With Cruel Intent (31 page)

said, looking around the room for the

forensics' specialist.

“Yup, right here.” The Sheriff

could see a hand sticking up above the

heads of the others at the back of the room;

they parted as Ricky wiggled his way

between them to stand at the end of the

table across from the big man. “Yeah, we

got a really good impression on the tracks

both right and left feet, but we are unable

to identify manufacturer or model from the

tread.”

Disappointed, 'The Wolf' inquired,

“And why is that?”

“Because there ain’t any,” Ricky

said, looking around to see if anyone

would snicker. “I believe The Stalker

filed the tread down to nothing to make it

impossible for us to identify them. There

is some good news though; we think we

can accurately identify the type of file that

he used. It’s not your typical file, like

you’d use on your lawnmower blade, but a

specific type that is used to file down the

hoof of a horse when they are being shoed.

It’s called a rasp; a farrier would use it to

prepare the horse’s hooves before the

shoes go on. These are common for the

profession and most farmers probably

have one but I think it’s quite likely that

we’re looking for a country person.”

The room spontaneously erupted

with applause and some scattered cheers.

“Finally something we can go on!” the

Sheriff approvingly said. Good work there

Ricky, I can tell you’ve done your

homework, well done. Okay, that gives us

something to work on, anything further on

the shoes?”

“Is it okay to talk about this

morning yet?” Ricky asked, “Cause I

already got the castings from this morning

done and we got a footprint.”

“You got a what?” the large man

asked, scarcely believing what he’d just

heard.

“I know it’s crazy! We got an

actual impression of the guys foot, right

foot to be exact. It fits perfectly with what

you thought happened last night when we

were at the scene. They got home, scared

him, and he had to make a hasty exit. We

weren’t able to get started with the

castings until this morning because of the

poor lighting out there but we got some

really good ones after the sun came up.

Should I go on?” he asked his boss.

“Hell yes, let’s hear it all.”

“Good, so we kind of expected

some more of those treadless imprints,

which we did find, but even those are

different.”

“How so?” the Sheriff asked.

“The sole is a different width and

the deflection of the angle from the heel to

toe is different than the first pair. Anyway,

back to the footprint. Let me tell you what

we think he does first. He climbs the

fence, all three places had fences if you’ll

remember, has his shoes on at this point,

then when he gets to the backdoor, he

takes them off, maybe he thinks it’s going

to be more quiet or something, but he

definitely takes them off and leaves them

outside on the porch. Last night in his mad

dash to get out of there, he doesn’t have

time to put them on, so he grabs them, runs

to the fence, throws them over along with

his stuff and then scales the fence in his

stocking feet.”

Ricky Dean was getting more

excited as he laid out the work that his

team had done that morning, and he’d not

gotten to the good stuff yet. He had a hard

time not just blurting it out but was

enjoying being the center of attention, if

only for a moment, in this important

investigation. He continued, reminding

himself to slow down and make sense,

“We know he was in his stocking feet

because the fibers we found inside the

house match some of those we found stuck

on the wood slivers on the fence, black,

wool stockings. We’re working on the

type of dye now that may give us the

manufacturer.”

“Damn good work, Ricky. Your

team is giving us some excellent

information

to

go

on. About

the

footprint....”

Ricky jumped in to tell the rest of

his findings, “Yeah, this is the best part, I

‘bout pissed myself when I saw it this

morning, right there at the base of the

fence just as clear as it could be. I think

it’s where he stood to throw the stuff over,

cause he would have come to a complete

stop, for just an instant, before he hurled

the stuff over, and in doing so put enough

force on the right foot to push it into the

dirt.” He stopped talking long enough to

demonstrate for the team what he was

talking about. Ricky motioned with his

hands for the other unit members to part

and give him a clear isle. He started from

the side of the room, took a couple quick

steps as if running, something in both

hands, stopped and went through the

motion of throwing the items over the

imaginary fence. As he demonstrated the

motion he explained, “If our perp is right

handed he would have stopped short of the

fence leading with his left leg and bracing

himself with the right. To get enough

leverage to throw over something heavy

he would shift his weight from the left

foot, to the right, and then back to the left,

as he followed through with the throw,

like this.” Again he confirmed his theory

by demonstrating it to those watching.

“We got lucky, I think the owner was

trying to fix a patch of sparse grass and

had put down a little topsoil and seed in

that particular area.”

“So we, I mean, the forensic bunch

of us, also think he’s right handed,” he

smiled, his mustache twitching ever so

slightly.

“Outstanding,

absolutely

outstanding! You’ve earned your pay this

week. Is everybody getting this? I don’t

see many pens moving take this stuff

down. I don’t want anybody out of the

loop,” the Sheriff instructed.

Ricky, however, wasn’t done; he

still had a couple of important cards up

his sleeve to play. “Okay, okay Sheriff,

there’s a bit more. So we, so we got the

casting of the foot, absolutely perfect, like

I said,” he was speaking so fast now that

he was tripping over himself.

“Ricky, slow down, for heaven’s

sake we’ve got time, just slow down and

tell us what you’re trying to say.”

He stopped, put both hands on the

table in front of him, and took a couple

deep breaths before he continued, “Thanks

Sheriff, I’m okay now, I’m okay. So we

know he threw the shoes over the fence,

right?” He paused, “The forensics God’s

were with us last night is all I can think.

We got the footprint, you’re gonna love

the way that set up, we’ll know exactly the

size of his foot right down to his bunions

and corns, but we also know he was

wearing Nike’s.”

“Ricky!” Deputy Guest interjected,

“How the hell can you tell what kind of

shoes he was wearing based on the

footprint? You’ve already said the tread

was no help.”

“This is so good I can’t believe it

myself,” he said. “You ready for this?

When he tossed the shoes over the fence,

the soil on the other side was just moist

enough from the humidity that it left an

impression where the shoes landed.” He

stopped talking and looked around the

room for effect. “The bag full of stuff left

a pretty big dent where it landed but the

shoes, one landed on the sole, so it was no

help, but the other landed heel down.” He

looked over his shoulder to the back of the

room. “Becky, you got that picture we

took out at the house this morning, the one

from the orchard?”

A stout woman stepped forward

taking some papers and pictures from a

file folder she held. She quickly rifled

through the material and extracted an 8x10

glossy photograph and handed it to Ricky.

Without saying a word he flicked the

photograph into the air, it spun, rotating a

couple of times before it drifted to a stop

in the middle of the large conference

table. There, staring back at them was the

undeniable impression of the Nike logo,

taken from the soft mud, just over the

fence of the latest victim’s home.

* * *

The Stalker’s drive from the

chapel to his house had been almost as

frantic as the run from the orchard. Sheriff

units had responded much quicker than he

had anticipated, causing him to drive thirty

miles out of his way, in a very indirect

path to his home. He was happy with the

haul and was anxious to see what was

hidden in the lockbox, but other than that

the ‘outing’ was a total pooch screw. He

was angry with his employers for pushing

him beyond what he had agreed to do,

each job was to be well laid out, planned

and methodical, with very little risk. He’d

just about got caught last night and was

sure there was ample evidence left in the

wake of his speedy exit. He wouldn’t be

doing another one of those again without

talking to ‘the man’ first, the cost of doing

business just got more expensive.

‘Rob’ gathered up his things, the

shoes, socks, anything that would have left

fiber evidence and walked down the trail

that led from his house to the fishing shed

where the 50 gallon drum was that he used

to burn garbage and evidence. Tossing the

items in, he doused them with gas and

ignited it with the strike of a match. He

stood looking into the flames for a moment

knowing that he’d have to give it a stir in a

few hours and ignite it again with another

liberal sprinkling of accelerant. Nothing

could be left to chance. Confident that the

materials would burn on their own for a

time, his attention was drawn back to the

strongbox and the unknown contents.

On the way back to the house he

stopped by the barn and grabbed a small

sledgehammer, perfect for delicate work

like he had in mind. There was not another

house within earshot so he didn’t worry

about the noise when he brought the

hammer down on the box for the first time.

Crash! The box bounced off the cement

slab he was using as a backstop, landing

on the grass. “Damn!” He lined up the

lock again and repeated the strike directly

on the face with the same result, but a

bigger bounce. It was much more durable

than he had first thought, a third and fourth

slam of the sledge did nothing but distort

the box’s shape but did not reveal the

contents. Frustrated he left the sledge on

the ground near the damaged container and

headed to the barn. A moment later he

returned, pulling a small, portable

acetylene torch.

He was careful not to heat up the

metal box to the point that paper items

inside would ignite but he used the torch

in conjunction with the sledge to persuade

the assembly to give up its contents. The

heavily damaged lockbox finally popped

open with one last swing of the hammer.

“Damn, lookie here! What we

got?” he said, looking at the items as they

gleamed back at him. It was obvious to

him that the wife kept the good stuff under

wraps and hidden away but the old man

had some nice things too. Two Rolex

cases sat at the bottom of the chest but

only one contained a watch. He continued

his

search

undiscouraged.

Lying

underneath the watchcases and the gems

was a rectangular package, folded and

wrapped like a Christmas present, but in

newspaper.

Rob’s

hand

shook

in

anticipation. He gently laid the other items

aside and pulled the bundle from the

bottom of the box. He had hoped a gold