Dead Guilty

indeed.’’ He nodded. ‘‘And you also work crime scenes. That’s an odd combination.’’
‘‘Yes, it seems that way to me sometimes.’’
‘‘Is there anything you can tell me about the bod ies?’’ he asked.
‘‘One of the victims has long, fine blond hair. The other two have dark brown straight hair. That’s not necessarily a defining characteristic, but I believe all three are Caucasian.’’
Elwood Jefferson shook his head. ‘‘I didn’t get a look at the hair. All I could see was those necks. Who would do such a thing?’’
‘‘That was my reaction too,’’ the sheriff said. ‘‘But Dr. Fallon tells me that’s a natural outcome of hanging by the neck for a long time in dry weather.’’
Jefferson raised his eyebrows. ‘‘Is that so? I’ve never heard of that. That’s a relief.’’
‘‘I’ll have to ask you not to talk about the crime scene to anyone,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘We don’t really know who or what might be involved here.’’
‘‘You can rely on me. You’ll tell me if anything changes in the identification of these poor souls.’’
‘‘We won’t hide the identities—you don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got no interest other than get ting to the bottom of this.’’
‘‘And tell your deputy that we’ll pray in church for the families of those victims just like we would if they were black.’’
‘‘Leon can be a lot like Boden Conrad.’’
‘‘Boden’s just looking out for justice.’’
‘‘I could say the same about Leon.’’
The sheriff walked Elwood Jefferson back. Diane stayed, looking toward the murder site, her eyes fol lowing the sheriff and the pastor as they disappeared through the underbrush.
She watched them, but her mind was trying to grab hold of the killer’s thoughts. He had to know the area. He must have known he could come and go without being seen and be here for as long as he needed to hang three victims. Or was it four? How familiar was he with this place? Was he from here? Had he hunted here?
All the bodies were in the same state of decay. He’d probably killed them at the same time. That could have taken anywhere from half an hour to half a day. She tried to remember if she’d heard or read about murders involving multiple victims at one time.
Why hanging? That seemed like very risky business. Of the many methods of killing a person, hanging is one of the most difficult.
She’d been thinking about one killer, but there may have been more than one. More than one killer would have made the task a lot easier.
What would be the killer’s motive? Were the hang ings a message? A warning? Maybe it was a hit of some kind. Her mind flashed for a moment to the St. Valentine’s Day massacre. Gang warfare? Not likely. Not here.
All three bodies were dressed the same. Did that have any special meaning? Did they work at the same place, belong to the same group, or were they dressed the same by the killer? For what reason?
‘‘What I need is a victimology,’’ Diane whispered.
For that she needed to know who they were. She doubted the bodies would have driver’s licenses, credit cards or other identification on them, but there could be enough skin left on the hands to get fingerprints. If the sheriff was lucky, he wouldn’t need her profes sional specialty to identify them.
Diane looked down the path in the other direction, away from the crime scene. There were spots where the trees grew so close together that a truck or SUV would have a tight squeeze. She followed the trail of the vehicle, inspecting the ground, the brush and the trees. The first narrow spot showed no sign of damage, but from where she stood she could see a light-colored gash on a tree ahead.
She was hoping for paint flakes or something scratched off the side of the killer’s vehicle, but the gash appeared to be the result of a section of bark and wood cut out with a saw.
Could be the killer sideswiped the tree and stopped to cut out the evidence, leaving no paint to match up with his vehicle. Diane took an orange marker flag hanging from her belt and pushed the wire holder into the ground next to the tree.
She continued along, looking for more tight squeezes and surveying the ground, looking for any thing.
About a quarter of a mile farther, she came to a rough dirt road filled with ruts and rocks the size of cantaloupes. In one direction the road was heavily overgrown with tall weeds growing down the middle. Erosion scars were deep and