up?”
“Your entire life history.”
He shrugged and muttered, “I wish I’d been an only child.” Still, Seth’s words struck an unpleasant chord. Though he’d bite off his tongue before admitting it to his brother, Chandler knew his dating credentials fell far short of stellar. He did tend to rush into relationships, only to discover after the fact that he’d chosen poorly. But that didn’t make him incapable of having a real relationship. Did it? He sighed. Okay, so he’d done some borderline wrong things. But never once, not even for a split second, had he ever intended to hurt anyone.
Molly was fascinated by the vastly complicated electronic equipment crammed into a small, two-tiered room. One entire wall was monitors. Some were tuned to network programming, others were blank, still others were live feeds from the cameras located in the studios.
There were two long consoles in the room, with too many switches, dials and colored buttons to count. Several casually attired people with headsets manned the control boards. Yanking off his headset, a rotund man in a rumpled golf shirt stepped forward to welcome them.
She recognized the voice immediately. He was the producer who had called her with arrangements to do Good Morning Montana. He was also the disembodied voice she’d heard over the studio’s speakers.
“I’m Mike Murray,” he said, offering a beefy hand, and looking at Seth over her shoulder. “We’ve got the tape all set-up, sheriff.”
“Thank you,” Seth said. “Mind if we do this in private?”
The producer looked perplexed. “Yeah, I do. This is a newsroom. If it turns out there’s something to this call, then we have a responsibility to our viewers to stay on top of it.”
Seth did not appear pleased. “You also have a responsibility not to hinder my investigation.”
The burly producer seemed to be mulling it over.
Chandler stepped up and said, “Don’t sweat it, Mike, I’ll run the tape machine and if anything of interest comes of this, I’m on it.”
As soon as the other employees were dismissed, Molly and Seth were given seats at the console. Chandler opted to lean against the edge of the second row, his fingers within easy reach of the machine’s controls.
They watched the tape twice in silence, then Seth began asking for their impressions at various parts. After almost three hours, Molly had memorized every syllable of John’s call.
“He’s young,” she said when the tape ended. “Early twenties.”
“Why do you say that?” Seth asked.
“He mentions the government screwing him. Teenagers don’t really have much interaction with the government.”
“But he could be older than twenties, right?” Seth asked.
“Assuming he isn’t a crackpot,” Chandler spoke up, “his vocabulary is more in keeping with a young adult.”
Molly turned and gave him a smile. “Very good. And I agree. He used ‘lousy’ and ‘crappy’ which would be more appropriate for a twenty-year-old than a thirty-five year old. He also said his mother needed him. It indicates an inflated sense of self-importance.”
“Aren’t all men self-important?”
Molly again had to smile at Chandler’s question. “Pretty much,” she agreed, amused. “But in this case, he lumps his mother in with all his other problems. It shows minimal separation. I would guess this guy hasn’t had a great deal of life experience apart from his nuclear family.”
“This is good, I think—” Seth’s thought was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone. Grabbing it from the clip on his belt, Seth flipped it open and placed it against his ear. “Yes?” There was a lengthy pause, then “Say that again. Got it. I’ll be right there.”
“Problem?”
Seth’s brow wrinkled into a deep frown that reached the corners of his eyes. “Maybe. Just got a 911 call for a floater in Spawn Creek.”
“A woman?” Molly asked, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Could it be John’s mother?”
“Won’t know for a while.” Seth stood and put his notepad into the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. “I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll go with you,” Chandler offered.
Seth shook his head. “No way. I don’t want any press on this just yet.”
“It’s a crime scene, Seth,” Chandler argued. “I’ve got every right to be there with a camera crew.”
Molly saw a flash of anger pass between the two men. It was so intense that she actually flinched.
“No camera, Chandler. Not on this one.”
“Why? What’s so special about this one?”
“It’s bad,” Seth answered slowly. “Really bad.”
Chapter Three
“Is she still hurling?” Seth asked without turning. He was crouched close to the remains, overseeing the horrific but necessary task of pulling the torso from the brackish shallows of Spawn Creek.
Chandler glanced over his shoulder to where he’d hurriedly parked the car. Molly was doubled over behind a shrub, about fifty discreet yards away. He didn’t blame her one bit. It was everything he could do to keep his own revulsion in check. “Yep. We’ve all been there.” He felt genuine sympathy for the woman but was a little perplexed by her reaction. “She has an M.D., you’d think she’d be better equipped for something like this.”
Seth shot him a quick glance. “I don’t think anyone can be prepared for something like this. Hell, I’m not prepared. What kind of animal could do this?”
Chandler shrugged, knowing his brother’s question was rhetorical. There wasn’t an explanation for this kind of savagery. At least, none that any sane person could conjure. This was brutal, ugly and violent. As bad as anything he’d seen during his tour in the first Gulf War.
“It’s going to be tough to get an ID,” Seth remarked to the crime-scene tech preparing to transport the remains. “Whoever did this went to a lot of trouble to make it virtually impossible for us to identify her.”
“Unless you can find the rest of her,” Chandler suggested. That thought made his stomach clench with renewed repugnance.
Seth stood and expelled an audible breath. Chandler knew his brother well. Seth would do whatever it took to find justice for this poor woman.
As the tech was lifting the remains onto the body bag, Chandler spotted something. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing in the general direction of a dark impression on the torso’s left shoulder.
Both men peered closer, examining the bizarre marking. “Maybe that’ll help you with the identification.” Chandler suggested.
“Looks postmortem,” the crime tech offered as he stopped to photograph the marking from various angles. “A burn of some kind.”
“It’s something,” Seth remarked, though his tone didn’t indicate much hope that this bit of information would actually bear fruit. “I want the M.E. on this now,” he instructed. “Don’t want to wait for the full report. Have someone send over the photographs as soon as they’re printed. And get me the estimate on time of death.”
“That’s going to be hard,” the tech replied. “The water temperature is fifty-two degrees, hard to get exacts on floaters.”
“I’ll take approximates for now,” Seth fairly barked, frustration evident in his tone. He turned to Chandler. “Why don’t you take the doctor back to her car. I’ve got my guys coming out here for a full search of the banks and divers