Ripped To Shreds Read online

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  We spent most of that evening scanning through photos. We hadn't come across anything of significance after reviewing the first five thousand. I thought if I saw one more photo of the same leaf in slightly different positions I'd scream. Finally, we saw a black blur on image number five thousand, two-hundred and four. When Rip skipped right by the image as if it amounted to nothing, like all the previous photos, I asked him to go back to it.

  "What do you think that blurry black thing is?" I asked.

  "I don't know. A bird flitting by, perhaps."

  "I don't think so, unless it was flying about two feet off the ground. Let me see if I can enhance and sharpen the image like Cora showed us."

  "Okay, go ahead. I need to take a break anyway. We are an hour overdue for our afternoon cocktails, and that's one appointment I hate to be tardy for. I'll prepare our drinks while you mess with the photo. Tequila sunrise as usual, my dear?"

  "Yes, of course," I replied. Rip had asked me the exact same question every day since we'd first begun the daily ritual shortly after we'd retired. I'd never once requested a different drink, but someday I was going to ask for a Long Island Iced Tea just to see how he'd react. My guess is that, having no clue what goes in that cocktail, he'll respond, "Tequila Sunrise coming right up!"

  Once I'd improved the clarity of the photo as best I could, I pulled a lighted magnifying glass out of one of my three junk drawers, which in a travel trailer doesn't leave much space for important items like silverware. Studying the image carefully, I finally felt certain I'd accurately distinguished what had caused the blur. I proudly announced, "It's a woman's fingernail with black polish on it."

  "Okay, if you say so." Rip was clearly not convinced. "How can you determine the fingernail belongs to a woman?"

  "What part of 'fingernail polish' didn't you understand?"

  "The fingernail polish part. If you could see some of the young hooligans I've dealt with during my career, you'd know that fingernail polish is not just for women anymore. I can't count the guys I've seen with their nails polished. And black seems to be a popular color with males for some reason. Maybe they think it's less emasculating than pink or red. I think any color looks ridiculous on a guy. If they're worried that the color of the nail polish might make them appear less manly, they shouldn't wear any at all."

  "I second the motion. But then, maybe that's just our age showing. When I was a teenager and asked my mother if I could get my ears pierced she said no, because she didn't want men to think I was easy."

  "Even without pierced ears, I thought you were easy," Rip said, grinning sheepishly. "You proved it, too, when you let me get in your knickers on our third date."

  I would have walloped Rip if his words weren't spot on. "Yes, that's true. But we wouldn't have Regina if I had played hard to get that night."

  "Aha! So, you're admitting she's your fault, and not mine?" Rip teased, echoing the words we'd recently heard Willie use.

  I did wallop him this time, and then added, "Besides, I find all that body piercing that's so prevalent amongst the younger generations today even more ludicrous than pierced ears. It doesn't look cool. It doesn't look attractive. To me, it just looks painful and ridiculous. But, again, I'm sure it's just my age talking."

  "Darn it!" Rip spoke so emphatically I thought he was being serious, until he continued. "I was going to give you a gift certificate for a tongue piercing for our upcoming fiftieth anniversary."

  "Oh, so very thoughtful of you, honey. But I think the Alaskan trip you've been planning is more than sufficient."

  "Well, all right. If you're sure. Don't say I didn't offer it." Rip chuckled with amusement. "But back to the fingernail. It could belong to a woman or a man."

  "Well, either way, do you think it's possible that it belongs to someone who might have killed Bea and dumped her body in the woods? Sheriff Wright did say that they couldn't rule out homicide due to the condition of her body after a number of days of being exposed to the elements, and the wildlife that might have happened upon it. Like Ranger Rick, they might have been drawn to the decomposing body by the smell."

  "Naturally, the fingernail could be attached to the killer, but I think it's a long shot even if it does turn out to be a case of homicide. Practically nothing is out of the realm of possibility, though." Rip was right, of course, but I wasn't going to just accept that the fingernail had no correlation to Bea's death. I wrote down the image number on the back of a grocery receipt and began scanning the photos again.

  Six photos later there was a very sharp image of the cuff of a blue shirt, most likely a man's, but, like the polished fingernail, we couldn't be positive. After all, it wasn't unusual for me to wear long-sleeved shirts myself. I was getting increasingly excited by our findings and Rip appeared intrigued, too.

  We resumed reviewing the remaining images, hoping we had even better photographs of the finger and shirt and, more importantly, who they belonged to. I naturally assumed we'd captured evidence of two people in the woods for whatever reason, until Rip reminded me that both could belong to the same person. "Do you realize how probable it is that the motion-activated camera captured one of the members of the search party who were combing the woods for Bea's body? With its camouflaged casing, it could have blended in with the foliage so well no one but Ranger Rick even noticed it."

  "Yeah, you're right. I hadn't thought of that," I replied. "But I'm glad the ranger didn't overlook the camera. It was nice to get it back, along with your binoculars, without even having to step foot inside the tree line."

  "For that matter, it's even more likely the shirt cuff belonged to Rick, who would have triggered the motion sensor when he reached down to remove the camera from the tree."

  I found Rip's reasoning to be sensible, but disheartening at the same time. I suppose the adrenalin rush of being intricately involved in the investigations of two former murder cases, and the satisfaction of being the person most responsible for solving them, had gotten into my blood. If you're still a spring chicken, you'll one day see how once a person becomes a senior citizen, it becomes more satisfying to be useful and beneficial to something or someone. There comes a time in one's life when the thought of having their legacy based on the delectable fruitcakes they pass out every holiday season just doesn't seem satisfying enough.

  After we viewed the next one hundred photos, I gave Rip's reasoning a little more thought and realized his theory made no sense at all. If the ranger had picked up the camera and turned it off, there'd not be another fifteen hundred photos or so left on the memory card. And if Ranger Rick had left it on, as we had on our first attempt, the following images would have been similar to the ones we'd captured on our first attempt: photos of grass, legs and arms, tree trunks, animal scat, shoes, and so forth. Instead, the images following the fingernail and blue shirt photos were that of the flitting leaf each time its motion was detected by the motion sensor. Had Ranger Rick discovered the camera and binoculars but waited until later to go back and retrieve them?

  After we'd scanned through another thousand images and had seen nothing but the same leaf moving about in the breeze, Rip suggested we call it a day. "It's apparent we're not going to find anything else worth viewing. Why don't I refill our drinks so we can sit out on the patio in our lawn chairs and enjoy the sunset?"

  It sounded like an appealing idea, even if it could potentially put us in the crosshairs of a serial killer's rifle scope. I decided to roll the dice on that remote possibility because I wouldn't want to insinuate that I didn't trust Rip to shelter me from harm. I'd never want the man, whom I'd known by our third date would be the love of my life, to think I didn't have the utmost faith in him. And, most importantly, I was in desperate need of some alcohol to calm my nerves.

  Chapter 10

  "Do you think we should hand the memory card over to the police department?" I asked Rip during breakfast the following morning. "It might be of some benefit in a search for a perpetrator."

>   "No, I don't. For one thing, they aren't looking for a perpetrator. They've pretty much concluded Bea was attacked by a wild animal, and I have to agree they're probably correct. Secondly, they'd most likely laugh me out of the police station and tell me they didn't need any assistance from the former sheriff of Petticoat Junction."

  "But, honey, they should respect the fact you've spent thirty-seven years in law enforcement, even if it wasn't in a big city like Dallas or Houston. You'd think they'd appreciate a fresh set of experienced eyes looking at the case."

  "You'd think. But they made it excruciatingly clear they don't. And, besides, there's currently no investigation taking place other than waiting for the autopsy results to come back. Even then, according to this morning's paper, they don't expect to find much in the report that leads to a specific cause of death. They found hair in the body's wounds from a number of different species, including bear, cougar, and some opportunistic smaller scavengers. As Sheriff Wright indicated, Bea's body was ripped to shreds and eaten by animals. Postmortem, of course."

  "Thank God for small favors!" I exclaimed.

  "As far as the authorities are concerned, it's an open and closed case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, with Bea falling victim to an unexpected encounter with a bear or cougar. Granted, it was a horrific and tragic incident. But it looks as if that's all it was."

  "Okay. But I'm just not one-hundred percent convinced she was killed by a four-legged animal. I think the case needs to be delved into deeper, with the idea it might not have been accidental after all."

  Rip studied my face for a moment. "I don't like that glimmer in your eye, Rapella. Please don't tell me you're going to drag me into another murder case, investigating Bea's death on our own. I know how satisfying it was to you to have been primarily responsible for solving the mysteries behind both Trotter Hayes and Cooper Claypool's deaths. But both those cases involved people close to us. Seriously, Rapella, what do we personally have to gain by jumping headfirst into a case like this one? As far as I could tell, you didn't care for the woman to begin with."

  "I don't know why I feel so compelled to dig further into this situation. It's not like I knew Bea very well, and what little I did know about her, I felt was abominable. Still, no one deserves to die like that. If by chance somebody was responsible for her death, I think they should be held accountable. Even a person as repulsive as Bea deserves justice if their life's been savagely taken from them. The victim's family deserves closure, as well."

  "I spoke to Boonie this morning. I got the distinct impression he's already gotten all the closure he needs."

  I grimaced at Rip's remark and felt a lone tear run down my cheek. I could never explain why I felt so disconcerted by the woman's untimely death. Perhaps it was the fact no one seemed overly upset about her demise that bothered me so much.

  Rip sighed and covered my hands with his. He looked me straight in the eyes. "Honey, I don't disagree with you one bit. But that's why God created a little something called law enforcement. Why not just let the Buffalo Police Department handle it? I'm sure if they have any inkling a crime has been committed, they'll investigate it thoroughly. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm sure Jaclyn Wright is a competent sheriff."

  "Oh, all right," I said. "I'm sure you're correct. Besides, we've got better things to do while we're here. For starters, we need to cheer Willie's ball team on to victory this weekend. They're ranked third in the tournament, Cora said, but we already know they can whoop Worland, and if the Buffalo boys are all in it to win it, I think they can kick butt and take names in the game against Gillette too."

  Rip let out a sigh of relief. He was happy to see my mood brighten and for me to concentrate on something less distressing. "I hope so. I'm sure the championship means a lot to Willie. I know he's interested in a career in mechanical engineering, but I believe he has a good shot at going to college on a baseball scholarship."

  "I agree. For his age, he's an incredibly talented ball player, both offensively and defensively. Willie's like a Hoover vacuum at third and can hit the leather off the ball, too. Who's to say he can't earn a degree in mechanical engineering while attending the university on a baseball scholarship?"

  "That's true. I think I'll try to stress the benefits of doing both simultaneously the next time I have a discussion with Willie about his future."

  After a few more minutes of chit-chat, I cleared the dishes off the table while Rip got dressed. As usual, he had consumed his grapefruit and orange juice that morning in nothing but a well-worn t-shirt and his Fruit of the Looms. I'd watched him painstakingly cut his grapefruit into perfect little wedges as if he were performing delicate brain surgery, and then slurp his juice like a hog at a water trough.

  When finished, he stood up, scratched his behind, let out a juicy belch and walked back into the bedroom. Yep, I thought. After fifty years together, the honeymoon is definitely over.

  * * *

  I'd ignored the overflowing basket of dirty clothes until I couldn't get a single sock to balance on the top without toppling the pile. On Thursday morning, I decided I'd better not put it off any longer. Rip had driven into town to pick up some rubber gaskets at the hardware store to replace one in the kitchen faucet that had dried up and cracked. He planned to store the spare ones in his metal tool box for future leaks. I'd been complaining about the constant dripping for three weeks and gotten nowhere. So that morning I threatened to call a plumber, at seventy-five bucks per service call, to complete the simple task. My ruse worked.

  When I first arrived at the laundry facility, all of the washers were already operating. I recognized the petite woman monopolizing the machines but it took a few moments of studying her to recall where I'd previously seen her. She was a wisp of a thing, probably no more than ninety pounds soaking wet. She had long wavy hair and had utilized a pale blue visor to keep the loose tendrils off her face. She wasn't what one would describe as pretty, but she had a cute tomboyish appearance. She wore a white sweatshirt with a Denali National Park emblem on the front, and there was a small stain on the brim of her visor. I finally realized she was the female half of the couple who had snatched the gun out of Bea's hands after we'd all observed the woman shoot and kill the mama bear.

  It's not that I'm prone to gossiping, as I'm sure you've already figured out for yourself, but I thought engaging the woman in conversation might result in some interesting information. And as it turned out, it did exactly that!

  The lady introduced herself as Barb Harris and, when asked, explained to me why she and her husband, John, were staying at the campground. "We're employed by an organization that deals with protecting animals of every variety from abuse and neglect."

  "That must keep you two busy, considering the vast number of animal species."

  "Yes, extremely busy. There are nearly nine million recognized species in the world, so we don't have a lot of time to let grass grow under our feet. We recently were involved in two projects: studying the decline of the Asian black bear, and how the diminishing habitat in South Africa has affected the baboon population, whose primary predators, unfortunately, are humans."

  "What a fascinating vocation you two are involved in." I was sincere. It sounded like an incredibly interesting way to make a living.

  "Yes. It's exciting to work toward the goal of preventing the extinction of any of the many, many species, from the black rhino down to the tiniest minnow. When our preservation efforts work, it's quite rewarding. For example, John and I were heavily involved in increasing the numbers of whooping cranes after their numbers dipped to a mere thirteen birds in 1941. They estimate there are now just over six hundred whoopers in existence, although about a quarter of those are being held in captivity."

  "Really? That's awesome! My husband, Rip, and I know all about whooping cranes because our hometown is Rockport, Texas. As I'm sure you're aware, a large portion of the whooping crane population winters at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge just north of Roc
kport."

  "Oh, sure. We've been to the refuge on several occasions to study the whoopers' breeding and nesting habits, and monitor the number of surviving hatchlings. Our preservation efforts have helped increase their numbers, but not nearly enough to take them off the endangered species list."

  "Well, we certainly appreciate your efforts. I think the entire Coastal Bend of south Texas is partial to the whooping cranes." I liked Barb Harris immediately and decided to bring up the topic of Bea's death. "Speaking of protecting animals, I was horrified by the way Bea executed that mama bear a while back. Now I'm even more horrified by what happened to the woman herself. Aren't you?"

  "I suppose, but John and I are too busy to keep up with what's going on around here. I'm just glad to know she'll never get the opportunity to kill another animal." Barb's response seemed a bit callous to me, but I admired her dedication to the cause.

  "I agree with that part, but my husband, a former sheriff, and I have been involved in similar cases in the past and are looking into this situation, too. There seems to be a piece of the pie that's missing, and we're hoping to find it."

  "Good luck with that!" As Barb spoke she turned away as if she were dismissing me. She didn't appear to be interested enough in Bea's death to discuss the matter.

  One of Barb's washing machines ground to a halt and she proceeded to toss the load into a dryer. I filled the now empty washer with my own basketful of laundry. Just to break the silence when we'd both returned to our cheap, flimsy chairs to wait, I said, "You sure had a lot of laundry to do today. I'm glad I only have the one load."

  "We spend a lot of time outside and doing research in the forest. We tend to go through clean clothes like nobody's business. And I seldom have the time to get caught up on the laundry."

  I watched her pull out a bottle of stain remover and use a good portion of its contents to spray some stains on the sleeves of a man's flannel shirt. After I'd placed her face, I'd been trying to figure out why her voice sounded somewhat familiar. Suddenly a remote possibility occurred to me. "Do you guys do any research in the vicinity of the forest beyond the south edge of this campground?"