Authors: Tammy Cheatham
“Every
scene tells a story,” he whispered. “What’s yours Ms. Parker?” With a resigned sigh,
he gave up on the folder’s ability to verbalize a theory and slid his chair
closer to the desk.
Tate
turned over the previously ignored digital photos and spread them across his
desk in order, based on the time stamp at the bottom of each one. Digital photos
couldn’t be used in court since they could easily be altered, but not wanting
to wait for the crime team to develop and share their thirty five millimeter
shots, Tate had instructed his team on site to also take the digitals.
Tate
was still staring at the photos when his office door opened. He wasn’t surprised
to see Sherriff Martin Crawley. Nodding a greeting, Martin filled a cup with
the last of the coffee before taking a seat across the desk from Tate. He
leaned forward and scanned the photos covering the desk then shuddered, “Good
Lord, man, what kind of sick bastard does this sort of thing?”
Looking
up at the older man, Tate replied, “I don’t know Martin, but I intend to find
out. What I do know is that this was not some random burglary gone bad. This
was a calculated kill. The bastard took his time and he made her hurt before he
finished.”
“You
get the ME’s report back yet?”
Tate
shook his head. “Nothing yet. Crime team at the scene didn’t find a damn thing.
They ran the HEPA Vac and didn’t pick up even one hair that didn’t belong to
Parker. No prints. Nothing. It was almost like the perp cleaned the place after
the kill; if that’s the case then the bastard did a good job. The preliminary
confirms rape but techs found no body fluid or other DNA that we could use. I’m
hoping that the Medical Examiner comes up with something that was missed on
site. We could use a break here.”
Nodding,
Martin continued to sort through the photos on Tate’s desk. After a moment he
leaned back in his chair, “Tate, I know you were in the FBI and all, but I
haven’t ever seen anything like this in my eighteen year on the force here in
Pine Ridge. Things have gone from bad to worse out at the Reservation in the
last couple years, but nothing like this has happened out there either. You
suppose she’s got ties out at the Res?”
Taking
a sip from his cup, Tate considered the idea. “I don’t know. Right now, I can
only think that while it’s not likely, it’s certainly possible. I’ve been going
through the photo sequence looking for anything that might be out of place, but
nothing’s jumping off the page at me…not yet anyway.” Tate met the other man’s
eyes. “I wish I could say that this was just a rape and murder, but some of the
cuts on her body push me to think otherwise.”
Martin
nodded his agreement and pointed to the photo nearest him, “I know what you
mean, why would he cut her face up like that?” The photo in front of Martin
showed Saralyn's face at close range, her eyes were closed, a three inch slash starting
above her eyebrow cut diagonally down and across her right eye ending at her
cheek bone. Bulging from around the torn lid a sliver of blue iris peaked out,
as if she were watching. In the corner of the shot lay an ear that had been
surgically shaved off her head and placed neatly on the bathroom rug. Once a
shaggy blue, the blood-soaked rug appeared a matted purple in the photos.
“Seems
very personal to me. Most often a rapist will kill the victim so that he can’t
be identified, but this type of mutilation and the level of overkill points to
another type of perp altogether.” Tate continued, “It’s like the damn see no
evil, hear no evil monkeys, except her tongue is still intact.”
Martin
picked up the next photo in the series, a full body shot showing Saralyn’s nude
form splayed across the bathroom floor, her hands bound with some type of red
cording and a dark purple bruise on her left jaw. “I see that her hands were
tied, but he’d still have to be a pretty big SOB to hold her still enough to
make these cuts unless she was already dead when he cut her.”
“I
thought the same thing. The bruising on the left jaw suggests he slugged her at
some point. Maybe she was unconscious when he finished the kill, otherwise he
would have had to use something to subdue her in order to make cuts this
precise. I do know that the kill was complete when he slashed her throat. Probably
used a hunting knife or large kitchen knife to finish up. His own most probably,
since there didn’t appear to be any missing cutlery when we searched Parker’s
kitchen.”
Martin
placed the photo back on Tate’s desk, “What about the red rope that he tied her
hands with? That come from the house, or did he bring that too?”
Tate
picked up the photo then shrugged. “I’m not positive, but I think he brought it
with him. It appears to be cording like you would use to tie back curtains, but
there weren’t any other pieces in the house and it doesn’t match anything that
we found. The medical examiner at the scene thinks, based on the blood pooling,
that some of the cuts were definitely made while she was alive, but he really
couldn’t tell without further review. Same thing with the rape. We need that
damn report. Either way, the cutting took time and skill. The bastard wasn’t in
any hurry, which means either he knew her or at the least he was familiar with
her routine and not worried about being interrupted. Even if the mutilation cuts
were made after he slashed her throat, it wouldn’t have been quick.”
Pointing
to the last of the photos on Tate’s desk, Martin asked, “What do you suppose
this cut means? Looks like the Olympic rings, only there’s three instead of
five. Only someone who’s
really
good with a knife could do that. It
almost looks like a tattoo.”
“I
really don’t know if there’s any symbolic meaning. I have been doing some
research online, but can’t find anything that resembles that cut other than the
Olympic rings, and as you pointed out, that’s not an exact match. Daniel
Westhaven from the ME’s office covered the scene and he wasn’t familiar with
any Native American symbols that bear any resemblance to the tattoo cut either.”
“Well
if it is a Lakota symbol, then Daniel would know. He’s pretty much an expert. Maybe
she did have ties to the Reservation and this was some kind of drug deal gone
bad.” Martin pushed the prints back into the folder.
“Once
we get the ME’s report with a tox screen, we may have something more to go on
with that line of thought.”
Martin
nodded. “Who found the body, Tate? God, I hope it wasn’t her Mama or her
Daddy.”
“No
one found the body, and that’s the strangest piece in this whole grizzly puzzle.
Julie Barton over at central dispatch got an anonymous 911 call from Parker’s
home phone. A male caller said he wanted to report a murder. The bastard
actually laughed, then hung up before Julie could ask any questions.”
Martin
met Tate’s eyes, stunned. “You’ve got to be shittin’me. The perp called in his
own crime?”
Tate
nodded. “Sounds crazy I know, but that’s what happened. When the assistant ME
showed up he put the time of death at approximately 7:30 pm. Hell, the body was
still warm. Julie logged the call at 8:07 and immediately dispatched a patrol
car to the house. When they got there, the door was standing open. The bastard
must have called it in right after he killed her.”
Whistling
through his teeth, Martin shook his head, “Now, that’s a ballsy move. In all my
years of service, I have never heard of the perp calling in his own crime.”
“Why
call it in at all? And even if the perp wanted to, why so fast? Why not buy himself
some time by letting someone find the body after he was gone?”
Martin
leaned back in his chair and pulled his glasses off tucking them into his shirt
pocket. “You ever get any calls out to her house before?”
“None,”
Tate shook his head. “No history of calls to the house, no husband at present
or ex-husband, no known boyfriend and no clear ties to the Res. All I know for
sure is that Saralyn Parker was a 24-year-old schoolteacher that some sick
bastard raped, mutilated and killed.”
Martin
pushed his official sheriff’s tan hat back on his head and stood to leave. “Any
idea where you’re going next with this investigation? Once this gets out,
you’re going to have your hands full with the locals. There hasn’t been a
murder in Pine Ridge for so long that once they move past the shock of it,
they’ll be out for blood. Yours if you don’t come up with a suspect pretty
quick.”
Standing
to shake Martin’s hand, Tate said, “I know the locals expect a fast arrest, but
we can’t afford to be sloppy and lose a conviction on a technicality. I’m
waiting on the report along with the tox screen, and hopefully it will give me some
DNA evidence to work with. I’ve already had a call from the mayor reminding me
that it’s an election year, and letting me know how important it is to both of
us to get this get resolved.”
“You
mean he threatened your job?”
Tate
offered a grim chuckle. “Well, not directly, but he did skip around it. Made
sure he reminded me that he had to work his tail off to get me in over Chad
Green.”
Martin
croaked, “‘Green’ being the operative word. Chad’s just a kid, straight out of
the academy. Just because his daddy’s been on the County force forever doesn’t
mean that kid could run the department. You plan on having a press conference
or something to let the locals know what’s going on?”
“Not
yet. Until we have some solid evidence, it’s too early to be talking to the
press or the locals. Right now, I plan to do some follow up with Reva Corley
since she was the last person to see Parker alive. She said that they were
hiking out at White’s Lake earlier in the day. I talked to her last night and I
can’t be sure, but my gut tells me that she was holding something back. If
that’s true, I’ve got to find out whatever it is she’s not telling me.”
“Let
me know when you get the ME’s report back and if there’s something I can do to
help, just say the word.”
“Thanks
Martin, I will.” Alone again, Tate dropped the Parker file into a desk drawer.
He grabbed his cap and slipped out of the courthouse just behind Martin,
avoiding as many curious people as possible.
CHAPTER 3
Tate
slid into the hunter green SUV and pushed his sunglasses on, backed out of his
reserved parking spot at the courthouse and turned left on Main Street. With
one hand he dialed the number for the Tribal Police on his cell only to learn
that things were pretty quiet at the Reservation right now, if you didn’t count
the steady stream of drugs that continued to make their way onto tribal
property. After a quick trip by the morgue where he was assured that the Parker
case was getting priority, he made his way to the Ridge Diner hoping Reva
Corley was working the day shift.
When
he pushed open the glass door of the diner, a clanging cow bell overhead reminded
Tate of just how little things in Pine Ridge had changed in the last couple of
decades. The diner had been where all the kids hung out after school, including
him. In front of the bar, the same round swivel stools sat atop dingy round
chrome poles bolted to the floor and even though they were older now, some of
the same people still sat there, feet propped on an equally dingy chrome rail
running the length of the bar. Nodding to those who turned to look his way,
Tate moved to the back of the diner and slid into a faded red Naugahyde booth
that matched the stools at the bar.
A
petite women with limp blond hair stepped up to take his order. Her white shirt
was rolled up to the elbows and covered with a dark brown apron sporting
several grease spots. Smiling, she pulled a numbered pad from her pocket with
one hand and a pen from behind her ear with the other.
“What’ll
it be today Tate, uh, I mean Chief?” Kathy was the same age as Tate and they’d
been in some classes together in high school. Looking up at her, Tate could see
that life had been hard on the once beautiful girl.
Smiling
as if he hadn’t noticed the change at all, Tate ordered a club sandwich and a
cup of coffee. Before Kathy could walk away, he asked, “Reva working today
Kathy?”
Kathy
shook her head. “She was just so upset over what happened to Saralyn. Burt gave
her a couple days off. Told her to pull herself together and then come on back
to work.” As Kathy walked away, Tate leaned back into the worn booth, propping
his feet up on the opposite seat. For the first time since he’d gotten called
out to the Parker house, he relaxed.
The
bell over the diner door clanked, and Tate watched as a tall man with long, graying
hair pulled back in a tight ponytail entered the diner. Locking eyes with the
man as he slid into the opposite side of the booth, Tate smiled.
“Hello,
Son. I hear you’re up to your nose in trouble these days.”
Tate
reached over and clasped his father’s outstretched hand. “Yeah Dad, I am. But
you must be in some serious trouble too, if you’re eating at the diner when we
both know that you’re married to the best cook in the state.”
“Nothing
like that, Son. Your Mama just thought it was time I come to town to see about
you. Claims she’s not cooking a thing until I make sure our boy’s alright.” A
frown creased the older man’s forehead. “You are alright aren’t you, Son?”