“I’m on it, sir. Special Agent Harris will be arriving at sixteen hundred hours, and Jim Esteban is flying in tonight from Dallas.”

That was fast—Matt didn’t think he’d have Michael or Jim until tomorrow.

“And the mobile crime lab?”

“AD Greer is working on it, but it likely won’t be ready for at least a week.”

If they didn’t solve this case in the next week, they wouldn’t need the mobile lab.

“I’ll play nice with the locals and see if we can have access to their lab if we need it, to save time instead of shipping everything to Quantico. I’m still at the lake but heading to the morgue in Spokane in a few.”

Matt ended the call, wondering how the hell they were going to logistically manage an MRT crime lab. It wasn’t an issue for this case because they didn’t have the lab yet, but even if they had people rotating while driving 24 hours a day, it would take a minimum of three full days and nights to drive one cross-country. Once in full operation the MRT wouldn’t be able to wait days for the decked-out RV. Tony had said if the MRT program was successful, his goal was to have two fully equipped RVs, one on each coast. But what about snow? Storms? This was the one part of the program Matt didn’t think Tony had fully thought through.

In concept the MRT was terrific. One of the reasons it would be an asset was that most rural communities didn’t have extensive forensic capabilities, and having an FBI mobile lab available and prepared to process evidence would be a huge benefit. But practically? Matt didn’t see it working.

He supposed they could load the RV up on a military transport plane. For now, he didn’t have to worry about it.

Matt glanced at his watch. It was a straight shot west on I-90 from Liberty Lake to Spokane, about twenty minutes, so he had a bit more time to look around. He walked fifteen feet along the edge of the lake. It was clear to him that Quinn was right—the killer spent some time here. The rocks were pressed into the damp soil, there were footprints, though nothing clear enough to get an impression, and several plants that had been flattened.

Why?

To wash his hands?

Change his clothes?

Dispose of the weapon?

He stared out at the lake, at the thin layer of fog over the surface that didn’t reach the shore. He squatted and dipped his hand in the water.

Damn, that was fucking cold.

He jotted down a few notes—Manners was killed at the edge of the lake, but the water didn’t touch her body. Quinn had spotted the neon stethoscope from fifty feet—not impossible, because it was a bright pink beacon in a sea of brown and green. And she was a cop, so it was reasonable that she might investigate out of sheer curiosity.

The ATV had been parked five feet to the left of the body. That was evident because of deeper ruts from when the killer started up the vehicle and drove off. Ten feet from the ATV, right on the edge of the lake, is where he may have cleaned up.