Echoes of Him
Rachael
“You have extra patrols because I want Rachael working on this case.” I leaned back in the worn leather chair. His words hit me like a punch to the gut. My stomach twisted sickly, my hands went clammy, and my heart started hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape. Bile crept up my throat, and I forced myself to swallow, blink, breathe, trying to will my body to cooperate, but every instinct screamed to run, to shove the chair back and get as far from this case as humanly possible.
“Why me? I don’t have seniority.” I asked, embarrassed by how hard it was to get my words out.
“Because of how you handled it last night. You dove right in there as if you had done something like that a hundred times in your career. You have good instincts for that stuff, so it’s your case, just keep me in the loop.” I nod my head in agreement, swallowing back the urge to try arguing my way out of this.
“Go take the spare office down the hall.” Marty nods toward the door, excusing me from the daily report, which is a bonus, but working out of the office that is the size of a broom closet is not.
Jake scowls as I walk past him. I sigh as I grab a laptop from the dispatch office. “Are you going to miss talking to me on the radio?” Vicky asks before I can leave, clearly knowing before I did that I would be placed on the case.
“No,” I say playfully, but really meaning it. Using the codes does nothing for me. I could go all day without using my radio and be just fine. “I’m taking this.” I hold up the laptop as I leave her office, glad to escape another interrogation into my personal life.
Or lack thereof.
I shoved open the narrow door to my new office and winced at how little space there was. Barely enough for the single L-shaped desk, the rickety chair, a printer that looked older than I was, and a corded phone that probably hadn’t seen a modern upgrade in decades. I unbuckled the bulletproof vest and set it carefully in the corner. Sliding into the squeaky chair, I flipped open my laptop, threw down my notebook and waited as the screen flickered to life, the hum of the old machine filling the tiny room. I dug my phone out of my pocket, scrolling through the evidence photos I’d grabbed on the way over, and sent them to my work email on the department’s secure server. Leaning back for a second, I rubbed at my eyes and braced myself.
I sat at the cramped desk, stomach twisting as the photos loaded one by one. The woman in the ditch stared back at me through the camera, her pale gray-white skin marred with a perfect X carved over her heart. Her eyes were gone...whoever killed her left empty sockets that seemed to stare straight through me, and my hands went clammy, fingers gripping the edge of the desk until the knuckles ached.
I open my journal and run down the list of questions when I was just moderately buzzed, and impress myself with the list. Not the penmanship, but the thoughts at least. I snort going down the list writing in answers to the questions drunk me asked.
It’s at least some form of amusement in my life.
Who’s the Jane Doe? Any ID on her? ***** She was found naked*****
Time of death—how long she’s been out here?
Signs of a struggle? Was she killed here or moved postmortem? no signs at site
Cause of death—blunt, stab, strang, something else?
That X over her chest—signature, message, or just random?
Eyes gone—ritualistic, personal, or just mutilation?
Any witnesses? Anyone see or hear something suspicious?
Last known whereabouts? Who was she with?
Cameras or other digital feeds around the scene? **not the id channel, Rachael. I don’t want to know what it means that I am writing to myself.
Any criminal record, enemies, or personal beefs? **Probably the reason I wanted a burrito.
Fingerprints, DNA, or trace evidence on the body or at the scene?
Missing items—wallet, phone, jewelry? **Found nude
Pattern check—does this line up with other cases, besides the obvious?
Anyone who knows her well—friends, neighbors, family—got intel on her life?
Could this be a copycat?
The last question causes the sense of dread to come over me again, but I push it down as I scoff at myself as I read the second page. Although I did have a few good ideas, I was clearly barely able to write.
Namus **Do first
Look for weird shit *Vague
I pulled up NAMUS.
The National Missing and Unidentified Persons System—on my laptop and entered a rough estimate of the victim's identifiers: Female, Caucasian, blonde hair, approximate age and height, all within a 100-mile radius of the scene. I knew I’d have to verify all the details with the coroner to be certain, but for now, it was the quickest way to see if any missing person reports matched our Jane Doe.
I hit “search” and scrolled through the results, my stomach sinking as nothing came up. No matches, not terribly surprising because Montana is rural. A knock on the door startles me out of my thinking, and Marty walks into the small room. “We got a problem.” He states gruffly. “Well, I’m not sure it is a problem....yet.” He shuts the door behind him. “I called the Criminal Investigations Division to report this. Not because you can’t handle it, but to be legal. We haven’t had a murder in decades. Anyway, they can’t take the case. The body was found close enough to the state park that this is considered a federal case. Since the game warden and crew were fired because of budget cuts, it goes to the FBI.”
I stiffened when the words hit me—federal jurisdiction. FBI taking over.
Relief washed over me before guilt could even get a word in. The markings on the body, the way it was left… it was all too familiar. Too close to him. Too close to the cellar, to the terror I’d carried like a second skin all these years. I didn’t want to relive any of that. Not while trying to do my job.
If the FBI was stepping in, maybe he’d stay where he belonged, buried in the past. Maybe I could finally focus on the small, mundane victories of my patrols without the shadow of him hovering.
I let out a shaky breath, grateful for the reprieve, even if it didn’t erase the knot of dread that lingered just beneath my ribs.
“What do you want me to do in the meantime?” I asked, hoping it entailed anything but this.
“Keep working it. Prepare yourself, when they get here.....they can be pushy.” Marty warns.
“Noted,” I say, nonchalantly. Marty leaves, and I spend the next few hours researching Namus, and making calls to the medical examiner, who, in reality, is just the county's primary emergency room physician. I take a few notes and alter parameters in the online tool, combing missing women cases while the medical examiner waits for a coroner to arrive and take over from several hours away.
And we have to send the prints in to the Montana State Department to search the Automated Biometric Identification System.
I was leaning back in my chair, staring at the computer in front of me, when the fire alarm ripped through the station. My chest tightened, heart jumping. Not another thing to deal with today.
Before I could even react, the radio crackled. “Dispatch, all units, 10-33, 10-33, roadside motel, 10-75, fire in progress. Units respond Code 3.” My stomach flipped. 10-33… 10-75… I didn’t hesitate.
I grabbed my vest and belt, slinging them on over my shirt, securing my badge and radio. “#3668, responding Code 3,” I said sharply into the mic, and my voice sounded steadier than I felt. My boots pounded the hallway as I ran through the department.
Firefighters coordinating, medics reporting, deputies checking. The noise buzzed in my ears, sharp and chaotic, but it grounded me.
I slid into my squad car, slammed the door, and roared out of the lot. Tires screeched on the gravel, adrenaline burning through my veins. “#3668, Code 3 to roadside motel, ETA two minutes,” I reported, weaving through Red Ridge streets. Voices overlapped through the dispatch link—“Engine 2, hydrant located, 10-97 en route,” “Medic 1 on scene, staging perimeter,”