CHAPTER NINETEEN

The night had draped the luxurious gated community in a cloak of shadows. Upstairs, the crime scene was a hive of activity, with officers weaving through rooms, their movements precise and deliberate. Rachel stood firm, Ethan just behind her, facing the jittery gate guard who'd played gatekeeper earlier. His name tag read 'Jensen,' and it quivered with each shaky breath he took.

He smoothed at his upper lip as if he were used to having a moustache, but the lip was bare. Perhaps recently shaved?

Rachel took in small details dispassionately, watching Jensen and trying to decide if he was simply negligent or in over his head.

"Mr. Jensen," Rachel began, her tone even, "did it not strike anyone as odd that Lucy and Miguel hadn't been seen for weeks?"

Jensen's eyes darted to the staircase, then back to Rachel. Sweat glistened on his forehead despite the coolness of the air-conditioned room.

He hesitated, swallowing as if steeling himself. He was forced to step aside as a forensic tech hastened by, a small baggie clutched in hand.

Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a spectral glow over the blood-stained carpet. Upstairs, in the palatial home within the gated community, Rachel Blackwood's boots left faint impressions on the dusty floor as she shifted her weight, allowing the tech through the door and down the stairs.

Her gaze flicked back to Jensen.

Ethan Morgan, her partner, stood by her side, his presence an unspoken support against the tide of uniforms and flash photography.

Jensen swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I—it's a quiet neighborhood, Ranger Blackwood. People keep to themselves."

Rachel caught his glance veering toward the open closet where investigators snapped photos of a Native American shrine nestled among old beads draped above the bodies. The coroner was crouched by two bodies, his movements meticulous as he examined the deceased.

A different coroner, since they were three hours north of the prior crime scenes. This coroner was a small, twitchy man, who didn't seem to enjoy making eye contact.

"Quiet enough to miss a double homicide?" she prodded, her tone sharp but controlled.

"Look, I just—"

"Did you see anything odd around here, Jensen?" Rachel cut him off, her piercing eyes locking onto his.

He shifted weight from one foot to another, his nervousness palpable. "You shouldn't have been here to find them," he countered weakly, a hint of accusation threading through his words. "We don't trespasses into owner's private residences."

"Anything odd?" Rachel repeated firmly, sidestepping his implication and staying on the trail of questioning like a bloodhound with a scent. "Did you see anything?"

Jensen's gaze flitted to Ethan, then back to Rachel, defeat tracing the lines of his face as he confessed, "No, nothing."

"What about reports," Ethan cut in. He had a gentler touch than Rachel, and seemed to note the man's reddening tinge as a sign of embarrassment rather than indignation.

Ethan said, carefully, "Any of us could've missed it. I get it. Big house, wealthy patrons, right?"

The guard looked at Ethan as if he'd been tossed a lifeline. "That's right!" he exclaimed. "I just do my job, you know."

"Of course, of course," Ethan said, nodding fervently.

Rachel knew that for her partner, this wasn't just a manipulative tactic. He was genuinely an empathetic sort.

Jensen seemed less red in the face for a moment, and Rachel cut in, taking advantage of the handhold Ethan had created.

"Reports, Jensen. Did anyone call in anything unusual?" Rachel's voice sliced through the hum of activity, her gaze fixed on him like a hawk.

Jensen's hands fumbled with his security cap, his eyes darting away before locking back onto hers. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow under the harsh crime scene lights. Ethan gave him an encouraging nod. "There was... uh, an anonymous call," he stammered. "A few weeks back. Noise complaint. Shouting from the house."

"And?" Rachel pressed, her tone demanding an answer.

"Checked it out. Nothing." Jensen's words tumbled out in a rush. "Quiet as a grave when I got here." He winced at his own choice of words.

"I see," Rachel remarked dryly. "Get me that call log. Now."

"Please," Ethan added.

With a curt nod, Jensen turned and scurried out into the hall to make a call, his phone appearing in his hand, his shoulders hunched against the weight of her scrutiny.

Rachel pivoted on her heel, striding over to the coroner who was bent over the bodies, his hands deft despite the persistent tremor. As she approached, the unfamiliar, small man straightened up and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of red where it mingled with the blood already seeping through his glove.

"Ranger Blackwood," he said, extending his hand before catching sight of the stain. He yanked his hand back, a flush creeping up his neck. "Sorry—Dr. Simmons."

"Thanks for coming so quickly, Doctor," Rachel said, eyeing the glove. "What can you tell me?"

"Both victims, three weeks deceased," Dr. Simmons began, his voice tinged with a nervous energy. "Multiple stab wounds, but—"

"Three weeks," Rachel echoed, the timeline settling into her mind like pieces of a puzzle. "And the cause?"

"Stabbings were post-mortem for the female victim. She was dead before the knife," Dr. Simmons explained, pointing to a set of gruesome photos laid out on a nearby table. "Her neck wound was the fatal blow."

Rachel crouched beside the body, eyes tracing the path of dried blood that painted a grotesque tapestry across the floorboards. Dr. Simmons cleared his throat, drawing her attention to a corner of the room where shadows clung to the walls like cobwebs.

"Take a look at this," he said, gesturing toward a native totem standing sentinel in the closet. The dim light glinted off turquoise beads, speckled with crimson droplets.

"Blood spatter... on the beads?" Rachel's voice was steady, but her pulse quickened.

"Affirmative," Dr. Simmons confirmed. "Whoever did this didn't care to avoid sacred items."

"Or they wanted to send a message." Rachel stood, her gaze fixed on the totem. Its presence here wasn't just ornamental; it bore witness to the violence, a silent sentinel amidst chaos.

"Anything else I should know about her injuries?" she asked, turning back to the coroner.

"Indeed." He pointed to a particularly deep gash on the woman's neck, now a gaping chasm in the pallid flesh. "Like I said, she was dead before these were inflicted." His finger hovered over the stab wounds riddling her chest. "This cut to her neck was the fatal one. She was gone before the knife went to work elsewhere."

"Execution first, then a frenzy..." Rachel mused aloud, her brain sifting through scenarios.

"Doesn't add up to a random break-in." Dr. Simmons met her eyes, his own reflecting the grim absurdity of it all.

"Murder-suicide?" Rachel probed further, searching for a motive in the madness. "Seems difficult with a knife attack."

"Yeah. Not possible. Someone else did this."

"Right-handed?"

"Left, actually," Dr. Simmons pointed to the wound's angle on the woman's neck. "The cut was made from right to left. That's far more natural, and typical, for a left-handed person."

Rachel's gaze drifted to the man's body, riddled with stab wounds, a horrific display of violence. "And him?" she asked.

"Same pattern," he confirmed. "Stabbing frenzy after initial fatal wound. But unlike the woman, his death wasn't instantaneous. He suffered before he died."

Rachel's eyes lingered on the native shrine above the bodies. Some items she recognized, but others were foreign to her. Her gaze fell on an intricate totem, its turquoise beads catching the harsh light of the crime scene. "What's with the totems?" she asked, her voice steady despite the churn of thoughts in her head.

Dr. Simmons adjusted his glasses, peering closer at the carved figures entwined within the piece. "Fertility symbols," he explained, pointing to the rounded bellies and interlocking arms of the figures. "They're common in various Native American cultures. Meant to invoke life, growth... a stark contrast to all this." His hand swept over the room, encompassing the grim finality of death.

"Any particular tribe?" Rachel probed, her heritage clawing for recognition in the unfamiliar patterns.

"Hard to say without more context," Dr. Simmons admitted, "but the craftsmanship suggests a southwestern origin. Hopi, perhaps, or Zuni."

She raised her eyebrows, impressed. "Are you Native?"

"No." The small, twitchy man smiled. "My wife is."

"I see."

"Anything else you posit by looking at this? Why would two non-Natives have these talismans and totems in their closet?"

A shrug. "An obsession? Fascination?"

Now that he'd said it, she realized even the other items were all somehow connected to fertility. She scanned the items, cataloguing them one by one in her mind, remembering moments where she'd spotted them as a child, or where her Aunt had pointed them out.

There was a rattle made from turtle shell, the hollow chime it gave off said to signify the woman's womb in some tribes. A sand painting in a tray, depicting a spiral—a symbol for eternity. A woven basket, shaped like a cornucopia, filled with dried corn and pumpkin seeds—both signs of a bountiful harvest.

Rachel's gaze lingered on an intricate silver pendant, its design mimicking shapes found in nature interlaced with human forms, giving life flowing from one form to another. There was something unnerving about this juxtaposition of life and death. The fact that these items had been positioned so close to the violent tableau was no accident. It smacked of ritualistic intent.

"This looks like the work of someone very familiar with Native symbols," she said slowly, her gaze pinned on the gruesome scene.

"Or someone who researched well," Dr. Simmons corrected gently. "The internet can tell you just about anything these days."

She picked up a dreamcatcher adorned with turquoise and feathers off the shelf, considering its weight in her palm. She wondered what dreams it had been meant to catch and protect. More importantly, why it failed so gruesomely.

Behind the catcher, her eyes fell on a pair of Kokopelli figures, their hunchbacks carrying seeds for planting, a symbol of abundance. A hand-woven Hopi basket, the pattern reflecting the life cycle of the butterfly, symbolizing transformation and rebirth. A clay figure of a woman with wide hips and heavy breasts—a representation of the Great Mother. A necklace made of corn husks, symbolizing sustenance and survival. A painted pot with snakes—symbols of fertility and rebirth in many Native American cultures.

Now that she'd realized the key, her mind made the connection, darting from one item to the next.

She swept her eyes across the collection again, her mind working furiously. It wasn't just a random assortment of artifacts; they all represented life, growth, fertility—themes that stood in stark contrast to the violence that had unfolded in this room. It was as though someone wanted to offset the death they had planned with symbols of life.

Unless… what if the killer hadn't brought the symbols? There were too many. He couldn't have lugged them all in here, could he have? Blood on the beads.

It meant they were here, likely, before the attack. So what if Miguel and Lucy were interested in native culture?

It explained the scars on the first two victims' legs. Old scars, the coroner had said. Raised bumps in the skin in tribal tradition.

What, exactly, was going on, and why was Scott Hawkeye the only Native involved?

She was missing something, and part of her wondered if she'd taken a wrong turn. She paused, inhaling slowly and holding the breath. She closed her eyes, allowing her senses to momentarily take over. She needed to focus on the details that weren't just in front of her.

Sometimes, the best hunter had to ignore the initial tracks in favor of the fainter ones, those missed by others in their haste. The smell of sage and cedar smoke lingered in the air, musky yet soothing, an incense coming from the closet… Fresh?

She frowned, approaching the small decanter sitting amidst the other items. But no, it was empty.

Still, the scent lingered on the air, along with other, fetid odors. The whimsical fragrance was undercut with a metallic note of blood. She opened her eyes again, focusing on the collection once more.

A tribal mish-mash. Not someone harkening to a specific tribe: not the Sioux or Cheyenne or Navajo. A mix. Like a pawn shop of different tribal items. Someone who had an obsession with the culture, but no direct connection to any actual tribe. It was an assault on the senses, a bizarre and unsettling display.

A poser?

A fanatic?

Someone who'd lost their way?

She knew of some natives who were adopted young, and then when older wanted to find their tribe of origin. She couldn't rule out anything, but in a way, that was the problem. The killer was still too far ahead.

One thing was certain: the killer knew of the friendship between the victims fifteen years ago. Was he from their past as well?

"Dr. Simmons," she said, turning to him. "I need every piece here documented and photographed separately before moving anything."

"Sure thing," he agreed readily, pulling out his camera.

Miguel Ortiz. Lucy Thompson. Heather Sinclair. Jenna Amos.

None of them native, yet with turquoise bracelets, memorabilia in their closets and raised bumps from inflicted scarring.

And then there was Scott Hawkeye. The only real native who'd been killed.

A hate crime?

Was someone hunting those they deemed as appropriators?

Then why Scott?

He'd been burned… A part of her had a fleeting, silly notion that what if his body was burned beyond recognition so he couldn't be identified. What if Scott wasn't the one in that car?

No. She shook her head. Silly. DNA and dental had already proven his identity.

"Ranger Blackwood." Jensen's voice cut through her contemplation, his face flushed as he approached. "I've got that address you wanted. The neighbor who called about the shouting."

She gave a quick nod of gratitude to the coroner, who was already busy cataloguing more of the victims.

She quickly said, "Please message me with confirmation of identities and any additional information. If you can find the knife, or discover the blade type, please let me know."

"Of course," the twitchy, bespectacled coroner said.

Two pleases in one sentence, she realized. Ethan was rubbing off on her.

She nodded at Jensen and approached where he lingered half in the room, half out, clearly hoping to make good his getaway.

She took the slip of paper from his trembling hand, her eyes scanning the details. This was tangible, a solid lead after wading through uncertainty. "Stay near a phone. We might need more from you." This time she left ‘please' out of it.

"Can you tell me anything about this woman?" She read the name on the paper, "Bethany Meyers."

He winced, shaking his head. "Ms. Meyers is a character," he muttered. "A lot of calls." He scowled briefly. "The typical nosy neighbor."

"I see. Can you tell me a bit more about Ms. Meyers?"

"She lives across the street. I guarantee she's watching all of this. Just go talk to her."

Rachel felt her temper flare at his obstinacy, but Ethan—as if sensing her sudden irritation—stepped forward, forcing a smile. "It would help us to have some information up front."

Jensen sighed. Shrugged. "She lives alone—a typical cat lady. Though, I think she has a pet lizard instead of a cat. She's eccentric, keeps to herself most of the time. Calls us every few days about some perceived crime. Usually, it's nothing more than a stray dog sniffing around her trash bins or kids playing on the street after dark. She's suspicious of everyone and everything."

Ethan nodded, glancing at Rachel. "Sounds like someone angry shouting and anything else that might've happened that night."

"Exactly," Rachel agreed, mustering her patience before turning back to Jensen. "Thanks for your time. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

"Couldn't be happier," Jensen said, relief evident in his nod towards the door.

With the address for Bethany Meyers secure in her pocket, Rachel turned back towards Ethan, gesturing towards the stairs.

The two of them hastened away from the crime scene, elbow to elbow, dodging another forensic tech as this time she made her way up the landing.

The two of them hastened down the steps, maneuvering through a flurry of crime scene activity, their boots echoing on the atrium vinyl. The night had taken on an eerie quality, with the mansion looming over them in the dim light.

Already, news vans were parked on the curb, their lights casting long shadows. Rachel could see reporters huddled around a police barrier, their microphones extended in pursuit of a statement.

"No comment," was Ethan's curt response as they pushed through the gathering crowd. Under his breath, he muttered, "Sure as hell didn't do as good a job keeping the press out as they did keeping us out."

The mansion across the street loomed in the darkness, an imposing silhouette broken only by the faint glow of a single upstairs light. Bethany Meyers, the elusive lizard lady. Rachel studied the building, her sharp eyes turning up to catch sight of a curtain, twitching shut.

She turned to Ethan, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Let's pay our neighbor a visit."

They crossed the road under the harsh glare of streetlights, their boots echoing against the empty night. A chill ran up Rachel's spine, her senses prickling with anticipation. Ethan seemed to sense it too; his gaze flickered nervously to the mansion.

They needed the neighbor to have seen something.

Needed information. The killer had dragged them halfway across the state.

The timeline was different, though. "The last bodies we found were his first victims," she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"The order is off."

"What do you mean?"

"We found Heather first. Then we found Jenna, but Jenna was killed first. Then Scott was killed."

"And now we find Miguel and Lucy."

"Exactly."

Ethan frowned, glancing over at her, his hazel eyes looking dark in the moonlight. "Is that important?"

"I don't know yet. But I feel like we're out of rhythm. I just need to find out what we're missing."

They both ducked their heads as more cameras jutted over the dividers blocking the cul-de-sac road, and Rachel tipped her hat, hiding her face, as she kept her gaze fixated on Bethany Meyers' enormous home.