The stain is a red-black slick nearly four feet in diameter, mostly dry now, except for the center. I can smell the deep copper scent of it. At least one vehicle has driven through it, leaving a decent impression of the tread. The CSU will take tire-tread imprints, but my gut tells me that more than likely they were made by an inattentive motorist who simply didn’t notice. At some point, some small animal left paw prints at a place where it may have lapped at the blood.

It’s a macabre scene in the crepuscular light. Like the sheriff, I hope for some benign explanation—a deer struck by a car. But in my gut, I know it’s human blood. I know something terrible happened here. In light of the fabric satchel lying a few feet away, I’m pretty sure it happened to the missing girl.

I look at Tomasetti. “Is that a fatal amount?”

He grimaces. “Hard to tell. Maybe.”

“She could have been walking alongside the road and got hit by a car,” Goddard says, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“With that kind of scenario, it seems like internal injuries would be a more likely result,” I say.

“And there’s no body,” says Tomasetti.

“Maybe whoever hit her put her in the car,” Goddard offers. “Took her to the hospital.”

“No skid marks,” I say.

“Unless it wasn’t an accident.” Tomasetti glances at the sheriff. “Did you check area hospitals?”

Goddard nods. “I’ve got my secretary checking.”

Around us, the forest goes silent, as if in reverence, due to the violence that transpired just a short time ago in this very spot.

Tomasetti scans the surrounding woods. “Do you have the manpower to search the area?”

“I can probably round up some volunteers.” Goddard unclips his phone from his belt but then pauses to indicate the tire marks. “What do you think about those?”

Tomasetti squats and studies the tread mark. “CSU might be able to lift tread imprints. If we can match those to a manufacturer, we might catch a break.”

“How old do you think this blood is?” Goddard asks.

Tomasetti shakes his head. “There’s quite a bit of drying around the edges. Spatter is dry.” He looks up, and I realize he’s trying to figure out how much sun gets past the trees. “Doesn’t get much sun here. It’s humid. I’d say six or seven hours.”

The sheriff jerks his head. “I’ll get to work on those volunteers.”

Stepping away from the scene, Tomasetti pulls out his phone, punches in numbers, and begins speaking quietly.