Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert #4)(10)

Matt watched Bree turn to face the side of the clearing that led back to the barn and house.

Without turning around, she said, “You want to make sure there aren’t more remains.”

“Yes.” Dr. Jones turned in a circle. “There’s plenty of space out here for additional graves.”

Matt and Bree left the medical examiner and her assistant laying out their equipment. They trekked back to the barn.

“Where do you want to start?” Matt asked.

“The barn,” Bree said. “Adam keeps the house locked, and we found no sign that anyone had broken in.”

“When was he here last?”

“I don’t know.” Guilt swept over Bree’s face. “Apparently, he visits the place now and then, fixes things.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t understand. “He hasn’t bothered with the barn, though. It’s just an empty shell.”

They circled the building, then entered through the rear door. Six large stalls lined one side of the space, with a loft above them. Two-thirds of the space was wide open clear to the roof at least twenty feet up.

“Did your family keep livestock?” Matt asked.

“Not really,” Bree said. “My mother collected a few discarded animals. It was the one indulgence my father permitted her. We had an old pony, a used-up dairy cow, and some barn cats, of course.” She gestured to the empty area. “My father used this area to store farm equipment.” She sighed. “Knowing my grandparents, they sold the machinery. The animals probably went to slaughter. I never asked because I didn’t want to know.”

Since Bree’s grandparents had separated the Taggert siblings after their parents’ deaths, Matt doubted they had been the kindest of people.

The sadness on her face was heartbreaking. Matt wanted to take her hand. He wanted to hold her, but she’d never allow it, not when she was on duty and in public. The best he could do was make sure she didn’t have to be here alone.

He surveyed the mostly empty space. “You said it seemed he was camping here.”

“In the loft.” She headed for a ladder and started climbing.

The wood was old and creaky. Matt waited for Bree to exit the ladder before he followed her. While a thick layer of dirt and dust covered the first floor, the loft had been recently swept. The space smelled faintly of mold, and a few watermarks indicated areas where the roof leaked. But overall, the space was dry. Matt had seen worse digs for a homeless person.

The makeshift camp had been set up in the far corner. An old lawn chair sat next to a wooden box. A battery-powered lantern and a flashlight occupied the box. A sleeping bag had been rolled out. Next to it stood a beat-up wheelie suitcase and an old-fashioned footlocker.

Matt pointed to the trunk. “How did he even get that up here?”

Bree took out her camera. “I don’t know, but he took some time and care to clean and set up this space.” She began taking pictures.

Matt pulled gloves out of his pocket and tugged them on. He squatted next to the suitcase and opened it. Both sides were full of neatly folded clothes. Matt riffled through brand-name jeans and shirts. “These are not Goodwill finds.”

Leaning over his shoulder, Bree snapped a photo. “No.”

“Sheriff?” Oscar called from the ladder. “Where do you want us to start?”

“In the loft. Bring plenty of evidence bags and boxes. Everything up here needs to be bagged and tagged,” Bree answered.

Matt found underwear and socks in the zippered compartment. He closed the suitcase and moved on to the footlocker. The lock was broken. Matt lifted the lid. The trunk was full of random, odd personal items: a shoebox of baseball cards, a coin collection, a model airplane, a few cartoon character jelly jar glasses, and rocks. He moved aside a stack of graphic novels to reveal two cartons of cigarettes, a handful of matchbooks, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label—and at least twenty white pills in a plastic bag. He called out to Bree, “Found more drugs.”

Matt lifted the lid of another shoebox. Rocks. “Except for the alcohol and cigarettes, he collects things like a ten-year-old.” He replaced the lid and closed the footlocker.

Bree moved to the sleeping bag, which had been neatly zipped over a pillow. She unzipped it and folded back the top layer. “Shit.” She fell back onto her haunches.

“What is it?” Matt leaned over her shoulder.

Nestled on the pillow was another skull.

“Another victim?” Matt asked.

“Seems like it.” Bree pointed to a small, neat hole in the skull. “And that looks like a bullet hole.”





CHAPTER FIVE

It was late afternoon when Bree walked from the fenced-in parking lot through the back door of the sheriff’s station. Several hours at a crime scene in a mid-July heat wave had left her feeling wilted. The anthropologist had brought several grad students with him, so the site assessment, mapping, and other pre-excavation preparatory work were progressing at a rapid clip.

In the squad room, Deputy Oscar worked at a computer. He’d left the scene before she had, but his cheeks were still ruddy from the heat.

She stopped next to his desk. “Where’s Shawn Castillo?”

“In interview room one.”

“Not in holding?”

Oscar looked up, but he didn’t directly meet Bree’s gaze. “Collins is booking a big, bad-tempered suspect. I didn’t want them to mingle.”