Page 92 of Return of the Spider
After they cleared the locations, they came back and told us that the entire place was empty, with no evidence that anyone had lived there for a long time. And they took photographs of thevan and the ground around it before they made sure it was not booby-trapped.
“Both teams said the dirt floor looked as if it had been raked before the leaves and whatnot got blown in there,” French said as we donned latex gloves and booties to walk over to the van along a lane of white butcher paper that had been laid down to prevent further contamination of the site.
“Definitely the right rig,” Sampson said, gesturing to the van’s left rear quarter panel, which was scraped exactly as we’d seen in earlier security videos. “New headlight bulb cover on the left. See how it’s different from the right.”
“I see it.”
“New tires,” Sampson said. “Different treads.”
“I see them too.”
The van’s rear double doors were hanging ajar when we reached them. A bomb team member had found keys to the van on a shelf.
French opened the two doors fully. We were hit with a blast of mustiness coupled with the scent of things rotting somewhere in the old trash, moldering leaves, and God only knew what else covering the van floor.
We stood by as the forensics techs began to pick apart the chaos. They found several latex gloves similar to the ones we wore.
“How old are those?” I asked.
“There isn’t a lot of mold growing on them,” said Helen Mathers, the lead forensics officer on the scene. She was dressed in a blue hazmat suit minus the full headgear. “I’d say they’re recent, but we’ll know better back at the lab.”
“Let me check something,” I said. “Can I use the keys a second?”
Mathers frowned but nodded. I went up front and asked JavierCruz, the tech working on the driver’s seat, to give me a moment. Then I leaned in, put the key in the ignition, and turned it to accessory. The dashboard glowed enough for me to read the mileage. I turned the key to start, and the engine coughed to life. I quickly shut it down, thanked Cruz, and went back to Sampson and French.
“It started right up,” I said. “It’s been driven recently.”
French gestured to a plastic evidence bag. “They just found a length of rope buried in there. It’s got blood and skin traces on it.”
Sampson said, “Could be the rope that strangled the real estate agent, Brenda Miles.”
I picked up the bag and looked at the cord. I said, “I’m betting MFP utility grade.”
Mathers climbed into the back of the van and crouched over the right wheel well, sifting through the debris with a trim paintbrush.
“This is going to take a long time,” Sampson said.
“Not today,” Mathers said over her shoulder. “We’ll bag it all, then dissect and test everything back in the lab. I’m looking for the obvious at this point.”
“Helen?” said Cruz from the front seat. “I have a shell casing. It’s a forty-four caliber.”
John and I gave each other high fives.
“Helen?” Cruz called again.
“That’s good, Javier,” she said, staring down. “Real good.”
She set her brush aside, took several photographs of whatever was in front of her, and retrieved a large pair of forceps from her pocket. She reached down somewhere we couldn’t see.
A moment later, she came up with a two-by-three-inch shriveled piece of dark gristle clenched in the forceps jaw.
“What’d you find, Helen?” French asked.
Mathers said soberly, “From the hairs growing out of it, I’d say part of a human scalp, Tommy.”
Sampson grimaced, said, “Could be from Alice Ways, one of the shooting victims. We know that a piece of her scalp is missing.”
“That’s more than enough now, Tommy,” I said. “We need to get Diggs into custody.”
