Tortured Dreams Page 17

I stepped outside as men with gurneys filled the small, overly cramped cabin. Morning was in full bloom, light had blossomed over the clearing of death. The sun only seemed to provide light, not heat. My breathing was clearly visible in the cold morning air.

  My attention was directed at the ground. Hundreds of footprints, frozen in time, littered the mostly dirt clearing around the cabin. Some lead into the woods, some lead out of the woods. There were pairs, groups, and individuals. They circled the cabin. They lead down a narrow path that ended at a small shed like building.

  Their presence seemed as grotesque and out of place as ours. This was a forest, not a murderer’s lair. I could only identify a few sets of animal prints. They had either been lost under the human prints or they didn’t dare venture here.

  There were dozens of people milling around outside. They were chatting quietly or not speaking at all. Several held insulated cups that steamed in the harsh Illinois air. They watched the woods, not each other. They seemed prepared to divert anyone that came their direction.

  Lucas joined me on the porch. His breath steamed just as mine did. His breathing was steadier, deeper than my own and it was noticeable in the cold.

  He didn’t speak. His eyes followed the tracks on the ground. He traced their movements to and from, as I had done upon seeing them. I would have given anything to be able to read his mind at that moment.

  “One set of these tracks belongs to our killer,” he finally spoke. His voice was quiet and hushed, almost as if we were in a museum or a cathedral.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked in the same muted voice.

  “Because it has rained here for most of the last week. Last night, it suddenly froze. That means the tracks of every person who stepped in this mud-riddled wasteland has been preserved.”

  I nodded. His analysis seemed to be correct. It was a wasteland. At least, it was now. Two weeks ago it was probably just a cabin in the woods that local teenagers made out in and hunters caught in the weather sought refuge in. Now, it would be stigmatized, demonized. It would be infamous.

  “Not only our killer, but our victims’ as well. Their final steps have been immortalized, at least until the thaw.”

  “Very dark and gothic.” I told him.

  “Perhaps,” he nodded, “sometimes I can’t help it. I see the victims or what is left of them and unlike Xavier and Alejandro; I don’t have an off button. I’d like to think of them as just victims, but I see their lives too. It always touches me with a bit of sadness and melancholy. Life cut down, but something of them always remains. In this case, their last walk. Somewhere among these hundreds of prints are the prints of ten women who walked to their deaths. I think it is worth a little darkness and drama. Their killer had a touch of humanity. They weren’t barefoot in this terrible weather when they walked to their deaths. There aren’t any barefooted prints. Everyone who stepped in the mud had on shoes. So our victims must have had their shoes on when they walked here. This means they were given the grace and dignity of not being paraded here naked and barefoot.”

  I had nothing to say to that. His thoughts were too deep for me at that moment. I couldn’t sympathize with the victims. He could. I appreciated that someone could feel their horror and pain.

  “Our monster has a human streak, a redeeming quality that can be seen in something as tiny as footprints,” Alejandro joined us on the porch.

  “I am not sure I find that reassuring.” I admitted.

  “You shouldn’t,” Lucas told me. “Having a touch of humanity does not make up for what he did to them once he got them here. It just proves that he is human.”

  “Are you going to take casts of all the prints?” I asked.

  “What for?” Alejandro turned his dark eyes to me.

  “To compare.”

  “To what, Cain? We have no elimination prints. The ground was frozen this morning when our hunters found the bodies. It rained steadily for five days. There is no telling how many different sets of prints there are or who they belong to. I’m sure there are tracks from hunters and nature walkers and teenagers and our killer and his victims, but we will never figure out which prints belong to which person.” Alejandro left the porch.

  “Come here,” he was kneeling on the ground.

  I followed and knelt with him.

  “This is a smallish print, probably a woman, but it walks into the woods, not out of them. Furthermore, she was alone and she wasn’t here recently because her prints disappear under the prints of this one.” He pointed to another set of tracks.

  These tracks came out of the woods about half-way. They stopped. The prints where they stopped were deep. Then they turned and went back into the woods. The female prints Alejandro had just shown me disappeared under them.

  “This is probably a park ranger, judging by the boot. Male. These deep prints are where he stood, probably for several minutes, then he turned and went back towards the road.”

  “We’ll probably cast them, as many as we can, but they will go nowhere.” Lucas said joining us. “There are just too many of them and we have nothing to compare it to. If we had an idea of our killer’s shoe size, it would help. We can find our victim’s tracks, but we have the victims’.”

  Again I was left speechless. I stood and examined the scene. Alejandro continued to look at the tracks.

  “Here Cain,” he yelled to me.

  “What?” I asked, joining him.

  “Here are our victims’ footprints.” He stood, I knelt.

  I didn’t touch them. I could see a handful of smallish prints, frozen in the ground. Coming from a different direction and walking over top of them were another set of prints. They were much bigger, with deeper treads and a pattern that was meant for grip.

  “Hunters,” Alejandro said, pointing to a nearby tree.

  I followed the prints to where Alejandro stood. On the ground was some blood. Not much, but enough to know that something had died there.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “My guess, it’s what scared our killer out of that cabin and it’s part of the reason the tracks are useless.” He pointed to the tree.

  There was a small bullet hole in it. The bark had been ripped away. Blood was spattered on the tree. The difference between the bark and the living wood underneath was evident.

  “Analyze this,” Alejandro shouted to a crime scene tech.

  The tech came over. He put the blood on the end of a cotton swab and stuck it in some solution. A couple of seconds later, the solution turned green.

  “Not human,” the tech told us as he began digging the bullet out of the tree.

  “But it’s bow season,” I frowned.

  “Yes, but poaching knows no season.” Alejandro walked away from me.

  I watched him walk away from me again. This time, he went back into the cabin and began shouting at people. I had no desire to be in the crosshairs, so I stayed outside in the cold.

  “Our own master hunter there,” Lucas nodded towards the cabin. “Before he became part of this team, he worked on a reservation as something. He tracked people lost in the desert or the woods or wherever. He’s hunted just about everything and he has the heads on his wall to prove it. He doesn’t like poachers anymore than he likes serial killers.”

  I frowned at Lucas. Lucas frowned back.

  “He doesn’t seem to care about the tracks.” I told him.

  “No, I imagine he doesn’t. They aren’t that helpful. We can isolate the victims’, that’s about it. And there aren’t that many of them. They give us the direction they marched from, but that’s about it. Finding our killer’s tracks will be much harder. He probably lead them here, tied together with rope or something else. His tracks probably walk parallel to theirs, but as you can see, there’s another party here.” Lucas pointed at some tracks.

  “And another here,” Lucas pointed at a different set, “a
nd here.”

  Each “party” seemed to have different tread patterns. They moved in random directions. None of them seemed to move directly with the victims’.

  “What do you see?” Lucas asked.

  “Different treads.” I commented dryly.

  “These were made by a heavier man; see how they are deeper than the others in his group? These were made by someone with a limp.” He pointed to two sets.

  “I don’t see it; I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “Then take my word for it.” Lucas smiled at me, “I can give you that information, but Alejandro could give you even more.”

  Before we could continue the conversation, Xavier came out of the cabin. He was helping with a gurney. They were moving the bodies. It was time to leave the cold wasteland.

  Chapter 17