Free The Apprentice by Tess Gerritsen Page B

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FIVE

    The dog was a yellow Lab, excited to near hyseria by the police officers standing nearby. He capered and barked at the end of his leash, which was tied to a tree. The dog’s owner, a wiry middle-aged man in running shorts, sat nearby on a large rock, head drooping into his hands, ignoring his dog’s pleading yips for attention.
    “Owner’s name is Paul Vandersloot. Lives on River Street, just a mile from here,” said Patrolman Gregory Doud, who had secured the scene and had already strung a semicircle of police tape on the trees.
    They were standing on the edge of the municipal golf course, staring into the woods of Stony Brook Reservation, which directly abutted the golf course. Located at the southern tip of Boston’s city limits, this reservation was surrounded by a sea of suburbs. But within Stony Brook’s 475 acres was a rugged landscape of wooded hills and valleys, rocky outcroppings, and marshes fringed with cattails. In winter, cross-country skiers explored the park’s ten miles of trails; in summer, joggers found refuge in its quiet forests.
    And so had Mr. Vandersloot, until his dog led him to what lay among the trees.
    “He says he comes here every afternoon to take his dog for a run,” said Officer Doud. “Usually goes up the East Boundary Road trail first, through the woods, then loops back along this inside edge of the golf course. It’s about a four-mile run. Says he keeps the dog on a leash the whole time. But today, the dog got away from him. They were going up the trail when the dog took off west, into the woods, and wouldn’t come back. Vandersloot went chasing after him. Practically tripped right over the body.” Doud glanced at the jogger, who was still huddled on the rock. “Called nine-one-one.”
    “He use a cell phone?”
    “No, ma’am. Went to a phone booth down at the Thompson Center. I got here around two-twenty. I was careful not to touch anything. Just walked into the woods far enough to confirm it was a body. About fifty yards in, I could already smell it. Then, after another fifty yards, I saw it. Backed right out and secured the scene. Closed off both ends of the Boundary Road trail.”
    “And when did everyone else get here?”
    “Detectives Sleeper and Crowe got here around three. The M.E. arrived around three-thirty.” He paused. “I didn’t realize you were coming in, too.”
    “Dr. Isles called me. I guess we’re all parking on the golf course for now?”
    “Detective Sleeper ordered it. Doesn’t want any vehicles visible from Enneking Parkway. Keeps us out of the public’s eye.”
    “Any media turned up yet?”
    “No, ma’am. I was careful not to radio it in. Used the call box down the road instead.”
    “Good. Maybe we’ll get lucky and they won’t turn up at all.”
    “Uh-oh,” said Doud. “Could this be our first jackal arriving?”
    A dark-blue Marquis rolled across the golf course grass and pulled up beside the M.E.‘s van. A familiar overweight figure hauled himself out and smoothed his sparse hair over his scalp.
    “He’s not a reporter,” said Rizzoli. “This guy I’m expecting.”
    Korsak lumbered toward them. “You really think it’s her?” he asked.
    “Dr. Isles says it’s a strong possibility. If so, your homicide just moved into Boston city limits.” She looked at Doud. “Which way do we approach it, so we don’t contaminate things?”
    “You’re okay going from the east. Sleeper and Crowe have already videoed the site. The footprints and drag marks all come from the other direction, starting at Enneking Parkway. Just follow your nose.”
    She and Korsak slipped under the police tape and headed into the woods. This section of second-growth trees was as dense as any deep forest. They ducked beneath spiky branches that scratched their faces, and snagged their trouser legs on brambles. They emerged on the East Boundary jogging trail and spotted a strand of police tape, fluttering from a tree.
    “The jogger