snakebyte: book 5.0 in the Byte Series (The _byte series)

  snakebyte

  Cat Connor

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2013 by Cat Connor

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by any means, without permission.

  Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  ISBN-10: 1484827767

  ISBN-13: 978-1484827765

  Acknowledgments.

  Special thanks to Eric Gosse and Doug Wittrock for their medical expertise and for helping me get it right and Action Man for vetting, querying, and making me think about why.

  For all the themed dinners, wine, and laughter (such fun) - massive thanks to Chris and our kids, Rosanne, Megan, Anna, Dave, and Carolyn.

  Big thanks to Jayne Southern at Rebel ePublishers.

  For Sue,

  For whom there are always chickens …

  “I have learned two lessons in my life: first, there are no sufficient literary, psychological, or historical answers to human tragedy, only moral ones. Second, just as despair can come to one another only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings.”

  - Elie Wiesel.

  Chapter One

  On the edge of a broken heart.

  I tripped over a tequila bottle on my stumble to the bathroom. Light streamed through the window hitting my eyes with its full force. I winced. The morning was going as well as could be expected considering the empty tequila bottle. A long hot shower improved things enough that I could clean my teeth without throwing up.

  The phone in my room rang as I emerged from the steam.

  I threw two aspirin into my mouth and swallowed fast before they made me gag, ignored the phone, picked up the empty tequila bottle and went down stairs. Drinking alone in my bedroom, that’s a new low. I placed the bottle in the recycling bin outside the backdoor with utmost care.

  No sudden movements or loud noises.

  ‘Fragile’ best described my condition.

  Self-inflicted is another way of putting it.

  The lid on the bin closed. I opened it again and peered inside. I counted four tequila bottles. Four. They were on the top and clearly visible. The bin was over three-quarters full of empty bottles, both wine and tequila. Not good. Seems I’d been drinking myself into a stupor for quite some time.

  No wonder I felt so ill.

  I headed to the kitchen and made coffee.

  The kitchen phone rang. I ignored it. The coffee maker grumbled, hissed and spat. I leaned on the kitchen counter and stared at the flashing amber light on the phone while the smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the room.

  Coffee.

  The amber flashing light taunted me.

  Somewhere down the hall, I heard my cell phone.

  “I’m not fucking home!” I hollered into the empty house. My fingers dug into my temples trying to work away the headache that spiked shards of glass into my skull with my yelling. “Oh God,” I groaned. “Never again.”

  The phone on the counter rang again.

  “Shut up!”

  My hand flew out and smacked it. The phone fell and smashed onto the floor. Pieces of phone bounced across the tiles and pain soared through my head.

  “I said shut up and I meant it.”

  My cell phone started up again. I poured my coffee and went to my office. From the shelf above my desk, I took a pair of sunglasses and put them on. There was a bottle of aspirin on the shelf. I took two more with my coffee. The message light on my office phone flashed. Every phone in the house held messages and all alternated between ringing and flashing. I sipped my coffee and pressed the power button on my laptop while I considered sitting at my desk.

  I tried my chair. It felt normal. I set my coffee on the left of my laptop. It felt normal. Absently my right hand pressed the message button on the phone.

  The robotic voice announced, “You have seventy-five messages.”

  “Seventy-five,” I whispered to the computer.

  It didn’t care. The screen changed. Skype signed in automatically. An orange square flashed in my task bar. Twenty-six Skype messages. A quick right click and ‘quit Skype’ got rid of that problem until next time I fired up the laptop.

  The phones down the hall started ringing again.

  Being a sucker for punishment, I clicked on my email program icon. I finished my coffee before the hundreds of emails finished downloading. Glancing at the subject lines as I scrolled told me all I needed to know.

  Everyone was sorry for my loss.

  Fuc’n awesome.

  Didn’t bring her back. Didn’t make it go away. Didn’t help at all.

  The date at the bottom of the screen caught my eye. It was confusing. My last real memory was the second week of April. The computer said it was now late May.

  Where had I been?

  I pulled open my drawer. My gun, a paddle holster, my badge, handcuffs in their black leather case, my belt. My life, or at least the bit that made sense.

  With a shove, the drawer slid shut, paused, and then bounced open again.

  I lifted my holster and gun then laid them on my desk. I unfurled my belt. The badge fitted beautifully into my shirt pocket.

  The phone rang. My hand hit the speaker button without conscious thought on my part.

  “Conway,” I said.

  “You all right?” Kurt replied.

  “That’s the question you’re going with?” I asked, deleting a bunch of emails.

  “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “Me neither.” I stood up, and threaded my belt through the loops on my jeans and fastened the buckle. I slid the holster into place. Life felt a little more normal as I pushed my gun into the holster.

  “You are coming into work today?”

  “Yes.”

  That was the plan when I stumbled out of bed and it hadn’t changed.

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ve got time for another coffee.”

  “Good. I need it.”

  There is a good chance I’d fail a breathalyzer. That wouldn’t go well. I hung up. The amber light still flashed telling me I had messages. I hit the reset button. It was a better option than having to delete the messages one by one. I didn’t want to hear them; I just wanted them gone.

  The decision to go back to work was easy because it was nine times better than rattling around an empty house with tequila as my new best friend. I gave alcoholism the old college try but it was a fail. Time to pull my shit together and face the world.

  Chapter Two

  Sympathy.

  Three hours after arriving at the office, I was in the field investigating the latest of a series of murders in Rock Creek Park. Work mode encompassed me. Nothing else mattered. It felt good to be useful. Better than feeling nothing.

  The sun settled just above the trees that hung over the stream. Rays bounced off slick rocks and into my eyes. Sunglasses didn’t help; the sun’s rays attacked from odd angles. A tired and distraught man stood in front of me. I squinted, trying to see him with more clarity, then offered my hand.

  “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Ellie Conway.”

  We shook briefly. His manicured nails and soft palms suggested he didn’t do a lot of outdoor work.

  I indicated the tall muscular man on my right. “This is Senior Spe
cial Agent Sam Jackson.”

  Sam stepped up and pumped the man’s hand firmly. “We’re very sorry for your loss, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lee attracted my attention with a quiet cough as he approached from behind us. “Excuse me,” I said to the man. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Alex Creswell,” he replied. He was pale and shaken, exactly what I’d expect of someone who came across a loved one’s body.

  I turned to see Lee. “You need me?” I asked.

  “I’ve been talking to some park rangers. You might like to join us when you’re done.”

  I nodded at Lee.

  “Mr. Creswell, this is Senior Special Agent Lee Davenport. Now you’ve met most of my team, I’ll leave you with Agent Jackson for a moment,” I said. “I need to have a word with Agent Davenport.”

  I stepped away and Lee followed. We moved out of earshot and kept our backs to Sam and Alex Creswell.

  “What’s up?”

  “Bird poop.”

  “Pardon?”

  Lee sighed, his shoulders slumped as if it was hard work. “The ranger found bird shit on the body.”

  “We’re in the woods.” I failed to see any relevance to bird poop. From what I could tell by the state of the roofs of our cars, there were many birds in the woods. Many pooping- squawking-dive-bombing-car-dirtying birds.

  He nodded. “They also noted hair pulled from the back of the scalp.”

  “Okay, so a bird shat on the woman and pulled out some hair … you might want to put a BOLO out.” I knew a smirk lurked on my lips but was powerless to control it. There it was, the image of Lee asking law enforcement in the area to be on the lookout for a bird. “Do they know what sort of bird? Catbird? Sparrow? Cock-a-fucn-too?”

  “I hate delivering messages,” Lee grumbled.

  “Is the bird a witness or an accomplice? Are we looking at a bird for murder?”

  Lee growled then griped, “I wish it was Sam who’d talked to the Rangers. They said it was a biggish bird. I’m guessing not a sparrow.”

  “What about the other victims? Do they recall any other bird evidence?”

  “One reckons he saw bird poop on one other body for sure.”

  “You see how much more info those Rangers can dredge up. We’re going to need to review the autopsy report.” I adjusted my tone to contain my amusement. “And any forensic reports with regard to bird excrement and missing hair. I’ll go back to Mr. Creswell.” I could not prevent a spreading grin. “Amazing, you told me about bird shit without flinching, I am in awe. You’re an incredible man.”

  “I know, I know. The bird shit will haunt me almost as much as screaming tweenies.”

  Lee and I smiled at each other; good times. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he headed back across the parking lot toward the nest of police cars.

  “Hey, find Kurt will you?” I called after him. I hadn’t seen Kurt since he brought me into the office. Unless things had changed during my absence, his disappearance was unusual. We kept tabs on each other. Close didn’t begin to describe my team.

  My team. Yet I felt like an outsider. It was as if the world had moved on and I couldn’t catch up.

  He waved an acknowledgement of my request.

  Rejoining Sam and Creswell, I hoped that all signs of my amusement regarding the bird poop were well gone from my face.

  I began with an apology, “I’m sorry, we’ve got a lot people working this case and a lot going on here.”

  Creswell’s face crumpled inward. He was close to tears. Interviewing someone after a murder was always hard.

  “I’d like you to tell me what happened. Take your time,” I said with a soft yet firm tone.

  I really wanted to know what it was that caused him to end up about five minutes behind his girlfriend on the trail. It seemed odd that she’d gone on alone. Creswell was the last person to see Jennifer Blanchard alive. This made him a person of interest in this case.

  Jennifer’s death made this the fourth strangling incident in Rock Creek Park in six months. As far as we could tell so far, none of the victims knew each other.

  Sam took notes as Creswell spoke.

  “We were on a day hike. Not carrying much except for jackets, and daypacks. We started out early. It was eight when we left our car.” He paused as his eyes looked past me.

  “Did you see anyone on the trail?”

  He shook his head.

  “Were there many cars in the parking lot?”

  “I think four, including ours, but we didn’t see anyone.”

  I looked around the area we stood in. We were in the parking lot. It was now full of emergency vehicles. Some hiker’s cars remained. “Are any of the cars still here?”

  Creswell scanned the lot. He pointed out his car, and two others. I asked two uniformed officers to take a closer look.

  “So you saw no other people in the parking lot or on the trail?”

  “That’s right,” Creswell agreed. “We walked for over an hour before taking a break. It was quiet and I figured still too early for most people.”

  “You stopped, ate?”

  “Yes, we ate a snack each, apples.”

  “Were you talking as you walked?” I wanted to get a sense of the moment.

  “We were planning our wedding. This hike was so we could plan undisturbed and hash out what we wanted, as opposed to what our respective families wanted.”

  “Seems like a smart move.” Could’ve also been a volatile discussion, wedding planning caused more fights than I cared to think about. High stress, everyone trying to please everyone else, money, in-laws. Would be easy for things to get out of control.

  “Was there much stress regarding the family’s opinions on the wedding?”

  He pursed his lips. “Yes. We decided this morning to dump the whole thing and elope.”

  “While you were walking?”

  “Yes. Jennifer and I planned to fly to Vegas this evening and get married.”

  That certainly indicated high stress.

  “Whose idea was the Vegas wedding?”

  “Ours. We both launched the same thought at the same moment,” he replied, then quietly added. “We were like that … likeminded.”

  “What distracted you this morning? Why did you fall behind on the trail?”

  He stiffened. His shoulders squared then slumped. “I heard something. I thought it was an animal, and then I thought maybe it was a child. Something was making distressed sounds in the woods.”

  “And Jennifer didn’t hear it?”

  “She did, but said it was probably a bird or animal. She wanted to get to the top of the ridge before lunch.”

  “And you?”

  “I thought I could have a quick look, and if it was someone or something in trouble I’d call a ranger.”

  “You carried cell phones?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s cell reception like here?”

  “Patchy,” he replied. “I could make emergency calls only when I found … when I found, Jennifer.”

  I nodded. Lucky he could manage to do that.

  Turning to Sam, I asked, “Was Jennifer’s cell phone recovered?”

  “No.”

  Back to Creswell. “So you investigated the noise?”

  “I ended up off the trail and pushing through some dense bush. I guess I walked about three hundred yards and then a big black bird lifted off from a branch and swooped at me. It talked.”

  “Talked?”

  “It sounded like it said ‘good morning.’ Then flew away, toward the trail.”

  Sam spoke, “A crow?”

  “I thought so at first but I think it was bigger than a crow. It was big and black.”

  I made a mental note to talk to a ranger about ravens and crows. Crows are all over Northern Virginia but I don’t recall seeing ravens very often. Also, we’re in DC, and I don’t remember seeing many crows here.

  “Could that bird have made the noises you heard
?” A weird turn of events but not surprising.

  “I think it did, the noises stopped and I headed back to catch up with Jennifer …” he replied, his voice shaking as he neared a fresh terrifying memory.

  “How long were you apart, timewise?”

  “About ten minutes I think. It wasn’t long. I ran to catch up and …”

  “You saw no one at all?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anyone or anything else that seemed out of place?”

  “A whistle, but I thought it was that bird.”

  Or someone calling the bird, after it acted as a decoy. The thought struck me as peculiar and yet possible. It was also smart; provide a decoy to attract the attention of at least one person, and kill the one who stays on the path. I guess the Unsub could just as easily kill the person who veered off in search of the noises. Sick but smart. Could there be two Unsubs? Or did he choose his victim early then set the decoy? Maybe following them up the trail, or paralleling them, close enough to hear and select the weakest person.

  “Sam, find out if anyone else out here today has reported strange noises, a big black bird, or hearing whistles, will you, please?”

  “Already made a note.”

  Excellent. I was tempted to voice Lee’s findings regarding the bird, but this wasn’t the time. I still had more to hear.

  I faced Creswell again. He was fidgety; I guess he knew what my next question would be. “Tell me what happened when you found Jennifer.”

  “She was face down on the ground, her pack was gone. I called her name but she didn’t move. She wasn’t breathing.”

  “Okay, now what happened next?”

  “I rolled her over and felt for a pulse while I made a nine-one-one call. The operator talked me through CPR. I knew it already … I do my certificates every two years but I’ve never done it for real.”

  Doing CPR for five minutes on a dummy to get a certificate was nothing like doing it for twenty or more minutes on a person who needed it. The physical exertion alone was unbelievable. His body would be feeling it tomorrow.