“Then I’ll wait here.” He leaned on the car, and crossed his arms over his chest. He might have to stay away from the body, but she had no doubt he’d notice everything about the scene.

Stella took a few minutes to verify the dog walker’s story before getting his contact information and releasing him. He didn’t look as shaken as the man who’d found Missy Green.

She spotted a long rut in the mud leading from the parking area toward the bench. Strange, flat footprints followed the line. The impressions had been marked off with orange cones and crime scene tape.

“What do you think left that?” she asked Lance. “It’s too wide for a regular bicycle tire. Some sort of off-road bike?”

He shook his head. “Wheelbarrow. He put her in a wheelbarrow and walked her down to the bench.”

She shielded her eyes from the sun and stared toward the bench. “Because of the way the hill lays out, you can’t see the park until you drive over the hill. This isn’t a through street. There’s no reason to drive over the hill unless you’re coming to the park. No one would see him unless they were coming here.” The park was a seemingly isolated spot right behind town.

“Even if he did it in the dark, it’s still a ballsy move,” Lance said.

“No bolder than abducting her from her house in broad daylight.”

“The footprints have no tread.”

“He covered them.” Stella stared at the tracks. “We’ll still get them cast. At least we can get his shoe size.”

A minivan emblazoned with the county medical examiner logo pulled into the lot. A few minutes later, a coverall-clad Frank walked to her side.

The ground was soft from recent rains. Water squished under Stella’s boots as she walked toward the bench. She tracked the long, single furrow that ran from the street, down the hill, to the bench.

Keeping clear of the rut, she and Frank walked toward the bench and circled around to get a full, frontal view of the body.

Frank whistled. “Fuck. Me.”

Dena Miller sat upright, her head lolling to one side. Nylon rope had been used to secure her shoulders to the bench. Her legs were crossed and tied together. Around her neck was a pale blue scarf. Below it, in the center of her nude belly, he’d carved the number 2.

Stella pictured Missy’s body on the autopsy table. “That single cut in Missy’s stomach was a number 1.”

Frank nodded. “Looks like.”

The sun beat down on the top of Stella’s head, but the pit of her belly went ice cold. Her gaze skimmed over the body, stopping on the hands folded in the victim’s lap. They were mangled. “Her fingers.”

Frank exhaled sharply. “All broken.”

That wasn’t the kind of injury that could happen by accident. Dena had been tortured.