I TAKE A STEP FORWARD, and the two dogs tag along just behind my heels. As we round the corner of the home, the backyard comes into view, and the horrid stench grows stronger. The dogs leave us and disperse among the officers and crime scene workers. People dressed in white Tyvek suits or khakis and black polos with cameras, video recorders, tweezers, and baggies, are scattered about like working ants. This is Sherrie Maynard’s Crime Scene Investigation Unit. Or CSIU for short.

I feel my pulse quicken, and my veins constrict when my eyes land on the naked body of Jeremy McCrae. He hangs by his feet from a tall oak. A thick rope is tied about his ankles with the other end lapped over a branch and secured around the base of the tree. He appears to have been drained of blood as dark veins snake across his pale body like lightning strikes. His arms dangle to the earth as his stiff fingers brush the grass with each gentle sway.

I feel my feet grip the earth, freezing me in place. I grasp at my chest and wince at the sudden ache near my heart. I still haven’t figured out what that pain is all about. Probably need to see the doctor before much longer. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and swallow long and hard.

“You sure you’re okay?” Collins asks as he gives my elbow a soft squeeze.

I dip my chin and march onward to the dangling body.

Two Cardinals, a male and female, sit together at the end of a branch. Together, they sing into the wind. A few branches over, sitting on the same branch supporting Jeremy McCrae, is a crow with his chest puffed out. He caws from the top of the oak and glares down at us with a tilted head.

I see Sherrie Maynard standing with Sheriff Steve Johnston by his truck. She has her clipboard propped atop her belly and is busy scribbling notes in between giving directions to two men in white suits. The men return to the body as we approach.

“So, this is Mr. McCrae?”

Sherrie and Sheriff Johnston turn.

“Oh, hey Laurie. Yeah, this is him,” Sherrie says as she pauses from her writing and raises her eyeglasses to rest them atop her forehead

“And for heaven’s sake, why the hell are you out here anyways? You could pop any minute. Sherrie, you should be at home getting your rest.”

Sheriff Johnston turns to her and says, “See, I told you you shouldn’t be here. The last thing we need right now is for you go into labor at a crime scene.”

“I know, but you know me. I’d go crazy sitting at home thinking you guys were working a possible Morty case.”

Sheriff Johnston takes a swig from his Coca Cola can and adjusts his gray wool beanie which matches the color of his beard. “Well don’t look to me if your water breaks because I’ve never had kids let alone delivered any.”

“Be careful, Sherrie. Don’t push yourself too much,” says Collins.

She rubs her eye and says, “I won’t.”

“So, it looks like he’s been here for a while, huh? What, two or three days, maybe?”

She looks to me and I see a light flicker in her eye. “At least. He’s in full rigor mortis and lividity has reached its maximum point. You can tell by how the blood tried to pull close to his face and hands. We know right off it’s been more than fifteen hours. His core body temp is fifty-seven point two, so he’s had plenty of time to cool down. Our current environment temp is fifty-four which puts him almost at equilibrium. Blowflies and maggots are present, but there’s no pupae. That tells me he’s been dead at least forty-eight hours, but I’m thinking more around . . . sixty to seventy-two, give or take. Meaning, this happened sometime between two p.m. Saturday and two p.m. Sunday. Likely closer to midnight though. Glenn agrees. We’ll know for sure within the next few hours once our lab analysis is complete.”

“Hmm,” I say as I rub the nape of my neck.

"Oh, and come take a look at this," she says as she paces toward the body. "I’d wear a mask if you have one."

I was already reaching for mine as she turned and said it. 

We slide our masks into place and come within three feet of Jeremy McCrae.

The first things I notice are his disfigured face, the stab wound near the heart region, and the absence of blood. A wound to the heart would have left a puddle. Especially with him hanging upside down. Another sure indicator that it’s Morty. For whatever reason, he always takes the men’s blood and the women’s hair.

“The facial injuries are postmortem I’d guess.”

“Yeah, the two dogs you see running around,” Sherrie says while glancing about the yard, “I’d say they were hungry.”

A knot of nausea grows in my chest.

“There’s no blood. Judging by the injuries, I would have thought there’d been a puddle,” says Collins.

I nod and say, “I was thinking the same thing.”

I lean around and peak at the back of McCrae’s shoulders. The deep, bloody imprint of molars and canines are present on his right shoulder blade. I count the number of visible teeth marks. The back rows are missing a total of eight teeth. I pull back and look to McCrae’s mouth. I use a cotton swab and a flashlight to peer inside.

“The bite mark to the shoulder is missing eight teeth. Two less than last time. And Mr. McCrae is missing his second premolar. The tooth has recently been removed. This is definitely Morty.”

“I’m afraid so. Looks like our biter is back,” says Sheriff Johnston with a grim, raspy tone to his voice as he rubs at the hook shaped scar across his cheek and upper lip. It’s the result of his face connecting with the blade of a drug dealer some twenty years ago when he was still on patrol.

Collins curses, “So, we were right last time then. He’s making dentures from those he kills and is biting them with the teeth of prior victims.”

I place my hands to my hips and shake my head as I step back in front of the body. My eyes land on the victim’s arm where I notice what looks like a carving. I squat atop my calves and lean close. With one hand keeping pressure on my mask, I use my other to gently lift and rotate the man’s arm. “What is this?”

“I was hoping you may know,” says Sherrie.

“Looks to be a winged insect. A beetle or moth maybe. I’m guessing you didn’t find the murder weapon?”

“No, but it does appear to be done with a sharp, double-sided blade. A dagger perhaps. Same as the others.”

I nod and rise to my feet. I take my time observing the lay of the land, house, the body and rope supporting it, and lastly, the two dogs meandering among us.

I rub my forehead and return my eyes to the tree from which the body hangs. I allow my mind to wander for a moment. I begin to piece together a visual of Morty tugging on the rope while hoisting Jeremy McCrae into the air. I picture him biting Jeremy’s shoulder, prying out his tooth, carving the insect into his arm, all before stabbing him in the heart and collecting his blood. He never kills first. According to Glenn and Sherrie’s analysis of Morty’s prior victims, he goes through his ritual before killing them. It appears he likes to make them suffer. He humiliates them by taking off their clothes. He’s never been sexually motivated in any of the crimes. It’s more like he’s getting revenge. It’s deeply personal. He wants to dominate, humiliate, and offer as much pain as he can before ultimately ending their life. With this place being so isolated, he would have had plenty of time to carry out his ritual without being seen. Morty always chooses the right location.

A cold wave washes over me and forces me to shiver away the gooseflesh. I look to one of the CSI tech’s using a video camera and turn to Sherrie, “Be sure to send me copies of the film and pictures, will you?”

She dips her chin.

We spend another fifteen minutes combing the scene. Satisfied, I give the go ahead for them to remove the body and bag the evidence before they succumb to the elements.

“I think I’ve seen enough here. Patrick, you want to head inside and speak with Glenn?”

“Sure thing.”

I look to Sherrie and Johnston, “We’ll be inside should you need us.”

As Collins and I cross for the front door, I notice the McCrae’s dogs trailing us once again. I must admit that having learned of their actions, their cuteness has ebbed.

“Why does he do this?” Collins asks.

“That’s the missing link to the equation. What plus why equals who, right? We know what’s been done, but I am hoping that if we can learn why it’s been done, then we can learn who has done it,” I say while removing my mask.

We reach the front yard where Officer Williams still stands guard by the door.

“Anything?” I ask.

“No, not much.”

I duck under the crime scene tape and open the screen door. It gives off a soft creak and whine. When my thumb touches the cold metal of the main door latch, I hear Glenn’s old camera steal a snap. As I push the door open, we’re greeted by a bright flash. My eyes wince but are quick to land on blood spatter at the end of the foyer going into the kitchen. Glenn is squatted like an old catcher with the camera to his eye. I hear Deputy Dean Ferrell ask a question, but it’s never answered.

Collins shuts the door behind me.

The rest of the kitchen comes into view. More blood spatter. No doubt, this is the primary crime scene. The place where an assault or murder has occurred.

“Hey Laurie,” Glenn says as he rises on unstable knees and looks to me and Collins.

I nod back, but my eyes are busy scanning the surroundings. The kitchen is quite a site. The dishes in the sink are dirty and scattered. The cabinet doors are left open. The fridge is stained a grungy yellow, and it’s covered with Crayon drawings from the couple’s nine-year-old daughter.

“What do we have so far?” I ask.

Glenn snaps another shot, so Deputy Ferrell goes first. “Well, Miss Carver,” he says with a nod of his chin, “The neighbor up the road. Said she’d been trying to reach them for two days. Something about she was supposed to watch the daughter today while the wife went to the doctor. She said the girl had her tonsils removed last week and wasn’t supposed to return to school until Thursday. The mom didn’t want her to left at home alone. After not being able to get in touch with them, Miss Carver became concerned. Then once she noticed the odor from the driveway, she called us. I did a quick check outside, and that’s when I found Mr. McCrae. I called for backup. We made our way in and found this, but no sign of the wife or daughter.”

“Did you find anything unusual as you cleared the house?”

He nods, “I noticed something in the bathroom that you’ll want to check out.”

“Yeah . . . like what?” asks Collins.

“Writing,” Ferrell says after a good swallow.

“On the mirror?” I ask.

His face turns to a frown, “Yeah.”

My eyes linger to the living room. “Anything else?”

Ferrell rests his thumbs on each side of his gun belt and shakes his head.

I hear Glenn mumble something to himself as he squats back down. I notice he’s quiet, and just as I turn to see what gave him pause, he begins to call out in a slow, unsettling tone, “Hey . . . hey Laurie . . . you need to see this.”

Collins and Deputy Ferrell lean down to see.

I squint my eyes and move closer. Glenn holds a small flashlight to the bottom side of the kitchen island. I notice his hand has a slight tremble, but not from his old age.

Carved in the wood with a hairline slice is the following:

PS 78:49

It’s not the first time I’ve seen this reference. It’s the one about evil angels.

I stand to my feet, wag my head, and try to shake the feeling of being watched by invisible eyes. He knows I’m here. I have to see what’s in the bathroom. I have to see what he’s left me.

Collins follows me and calls for me to wait. I search the hall and check the first door I come to. The sight glues my feet to the floor.

It’s a bedroom filled with pink and purple, and an array of Disney characters. No doubt the room of nine-year-old Sarah McCrae. I shut my eyes and hold onto the doorknob to steady myself. My palm is sweaty and has a slight tremor. All at once, my sister’s voice floods my mind. It sweeps me to my childhood and inevitably to the night of her disappearance.

I feel Collins’s hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, Laurie?” he asks in a soothing tone.

I wipe away a small tear that tries to streak down my cheek. I bite the inside of my lip and nod. I swallow the knot of emotion climbing the ladder of my throat, open my eyes, and pull the door until it latches shut. I’ll be spending lot of time in this room, but not now.

I pace down the hall and try another door. This one must be it. I’m right.

The moment I open the door, I’m greeted by his artistry. A skull beside a large scythe drawn with what looks like a bloody finger. Below it rests another scripture reference.

REV 14:16

I’ve seen this one before too. The one about the scythe swinging from heaven to harvest the earth.

My eye catches something in the reflection. Collins notices it the same time as I. On the wall in front of the toilet is a drawing of bloody angel wings, followed by the word . . . Mortis. The name he always leaves behind. And below that . . . Laurie

“Looks like you were right boss,” says Collins. “It’s our guy.”

I try to control the tremble in my hands as I shake my head, “I wish I wasn’t.”

We’d combed the bathroom for a few moments, when I opened the sink cabinet and began to sort through it.

I looked in between the towels and that’s when my eyes caught something. I lean close.

“What is this? Hey Pat, check this out.”

Collins has his back to me as he’s busy searching the bathtub with his light.

“Huh?”

“Looks like confetti, could be something the daughter did, but I think it’s more than that,” I say as I carefully lift the towel and try to cradle all the cuttings. Some float off onto the floor with the draft.

“Give me a hand here.”

He steps from the tub and begins to pick up the dropped pieces of white paper confetti about the size of a dime.

“This could be something, Laurie,” he says with wide eyes.

I take the towel of letters into the hall and place it on the hardwood floor where I try to sort through the jumbled mess. My heart pounds at the possibility of what might lie before me.

There are letters, some numbers, an apostrophe, and two odd shaped circles.

“Coordinates!” I blurt and begin shifting through the mess in a frantic pace. I hush Collins a time or two as his voice is too distracting for the moment. I hear Gleen and Deputy Ferrell thud towards us from the kitchen.

“What is it? What do you have?” Glenn asks.

“Sshh. Give her a minute,” Collins says.

I arrange, rearrange, move a letter here, no that’s not right, move it here, and . . .

W . . . E . . . ‘. . . R . . . E . . . W . . . A . . . I . . . T . . . I . . . N . . .G.

I make a row of the two words.

Collins mumbles to himself and hovers over me.

The numbers and letters each have an exponent in their top right corner. One through twelve. I begin by laying them out in the order of their exponents. The odd shaped circles are the degrees. There’s a capital N, and a capital W. North and West.

After giving it all a good shuffling, this is what I have:

38.6301° N, 81.6462° W

I stand and retrieve my cell.

“What are you doing?” Collins asks.

“Calling Agent Swanson. We’re going to need the Bureau’s help with this one. We need a Cessna citation flight ASAP.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to Chief Cunningham first?”

“I don’t have time for his antics. I’ll deal with the Chief later. The Bureau needs to know, and we need a flight out. Agent Swanson is our guy.”

“You don’t even know if these are real coordinates.”

“Then Google it while I’m waiting for Swanson to answer.”

Collins leans close to the numbers and thumbs them into his phone.

By the third ring for Agent Swanson I noticed Collins’s eyes narrowed. Glenn and Deputy Ferrell huddle around to peer at his phone.

“Where is it?”

He looks up and says, “It’s in the middle of nowhere in West Virginia, near Devil’s Den Hollow. It’s a half an hour drive north from the capital of Charleston.”

On the fourth ring he picks up. “Special Agent Frank Swanson. FBI.”

“Frank, this is Laurie. How soon can you get me a citation flight to West Virginia?”