catching some air off a lip of snow, flakes spraying into the sky, sparkling in the sunlight. The paper was heavy-weight stock, like a magazine cover. The right edge was torn leaving three letters showing. STE. I turned the paper over. It showed another picture, two young couples at a restaurant table. They were well dressed. The table was elegant, with candles and large wine glasses. If this side had any writing, it had been on the left and was torn off.
I looked at Bains. “So Manuel had a picture from a brochure or something,” he said.
“Why would a fastidious guy crumple it up and toss it on the floor of his car?”
Bains shrugged. “No crime here that I can see. You can have it if you want.” He turned and signaled the tow truck driver. “Okay, Grady, all yours,” he said.
The driver winched the wreckage up onto the cargo bed. There was nothing left that resembled four normal tires on wheels, so the scraping and screeching of metal on metal was severe. Once in place, the driver leveled the cargo bed and secured the wreckage with cargo straps that were tightened by ratchets.
One of the deputies came up. “Sarge, we’ve got pics from pretty much every angle.”
“Did you check to see if the snow tracks had enough shadows to be easy to see?”
“Matt held the big light down low just to make shadows. See what you think.” The man held up the camera so that Bains could look at the screen. He pushed a button to scroll the photos.
“Looks good,” Bains said. “Okay, let’s gather up the cones and turn this land back over to the public.”
THIRTEEN
I stuck the ski photo and cigarette pack into my pocket and got back in the Jeep. Spot was subdued. As always, the lingering scent of deceased human was hard for him.
I often think of how hard it must be for Ellie Ibsen, the search-and-rescue trainer, and her dogs. To have a job finding missing persons would be great when the people turn up alive. But many times the dogs are brought in too late. In that situation, the dogs still perform the miracle of finding the victim, but the victim is dead. It’s the worst reward for a job well done.
The body had been removed before we arrived. Yet, even Spot’s limited experience with the smell of death made him sad. He leaned forward from the back seat, sticking his nose onto my clothes and the back of my neck, reaching down toward the pocket with the cigarette pack, perhaps looking for a scent that would suggest a happier ending. But he didn’t find it. As I drove back toward town, he lay down on the back seat and sighed, deep and long.
I didn’t want to give Joe Rorvik the news over the phone, so I headed back to his house. I let Spot out of the Jeep, thinking that he might be needed. As I knocked, I hoped that Joe wasn’t taking a nap. He answered after just a few seconds.
“Sorry about not calling first,” I said.
“You found out something.”
“Yes,” I said. “Okay if I come in?”
Joe nodded, once again put his hand on Spot’s back, and walked him into the living room.
When we were seated with Spot lying on the floor next to him, I said, “I’m sorry to tell you that Manuel Romero died early this morning.”
Joe jerked as if I’d hit him. His skin lost its color. His forehead wrinkled with stress. It was a moment before he spoke.
“How?”
“A car accident. He skidded off one of the switchbacks at Emerald Bay and went some distance down the mountain.”
Joe was shaking his head before I finished the sentence. “I don’t believe it,” he finally said.
“What don’t you believe?”
“That it was an accident.” Joe’s shock and pain were obvious. He was trying to focus on cause, pushing away the effect for a bit.
“I was there when they pulled up the car. It would be hard to imagine anyone surviving that kind of wreck. There was no other vehicle.”
“Somebody must have forced him off the mountain.”
“Why do you think that? Had Manuel been
I looked at Bains. “So Manuel had a picture from a brochure or something,” he said.
“Why would a fastidious guy crumple it up and toss it on the floor of his car?”
Bains shrugged. “No crime here that I can see. You can have it if you want.” He turned and signaled the tow truck driver. “Okay, Grady, all yours,” he said.
The driver winched the wreckage up onto the cargo bed. There was nothing left that resembled four normal tires on wheels, so the scraping and screeching of metal on metal was severe. Once in place, the driver leveled the cargo bed and secured the wreckage with cargo straps that were tightened by ratchets.
One of the deputies came up. “Sarge, we’ve got pics from pretty much every angle.”
“Did you check to see if the snow tracks had enough shadows to be easy to see?”
“Matt held the big light down low just to make shadows. See what you think.” The man held up the camera so that Bains could look at the screen. He pushed a button to scroll the photos.
“Looks good,” Bains said. “Okay, let’s gather up the cones and turn this land back over to the public.”
THIRTEEN
I stuck the ski photo and cigarette pack into my pocket and got back in the Jeep. Spot was subdued. As always, the lingering scent of deceased human was hard for him.
I often think of how hard it must be for Ellie Ibsen, the search-and-rescue trainer, and her dogs. To have a job finding missing persons would be great when the people turn up alive. But many times the dogs are brought in too late. In that situation, the dogs still perform the miracle of finding the victim, but the victim is dead. It’s the worst reward for a job well done.
The body had been removed before we arrived. Yet, even Spot’s limited experience with the smell of death made him sad. He leaned forward from the back seat, sticking his nose onto my clothes and the back of my neck, reaching down toward the pocket with the cigarette pack, perhaps looking for a scent that would suggest a happier ending. But he didn’t find it. As I drove back toward town, he lay down on the back seat and sighed, deep and long.
I didn’t want to give Joe Rorvik the news over the phone, so I headed back to his house. I let Spot out of the Jeep, thinking that he might be needed. As I knocked, I hoped that Joe wasn’t taking a nap. He answered after just a few seconds.
“Sorry about not calling first,” I said.
“You found out something.”
“Yes,” I said. “Okay if I come in?”
Joe nodded, once again put his hand on Spot’s back, and walked him into the living room.
When we were seated with Spot lying on the floor next to him, I said, “I’m sorry to tell you that Manuel Romero died early this morning.”
Joe jerked as if I’d hit him. His skin lost its color. His forehead wrinkled with stress. It was a moment before he spoke.
“How?”
“A car accident. He skidded off one of the switchbacks at Emerald Bay and went some distance down the mountain.”
Joe was shaking his head before I finished the sentence. “I don’t believe it,” he finally said.
“What don’t you believe?”
“That it was an accident.” Joe’s shock and pain were obvious. He was trying to focus on cause, pushing away the effect for a bit.
“I was there when they pulled up the car. It would be hard to imagine anyone surviving that kind of wreck. There was no other vehicle.”
“Somebody must have forced him off the mountain.”
“Why do you think that? Had Manuel been
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