when Chad’s mother opened the passenger-side door and pushed her son out of the truck.
He landed in the water, somehow scrambling to his feet in time to watch as his father brought the truck under control. Then the driver-side door opened. Chad watched as his father jumped from the truck and waded through the knee-deep water toward him. For a moment, Chad was sure it would be all right, was sure that his father had regained his senses and come to rescue him. But as his father reached his side, a flash of lightning revealed that the knife was still clenched in his hand. He struck at his son again, a heartbeat before the boy flung himself into the deeper, fast-running water of the creek. That time, the blade sliced flesh.
A red Toyota sped by, the radar gun registering sixty. The posted limit was forty-five, so I hit the siren and the accelerator, and pulled the car over.
The driver was a pretty gal from up north who accepted the ticket philosophically. The gray-muzzled black Lab riding on a big cushion in the backseat of the car seemed predisposed to liking cops. After I’d issued the ticket, the driver and I spent a few minutes chatting about dogs in general, Labs and German shepherds in particular. But there was no doubt in my mind that she wished I was male, preferably young and cute. Chad, I suspected, would have let her off with a warning.
I smiled as I thought of a quip I wouldn’t repeat to Chad.
You know you’re a male cop if…you consider traffic stops a social event.
I crossed the street and spent a little time monitoring the speed of northbound motorists who today didn’t seem to be in the same hurry as those heading south. My thoughts turned toward the remains near Camp Cadiz. Within a day or two, we’d have definite information about sex and age and a more accurate determination of height. There were no dental records—Chad’s mother had never gone to a dentist. But if everything else fit, a test might just match Chad’s DNA—already on file—with the unknown victim’s.
For Chad’s sake, I hoped the victim was his mother, that he could finally lay her to rest. But, realistically, the remains probably belonged to someone else. Most likely a stranger. For many decades, bodies had been disposed of with some regularity in the forest. The sparse population, difficult terrain and dense woods made it likely they wouldn’t be found. Except by accident.
If the DNA didn’t match—if our victim wasn’t Chad’s mom—maybe we could send the skull off for facial reconstruction and eventually have some idea about the victim’s appearance. But chances were we would never discover the identity of the victim. And a murderer would continue to walk free.
Just like Katie.
Chapter 7
A call from dispatch saved a tanned, lean-faced young man from Ridgway from a ticket. I’d just pulled the white-on-cream three-quarter ton Ford pickup over and was discussing the need for a safety sticker
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