“Tell me where to look and I’ll find the animal who did this. Give me somewhere to start, and then you can be at peace with the angels,” the man whispered softly, as he gently uncovered her face. The photographer didn’t flinch, but the younger man was unable to hold in a shocked gasp. The only recognizable part of the woman’s face was at the corner of her left eye, where two moles were evident against white skin. The face had been punched, and punched again and again.

Samuel Hinton rose to his full six foot five inches and looked slowly around the room. His eyes took in the four walls of the old abandoned cabin. The broken chair and three-legged table were covered in what was, probably, years of dust. Vines had welcomed themselves in through windows long ago broken, and some had even entered through the rotten floor.

Only the dust in the corner where the woman lay had been disturbed. Samuel was careful not to step on the already present prints. The killer would be a large man. The foot that made those marks would be about the size of his. But it wasn’t really a boot…or a shoe, he thought. He could plainly see the outline of his own boot. The killer’s was more of a scuff, or a…moccasin! Ah, a moccasin. He looked at the bruises on the woman’s upper arms. They were larger than even his hands would have made. Yep, he was a big one.