“That would be my guess,” Virgil said, peering across the green playing fields and tan dirt of the infields. “If the murder was spontaneous, you might have had a killer who didn’t think about it. He’d been to the park, knew about the trees and how to get to them, and he was panicked or scared and knew the details of this place, so…he brought her here.”
“A baseball player?”
“Maybe the true-crimers would have some ideas.”
“Don’t ask,” Lucas said.
One of the women broke out of the group and walked toward them. She was middle-aged, stocky, dressed in camo cargo slacks, a long-sleeved tan shirt, hiking boots, and a straw hat. She had spent time in the outdoors, and her face and hands carried a hard tan. She wore black plastic-rimmed sunglasses like the owner of an art gallery might wear, and, Virgil thought, Lucas was correct: she looked unnervingly like an oversized woodchuck. Or possibly a beaver, but he couldn’t see her teeth to pick one.
“You aren’t done with the interview, are you, Marshal?” she asked. Her voice had an edge to it, like the teeth of a saw.
Lucas said, “I’ll be around, but I’m not real big on conversation, unless you’ve turned up information on the Grandfelt murder.”
“Haven’t been here long enough yet, but I will,” she said. She turned to Virgil: “I know about you. You’re that fuckin’ Flowers.”
Virgil, “Aw, for Christ’s sakes.”
“You’ll see me around,” the woman said. “My name is Anne Cash, Anne with an ‘e.’ My website is AnneCashInvestigations.com. It’s the biggest and best true crime site on the Internet. You should take a look.”
“We will,” Virgil said.
She turned and took a step away, then turned back, brought her phone up before Lucas or Virgil could react, and took a picture of them together. “Thanks,” she said.
“That’s kinda rude,” Virgil said to her back.
“Live with it,” she said. “I’ll have you up on my site in twenty minutes.”
“Toldja,” Lucas muttered.
“Gonna be a long day,” Virgil said, looking over at the collection of women. On further inspection, he discovered three men among them. “Have you been to the murder scene?”
“I think so. As best I can tell. Is your GPS receiver in your gear bag?”
“It is.”
“I only had my phone,” Lucas said. “Let’s get the GPS. We’ve got the location to three decimal points from the original investigation. I can get close, but I’m not sure I’m right on top of it.”
“What’s to see?”
“Well, nothing,” Lucas said. “But you know, as long as we’re here…”
Virgil got the GPS receiver and Lucas guided him around the group of women, who stayed back for a minute, but then followed them toward the trees and a major patch of raspberry canes. A narrow game path poked through the brush, and they took it back toward a substantial body of water.
“Battle Creek Lake,” Lucas said. “Should have been called Battle Creek Slough.”
“Or swamp,” Virgil said. “That would be primo snapping turtle water back there. They’re good eatin’, so I’m told.”
“I’ll stick with snails,” Lucas said. “Being of French heritage.”
Virgil powered up the GPS receiver, when a woman called, “Davenport? Flowers?”
—
They turned andsaw a uniformed cop hurrying toward them, chevrons on her shirt sleeve. Lucas said, “Sergeant Carney?”
“That’s me. I spoke to the city manager and they’re calling around to the council and talking about making the park off-limits tomorrow.” Carney was a thin woman with bony shoulders and a heart-shaped face, blue eyes, and a short blond ponytail. “We’ll let them roam around this afternoon, but after that, it’s entry by permission. That’s if the council approves. Somebody’s already cut branches off some of the trees…”
Virgil: “Why did they do that?”
