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Numbness spread up Leigh’s fingers and into her palms until she couldn’t feel the water bottle in her hand at all. “You mean do I think this has something to do with my brother?”
“As I said, I’ve done my homework.” The director seemed to age right in front of her. Whether from the cold or from the weight of this investigation, Leigh didn’t know. “I’ve got a victim in Lebanon’s morgue with another right here on this bridge. Both killed with the same MO in a case from twenty years ago. I called in a few favors, managed to get the details of the original report. Two boys, ages ten and thirteen, were found dead with their lips removed from their faces and dozens of lacerations. They bled to death. Just like Ms. Cross here and the victim that came before her. One of the boys was your brother. Troy Brody.”
“I’m familiar with the case.” Leigh’s attention cut back to the victim positioned against the bridge’s braces, but every cell in her body screamed in denial. And hope. The police had arrested a suspect for the brutal murder of the boys right here in Lebanon.
Her father.
Evidence had been ignored, his alibi forgotten. Residents’ fear for their children and the mayor’s desperation to close the case had led to rash mistakes and an innocent man’s arrest. No matter how many times she’d stood up for him, no one had paid attention to a senior in high school. There wasn’t anything she could’ve done for him then. Her father had been sentenced to life behind bars without parole, but she’d always known he wasn’t capable of this kind of violence, let alone against his own son.
Now there was another killer using the same MO, and her instincts filled in the answers to the questions she’d had nearly all her life.
This was her chance to prove her father’s innocence.
This was her chance to heal the rift in her family’s past.
She wouldn’t falter. Not here. Not yet. “This is why you requested my transfer. Because I’m familiar with that case.”
“No.” Director Livingstone pulled a smaller evidence bag than the one Boucher had handed off with the victim’s wallet. “I requested your transfer because we found one of these left with both of the victims’ bodies.”
The bag stuck to her fingers as she studied the army man cocooned inside the plastic. Her heart shot into her throat. A green infantryman with his rifle held overhead. Her awareness wandered to the toy soldier she’d taken from her childhood home all those years ago, still in her pocket. She’d rubbed Troy’s name from the bottom a long time ago.
But carved into the base of the infantryman left at this scene read a series of letters.
L-E-I-G-H.
The world threatened to rip straight out from under her.
Livingstone penetrated her peripheral vision. “You can see now why we might be interested in what you have to say about this case, Agen’ Brody.”
TWO
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Thursday, March 11
1:30 a.m.
It was one thing to study the statistics and crime rates linked to violent homicides, and another to see it in person.
Leigh counted the yellow evidence tents marking the assumed path the killer had taken to deposit his victim on the bridge, but there was no amount of distraction that could make her forget this scene. Her criminal justice degree from Granite State, landing a trainee position with Concord’s police department, consulting for departments across the country—none of it had prepared her to come back here. She reached for some semblance of balance as the assistant deputy medical examiner studied the remains.
The weight of Director Livingstone’s and Lieutenant Boucher’s attention solidified in her stomach. The director had brought her into this case for a reason. Running back to Clarksburg with her tail between her legs wasn’t an option. No matter how many nightmares waited for her when she closed her eyes tonight, a killer wanted her here. He knew about her connection to this town. He knew about her brother’s case, and if history proved to be the greatest teacher, Leigh sensed this was only the beginning.
“There are too many similarities between these two deaths and the Joel Brody case, Agen’ Brody.” Livingstone slid both hands into her slacks. “You’ve studied that investigation harder and longer than the detectives who worked it. I need to know everything.”
The Joel Brody case. She had another name for it, but mentioning that wouldn’t win her any brownie points. She stopped herself from reaching for the toy soldier in her jacket pocket, to convince herself this wasn’t real, but no amount of personal assurance would solve this case. Snow fell more heavily now and threatened evidence the killer might’ve left behind. It caught in her hair and against her eyelashes before dissolving into liquid. Lebanon winters averaged only sixty-eight inches of snow a year, but below freezing temperatures could strike without warning. “Tell me about the first victim.”
“Gresham Schmidt. English national. Former Scotland Yard detective. Found dead one week ago at the orchard on Poverty Lane by the owner.” Boucher hiked his thumb into his utility belt. As though trying to establish himself on the scene, but movies and books credited far too much hostility to the FBI during investigations like this. In reality, agencies liked to play nice. Because they only had one goal: stop more people from dying. “The place isn’t open to tourists this time of year. ME said the victim sat there for a couple days before someone discovered the body.”
And yet Michelle Cross had been left here for all to see.
“Same lacerations and mutilation?” The first victim had been male. Much older than the boys abducted and killed twenty years ago but still in line with the original MO. Leigh couldn’t take her eyes off the victim being photographed from every angle. But the killer had turned his sights to Michelle Cross. Why the change in victimology? Why the theatrics of displaying her here?
Leigh studied the length of road leading under the bridge where the body had been positioned. Her first cigarette had been right here under this covered bridge. It’d also been her last after her mother had caught her and finished the nauseating experience off with a mouthful of soap. TJ Peterson had kissed her for the first time a few feet from where she stood now. Then had promptly broken up with her when she refused to sleep with him. This place… It was more than a crime scene. It was a landmark. In her life and so many others. “Your technicians won’t find any forensic evidence leading to the dump site. The killer would’ve used a tarp or protective sheet to contain everything as he moved the body, and the snow would’ve disturbed any vehicle treads coming and going from the scene.”
Lieutenant Boucher widened his stance. He diverted his attention off to his right with a scoff. “Everyone’s a forensic tech. Damn crime podcasts and documentaries.”
“She’s right.” The examiner crouched beside the body shoved to her feet. Shoulder-to-toe personal protective equipment swished as the Concord assistant deputy ME pulled latex gloves from both hands. Oil-black hair and deep lines spanned across a broad forehead indented with concentration lines and sharpened the woman’s bone structure. The bagginess of the PPE testified of the examiner’s slight build, and Leigh couldn’t silence the thought she needed to buy the ME a steak. Or two. The pathologist handed off an evidence bag to Director Livingstone. Thin fibers spread out from a section of bright blue fabric trapped inside. “This was caught in the victim’s jacket zipper. Looks to be a combination of canvas, polyester, and blue nylon. I’ll have the crime lab run a more thorough test, but at first glance, it’s from a run-of-the-mill tarp our killer could’ve picked up at any hardware or big box store.”
