Too Close To Home - By Maureen Tan Page 0,80

a year ago? Are all these murders somehow connected?”

Well, all the victims are dead, I thought sarcastically. But I kept my face bland and my voice neutral when I answered.

“The child’s body was discovered near a residential area, there was a history of domestic abuse, and the boy’s father confessed to his murder. So no, I don’t think they’re related.”

Then Agent Franklin announced that the interviews were done and that the next official news conference would be tomorrow morning at nine.

I turned my back on the camera and walked back across the length of Camp Cadiz, knowing that I’d only answered half the reporter’s question. I, too, wondered how—and if—the murder I’d uncovered days earlier was tied into the bodies in the ravine.

Mowed areas of grass marked each of the campsites at Camp Cadiz. Beyond the outhouse, on the far side of the campground, were two adjacent campsites. That was where the human remains brought up from the ravine were laid out on plastic tarps. A stand of trees and the stone foundation of an old Civilian Conservation Corps building shielded the makeshift morgue area from the curious eyes of the press and a gathering crowd of spectators. Not surprisingly, word of the murders—like every other piece of bad news that surfaced in Hardin County—had spread quickly.

Though it was hours from sunset and the afternoon sun beat down on the unshaded field, battery-powered light stands already ringed the grassy morgue area. Similar lights were also among the equipment that had been lowered down into the ravine along with a small army of crime-scene techs and forensic investigators. With the resources of the FBI driving it, this investigation wasn’t going to be interrupted by sunset. Or limited by lack of equipment or personnel.

The weather, I thought, was the only element they couldn’t control. I’d mentioned that to the first investigators arriving on the scene. Mentioned how quickly the shallow stream could be turned into a raging torrent. The kind of torrent that had already scattered body parts down the length of the ravine. Since then, a portable weather radio had arrived on the scene. Now periodic National Weather Service announcements echoed across the campground, reinforcing my warning, spurring the investigation into high gear. Severe thunderstorms were predicted for tomorrow afternoon. Flooding was likely in low-lying areas. And nothing, I thought, was lower-lying than the bottom of the ravine.

The perimeter of the morgue area was marked with crime-scene tape. A single opening, on the side nearest the River-to-River Trail, was monitored by a woman dressed in a short-sleeved blouse and khaki slacks with a badge and ID hanging from a cord around her neck. She was also in charge of a nearby bulletin board on which a blown-up section of Chad’s topographical map had been mounted. Bright colored pushpins, each with a number, dotted the map, indicating where remains had been found. The pushpins were keyed to numbered plastic triangles placed on a corner of each of the tarps.

I looked over the double row of tarps then back at the map, my eyes lingering on a lemon-yellow pushpin. Number one. There was no corresponding tarp for that pin because the remains that Possum and I had found were already at the state’s forensics lab. Thinking back to that night, I now wondered about Possum’s reaction. When he’d whined and tucked his tail down, he probably hadn’t been reacting just to the remains on the ledge, but to the odor of decaying bodies wafting up from the depths of the ravine. Overlaying the scent of a little girl who was very much alive. And still Possum had managed to stay on task and find Tina.

I moved slowly around the perimeter of the morgue area, pausing often to watch what was going on while trying to stay out of the way of the people who scurried back and forth despite the heat. Only one edge of the campsite was shaded by trees, so the technicians worked in the beating afternoon sun. And most of them were dressed for air-conditioned labs.

As I stood nearby, several grubby searchers arrived with more remains. After consulting briefly with them, the woman in the khaki slacks pointed to the next empty sheet. She added pin number fourteen to the board. A police photographer documented the fourteenth body just as he had every new addition to the sheets.

Other workers—some wearing lab coats, some in civilian clothing, and all wearing latex gloves—bent over particular piles. A few concentrated on the bits