slipped them on in a hurry. All that, combined with his flannel jammies pants, leads me to believe this happened at night.” He tapped the log beside the bullet hole. “That means the shooter likely didn’t see this. If we leave it unattended, he or she could come back, and it could very well disappear while we’re gone, and we’d lose a valuable piece of evidence.” He glanced at the tree line, then back at the bullet hole. “Go in the lodge and see if you can find something to use as a pointer stick. A dowel, an arrow, something like that.”
Lola returned at the same time Ned got back with an ungainly black body bag rolled under one arm.
“Sorry, boss.” Lola held up a wooden spoon. “No arrows or dowels. But this has a long handle.”
“That’ll do,” Cutter said. He took the spoon and carefully placed the end into the bullet hole. As he suspected, the straight handle pointed toward a dark spot in the tree line. “We’ll need to check out that area over there,” he said. “After we’re done here.”
Ned nodded. “Might be less snow under the trees. Maybe we’ll find some tracks—”
A strained shout from Judge Markham interrupted him. Cutter and Lola were moving the moment they heard it.
CHAPTER 21
Cutter and the others rounded the corner of the lodge in three strides, nearly running headlong into Birdie, who was on her way to get them.
Markham shouted again.
“I wish people wouldn’t be so loud,” Birdie said under her breath. “Stupid to yell out here. Wrecks my concentration.”
The judge and Vitus Paul stood looking down at the snow next to a small storage shed just south of the main lodge. Both men had their hands in their pockets as if they didn’t know what to do with them.
“What is it?” Cutter asked as Birdie turned to follow him.
Markham looked up, flushed with cold and excitement. “Ms. Pingayak found more blood. Is it possible that the victim was wounded here and then died over there?”
Cutter shook his head. “No, sir. Too much head trauma. That one died on the spot.”
“Maybe it’s from one of the Meads, then?” Lola offered.
Cutter bent to get a better look. Several drops of spattered blood formed a rough fan shape, pink under the dusting of snow. There wasn’t enough blood for a substantial gaping wound, more likely a concussive blow to the mouth or nose. Both parts of the body were prone to bleed when hit even slightly.
Cutter gestured with an open hand to a spot a few feet on the opposite side of the blood spatter. “If you all could do me a favor and shine the flashlights from your cell phones across the ground, low so I can pick up some definition.”
Vitus Paul gave a nod of approval, as if that’s what he would have done.
Lola continued watching for threats, while Markham and the others did as directed. The low-angle lights allowed Cutter to pick up a telltale depression in the snow, roughly the shape of a prone body. Closer examination revealed two slightly deeper divots, where someone had fallen to their knees. Cutter lay down on his side, eye level with the ground.
He thought out loud as he worked. “Let’s say the blood came from someone who was hit in the head—”
“You mean shot?” Markham said.
Birdie gave him a side-eye then quickly returned to Cutter. “Not enough blood.”
“More likely struck with something,” Cutter said, his cheek pressed to the snow. “Hard enough to drive them to their knees . . .” He motioned for Birdie to move her light a little, to above the place where he suspected the body would have pitched forward when it fell. It took a full two minutes of gentle probing in the snow before he found what he was looking for—a thin disc of bloodied ice about three inches across. He rolled up on his side long enough to retrieve the old Barlow pocketknife from his pocket, then used the tip of the blade to gently pry up the edge of the ice.
Vitus turned up his nose in disgust. Birdie bent at the waist, leaning forward to get a better look.
“What is that thing?” Judge Markham asked.
“If I had to guess,” Cutter said, “frozen spit.” He laid the opaque disc in Lola’s gloved hand and got to his feet. “And a broken tooth.”
Vitus gave a solemn shake of his head. “Mr. or Mrs. Mead . . .”
“Looks like it,” Cutter said. “And since Rolf Hagen