Alexa was glad Sergeant Kramer left to make radio calls. She preferred working in solitude. She felt safe with law enforcement on the premises, and maybe Bruce on the way.
Bruce. She allowed herself a second to conjure his blue eyes and the kiss they had shared under a dark sky sanctuary. A steamy scene until Bruce balked. He believed in keeping professional and personal lives separate. She did as well. To a point.
She walked around to the other side of the bed and picked up Diana’s left hand to repeat the process, grunting with effort. Breaking rigor was hard. She finally heard the loud cracking of bone and set Diana’s left hand down. She longed for her postmortem print kit with its cadaver spoon. The spoon stabilizes and supports the finger, and the curvature picks up ridge detail without having to roll the fingers.
She would never go anywhere again without a full crime kit.
Alexa inked Diana’s thumb. Then she ripped off a piece of lifting tape and stretched it over the thumb pad. Then she lifted the tape and carefully placed it on the card, creating a mirror image of Diana’s thumbprint. She’d have to digitally reverse the image in a lab. She repeated the process for each digit.
After cleaning up, Alexa studied the results with her magnifying glass. A British anthropologist first published a book on the uniqueness of fingerprints. Sir Francis Something-Or-Other classified the ridges as loops, whorls, or arches. She mentally saluted him.
Diana had a loop. Common, yes, but unique to her. Alexa was excited to lift the latent prints from the hiking pole and compare. They could possibly lead to Diana’s killer.
No jumping the gun, Glock.
She covered Diana’s body and quickly took her own fingerprints to use for elimination, ridiculously proud of her rare arches. She smiled, thinking back to her fellow lab rats in Raleigh; they’d been stupidly geeky about their fingerprints, too.
Then she studied the pole again. The brand name, Black Diamond, sounded ominous. Under her magnifying glass, the metal tip looked clean, and not altered or honed, but she knew it could harbor Diana’s DNA if it had been used to push her off the cliff. She withdrew the distilled water and a sterile swab from her kit and carefully squeezed one drop of water on the swab. Then she rubbed it against the pole tip, rotating the swab once.
One and done.
She stuck the swab in a transport tube, labeled it, and set it aside.
She toyed with the idea of flipping Diana’s body again and comparing the pole tip to the wounds, but decided to use the photographs she had taken the night before instead. She’d be able to enlarge them. But first she propped the pole up against a chair, upside down, so she could photograph the tip from above.
She grabbed her camera and scrolled through the hundred or so photos she had taken until she reached the ones of Diana’s wounds. When she found a clear, well-lit photo, she tapped the screen. The puncture resembled a small-caliber gunshot wound. She retrieved her magnifying glass for an even closer look: the outline of the wound was stellate.
If she were in a lab, she would superimpose the photograph of the wound on the photograph of the pole tip to see if it aligned. If it did, she’d have proof a Black Diamond pole resembled the murder weapon.
She tamped down her excitement and readied her scant supplies: black powder, a brush, lifting tape, and backing cards. Work was her happy place.
Where would prints be? The cork handle should be rife, but cork was icky to work with. Any prints lifted would have a distracting pattern running through them. Background interference, it was called. She liked a challenge. She shook her jar of powder, opened it, and butterfly swished the brush across the thin coating clinging to the lid and tapped it on the powder container. Too much powder would obliterate the print. Satisfied, she spun the brush, applying slight pressure on an area of the cork. A partial fingerprint emerged. Excitedly, she set the brush aside and took a close-up photo. Then she secured a piece of lifting tape across the surface of the print, pressed down, and lifted. She transferred the tape to a white card and peered at it under the lamp. It was a mess.
She repeated the process on the metal shaft of the pole with more success, lifting a couple partial prints and two nearly complete impressions.
Holding her breath, she compared them to Diana’s prints. She retrieved her dental probe to keep track of ridge features. Back and forth, through her magnifier, she compared cards. Bingo! A print lifted from the shaft matched the deceased’s. The pole had probably belonged to Diana.
Then she discovered a non-matching print. Her heart skipped a beat. Excluding her own prints and Diana’s, someone else had touched the pole. The murderer? She photographed all the print cards to have backup.
Unlike medical doctors, forensic scientists lacked a Hippocratic oath, but before she pulled the sheet over Diana’s face, Alexa promised to apply her scientific skills to find her killer.
She could smell bacon but decided to stop by her room before eating breakfast. Unfortunately, Charlie still had the key—they needed a spare. She knocked, but Charlie must have left. She tried the handle; it was unlocked. She wandered past the unmade beds and into the bathroom to wash her hands again, trying to remove ink traces and the memory of cadaver skin. She squeezed lavender lotion on her palms, massaged it in, and inhaled. Lavender masked the scent of death.
After breakfast she would return to the riverbank. A daytime examination of the scene was prudent. She might find Diana’s backpack and second pole. She’d have to get there before the rangers trampled any remaining evidence when they went to assess the bridge. She eyed her camera and crime kit. Leave them here or take them to breakfast? The safe in the closet had a real key and lock. She guessed an electronic safe would be worthless when the generator was off. She opened it and stuffed the retracted and wrapped hiking pole in it; it barely fit. She put the other pieces of evidence in, too: the particle from the wound, the slip of paper, soil sample, the lipstick, the fingerprint cards, and DNA tube. Plus, she had the buckle from the skeleton. She would find Sergeant Kramer and ask him to fly the evidence out with the body.
The most important evidence was the photos. The Olympus Tough camera needed charging again. She slipped the memory card in her pants pocket and plugged the camera in the outlet, gladdened to see the generator providing power. She locked and pulled the door tight.
Please be bacon left, she thought.
The Luxers bunched in the lounge, murmuring quietly in a ring around Rosie. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down popped into Alexa’s head. From the concerned looks on the Luxers’ faces, it appeared she’d let the cat out of the bag about her sister. Alexa tried sneaking past, but Debbie bound over. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
Debbie grasped her elbow. “Rosie said Dr. Clark drowned in Pompolona Creek. She fell off the swing bridge.”
Alexa refrained from correcting her. She scanned faces for Charlie and saw him talking with Stead.
“I thought there was something wrong with that bridge,” Debbie continued. “The way it shook with every step. It’s so terrible, don’t you think?”
Alexa extracted her elbow. “Yes, it’s terrible.”
The Luxe guide Clint entered the room, his clipboard hugged to his chest. Constable Bartlett followed. They stopped next to the easel that displayed the laughing owl poster. The black-eyed owl wasn’t laughing.
Clint cleared his throat. “Good morning, Luxers. Thank you for gathering. Those of you standing, please take a seat. We will have a brief update before we adjourn for a delicious breakfast.”
The smell of bacon was killing Alexa, but she needed to listen.
Constable Bartlett rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, his pale blue eyes flitting from person to person.
Debbie gave Alexa’s arm a pat and joined her husband on a love seat.
Clint’s normal buoyancy had deflated. He raised his eyes and smiled anemically. “We at Luxe Tours take your safety as our number one priority. We have an exemplary record.”
Trampers muttered.
“You’ve lost trampers before,” said a man Alexa didn’t recognize. He was dressed for hiking, and she couldn’t place his accent. Middle Eastern, maybe. “That Japanese hiker. She got lost, just like the doctor.”
Clint frowned. “Yes, yes. But we found her. She was uninjured and rejoined the hike the next day.”
Was there something fishy about Luxe Tours? Alexa wondered. Maybe the police should look into the company’s track record.
Rosie hiccuped. The woman next to her patted her knee. Alexa counted heads. Seventeen Luxers including Clint, plus Stead—who appeared to be looking right at her—and Charlie. They stood next to Cassandra and Larry. Cassandra held her chin high and stared at Clint. Larry studied his hiking boots.
Kathy appeared with a plate of scones. “To tide you over,” she said, setting them near the coffee station.
The aroma was tantalizing, but most of the Luxers remained fixated on Clint. Alexa seized the opportunity to help herself. She was starved. The only other person to indulge was the teen son of the Israeli couple. He gave her a shy smile.
Clint tapped his clipboard. “Unfortunately, there are inherent risks and dangers with tramping that we cannot foresee. As you’ve no doubt heard, we discovered Dr. Diana Clark’s body on the riverbank last night. We aren’t sure what happened, but she is deceased. The swing bridge is closed.”
The Luxers glanced at Rosie, and quickly away. Then came a volley of comments.
“First the avalanche, and now this,” Debbie said.
“How did it happen?” Debbie’s husband asked.
“Did she drown?” the Fitbit woman asked.
“We don’t know,” Clint said.
“Can we continue the hike?” a man with a French accent asked. His head was shaved, and he wore trendy glasses.
The guy was worried about his vacay, Alexa realized, and not about Rosie or the doctor. She looked around at the well-dressed, fit crowd, and wondered how many felt similarly entitled to vacay-uninterruptus.
“We don’t know details because there was no witness,” Clint said sensibly. “I am turning this meeting over to Constable Joel Bartlett from Te Anau. He and his sergeant are here to help us through this. Thank you.”
The scone was delicious. Alexa wiped crumbs off her fingers.
Constable Bartlett stopped rocking. “I know this has been a shock, eh?” He gave a nervous cough. “My sergeant has issued a request that no one leave the lodge until myself or Sergeant Kramer speak with you. You’ll be too hard to round up once you cross Mackinnon Pass and reach Milford Sound.”
“La vache,” the French man said. “We have an arduous climb ahead of us.”
The constable ignored him. “Please stay in the lounge, or in the dining room. No returning to your rooms until we’ve talked with you.”
“You’re dreaming,” the Fitbit woman said. “I need to get my insulin supplies.”
The constable looked alarmed. “What’s your name?”
“Emily Wolf.”
“You can come first, Ms. Wolf, so that we can clear you for leaving. Mr. Bergen is finding a room for interviews. I know you all want to help us investigate what happened.”
The Luxers watched Constable Bartlett leave. Then they headed toward the dining room, shaking their heads and speaking in somber tones. Alexa thought Constable Bartlett handled the briefing well. Vince raced around the corner, his face grim. He searched the crowd, his eyes alighting on Alexa, and scurried over. “Come to the office, Ms. Glock. Call for you.”
She frowned, her bacon dreams dashed.
In the office Sergeant Kramer spoke into the satellite phone. “Here she is now.” He handed it to her, and whispered, “It’s that detective inspector bloke from Auckland. Keep the antenna pointed up.”
“Hello?”
“Alexa? Can you hear me?” His voiced echoed.
“I can hear you, Bruce.”
“Are you all right?”
Her face colored. She turned her back on Vince and Sergeant Kramer. “Yes. But there’s a lot going on.”
“Fill me in.”
“Hold on.” She turned and asked Vince if he’d leave the office.
“Leave my own office?”
“Ta,” said Sergeant Kramer. “You can show me the room we can use for the interviews.”
The sergeant was quick on the uptake. Alexa nodded her thanks. When the door shut, she sank into a desk chair. “Bruce? Are you there?”
“What’s going on?”
It was hard to know where to start. She pressed the desk stapler with her free hand.
Bruce was impatient. “Kramer said you had two suspicious deaths. What have you gotten into this time?”
She wanted to staple him for that remark, but took a deep breath instead. “My brother and I discovered a woman’s body on a riverbank below a cliff. I believe she died of blunt force trauma from falling off the cliff. She has puncture wounds in her back. I think someone pushed her off by ramming into her with hiking poles.”
“Repeat.”
Alexa rotated the antenna upward and repeated her account.
“She was pushed off a cliff?”
“That’s what the evidence suggests. I also found a Black Diamond hiking pole above where the body was. We are detaining all hikers until we question them.”
“That’s good.”
“She’s a medical doctor from Auckland. Her sister and two colleagues are here with her.” She gave Bruce their names.
“Don’t let the colleagues or sister leave. I’ll start by interviewing them.”
She depressed the stapler. “I told you we’re holding everyone until we clear them.”
“Don’t release the sister or the colleagues,” he repeated. “I’ll get Constable Cooper to dive into Clark’s affairs at this end. Her phone and computer records. Her standing in the medical community.”
The mention of Constable Cooper jerked Alexa back to her first case in New Zealand. Alexa had suspected the young Māori of committing the murder, but had been wrong. “Coop,” as her colleagues called her, hadn’t forgotten. “But Constable Cooper is in Rotorua.”
“I recruited her to Auckland.” Bruce had been her mentor in some career-shadowing outreach program and a couple years later hired her.
Alexa switched gears. “There’s more. Yesterday, I discovered a skeleton along the river. It became exposed during the landslide we had.”
“The what?”
“A landslide. Mudslide. You know. Slip. An avalanche without snow. This isn’t avalanche season.” Her geology eruption silenced Bruce. “I saw it happen.” That bus-sized boulder careening down the mountainside. Jeez. “I did a preliminary examination of the remains and discovered multiple stab wounds to the rib cage.”
“Bloody hell. How old is the skeleton?”
“He has composite resin fillings.”
Bruce huffed.
“Twenty years or less. We might be able to identify him through dental X-rays.”
“Any personal effects?”
“A metal buckle. There could be more. I didn’t fully examine the remains.” She imagined her voice zooming skyward, hitting a satellite hovering over the Tasman Sea, and bouncing back to Bruce in Auckland. “One more thing.” She checked the antenna and scooted to the edge of her seat. Now or never.
“Spit it out.”
“A helicopter pilot tried to kill me.”