Page 90 of The Badger in His Burrow

“Meaning that you can’t confirm his involvement, but you can’t eliminate him either.”

“Correct.”

Smith sighed. “Darn.”

23

Elliot Crane

It happened again.

Seth Mays

On my way.

I didn’t even botherto ask if he’d called Smith, dialing the somewhat gruff detective on speaker as I started up the CSI truck. I wanted the gear, and it was early enough in the morning that I wasn’t going to get away with not going back to work. If Elliot wanted me to stay, I’d come back.

“You on your way to Crane’s place?” he asked me immediately, not even bothering to say hello.

“Yeah,” I answered, half-distracted as I turned out onto Main Street.

“Good,” came the response. “You have your kit?”

“Yeah. I’m in the truck.” I’d been assuming that whatever they’d left him wasn’t so large that I’d need the van—just in case Lacy and Roger needed it for a human. Or a cow. Or a deer. That had happened last week.

“Good,” Smith said. “See you in a few.” He hung up.

I kept driving.

I pulled over on the side of the road next to Elliot’s driveway because the driveway itself was blocked by two black and whites and Smith’s unmarked sedan.

I slid out of the truck, feeling the familiar pain in my knee, although it wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been.Thanks to Elliot and Henry. Maybe. The scientist in me wanted to cling to my skepticism. It wasn’t like Henry’s cream had healed me, but even taking the edge off was an improvement, and I wasn’t going to be above asking Henry for more of the stuff if it kept working.

I made my way from the grassy ditch over to the gravel at the bottom of Elliot’s driveway, the stones and slight frost crunching under my hiking boots.

I’d stopped wearing dress shoes after Lacy told me that I should stop torturing my poor feet—the dead didn’t care what kind of shoes I wore, and I was going to break an ankle or end up with trench foot if I kept wearing dress shoes to crime scenes. Since she and Roger both wore similar hiking boots, I figured I was safe doing the same.

They were also warmer and definitely better for my ankles.

I walked up to the skinned body of what looked like a medium-sized dog, pushing down the flashbacks to the case that had led the FBI to take all shifter cases away from the Richmond local PD. The idea of revising the cult murders of canid shifters now that Iwasa canid shifter was even more disturbing than it had been when I was worried about Noah. I really hoped we weren’t going to do that again.

I crouched down beside it, drawing in a breath through my nose. If it was fresh enough, I could still tell whether or not an animal’s corpse was shifter or animal. This one was… iffy.

“Anything I should know?” Smith asked, crouching down beside me, his knees not creaking or cracking the way mine did.

“Nothing definitive,” I replied. “It’s hard to tell breed without the skin and fur.” I glanced over at him. “I don’t suppose we’ve found that?”

Smith sighed. “Not yet.”

“DNA will tell us regardless,” I said, trying to be optimistic, even though I didn’t feel it.

Smith grunted. I couldn’t say I disagreed with the sentiment.

“Was it skinned here?”

I scanned the area. “Doesn’t look like it, unless it was done in the back of a truck or SUV,” I replied. “Not nearly enough blood.”

“Why skin a dog andnotleave the skin if you’ve already skinned a badger and displayed the skin?” Smith mused. I could tell from his tone that he was actually asking the question.

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