See Her Die (Bree Taggert #2)(15)

They stopped ten feet short of the body. Dr. Jones scanned the area. “Has anyone touched the body?”

“Yes.” Bree described finding the body and pulling it from the water. “I thought resuscitation might be possible. Then we rolled him over.” She didn’t need to say any more.

Dr. Jones signaled her assistant, who moved forward with a camera. The assistant snapped long-range pics first, then spiraled toward the body to take progressively more close-up photographs. When she’d finished, Dr. Jones walked closer and squatted in the mud. “Some fingernails are broken.”

“Possible defensive injuries,” Bree said.

Dr. Jones tilted her head and wiped some mud off the wrist, exposing a red line. “Considering these are ligature marks, I’d say self-defense is a good bet.” She moved to his feet. “There are ligature marks around his ankles as well.”

The ME covered the hands with paper bags to preserve evidence lodged under the fingernails.

Bree stood back and let the medical examiner work. A shiver ran through her bones. She’d been out in the weather since before sunrise with nothing more than a few sips of coffee in her belly. Not that she was hungry, just running out of energy.

Dr. Jones recorded air and water temperatures. Then the ME and her assistant removed the ice from around the legs and feet, piece by piece.

“We’ll need samples of the water and the mud under and around the body,” Dr. Jones said.

Her assistant took the samples and carried them back toward the ME’s van.

“I’m ready to move the body. Can I get a hand, Sheriff?” Dr. Jones asked.

“Sure.” Bree positioned herself on the opposite side of the body. She donned fresh gloves. Then she and Dr. Jones each took an arm and hauled the body onto a black body bag unfolded on the bank. Dr. Jones moved her kit, a plastic box that could have been used for tackle, closer to the body. She used a scalpel to take the body’s temperature via the liver. She read the thermometer, then did some calculations on her clipboard.

“How long has he been dead?” Bree asked.

Dr. Jones frowned at her calculations. “The cold water will make estimating the time of death challenging.”

It was eleven thirty. The call about the shooting had come in at five thirty.

“Can you tell me if he’s been dead more or less than six hours?” Bree asked.

Dr. Jones glanced down at the calculations on her clipboard. “Definitely more than six hours.”

Bree stared down at the faceless corpse.

So, he’s not the shooter. Who is he?

“Scarlet Falls PD is looking for a missing university student,” Bree said. “Detective Dane is lead.”

“Yes,” Dr. Jones said. “The SPFD called earlier asking about John Does.”

Bree saw her chief deputy walking toward her.

“We’ve searched the boat ramp and parking area,” Todd said. “Didn’t find much other than the prints. The tire tracks went directly to the main road, as we expected.”

Bree nodded. “I’d like to know where he went into the water.”

“Must be close to here,” Todd said.

“I agree.”

“So, what now?”

Bree pointed to the frozen trash and debris trapped in the ice. “We need to bag all of that litter. When the ME is finished, we need to search the lake bed around where the body was found. The water is shallow. No need to drag out the dive team. A deputy in tall boots should be sufficient. Mark off ten feet in each direction.”

Bree stood and crossed her arms to stop her shivering. She hadn’t been this cold in a long time. She surveyed her scene. The ME was in charge of the body. Forensics was covering casting the tire tracks and boot prints. Deputies were searching the woods. She’d given instructions for processing the remaining scene. There was nothing more she could do here.

“Todd, you and I will head back to the cabin.” Bree spotted a news van on the road. She was surprised there was only one. A deputy was directing the news team away from the scene. Bree walked over. As much as she hated being in front of a camera, she would rather give a voluntary statement and cooperate than create animosity with the press. They were doing their jobs, just like she was.

The reporter, a tall blond man with a killer smile and a microphone, spotted her. “Sheriff? Can I have a minute?”

“Yes,” Bree said.

“I’m Nick West.” He held out a hand. Nick was young, probably in his late twenties.

Bree shook it. A cameraman swung his lens toward them.

The reporter spoke into his microphone. “This is Nick West of WSNY News talking to Randolph County Sheriff Bree Taggert. Sheriff, is it true you found a body in Grey Lake this morning?” He extended the mic toward her.

“Yes.”

“Have you identified the deceased?” he asked. “Is this the missing university student?”

“We don’t know.”

A second cameraman lifted his camera and pointed it at the lake.

Bree stepped in front of the lens. “I’m going to ask you not to take any video until the body is placed in the bag. That is someone’s loved one. I won’t have the family learn of his death on TV. As soon as the remains are covered, you can roll film.”

The cameraman frowned. “You can’t—”