Collecting the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

“And you reviewed this log and discovered … what?”
    “The log indicated that the car left its parking spot at one-seventeen A.M. and drove a couple miles to I-5, then south to Highway 90, where it headed east for about thirty minutes before turning off near North Bend. The GPS led us to a spot on Rattlesnake Mountain just west of North Bend, where the vehicle parked.
    “The suspect exited the vehicle and removed Ms. Moongood from the trunk—”
    “How do you know that?” Tully interrupts, cutting off an objection from the defense.
    “There were heel marks where he dragged her off the road, as documented in photos number thirty-two and thirty-three,” I say, indicating the pictures on display to my right. “He likely held her under the arms, faceup. If he held her facedown, her knees likely would have dragged, leaving additional marks. Plus, her toes would have left a wider drag than her heels.”
    Drag marks lined in lavender .
    “And where did those drag marks lead?”
    “To a spot less than thirty feet off the road, where both Ms. Moongood and her baby were found under a blanket covered in leaves and dead brush. That ended my involvement with the case.”
    Except for a single picture I snapped .…
    “Thank you, Steps.” Tully’s voice is monotone, still giving nothing away. Turning to the defense, he says, “Your witness.”
    Defense Attorney Robert Baumgartner glides silently across the floor and hovers in front of me, his used-car-salesman smile firmly in place and his slicked-back politician’s hair glistening. I can tell right away that he and I are not going to see eye to eye.
    “You must be an impressive tracker, Mr. Craig—”
    “Steps,” I say.
    “Right,” he replies with the smile-that-isn’t. “To track a man across concrete and gravel and a dozen other difficult surfaces, why, I’d imagine there can’t be too many trackers in the world capable of such a feat, am I right?”
    “You are.”
    “And most of these supposed signs you followed that day don’t even show up in the evidence photos. Why, I’ve had several professional man-trackers look at the photos, and none of them can see your signs.”
    “Objection,” Tully cries. “Lack of foundation.”
    “Sustained,” the judge replies, giving Baumgartner a withering look.
    “So how is it you can track across surfaces that others can’t?” he shoots at me.
    I shrug slowly— I can’t tell them everything, but I won’t be false . “There are always signs,” I say, “you just have to see them. If I touch the rail here next to my chair”—I place my hand upon the wood to demonstrate—“my fingers disturb any dust present; they leave minute traces of body oil and perspiration behind; they may even leave transfer, if, for example, I have mud or paint or blood on my hands.”
    “Come on, Mr. Craig! On concrete? On gravel? You’re stretching the limits of my very active imagination.”
    “Shoes leave scuff marks,” I say. “They displace gravel. They leave dirt and mud behind. Perhaps…” I leave the word hanging and can almost feel the jury leaning forward in their seats. “Perhaps, with the court’s permission, a demonstration is in order.”
    “We’re not taking the jury to the woods so you can point out boot prints in mud,” Baumgartner spits.
    “I didn’t say we have to go to the woods,” I snap back. “I can demonstrate right here, in this courtroom.”
    Baumgartner studies me silently for a moment, eyes searching for a trick, a trap, a hidden clause, and finding only my exaggerated smile hanging below bright, taunting eyes. It’s too much for him. Slowly, a smile seeps out from his tight mouth, spilling to the left cheek, then the right—a genuine smile this time. Like a circling shark, he smells blood in the water; what better way to discredit me than to have me fail in front of the jury?
    “I have no objection, if it pleases the court,” he says in a controlled voice.
    Neither does Tully.
    I