“Crime scene? You think it was some morbidly curious punk—” His eyes widen as realization dawns. “Do you think it’s him? The killer?”

“I don’t know.” I squat for a closer look at the tracks. “He left us a nice tread.”

“Size ten or eleven.”

“Get Glock out here to get some impressions, will you?”

He hits his lapel mike and relays the request to Mona. I rise to my full height and run my flashlight beam along the tracks.

“Why would he return to the scene?” T.J. asks.

I scan the layers of shadows surrounding us. The forest is monochrome in the pale light of the moon. “I was just wondering the same thing.”

CHAPTER 20

“Either he’s reliving the kill, or he left something behind and was trying to retrieve it.”

For a man who spent the night in a warm hotel room with a bed and shower, John Tomasetti looks more than a little rough around the edges. He wears creased black Dockers, a white button-down shirt and a paisley tie the color of dirty snow. But the conservative image ends with the clothes. His eyes are bloodshot beneath heavy brows. If he shaved at all, he didn’t do a very good job. From where I sit I can see his beard is heavy and dark and makes a stark contrast to his pallid complexion. I wonder if he’s coming down with something.

I’m probably looking a little rough around the edges myself this morning. I feel a new bruise blooming high on my forehead and hope it doesn’t clash with the remnants of my black eye. I didn’t make it home last night. Working on my second day without sleep, I’m feeling downright cranky.

T.J., Glock, one of Detrick’s deputies and I spent three hours in the woods in subzero temperatures, searching for clues. The perp was long gone, but we found fresh snowmobile tracks. Glock was able to lift a few footwear impressions and one decent imprint from the snowmobile skis. If we’re lucky, BCI will match it and give us the make and model of the snowmobile.

Exhaustion tugs at me as I stare down at the hastily typed incident report I threw together. My head pounds from the blows I sustained. My wrist is swollen where he hit me with the club. I can move it, but I’m worried because I’m not ambidextrous when it comes to handling my weapon.

“Chief?”

Tomasetti addressed me, but I have no earthly idea what he said. “You want to bring us up to speed on what you’ve got going?” he asks.

It’s barely seven A.M. on Wednesday morning, but the gang’s all here. Glock sits next to me, his fingers pecking at his laptop. Sheriff Detrick leans back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. Pickles stares at me as if he wants to help me speak. T.J. and Skid seem fascinated by their coffee mugs.

Quickly, I relay the details of the ambush. “We believe the perp was on a snowmobile. Glock took footwear and track impressions. They look promising.”