Chapter 1
When a person ignored opportunity’s knock, was their life changed for the worse? This question often weighed on my mind. Would I regret not answering the call? The go-getter in me said, “Samantha, you got this.” The part of me that hated the go-getter said, “Screw that! Ignore everyone and go back to sleep.”
In my case, opportunity knocked around four in the morning when I was in bed fighting the Godforsaken flu. Opportunity’s timing sucked.
Yet, when the phone gave its third ring, I picked it up.
“Be at River Forest Road ASAP,” the county dispatcher had said. “Car versus deer, no deceased on the scene except the deer. You’re getting pics for the insurance company.” Clearly annoyed, she continued, “The accident occurred between town and the water tower, whatever that means. That’s the best I have for directions.”
“I know where that is,” I’d croaked, my throat parched. Day two of the flu, and the virus was the clear winner.
I lived fourteen minutes away from said water tower and smack in the middle of the town she’d been referring to, Wind River. Our city was too small to support twenty-four-hour emergency services. After nine p.m., all calls were handled by the larger cities in our county.
The dispatcher sighed. “Oh, one more thing. Boyd Bartell won’t be there. Apparently, he’s had too much to drink at his brother’s wedding. You’ll be supervised by the cops on the scene. They’ll tell you what to do. Good luck, intern.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, my head still on the pillow, my eyes still closed. She disconnected the call, but I kept the phone to my ear, slow to make any move. Where would I find the energy to get out of bed?
For the last six weeks, I’d been waiting to get this call. Part of obtaining a forensic photography degree and graduating college was getting this fieldwork experience. Here was the chance to prove I could do the job. Being feverish and one degree shy of a hallucination was just my luck.
I slid from the bed onto the floor. Over my tank top, I threw on my favorite Seahawks sweatshirt procured from half under my bed and decided my yoga pants would have to do. While I waited for my Keurig to brew me a cup of coffee, I stuffed my feet into sneakers and chugged back a dose of flu meds. Then I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail. My head was already pounding.
With my camera bag over my shoulder and coffee in hand, I shuffled to LC, my classic wagoner. LC was named after the explorers Lewis and Clark. Like the explorers, my vehicle enjoyed being off-road and was temperamental.
I pointed LC in the direction of River Forest Road. While pit-staining my Seahawks sweatshirt waiting for the flu meds to kick in, I made a silent prayer for good luck to help me pull this off.
Though I wanted to be a forensic photographer, I worried about the profession being a good fit. Not because I couldn’t capture the images needed since photography had long stopped being my passion and had become my default, a way to conceal my shortcoming. Though my brain struggled to make sense of symbols like letters and words, it did an amazing job of capturing images and storing them long-term in the finest of details. A dyslexic photographer with a photographic memory. Life could be cruel.
Many of the images they’d shown in class were gruesome. When you see bad things, you can’t unsee them. Doubly so for me. These sorts of images changed how a person approached every day, because now you’ve learned the unimaginable is possible. Was I willing to straddle the line between dark and light every day? That was the question I’d been asking myself since this course began. As a backup plan, I’d started studying for my private investigator’s license. A guest lecturer at school said being a PI was mostly following up on insurance claims. Easy peasy. Didn’t sound too hard, or grotesque, and the lecturer said reading requirements were minimal.
The ride out to River Forest Road took me an extra seven minutes. I didn’t trust myself to drive normal speed since keeping my focus on the road was difficult, and the coffee wasn’t helping. Instead, the acrid taste was heavy on my tongue, and the drink was sitting like sludge in my belly.
My body convulsed from part shivers, part apprehension, and I blew out a breath to steady my nerves.
The flashing lights of the patrol car were a welcome sight, and I pulled LC behind it. Ahead was a torch-red Mustang Saleen, occasional thin tendrils of smoke coming from the engine. The car sat across both lanes, so no telling which direction he’d been headed.
“Holy crap,” I said. That Mustang belonged to Kenny Greevey Junior and was maybe a week off the showroom floor.
The cops on the scene were circling the car. Junior was on the side of the road, looking distressed and sitting on his haunches with his hands over his head. He was dressed for work in a suit but jacket off.
I slid out of LC. Autumn was full swing in the Pacific Northwest, making the night cool. The chilled wind was refreshing against my hot skin. I desperately wanted to stretch out on the cold ground but forced myself to walk toward the scene.
On autopilot, I slung my camera across my body and flipped off the lens cap. I placed my unused crime scene kit on the hood of my Wagoneer.
The patrol car had its headlights on bright, and four portable floodlights were shining on the scene. I scoped out the cops handling the call. The night became even more craptastic at hyperdrive speed when one of the cops turned out to be Leo Stillman, a blight to society if there ever was one.
Oh, he was easy on the eyes. Strong American Indian features with gray eyes and hair as dark as his soul. Everyone loved Leo. Everyone but me. He was Mr. Awesome. But I had another A word in mind when I thought of Leo.
He kept his hair short, which accentuated his angular facial features, like an all-seeing, all-knowing eagle primed to strike. A look he had replicated as an eagle tattoo on his forearm.
We’d gone to high school together. He, along with Junior, had graduated in my sister’s class two years ahead of me. Leo had been the starting quarterback who’d received a full college ride, though it was known he had no desire to be a professional ball player. When he graduated, he returned to Wind River to serve on the Tribal Board for the Cowlitz Tribe and recently joined the local law enforcement agency. If I were feeling better, I’d razz him about being a rookie.
I don’t know why he disliked me, but he did. And I believed not returning the hostility was inconsiderate, so I gave it everything I had.
I moved closer to the other cop, the one lieutenant on the force, Bruce Rawlings. Clearly the force matched personalities because in a butt-head contest, either of these guys could’ve taken it.
“Someone request a photographer?” I croaked and held up my camera.
Rawlings arched a brow and stepped toward me. “Intern, huh? Try not to goof it up.”
“I suppose that part is up to you since you’ll be telling me what to do. What do you need?” I closed my eyes in what was supposed to be a blink but turned into a second-long nap. I snapped back to attention.
Leo came to where we stood and surveyed me. His thumbs in his utility belt, he said, “You can’t do this. You can barely stand.” He held a finger up in front of my face. The finger wavered from side to side.
Or maybe that was me.
Yeah, he might have a point, but I wasn’t about to let him know I agreed with him. I was gonna take these stupid pictures, then I was gonna go home and sleep on my cold bathroom floor.
Leo asked. “Are you drunk?”
Was he kidding? “No, I’m not drunk,” I said with bite. “I have the flu and a temperature of one hundred and fifty-two billion.”
“Are you sure? Seems to me you might be drunk. You’re a mess.” He scoffed. “Some professional. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Are you telling me to leave?” This opportunity was going south fast. I had two options. Bail now and hope to get another call. Not my favorite option, but far easier than sticking around where I wasn’t wanted and my photos and performance would be judged harshly. Or, option two, make staying and completing the job Leo or Rawling’s idea, thereby somewhat shifting the responsibility for my outcome to one of them. I mentally crossed my fingers for option two.
I waited for two beats then turned and walked toward LC.
From behind me he sighed. “Stop. We all want to go home. It’s getting close to five. Take your pictures so we can leave.”
I pivoted. “I’m shocked you haven’t ripped this camera from me and taken the pictures yourself, since you’re Mr. Skilled at everything. I bet you’ll outrank Rawlings here any day.”
Rawlings snickered. “She’s got your number. Looks like she doesn’t think you’re such a stud, rookie. About time we met someone who doesn’t swoon when they see you.”
Leo scoffed. “The only thing Samantha has is—”
I leaned forward and hissed, “You gonna keep talking or tell me where you want me to start.”
Leo pointed to the sports car. “Junior wrecked the car.”
I glanced over my shoulder to Kenny Greevey Junior. “Is he okay?”
Junior was Mr. Wonderful, in the sincerest way. His kid brother Kevin was a hellion; even trouble was afraid to get caught with him. But Junior? Nope. Handsome, albeit more average than dreamboat, and not overly friendly to the point his actions were questionable. He was the cliché of a genuinely nice guy.
I whispered when I asked the unthinkable. “Is he drunk?”
Junior would never break a law. He’d been president of the student council in high school. He had loved rules then, and I couldn’t imagine that fervor for compliance didn’t carry into adulthood.
Rawlings said, “Nope. Knocked himself out when the deer hit the windshield. Sat out here for a while before he came to and called it in himself.”
“Is he coming from work or going to it?” A suit at pre-dawn could mean one of two things. One heck of a night or one workaholic.
Leo crossed his arms. “Going to work.”
Workaholic. “Poor guy,” I said. “Is an ambulance on the way?”
“Poor deer.” Leo nodded in the direction of the car. “Why don’t you go get pictures of everything. Particularly the deer and where the impact happened.”
Rawlings said to me, “Junior said he didn’t need one. His dad’s coming to get him.”
Hitting a deer on River Forest Road wasn’t unheard of. One side of the road was a forest and the other the river. Hitting a deer required little more than poor timing and speeding on the straightaway. Perhaps Junior did have a wild streak and was “opening up” his new car. Irony would be wrecking the one time he decided to speed.
I circled to the front of the car and adjusted two of the floodlights to avoid glare, shadows, and to illuminate most of the car.
Once done, the view in front of me became clear and the contents of my stomach threatened to spew out. Only speed-gulping kept everything down. The contorted body of the deer was lying on top of the hood, half in the windshield, half out. The head on the hood, its dark, glassy eyes staring at me.
I pressed my lips together in hopes of retaining control. Leo came up behind me and pointed out shots he thought the insurance company would want.
“Get pictures of the body. And behind the car where there aren’t skid marks.”
I brought my camera up to my eye and made sure the focus was right before I pressed the shutter button and snapped several images. I followed Leo’s finger and took pictures of everything he pointed out.
I zoomed in on the car’s damage, trying to ignore the fur clinging to random parts of the grill and windshield.
Gross.
“Over here, Samantha,” Leo said and pointed to the head. “Get a shot with the windshield in the image. This deer hit the grill then flipped up onto the hood and into the windshield.”
I had to squat to do as he asked, and the entire time the beady eyes of the deer followed me. They were vacant and cold. Silly to get worked up about a deer, but this was my first time seeing death up close in real life.
I snapped shots of the damaged corner panel, likely the first spot of impact. My gut clenched, a sign something was off. Only I wasn’t sure if it was with me or the accident.
The air was stuffy. Though a breeze was coming in off the river, none reached me. Remarkably, the tinny aroma of blood penetrated my snot-filled nose. Or I imagined it. Either was possible.
I gulped convulsively and looked away in hopes of resetting.
“Get a grip, Samantha,” Leo mumbled.
I ignored the tightness in my stomach and focused on the job, desperate to be done so I could leave. I said, “I need to grab my ruler to put next to the um, er, on the hood for perspective?”
Leo patted the side pockets of his uniform pants. “We have a ruler somewhere.”
A fresh layer of sweat broke out across my forehead, and drops ran down the back of my neck. I looked heavenward and tried to imagine puppies and happy kitties. Anything that wasn’t gross or made my stomach roll. But I had nothing. All I could think about was the meat, the smell, and the deer’s head.
“Got one,” Leo said coming up behind me.
“Oh no.” I couldn’t turn and run because Leo was behind me to my right and the deer body was to my left. I lurched then cupped a hand over my mouth.
Vomit sprayed between my fingers and landed on the deer and car.
That explained my gut feeling.
“Crap,” Leo said coldly.
