Skin Dancer (4 page)

“A what?” Rachel almost knocked her cola over.

“Like a social date. Calm down, I'm not asking you to kiss me.” Jake swallowed the last of his beer. “This Frances Jackson is real interested in the killings, which is why I'm invited and why I'm inviting you. She wants to be certain her crews are safe up in the hills. So, I'll pick you up tomorrow about eight. From what I hear tell, she knows how to throw a party. Cocktail attire is what Dad told me. And Dad said she's been helpful to Harvey Dilson, with his senate campaigns. He said you'd make a good impression on her. And that it would look good that the department members supported me.”

Before she could answer, he stood up. “Thanks for the beer.” He stepped out into the dusk.

Rachel sighed. Even if Jake had given her a chance, she couldn't refuse. Jake had invoked the name of his father, Mel Ortiz. There was nothing Mr. Ortiz could ask that Rachel would ever say no to. Her debt load to the man was way too high.

She put five dollars on the bar to cover their tab and headed home. Along with everything else she had to do tomorrow, she'd have to find time to buy a dress.

# # #

Rachel drove through the quiet streets of Bisonville watching the distant vista of sky and the Black Hills change constantly, a panorama of nature's most impressive abilities. The winter snows would start just after Thanksgiving, but for now, the June weather was perfection. South of town in the plains, farmers would be harvesting. Maybe if she didn't find time for a workout at the dojang today, she'd at least take half an hour for a drive. She needed to do something to release the tension that had kept her awake all night.

Two men were dead, and she was in charge of a major homicide case. She didn't have a college degree, not yet, but she'd learned a lot about the psychology of criminals during her law enforcement studies. What terrible motivation had made one human being skin another? She had a bad feeling that at least one of the men was alive when he'd been tortured. Blood had covered his arms and torso, which meant to her novice eye that his heart had still been beating when the skin was removed.

The grotesque horror of it was one of the problems. The act was so depraved that it numbed her mind. She couldn't begin to figure out why someone would do such a thing. Yet that was exactly what she had to do. If she didn't, she knew she'd never be given a case more significant than a traffic accident. Bisonville was a small town. She was a young woman with a checkered past working in a man's world. No one was going to cut her the first inch of slack. Not even Jake could fix this if she blew it.

When she entered the office at 7 a.m., Gordon Gray, the sheriff, was already at his desk. He looked up.

“Deputy Redmond.” 

Rachel put her things on her desk and walked to the private office where he waited for her. “Sir.”

“I got a call from the crime lab boys in Rapid City. They told me some preliminary stuff, but I want you to talk to them as soon as they get to work. I also got a call from Frances Jackson who's running the road crews. She's concerned for the safety of her men.”

Rachel nodded. Gordon was having a tough time. He wanted to be working the case, but his physical limitations made that impossible. “I'm on it, Sheriff.”

“There's a lot at stake here, Rachel. Millions, if not billions, of dollars.” He used his cane to pace the room.

“I know.” The development of Paradise, a high–tech city planned to rival Silicon Valley, depended on the road. Richard Jones, a local man and a techno wizard who'd interned with Bill Gates in the early 1990s, had unveiled his plans for what amounted to a bright and shiny community, an Emerald City of urban planning and modern marvels right in his home county. Such a development would change the face of South Dakota into a destination for growth and prosperity.

“We have to catch this killer. Fast.” Gordon held her gaze a long moment. “We could come up with a reason to hand this off to the state.”

He was asking her if she was up to it. She cleared her throat. “I can solve this case. I can, Sheriff. You have to give me a chance.” For most of her life, she'd viewed herself as a victim. The job had given her self–confidence and a sense of self–worth. She couldn't let the sheriff take that from her.

“The county is stirred up. There're a lot of high emotions about Paradise, both for and agin' it. A killer on the loose is the last thing we need.”

“I know.” The different factions of the county—hunters, Natives, the scattering of green individuals who'd moved into the hills to escape development, ranchers, loggers—had worked out a tenuous peace. These murders could easily disrupt it. With the added tension of the four–lane that was going through land sacred to the Sioux, the place was a powder keg. Maybe that was why Jake was so staunchly
publicly
promoting the poacher–on–poacher theory of the murders. If it was just lowlifes killing each other, none of the political factions were involved. It made sense.

“You know what's at stake here?” Gordon asked her.

“I do. If I need his help, I'll be sure and ask.”

Gordon rubbed his clean–shaven cheek and smoothed one side of his moustache. He always looked immaculate. A rancher who'd spent most of his life working from sunup to sunset, he was lean, sharp featured and nobody's fool. If he took this case from her, she'd never recover in the department. He'd gone out on a limb to hire her, and now he was standing with the saw in his hand.

“I can do this. I
have
to do it.” She spoke quietly.

“Ortiz talked to me yesterday. He said the same thing.”

For once Jake's interference was an asset. She'd have to remember to thank him—after she beat him with the high heels she'd have to wear to the cocktail party.

The sheriff sighed. “Then call the crime lab. Gus Langstrom said he'd be in early to talk to you. Tell ‘em to put a rush on the DNA evidence and the prints.”

“Thanks, sheriff.” She started to say more but decided that the best way to show her gratitude was to solve the case, and in record time.

At her desk she felt Scott Amos watching her. She gave him a smile and mouthed,
How's Betty Lou?

“Glad you caught this case instead of me.” He shook his head. “She'd have a conniption if I got stranded in those hills and couldn't get home. Losing the last two…Anyway, she said you're welcome to dinner any time.”

“Thanks. Home cooking is in short supply at my place.” Rachel dialed the lab, and waited for Langstrom to answer and identify himself.

“What do you have for me, Gus?”

“I've e–mailed the photos to you, and I'll send a hard set by courier. The smaller man was dead before his skin was removed. The silver ornament was attached to the victim's chest with a porcupine quill, as you thought. The feather, which was wrapped and attached with standard fishing line, came from a great horned owl, illegal to own because of the endangered species law. Only Natives can own them, but as you know, there are always illegal sources. Also, and this was the most interesting of all, we did manage to get some prints from around the bodies. There was a pattern, all clockwise. And whoever made the prints wore the victims' boots.”

Rachel felt a chill. The killer, or killers, was clever. “What about prints from the bodies?”

“Nothing. The killer had to be wearing gloves. Whoever it was made sure not to leave any forensic evidence. The tool used to skin the men had a serrated blade, exactly like what a hunter might use. Jesus, that must have taken a while.”

“And the DNA?”

“Still waiting on that, Rachel.”

“Thanks, Gus. You guys make a tough job a little easier.”

“Put that in writing and send it to my boss. Documentation never hurts at raise time.”

She hung up and spent the rest of the morning checking with law enforcement agencies around the country for similar crimes. She ran the exact method of murder through VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It was a long exercise that yielded no match, so she ran background on John Henry James. His cabin was so far back in the wilderness that it would be faster to trailer in a four–wheeler than walk it. She'd wait until the next day to talk with him.

She'd just started an Internet search on militant anti–hunting groups when Jake walked in. He put a folder on her desk. “This is a list of the most wanted poachers in the area. I'll give you all the help I can, Rachel.”

He waited for her to open it. At the top of the list was Hank Welford, followed by about thirty other names.

“I think Hank is one of the dead men.” Jake sat on the corner of her desk. “We could never catch him with the goods, but every game warden in the state and along the Montana border has been after him.”

“I know who he is.” Rachel had seen him drinking in Bud's, bragging about his prowess as a hunter and guide for rich doctors and lawyers from the East who came to bag trophy game. As far as Rachel was concerned, the world would be a better place without Hank Welford. Even so, she meant to find the person or persons who'd killed him. “What makes you think one of the dead men is Hank?” She waved the list. “Could be any of them.”

“Several of his buddies remember the snake tattoo on his left pec. I described it to them, and I'm pretty sure it's him. We can get one of them to ID the body. Hank doesn't have any next of kin, as far as I can tell.”

“They remembered the tattoo for you.” She stood up. She wasn't angry at Jake, she was annoyed at the fact that she'd been blown off because she was a woman. “Thanks, Jake. An ID on one body would help.”

“Want to grab some lunch?” Jake asked.

“I've got something to do.” She picked up her purse, knowing that the tiny air of mystery would get under his skin.

“Need some help?” He stepped back to allow her to walk in front of him. Jake always had excellent manners.

“No, I can handle this on my own.” She walked out the door without looking back. Hell would freeze over before she admitted she had to go shopping. 

# # #

Rachel held the sales slip in her hand, hesitating. At last she wadded it up and threw it in the trash in the kitchen of her small cottage.

She was exhausted from the intensity of her day. A search of Hank's cottage had yielded nothing except the fact that he was a slob and careless with the records of his poaching trips. She'd turned over a notebook to Jake that might yield some impressive arrests for trafficking in exotic animals.

Yet there was still the party she had to attend. She held out the cocktail dress, examining it once more before she pulled it from the hanger and stepped into it. Her mother had always adored shopping, and a new dress was an occasion for a party. Rachel had never developed such fondness for clothes. In fact, she seldom thought about what she was wearing, which made the uniform a real pleasure.

She was going to this party because the debts incurred during her teen years demanded a certain type of payment. This act wouldn't even dent the karmic IOUs she owed Mel Ortiz. An eight–foot brick wall had separated the trailer park where she'd grown up from the nice subdivision where the Ortiz family lived. Mel—and Jake—scaled that class barrier again and again to look out for her.

She licked her lips, the taste of lipstick unfamiliar. The saleswoman at the only cosmetic shop in Criss County had taken pity on her and done her make–up and even twisted her hair into an elegant look. Rachel was ready for Jake to pick her up.

The rumble of her stomach reminded her that breakfast had come and gone hours before. She'd spent her lunch hour finding a suitable dress. In the kitchen, she glanced at the clock, an old frying pan that her mom had “made” during one of several therapeutic craft marathons at church–supported homes for addicts. In her various attempts to kick her addictions, Junie had made clay vases, painted the praying hands of Jesus, and glued colored macaroni montages. But the clock had been Junie's favorite, because it had a purpose.

Rachel stared at it. The minute hand jumped forward on a whir, paused, then lurched forward again. Junie had been so proud of the damn clock, proud of herself for staying clean for two weeks. But she'd gone back to using, back to working the streets.

Rachel tried to shake free of the past. It was time to get a move on. Jake would be there to get her. The clock showed seven on the dot.  

The clearest image of her mother came back to Rachel with visceral force. This time Rachel was older, and Junie stood in the kitchen of the trailer. She wore a red dress that emphasized her figure, three–inch heels, and the makeup she artfully applied to look like a movie star from the 50s. Behind her the frying pan clock showed seven on a Friday night in July, ten years before.

“You stay inside, Rachel,” Junie said. “Lock the door as soon as I leave.”

“Where are you going?” The anger in the teenager's voice echoed back to her through the years. “I'm hungry. There's nothing to eat in the house. You can't go out and leave me with nothing to eat and no money to get groceries.”

“We'll go shopping tomorrow. I have a date. Lock the door and do your homework.”

“Mama, don't go.” Even at sixteen, Rachel had recognized the widened pupils, the fluttering hands, the constant swallowing. “Mama, there are people who can help you.”

The slap had been so hard that Rachel had spun onto the sofa. When she turned back, her mother was gone. There was only the lingering trail of cheap perfume.

And that had been the last time Junie Redmond had been seen alive. Her body was found the next morning in a dumpster on the edge of Rapid City. She'd died of an overdose. 

The ring of her cell phone nudged Rachel out of the memory. She answered it mechanically.

“Deputy Redmond, you might want to come and take a look at this autopsy report.” Charlie Newman, the coroner, was chewing into the telephone as he talked.