two three,’ said Casey, signaling to the cameraman. She paused. ‘I’m here today with Sheriff Robert Gage of the Summit County Sheriff’s Office. Hello, Sheriff Gage.’
‘Hello, Casey.’
‘How are you holding up?’ she asked with a concerned face.
‘I’m doing OK,’ said Gage. ‘My thoughts now are with the family of the brave young volunteer who lost his life.’
‘As are all our thoughts,’ said Casey. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about yesterday’s events?’
‘I think you got it all covered, Casey. I can confirm that the body of a woman in her thirties or forties was discovered yesterday afternoon on Quandary Peak. During our recovery of the body, an avalanche was triggered.’
‘And the body?’
Bob paused. ‘Was lost in the slide.’
‘And this morning’s search is to recover that body?’
‘Yes, it is, Casey.’
She kept the microphone to his mouth. Bob was done.
She held her breath, then struck up again. ‘And the volunteer rescuer? Do we have any more information on him or her?’
‘Not until next of kin have been notified. No.’
‘And the FBI presence here today? That would confirm reports of a homicide?’
‘The FBI presence here today is a welcome addition to the team investigating yesterday’s events.’
Casey held the microphone steady. Seconds went by before she nodded. ‘Thank you, Sheriff Robert Gage.’
She turned back to the camera. ‘We’ll see you at the top of the hour with an update on the story unfolding here at Quandary Peak. Who knows where this particular trail will lead? I’m Casey Bonaventure …’
After sign-off, she turned back to Bob. ‘Bob –’
‘Casey, sweetheart? Don’t come crying to me when your producers prematurely ejaculate all over a story. They send you out too early for anyone to make any sense of my crime scene, your story, the victim’s ID, what in the hell happened – everything. Every time you show up, we tell you we have nothing yet. And every time, you stick that damn camera in my face and expect me to do the hard work. To do your job. I have my own job.’
‘You know where I’m coming from,’ said Casey.
‘You’re paid to talk,’ said Bob. ‘I’m not. But, if I have to, I’d rather have something to say.’ He muttered as he walked away, ‘How about a snowy cascade of suspects, a winter wonderland of weirdos, an icicle of … something that begins with “i” …?’
Ren sat at her desk in the Sheriff’s Office, a bigger, cheaper, shinier desk than the one she had at Safe Streets. She was thinking about self-sabotage – not for the first time. Altitude sickness could happen to anyone. But she had drunk a lot of contributory factors. There was a bottle of Fiji in front of her. And three more on the floor beside her. Robbie Truax, Colin Grabien and Cliff James walked in.
‘Aw, look at her,’ said Robbie.
Ren smiled patiently.
‘The loser,’ said Colin.
‘Are you feeling better?’ said Robbie.
Ren nodded. ‘I am. I have drunk more water in four hours than –’
‘Alcohol, hopefully,’ said Colin.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘I actually wasn’t drinking last night,’ she said. ‘I had just arrived here, as you know.’ She turned to Cliff. ‘So, what did I miss?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ said Cliff. ‘The cadaver dog sat down, barked – his “alert” to show he picked up a scent – but his handler said that could have been from Sonny Bryant. Apparently the smell of death kicks in the moment a person dies. And we all smell the same dead, so it’s not like the dog can distinguish …’
‘Do we?’ said Robbie.
‘Yup, apparently,’ said Cliff.
‘That’s kind of depressing,’ said Ren.
‘Oh, you want to smell especially different when you’re dead?’ said Colin.
‘Shut the fuck up, Colin,’ said Ren.
‘So the dog was indicating there was a scent there, but he didn’t physically find anything,’ said Cliff.
‘So,’ said Ren, ‘what’s the plan for going back up?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robbie. ‘It was risky heading up there to begin with. SAR’s saying no way.’
Ren took another mouthful of water. ‘Shit.’
‘You want to look at the photos?’ said Robbie.
‘Sure. I love your photos. You really are very good,’ said Ren. ‘You could have an exhibition – Truax: Scenes from Scenes.’ If the location was interesting, Robbie shot landscapes from crime scenes.
Ren reached out for the digital camera.
‘Am I going to find any photographs of an intimate nature here?’ she said.
‘Only the ones we took on Colin’s desk that night,’ said Robbie.
Ren turned on the camera. The first series of photos were exterior shots of a bank the task force had been surveilling. She ran through them quickly and got to the morning photos at the trailhead and up at the site. She reached for her bag and her USB cable and downloaded them into iPhoto.
She put her elbow on the desk, rested her chin on her hand, and started to go through the photos slowly. The guys took seats at different computers and started searching databases and making calls. When Ren reached the last of the photos, she went back to the start. She stopped at one, zoomed and leaned in close.
‘Robbie? Did that cadaver dog get in there before you took these?’
Robbie shook his head. ‘No. Jesus, why do I always get a hard time about contamination …’
‘No, you don’t, baby,’ said Ren. ‘No, it’s just that, look – are those paw prints in the snow?’
Robbie came over to look. ‘Paws? Are you sure?’
‘Looks that way to me,’ said Ren. ‘But I’m not exactly Ren of the Mountains.’
‘Could it have been an avalanche rescue dog?’ said Robbie.
‘There
