Stranded

perfect view of the grounds. Maggie took it all in, assessing how large the property was. It would be an overwhelming task to start digging it up. And that didn’t count the woods and riverbed behind the property. She knew Tully was thinking exactly what she was.
    “How many other bodies do you suppose are here?” he finally asked.
    “We could be wrong about this being a dumping ground.”
    “I’ll ask Alonzo to send a canine cadaver team,” Tully said as if he hadn’t heard her.
    “I don’t think the sock belonged to the victim.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It looked new, too clean.” She noticed that the sock still had a crease across the bottom, like it had just come out of a package. No way it had been in a shoe and still had that pronounced a crease.
    “Wasn’t there a body found just recently wearing orange socks?” Maggie asked.
    “An FBI case?”
    “No, not one of ours.” Maggie tried to remember. For some reason she could see another body, orange socks, a wooded area … and then she realized where. “On television,” she said. “There was a TV reporter who led Virginia State Patrol to a body in the woods. Do you remember seeing that?”
    Tully pushed up his glasses and rubbed his temple. “I try not to watch any reality cop shows.”
    “It wasn’t a prime-time show. It was on the news. Maybe three or four weeks ago. The reporter said he was directed to the site by a tip. I can’t remember if there was an eyewitness.”
    “You think the two are connected?”
    Maggie didn’t believe in coincidences. And now she wondered if the bastard had gone out and bought orange socks? Could the socks be his signature? But she couldn’t remember Gloria Dobson wearing any socks at all when her body was discovered.
    “Ask Agent Alonzo to check the database for orange socks,” she said. “And have him find out as much as he can about the woman found in Virginia.”
    He jotted notes on a scrap of paper.
    “The skin looks like it hasn’t even started to decompose,” Tully said. “How long ago do you think this one was?”
    “Standard rate of decomposition is one week in the open air. Two weeks in water. Up to eight underground.”
    “I hate that you know that stuff off the top of your head.”
    Maggie smiled. It wasn’t a trait she was proud of. Not only did she remember such gruesome trivia but she could store and retrieve it at will.
    Just then the ripped piece of plastic flapped open in the breeze. It was enough for Maggie to see movement inside the bag. She felt a cold sweat and she grimaced. And what was worse, Tully noticed.
    “Maggots,” she said through clenched teeth and it came out in almost a whisper. She hated maggots. “That speeds up the rate.”
    Had the killer ripped the bag on purpose, knowing that maggots would make it more difficult to identify the body?
    “We need to get a mobile unit out here before dark,” Tully said.
    Maggie glanced at the men below. It was human nature for these guys to share today’s discovery. “And some extra security,” she added.
    “I’m on it.” Tully pulled his cell phone out of his trouser pocket as he started to skid down the pile.
    Maggie stayed put. By now the smell didn’t bother her and she kept from glancing at the flapping plastic. Instead she continued to survey the property. The sheriff had said the previous owner had died ten years ago. Had the property been vacant the whole time? And if so, how did the killer know? Did he just stumble upon such good fortune or did he have a connection to this place?
    The sun blazed down now. All the clouds had left. The temperature stayed cool but at least they wouldn’t need to worry aboutmore rain. Something caught her eye, the sun glinting off glass. The farmhouse was about one hundred feet away but something made her look its way.
    Maggie’s heart skipped a beat.
    She put her hand to her forehead to shield out the sunlight. Certainly she was mistaken, and yet she made her way down to ground level, keeping her eyes focused on the house.
    “Sheriff,” she said, coming around the trench, walking to his side to avoid raising her voice. “Does anyone have keys to the house?”
    “The property’s executor does. He should be here soon.”
    “Can you call him and see how close he is?”
    “You mean right now?”
    “Yes, now. And we need to move these men back over to the outbuildings. Slowly. Make sure they don’t rush.”
    “You mean right now?”
    “Yes.”
    She left him