Luckily, the medical examiner was right in Wellington, and we would be able to interview him and see the body in person. I was sure the ME was a male since his name was George. I’d never met a woman by that name and didn’t expect that I ever would.
We had a filling breakfast at the Waffle Stop. Mine was two waffles, hash browns, and a side of bacon, and Renz had the Doubler, which was the same breakfast as mine except twice as much. A carafe of steaming coffee topped off our meal.
Renz pushed back his sleeve and checked the time. “It’s eight fifty.”
We still had forty minutes before our meeting, and the medical examiner’s office was only eight blocks away.
“Want to go over things for a half hour?” I lifted the carafe, and it felt nearly empty. “I can get us a refill.”
“Yeah, let’s make a to-do list for today, then we can chat with Taft and the gang after our meeting with the medical examiner.”
“Works for me.” I pointed with my chin. “You get the carafe filled, and I’ll get my briefcase.”
“Deal.”
I was back at the table minutes later, opened my briefcase, and pulled out a legal pad and pen. Renz poured coffee for both of us as I tapped my pen against the notepad.
“What?”
“If this cattle-hauler theory is wrong, that means we have nothing.”
“It sure does, and that would suck, but unless the nutjob is caught in the act, it’s going to be tough to ever find him. He could even change his MO and bury the victims instead like you suggested yesterday.”
“What I’m wondering is where and how he gets those teenagers.”
Renz nodded. “Write that down. Keep in mind, they may not have been teenagers when he”—he made air quotes—“got them.”
“That’s even sadder. Who are those kids? They certainly can’t be his flesh and blood if they’re all around the same age.”
“And they don’t have physical similarities either. Black hair, blond hair, short, tall, light skin, and dark skin. But there is one thing they all have in common. They’re undernourished and in poor physical condition.”
I groaned. “Okay, we need to know the auction locations in relation to the driving route the killer took.”
“Yep, and where those kids could have possibly come from.”
“Orphanages don’t exist anymore, do they?” I asked.
“No, but you might be on the right track. What about shady adoption agencies or even ones that have been shut down in the past? There would be records of that, along with possible felony charges brought against the people who ran them, but we might be looking at something that happened five to fifteen years ago or longer.”
“Right.” I jotted that down. “We need to find out about the residue left in their shoe treads too. Even though only two sets of shoes have been sent to our headquarters so far, if the organic material matches exactly, then we can assume they all will.”
“Absolutely,” Renz leaned across the table, “and we need to find out what area of the country has that type of soil, rock, sand, grass, or anything else that might be pressed into the shoe tread. Then we can pinpoint the locations of the auction sites, which could actually give us the county the killer lives in. From there, we can find out what landowners have cattle ranches and an abundance of property. We’ll ask around the area. Somebody has to know which ranchers stay low-key and don’t allow people near their land.”
I wrote that down and grinned. “We could be making progress.”
“Hell yeah.” Renz caught the waitress’s attention. “Can we have the check, please?”
Once in the car, we headed to the building that housed the Sumner County Medical Examiner and Coroner, on North A Street. We would ask the same questions and listen to the same answers we’d gotten from the previous medical examiners. The victim we were checking on that day was a male, and from the photos included in the report, he might be Hispanic. If that was the case, then our theory of the victims being unrelated would hold true.
We arrived on time and introduced ourselves to Dr. George Kingston, the medical examiner. He looked around fifty, a gray-haired, twinkling-eye type of man. He seemed nurturing, and I instantly liked him. He said he was well aware of the other cases, so he made sure to be thorough with his report and his own ideas.
“You’ve read the other autopsy reports, then?” I asked.
“I have, Agent Monroe.”
“And do they all seem to follow the same pattern in your opinion?”
“Yes, as far as what is in the police reports. The autopsy reports are what caught my attention, though.”
Renz scratched his cheek. “In what way, specifically?”
“All five teenagers died around the same time, and the reports show as much, yet decomp was much more pronounced on the last ones found than on the first two, meaning the last three were with the killer the longest. That in itself can tell you the route he took.”
My eyes nearly popped out of my head. “So after comparing all the autopsy reports, in your opinion, which body was in the best condition?”
“The one found in Montana.”
“Bingo! Just so we’re not misunderstanding anything, you’re saying it’s more than likely that the killer began his route in Montana with all five bodies, dumped them as he drove, and the amount of decomp on each one will tell us his route?”
“Absolutely, without a doubt. The last body dumped would have the most decomp because it was in his possession the longest and not in a morgue’s cooler.”
“And the amount of decomp is described in the autopsy reports in layman’s terms?” I asked.
“Not exactly, but I’d be happy to send an email to you stating the degree of each victim’s decomp. That way, you’d know what state came first, second, and so on.”
“And definitely the body in Montana had the least amount of decomp?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Okay, good to know.” I wanted to jump out of my skin, but I needed to show some decorum. “May we take a look at the body now?”
“Right this way.”
Renz and I joined the ME in the far too familiar autopsy room, where the male body had been brought in for our view. Like the other two before him, he was covered to the neck with a white sheet. His feet extended beyond the end of the sheet, and a toe tag with John Doe written on it was attached to the large toe on his right foot. Like the male and female we’d already seen, he was young—less than twenty, I imagined—and with a small amount of patchy beard growth starting up. His skin was definitely darker than that of the other victims.
“Hispanic?” Renz asked.
“I’d say he’s Native American, which would also fit with Montana being the starting point for all of the teenagers. About six and a half percent of people living in Montana are American Indians. Of course, that may or may not mean anything. Who knows where those kids originally came from? Without names, fingerprints, or DNA in any database, they’re unidentifiable.”
I huffed. “Right, except for the brand each one is wearing.”
“Ah yes. The brand. That’s more than disturbing.”
We rounded the table with Dr. Kingston and walked to the young man’s left side. The doctor lifted the sheet to show us the brand, the same one we’d seen twice before.
“Would you say this was done with a branding iron meant for cattle?” I asked.
“It’s hard to say in this day and age since people deliberately get branded.” He shook his head. “Might be worth checking into, though. The brands used for human mutilation might be something completely different than what we imagine. What are the youth thinking these days?”
Renz chuckled. “They’re thinking it’s an art form, and I guess in faraway indigenous tribes, crazy things like that and worse actually are considered forms of art.”
“I suppose you’re right, Agent DeLeon.”
I held up my phone. “May I?”
The doctor nodded.
I closed in on the young man’s face and snapped a few pictures. “I noticed there’s no stippling. Do you happen to have the slug?”
Dr. Kingston sighed. “Sorry, but it went clear through his head. A large caliber handgun but from ten feet or farther away because there’s no stippling.” He rubbed his chin as he stared at the victim’s face. “That’s my personal opinion, of course, because without the projectile or a casing, there isn’t a way to prove the type of weapon used. Several different guns can make the same-sized entry wounds, as can a cattle bolt pistol, although that wouldn’t cause a through and through.”
His comment made my head spin. A cattle bolt pistol was one more item that might be found on a cattle ranch. I read Renz’s expression, and I was sure he was thinking the same thing I was—we had our work cut out for us. I pointed my chin at him. “Can you think of any more questions?”
“Nope, I think we’re good. We have most of the info we need in the autopsy reports—height, weight, and so on. Everything else is research we’ll have to do with the team.”
I turned to the doctor. “And you’ll email me the information on the decomp?”
“I certainly will. All I need is a contact—”
I smiled as I gave him my card. “I was about to hand it to you. My phone number and email address are on there, and thank you for your help.”
Renz and I left.
“I need something to soothe my mind while I call Taft. Let’s get an ice cream before we head to the airport,” I said.
He frowned. “Why? We had breakfast two hours ago.”
“Because I want one. It’ll help me think. We can sit outside somewhere, and I’ll make the call. Taft is going to lose it when we tell her what Dr. Kingston said.”
Renz chuckled. “Taft? Doubt it. Losing it isn’t her style.”