Blowflies were usually the first insects to find a dead body. Sometimes, they appeared within minutes. The tent would have acted as a barrier, but some clearly still found entry via the mesh or any areas in which the tent wasn’t completely sealed.
“Did he touch anything in the tent?” Turner asked.
Conlen looked at his notes. “The zippers to the tent. He checked the girl for a pulse. Tripped over a pillow on the floor on his way out. You want us to keep him around? Send him to the station?”
Josie glanced over at Jonathan and his mother. The boy looked haggard and traumatized. “No,” she said. “Let’s just get the ERT out here.”
FIVE
Nearly three hours later, as the ERT finished up, Josie and Turner pulled Tyvek suits over their already sweat-soaked clothes so they could accompany Denton’s medical examiner, Dr. Anya Feist, into theJubilationtent. In the time they’d been waiting, Josie had found and scrolled through Haven Barnes’s Instagram feed, each happy and innocent photo twisting Josie’s insides until it felt like she couldn’t take a full breath. Haven had been living the life Josie wished for every child, every teenager. One in which they had fun with their friends, celebrated holidays and milestones surrounded by loving family, and woke up each day feeling happy, hopeful and filled with dreams about the future. Adulthood would come soon enough and with it, more stressors than they could possibly imagine. Even when they thought they’d imagined them all, a newly minted surprise would pop up, smug and ruinous.
Everyone deserved that carefree bit of time before failure, loss, tragedy, and trauma became increasingly normal.
Haven had documented several joyful moments. Her prom, a beach trip with friends, a celebration after her high school field hockey team won a championship, and countless other photos of her with loved ones and even her coworkers at the fast-food restaurant where she was employed. The last photos she’d posted yesterday were of their getaway. In the first one, she and her mother struck a silly pose in front of a minivan. Both had blonde hair. Haven’s cascaded down her back, almost to her waist, whereas Maxine’s was cut sensibly short, just above shoulder level. The next picture was of Haven’s bare feet, toes painted a sparkly blue, on the dash as festival traffic stretched out in front of them. The caption read:Insane traffic trying to give us the cross-country trip experience. Next came the big Balloons and Tunes Festival sign outside the grounds, their tent, and she and Maxine axe-throwing.
For once, Josie was grateful for the way Haven’s generation insisted on documenting every little thing about their days because it gave them a very good reference point for how the inside of the tent looked before they died. Twin beds were positioned along the sides. Fairy lights hung from the ceiling and twisted around the center pole. The floor was wood laminate. A white shelving unit consisting of different sized cubbyholes lined half of the back wall. Cardboard hot air balloons had been affixed to the area above it. Next to it was the freestanding air conditioner. The rest of the tent’s rear was taken up by a small wooden structure which Haven had documented as “the cutest little bathroom ever.” It had a toilet, sink, and standing shower. Evidently, each tent had its own plumbing.
Officer Hummel, the head of the ERT, emerged from the tent. He paused on the top step and looked down at Josie, Turner, and Anya gathered on the grass. “They’re camellias.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Turner.
There was a digital camera in Hummel’s hands, the LCD screen aglow. He turned it toward them so they could see one of the photos he’d taken of the flowers on the floor and the ones left on Maxine and Haven’s bodies. “The flowers. They’re camellias.”
They were large, much larger than roses, the petals fanning out in layer after layer. They were a deep red. The color was so dark and rich, it almost appeared black. The edges of each petal, however, were white. It was a striking contrast. The way the red bled into the white reminded Josie of dripping blood.
“How do you know they’re camellias?” Anya asked.
“Reverse image search,” Hummel said. “You know, on the internet? Not sure which kind since there are a ton of different camellias. Doesn’t matter. We took them into evidence. I’ll try to get some touch DNA from the stems but they’re pretty porous, so I’m not expecting anything.”
“Hopefully you can pull DNA from something else inside,” Anya said.
“I’ll do my best,” Hummel said, flicking through the photos as he walked off toward his SUV.
Josie made a mental note to find out everything she could about camellias. Although they had no proof yet, her gut told her that they were dealing with a double homicide, in which case the symbolism of the flowers could be important. She hoped they weren’t indicative of a pattern. That would mean they had a potential serial killer on their hands. Were camellias native to Pennsylvania or nearby states? Was one of the vendors at the festival selling them? Were they frequently used by florists? Or were they rare? If so, police might have a better chance of tracking the person who’d left them. Before she could give it any more thought, Anya gestured for Josie and Turner to follow her into the tent.
Just as Jonathan Alvarado had described in his statement to Conlen, both women lay on their backs, each wearing oversized T-shirts and cotton sleep pants. Their sheets and pillows had been taken into evidence. Hummel’s team had removed the flowers as well. At a glance, it all looked so innocent. Just a mother and daughter, on a glamping trip, sleeping peacefully intheir beds. Evidence of death and decay told another story. More flies had made their way inside. The buzz of their wings matched the hum of the AC unit. It was cranked up to its highest setting and the interior of the tent still felt hot and close. The smell of decomposition had grown stronger with each passing hour.
Anya put her bag on the floor and fished her camera from it so she could take photos of Maxine Barnes’s body. Josie stood a couple of feet away, observing. From behind her, Turner let out a long curse. Then he kept cursing.
Turning her head to shoot him a questioning look, Josie said, “What’s your problem?”
His eyes were locked on Maxine Barnes. “I know her.”
SIX
“I knew her,” Turner clarified. “I thought the name sounded familiar outside but wasn’t sure.”
Anya paused, camera in both hands, poised over Maxine’s sternum. “Knew her how?”
Over the din of blowflies and the air conditioner, Josie heard his fingers drum against his thigh.
“It was last year. A domestic call,” Turner answered. His gaze flickered over to Haven. “The daughter called 911. Parents were fighting. She was afraid her dad was going to hit her mom. Brennan and his partner responded. Initially, Maxine was going to press charges so I did the follow-up, but when I interviewed her, she didn’t want to pursue it.”
Anya tensed and Josie’s heart sank a little. Anya’s ex-husband had abused her for years before she was able to leave. He’d left scars, both physically and emotionally. “Had he hit her or…” She trailed off.
Turner studied her for a long moment, his penetrating blue eyes filled with compassion. It was exceedingly odd. Softly, he said, “I don’t think so. From the reports and from talking with her, I’m pretty sure he hadn’t progressed beyond pushing andhair-pulling. Not that those are better, just that that’s where things were when I met her. That was a year ago.”
Anya nodded slowly and looked back at her camera. A bead of sweat slid down to the end of her nose and dripped onto the LCD screen. She made a haphazard attempt to clean it with one gloved finger.
