Kiss of Death

“We are in the digital age.”

I smile. “Quite.”

I’d like to flick through the file’s contents now, but I’m also eager to get to the crime scene. “I’ll check this out later.” I close the file but keep a hold of it. “Let’s head up.” I don’t want to keep the LAPD waiting any longer—not when they’ve invited us onto their turf.

We make a beeline for a lone cop who seems to be on point. He stands next to a flagpole and an American flag twitches in the slight breeze above him. Around this bitumen area stand large trees—firs, oaks and sycamores—as well as smaller shrubs and a very young willow tree. Extending up behind the cop is a steep hill.

We show him our ID and he waves us through. “Take the left-hand trail, ma’am, sir.”

We both thank him and follow his directions. Within three hundred feet we come to brown tourist signs indicating the different trails. We climb the couple of steps made from stone and take the left fork at the next round of trail signs, which tell us that the Temescal Ridge/Temescal Canyon trail is a 2.6 mile loop. So far the area is peaceful, but I know darkness waits for us. A woman has come to a grisly end at the hands of a murderer…or two…and it’s up to us to give her justice. I know it’s cliché but that’s still how I see my job—bringing justice to the dead.

“Do you know Detective Sloan?” I ask Rosen as we walk up the steady incline.

“Sure. She’s an old-timer. Did her stint in the Sheriff’s Department but couldn’t give up the chase.” He lets out a little laugh. “LAPD decided to give the old gal a second running.”

“Is she a fan of the Bureau?”

“I don’t think she’s particularly pro or anti. But she knows this case could be tricky. It’s certainly unusual.”

“I’ll say.”

Given the uphill and windy nature of the gravel trail, coupled with the dense brush, we could be a minute’s walk from the scene and wouldn’t necessarily see it. I tread carefully and keep to the main pathway so as not to disturb anything that may turn out to be evidence. I also keep my eye out for anything unusual. No point looking for footprints, because the area’s covered in them. If the perps left their own mark on the trail last night, they would just blend in with the hundreds of others. Hopefully there’ll be some more telling prints near the body.

We get to a bend in the pathway and take the turn. The path extends up for another three hundred feet in front of us to a ridge, where the trail turns again…but still no body.

I look up the hill. “Maybe it’s around the next bend.”

“Sloan said they’re in a clearing off the trail, but that we’d be able to see them from the main path.”

I nod and we keep moving upward. My heart rate increases slightly and I can feel my fatigued muscles working on the steep incline. On either side of the trail are smaller shrubs scattered amongst the trees. There are also several cacti dotted around the patches of vegetation. The path is obvious; however, it wouldn’t be that hard to move off the trail and through the denser brush.

Finally, at the next corner, I hear voices. It’s still hard to work out how far away they are, with the wind and mountain slope carrying the sound and distorting distance, but we’re close.

Both the victim and killer, or killers, probably came up this path. There’s only one way up, unless they hiked in from the neighboring Will Rogers State Park to the east or Topanga State Park from the north. But it’s much more likely they parked on the street somewhere, jumped the park’s nighttime barrier and made their way to the trail. The park is only open from sunrise to sunset, but I doubt the security is heavy.

“Who found the body?” I ask.

“One of the park rangers. They had a call at nine this morning from a resident who overlooks the park. He spotted what looked like torches around midnight last night and then lights again just after two. Called it in this morning.”

I look around for any houses that might have a good view. From here there are only a few houses in the distance to the east, too far away to see much.

Rosen’s starting to puff. “The ranger didn’t think much of it, but decided to check it out anyway. It was about ten when he found the body.”

Rosen called me around eleven, so things moved pretty quickly. An LAPD officer would have come down immediately to secure the scene and wait for the homicide detectives, Forensics and crime-scene photographers. The specialists would have arrived about 10:30 a.m., and the forensic pathologist from the coroner’s office probably only just beat us.

Within a few minutes I can see another row of houses in the distance—one of these homes must be our witness’s. I look around, taking in the surrounding area more closely. To the south is the ocean, and to the north, east and west are hills, some of which are claimed only by nature, while other slopes hold large residences or clusters of smaller houses. The views would be magnificent and I imagine it’s prime real estate. Certainly nothing I would ever be able to afford on a government salary. So, the witness saw into this clearing, saw activity, but did he see anything that will help us further? All the houses are too far away for the naked eye, but if the resident has binoculars or a telescope, he may have seen much more than I glimpsed in last night’s dream.

We round another bend and run into a hive of activity. Most are uniformed police officers from the LAPD, but I can also make out the forensic pathologist Belinda Frost from the coroner’s office and a few plainclothes officers. Only one female in plainclothes, presumably Sloan.

In her mid to late fifties, she wears her graying hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She’s about fifteen to twenty kilograms overweight, and well-defined lines across her brow, eyes and around her lips help me peg her age. She wears a well-cut navy suit, with pants that flare slightly at the ankle. The suit’s color brings out bright blue eyes and naturally rosy cheeks.

Rosen strides over to her. “Detective Sloan, nice to see you again.”

“You, too, Agent Rosen.”

Rosen introduces me.

“Ah, yeah. My head girl.” She taps her head.

“That’s me.” I smile and take her outstretched hand.

She gives me two firm pumps. “Thanks for coming out so quickly.”

“Thanks for calling us in.”

She gives me a forced smile. While some law-enforcement officers jump at the chance to get a helping hand from the FBI, others avoid us like the plague. Sloan requested Bureau involvement but it doesn’t look like she’s exactly overjoyed by our presence. She’s probably just covering all bases.

“So…there’s our gal.” She steps to one side giving us a view of the body next to Frost’s crouching figure. The victim looks to be in her late teens or early twenties and is slim but curvy—a fact accentuated by her nakedness.

Frost turns around. “Hi. It’s…Anderson, right?” She and I met at a conference six months ago.

“Yup. Agent Sophie Anderson.” She’s several feet away, so we give each other a nod rather than going in for a handshake.

“And good to see you, Agent Rosen. Out in the field, huh?”

Rosen shrugs. “Well, it was a nice day, and this case sounded intriguing.”

Frost nods. “It is.”

I move closer. “Any chance it’s just a simple snakebite?”

“Unlikely.” Frost stands up. “Snakes usually leave residual venom around the wound. I swabbed the area and my preliminary tests were clear. I’ll run full tests back in the lab to be sure, but at this stage it doesn’t look like we’re looking at a snake.”

“Was there any saliva?” Is DNA too much to ask for?

She shakes her head. “No saliva showed up under ALS, but we might get something from deeper inside the wound.”

Whether the murder was premeditated or an impulsive act, the killer may have had the good sense to wipe the girl’s wound clean of saliva—assuming she was, indeed, bitten as the fanglike puncture marks might suggest. Still, we might find something he missed, hiding in a crevice of the wound.

“Any sign of sexual assault?” Rosen asks.

“Rape kit was positive for semen, but at a guess I’d say we’re looking at consensual sex. No bruising or tearing. And no restraint marks.”

I nod, but I know it’s inconclusive. Rape comes in all shapes and sizes and just because her body doesn’t show signs of violent or rough sex, doesn’t mean it was consensual. A gun or knife to the head—or some other threat of violence—usually ensures the victim doesn’t struggle.

“Any defensive wounds?”

Frost squats back down and picks up the dead woman’s arm with a gloved hand. “We’ve got a few scratches on her arms, hands and face, but if she ran along this trail or in this area they’re probably from the tree branches rather than an attacker.”