31

John Carlson stood in the woods watching the Ann Arbor team go over the area and photograph the body of the young woman. He had sent Mrs. Munch back to her house with Molly Hart, a young female officer. He knew that Officer Hart had glared at him behind his back, but she was really good at dealing with victims and witnesses. She thought he chose her to keep her away from the action, but he chose her because she was the best officer for the job. He had a hard time navigating all the rocky waters of gender bias and usually tried to ignore it as best he could. He’d have to deal with it eventually, he knew.

Taylor Knox had been beautiful. But lying in the leaves, her face gray, eyes bloodshot, and with angry red marks on her neck, she merely looked dead. The crime scene team had already told him that she had been dead for a while. Carlson swallowed hard and turned away.

He had welcomed the job as chief of police in this small town knowing that it was unlikely he’d ever have to deal with a murder of a young woman. He’d watched Andy Griffith reruns as a kid and imagined the job of dispensing wisdom and fishing with his son as the best one could hope for. The son had not materialized, and now neither had his fantasy of a quiet town where the worst criminal was the local drunk.

Carlson felt the anger rising up from the pit of his stomach. How had this happened? Why? What was she doing here? Did she have a connection to Baxter? He would have to begin the process of digging through Taylor’s life and uncovering every person she had known. Fortunately, the AAPD had done a lot of that work when she was missing. It all felt so invasive. As if that was the true violence against the victim. He knew this was an unusual stance for a police officer. His wife, as a journalist, was comfortable invading people’s privacy. He wondered sometimes if she believed anyone deserved privacy at all.

But this wasn’t a missing person case anymore. This was murder. He sighed and smoothed his sparse hair over the top of his head.

If Taylor had been researching Heather Stone’s murder, as Katie suggested, how would he be able to connect the dots? He’d have to look into Taylor’s life and reopen the old case to see who could have felt threatened by a twenty-year-old sociology student.

He flipped open his notebook. His list was short for Taylor. Her roommate had said everyone liked her and she had no enemies. The boyfriend had seemed distraught, but Carlson had learned that that didn’t always mean innocent. The problem was that since no one was exactly sure when she had disappeared, it was hard to check alibis.

Carlson made a note to find out where Taylor’s boyfriend and roommate were on the evening Katie had met with Taylor.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. The name KATIE LECLAIR popped up on the screen. Think of the devil …

He clicked it open. “Hey, Doc,” he said. “I can’t talk right now; can I call you later?”

Katie ignored him and said, “I need to talk to you. How soon can we meet?”

“I’m in the middle of a murder …”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. I have information.”

Carlson’s shoulders slumped. Of course she had information. She’d probably have the case wrapped up by dinnertime.

He looked at his watch.

“Meet me at my office in half an hour.”