Free Known Dead by Donald Harstad Page B

China.’’ ‘‘7.62 mm Ball.’’
    ‘‘Glad you called me.’’ I straightened up. ‘‘How in the hell did you find these?’’
    ‘‘I pulled in here to take a leak, and I always shine my light around just a bit before I do.’’
    ‘‘You didn’t . . . ?’’
    ‘‘Oh, no, I did over there a ways.’’
    ‘‘Good, I’m short of rubber gloves.’’
    I looked around, but couldn’t quite orient myself. ‘‘How far are we from the crime scene?’’
    ‘‘About two hundred yards.’’
    ‘‘Fog’s thick.’’ And I’m still not quite awake. Didn’t say that, though.
    We returned to my car, where I unpacked my camera and fumbled through the bag until I had everything I thought appropriate attached to the frame. Made a little small talk as I did.
    ‘‘Whaddya do, drive around all night lookin’ for a toilet?’’ Said with a grin and in a lighthearted manner. We often did. As it transpired, he hadn’t. It seems that he was bringing some coffee to the reserve officers we had watching the crime scene and keeping the curious out. He had decided to relieve himself when he arrived, but was followed by a female trooper to the scene. He was too embarrassed to head for a convenient bush with her standing there, so he made an excuse and drove down here. Well, you take ’em when you can get ’em.
    I radioed the office and told them to get word to the DCI that I was going to need one of them up at the new scene as soon as possible. Then we went back, and photographed the little pile of debris very thoroughly. I used a 70-210 mm zoom lens, as well as a standard 55 mm, and took about half the shots with a flash. It was really foggy. As I maneuvered around the trash pile I saw a couple of small round cans whose labels indicated they had contained green cammo makeup. Fascinating.
    When Hester got there, we spread out a bit and checked out the area. Got soaked to the knees, but it was worth it. We found a freshly dug hole, where somebody had buried a bunch of modern military rations. MREs. Stood for ‘‘Meal, Ready to Eat.’’ You could get these at about any surplus or sporting goods store. But if these had been used by our suspects, they’d been here for a while. There were twenty-four empty MRE bags.
    ‘‘Okay,’’ I said. Trying to be a math major. ‘‘That’s eight people, three meals a day. Or one person for eight days. Or . . .’’
    ‘‘Right,’’ said Hester. ‘‘I’ll go for four people for two days myself.’’
    That was one combination I hadn’t thought of. Among many, I admit.
    ‘‘Or maybe I’d prefer two people for four days,’’ she said, grinning.
    Eddie, who was known for allowing his concentration to overwhelm his sense of humor, got more to the point. ‘‘There aren’t any breakfasts here,’’ he said. We were silent for a moment, clearing the threes out, and doing twos. Pointless. There were twenty-four bags. That’s what we knew. It told us they, however many, had stayed for a while, for however long. But if they were related to the crime, and it sure looked like they could be, then they didn’t pull their people out at sunset like we did. That meant, at least as a possibility, that they had watched our people enter and leave the area. Spooky.
    The sun was finally starting to burn the fog off as we finished collecting and labeling the evidence. It started getting hot, and the humidity was already unbelievable. I suggested we go back to the crime scene and walk a much wider area. And I suggested that we should proceed to the scene from where we were standing. Just like ‘‘they’’ would have.
    It turned out that to get there we had to go up and over a large steep, slippery hill that was covered with damp fallen leaves, and hotter than hell. The trees were thick, and the area between them was covered with thorny brambles and thick, reedy weeds. Took us about two hours. I hate it when people take my suggestions. I was pretty well shot when we got to