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But before all that, I need to revisit the scene of the crime. I need to be quick about it too, just in case Mark and his wife decide to examine the scene on their own. Mark is always walking these woods picking up trash from the polluters who toss it out their speeding cars and trucks. He’ll worry that he left something behind of his that might somehow lead to his arrest, even though he knows he’s innocent. His mind will play tricks on him. He will be tortured with the knowledge that people go to prison for crimes they never committed. Is he about to become one of those people? He’s wired tighter than a snare drum as it is. He’s paranoid. Maybe he’s even the type to feel guilty without being guilty.
In my hand, I’m holding Mark’s cable bill. It’s a piece of evidence I’m about to put to good use. Something else would help too. Something with his DNA on it. But what? I make a quick search of the gravel path and the lawn beside it. I spot precisely what I’m looking for. Mark’s spent cigarette butt. Looking over both shoulders at the now closed door to the cabin, I pull out my hanky once more, bend down, and quickly snatch the butt, and shove it in my pocket. Heading back across the lawn to the gravel drive, I hike up to the main road, armed with the knowledge that the APD and the FBI just might have themselves a pair of real husband and wife suspects in the murders of the Perez brothers.
I make my way past my mail truck to the crime scene. Yellow crime scene ribbon has been extended from one tree to another, as if this is supposed to prevent people from walking all over the soft shoulder and destroying whatever evidence might still be hidden there. A car passes by, and then another. Quickly I pull out my cell phone and press it to my ear, like I’m just your ordinary mailman pulled off to the side of the road and talking to someone on my smartphone. The gesture provides at least some cover for what I’m about to do. After the cars are out of sight, I duck under the ribbon and enter the small wood.
I spot the exact place where Joanne hid Hector’s body and his body parts until I was able to arrive on the scene with my minivan. The leaves and pine needles have been pushed away and there’s still some dark blood stains and smears evident on the ground even after a full week has passed. I can see where the cops have trampled over the place with their thick soled-shoes and jack boots. The FBI is not going to like that. The cleaner the scene the better. At least, that’s the way it goes down on television.
Pulling out my hanky, I drop Mark’s cigarette butt onto a small pile of leaves and needles. Then, using the hanky again, I cover it with some of the loose vegetation. My guess is the FBI will have no trouble finding it when they scour the place, which they are sure to do. They are supposed to be very precise and methodical in their search for physical evidence.
Walking just a few feet further into the woods in the direction of Mark’s cabin, I pull the torn cable television bill from my pocket and drop it on the forest floor. I then speed-walk my way through the woods and stop only inches before I’m about to break out into the clearing where Mark’s cabin is located. That’s when I about-face and go back the way I came.
If all goes right, the FBI will gather up the cigarette butt. They will also see that a fresh footprint trail that exists between the scene of the crime and the Little’s Lake property. They will find the cable bill which will give them a name. They will assume it fell out of Mark’s pocket as he was rapidly getting away. They will look after the DNA found on the cigarette and try to match it to Mark. If his DNA is on file with the Feds or the local cops for any reason whatsoever, there will be a match. It won’t be enough to convict him, or so I assume. But it will be enough to make him a suspect. The prime suspect. Since a woman is supposedly involved in the killings, his wife Melanie will become a suspect too. Melanie is a hot-headed Irish girl. She will resist the FBI and police with everything she’s got. She will scream at them, insult them, curse at them. She will dig her own grave.
I give the crime scene one more good look. I use the flashlight on my smartphone to further illuminate the ground. I’ve got one eye on the gravelly floor and the other on the road. If a vehicle passes by or even worse, a cop, I’m totally screwed. Going over the site quickly, I don’t see anything of mine or Joanne’s. No hair, no clothing fibers, nothing. I go back into the woods one last time and use the flashlight to light up the vegetation covered floor. I still don’t see anything that belongs to me or Jo. I only make out the cigarette butt that Mark left behind after dragging the bodies into the woods. That will be my story anyway.
“My work’s done here,” I whisper to myself.
I head back out of the woods for what I hope will be the final time. And that’s when a vehicle pulls off the side of the road. It’s a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. The passenger side door opens, and a man gets out. I recognize him from the TV news reports. He is Juan Perez, and he is crying.