Murder in the Mist by Loretta C. Rogers Page B

the dirt covered maggoty remains of a white liver-spotted spaniel. He continued sifting away dirt. A cat. Then another, until no more bodies were unearthed. The animals lay neatly side by side.
    Cole leaned forward. “This looks like some kind of ritual burial.”
    Mitch grabbed a slender dowel from the crime bag. He lifted the head of one of the cats. “I want to take these back for Dr. Musuyo to examine. I have a hunch their necks were broken.”
    Ranger Dorsey grimaced. “You mean…by a person?”
    “Yep.”
    Dorsey grimaced. “Sick. That’s just plain sick.”
    Cole said, “What’s going on, Mitch? You’re not telling me something.”
    “You’re right. I’m not.” He went on to explain about the skeleton Laura had accidently stumbled across out on the island. “The bones were intact, but old. Dr. Musuyo figures about ten years, but here’s the thing: The cause of death—broken neck.”
    A brief frown showed on Cole’s face, then disappeared. “Get out of here. Unbelievable. And you think if these animals died of broken necks there might be a connection?”
    “It’s a long shot, but, yeah, that’s my theory.”
    Mitch used his phone to take picture after picture of the perimeter, of the inside of the hole, of the alignment of the bodies. After bagging them, he said, “Spread out. We’ll walk the area. Look for anything out of the ordinary—broken twigs, mashed-down brush, hopefully a footprint, and even better, a torn strip of clothing. Keep a sharp eye out.”
    Cole stood a good thirty feet away from Mitch, walking soundlessly around the fringes of the forest, with Dorsey the same approximate distance from Cole. For two hours they walked seamlessly in a grid pattern, slowly and methodically dissecting each inch of the area for that one clue which would magically connect a ten-year-old human skeleton and the recently dead animals.
    If such a thing existed.
    Mitch stopped and turned once more, frowning in spite of himself. He wanted to know who had buried these bodies, and if the animals’ broken necks were pure coincidence. The area was sheltered, the thick canopy of trees making the path invisible at night. He gave an impatient sigh. “Nothing. Not even a broken twig.”
    Turning and walking back to where he had left his crime kit and the black polyurethane body bag, he picked up the bag with its contents. Cole lifted the kit, while Dorsey led the way until they reached the 4x4 utility vehicle.
    At the main parking lot, Mitch thanked the two rangers. “For now, keep this under wraps. There’s no need to cause a stir where one might not exist. Either way, I’ll keep you updated.” He placed the black bag inside the trunk.
    Seated behind the steering wheel, and before leaving the parking lot, he phoned Dr. Ken Musuyo.

Chapter Fourteen
    Ken Musuyo used a scalpel to slice through the black bag. He spoke into a tape recorder as he lifted the neck of each animal. “Liver-and-white spotted spaniel or spaniel-type canine, cause of death—broken neck. Calico feline—broken neck.” He moved to the next cat, and felt from behind the head and down the spinal cord. “Grey striped feline—broken neck.”
    He looked at Mitch. “Do you recognize the calico?”
    “Don’t tell me it’s Mrs. Cruex’s old cat, the one I’ve twice rescued from the tree in her front yard?”
    “I’m afraid so.” Ken turned the tip of the cat’s left ear to show the tattooed number.
    “Damn.”
    Ken pulled back the dog’s eyelid. “The dog was sick. From the lesions on the retina, I’d say distemper. Nadia Cruex’s cat was about nineteen years old. Without an autopsy, my guess is all of these animals were in various stages of infirmity which would make them easy to catch. The question is—what sick and twisted motive would anyone have for killing them?”
    Mitch stroked his chin. He was thoughtful for a moment. “In your medical opinion, do you think the broken necks on these animals have any connection to