“That ranger was surprisingly cooperative,” Hank remarked as they left the crime scene and followed the trail back through the woods.
Nick understood why.
“When was the last time Forest Park had a murder serious enough to bring homicide detectives out here?
Nearly twenty years ago?” Hank looked toward the canopy while searching his memory.
“Closer to ten.
It was around 1999, so I would’ve been eight.
Three women were found near Saltzman Road over several months.
The news scared everyone so badly that my grandmother wouldn’t let me leave the house without an adult.” Nick remembered the case far more clearly than Hank did.
At the time, he had recently awakened in the body of seven-year-old Nick Burkhardt.
He was still pretending that the car accident had left him withdrawn and unresponsive while secretly learning how to speak English naturally.
Aunt Marie believed trauma was responsible for his silence.
In reality, he spent every private moment memorizing vocabulary, correcting his pronunciation, and studying the unfamiliar world around him.
The house did not have a computer or internet connection then.
Television and newspapers were his only reliable sources of outside information, though reading the paper required caution.
A child staring at photographs could be dismissed as curiosity.
A seven-year-old who supposedly struggled to communicate but spent hours studying news reports would have raised uncomfortable questions.
The Forest Park murders dominated Portland’s headlines.
The investigation continued for nearly two years before DNA evidence connected the victims to repeat sex offender Todd Reed.
Faced with overwhelming evidence, he pleaded guilty to avoid a possible death sentence and received three consecutive life terms.
Hank suddenly stopped walking.
“This reminds me of another case.” Nick turned toward him.
“Which one?” “There was an attack near Manson Falls last month.
I wasn’t assigned to it, but I saw the crime-scene photographs.” Nick had still been working patrol at the time and rarely received details about homicide investigations outside his district.
“What happened?” “A hiker was torn apart along a trail.
The remains looked almost identical to what we found today.” “Animal attack?” “That was the original assumption, but investigators couldn’t find tracks from a bear, cougar, coyote, or anything else large enough to cause the damage.
There weren’t any human footprints either.” Nick glanced back toward the taped-off section of forest.
“One unexplained death could be an unusual wildlife incident.
Two victims found in similar conditions within a month is something else.” Hank nodded.
“We’ll compare the reports when we get back.” “Whatever caused this, we need to identify it quickly.” Nick could already imagine the media coverage once the story became public.
Forest Park and its extensive trail system were among Portland’s greatest sources of civic pride.
Environmental groups and park officials regularly organized volunteers to remove invasive ivy, maintain paths, and protect native plants.
If residents began believing that hikers could be torn apart within city limits, public pressure would fall immediately on the police bureau.
Reporters would demand arrests before investigators had even identified the victim.
Nick and Hank continued toward the trailhead, but after several steps, Nick stopped so abruptly that his partner nearly walked into him.
“What is it?” Hank asked.
“Listen.” Both men remained still.
Beneath the rustling leaves and distant calls of birds, a faint melody drifted from the side of the trail.
The sound was too clear and repetitive to come from another hiker farther ahead.
Nick turned and followed it back toward the edge of the cordoned area.
After searching beneath several ferns, he found a small pink iPod lying among the leaves.
Its color nearly matched the Nike shoe discovered near the victim’s remains.
A pair of white earbuds remained connected to the device.
Music leaked from them at full volume, repeating the same section of a song.
“Sweet dreams are made of this.
Who am I to disagree…” Hank swayed his head slightly with the rhythm.
“Eurythmics.
‘Sweet Dreams.’ A classic.” Nick gave him an unimpressed look.
Music had always been one of his weaknesses.
He enjoyed listening to it, but he could rarely identify a song unless it was famous enough to appear everywhere.
His singing voice was even worse.
In either life, no sensible choir director would have allowed him near a microphone.
“Congratulations,” Nick said.
“You’ve finally contributed something useful.” Hank pointed toward the iPod.
“Recognizing the soundtrack to our murder scene counts as investigative work.” A forensic technician brought them an evidence bag.
Nick photographed the device where it had fallen, then carefully placed it inside without touching the controls.
If the iPod belonged to the victim, its serial number, fingerprints, downloaded music, or purchase history might help identify her.
Even if it belonged to someone else, its presence near the scattered remains made it relevant.
The two detectives eventually returned to the trailhead and drove downtown.
Portland Police Bureau’s Central Precinct served as the operational center for many of the city’s downtown units.
The interior lacked the polished appearance of a modern federal building, but years of use had given it a dignified atmosphere.
High ceilings and broad corridors made the structure feel larger than it was.
Dark wooden railings bordered the staircases, while older architectural details remained visible beneath layers of renovation and government paint.
By the time Nick and Hank reached the homicide floor, the afternoon was already fading.
Neither man expected to leave at a reasonable hour.
This was Nick’s first official case as a detective, so he had no intention of complaining about overtime.
He volunteered to begin the background research while Hank took the iPod to the forensic unit.
“Good luck,” Hank said, holding up the evidence bag.
“I’ll make sure they process this for prints as soon as possible.
Maybe we’ll have the victim’s name before midnight.” “Bring me something to eat when you come back.” Hank looked offended.
“You just promoted me from partner to delivery driver.” “You were already going downstairs.” Nick sat at his desk and turned on the computer before Hank could respond.
Although he lacked practical experience as a detective, he was not approaching the case without preparation.
His criminology degree had given him a strong foundation in investigative methods, forensic science, criminal behavior, and psychological profiling.
He had studied Vernon Geberth’s Practical Homicide Investigation until the binding began to separate.
The FBI’s Crime Classification Manual and several forensic-evidence textbooks had received similar treatment.
Books such as Mindhunter had introduced him to the Behavioral Science Unit’s early work with serial offenders, while studies of stalking and victim selection had helped him understand how predators chose, followed, and controlled their targets.
Reading could not replace experience at a crime scene, but it prevented him from starting blindly.
Nick first searched recent missing-person reports from Portland and the surrounding counties.
He filtered for young women whose physical descriptions might match the severed arm, red athletic jacket, and pink running shoe.
The incomplete remains made estimating age, height, and weight difficult.
Until the medical examiner reconstructed enough of the body to provide a reliable profile, clothing and personal belongings were their strongest clues.
He also requested the report from the Manson Falls case Hank had mentioned.
The earlier victim had been found in a similarly isolated trail area.
Her body showed extensive tearing and bite-like injuries, but investigators failed to identify any known predator through tracks, hair, or scat.
The case had been left open pending additional laboratory results.
That resemblance was too strong to dismiss.
American criminal investigation had advanced rapidly because law-enforcement agencies were forced to deal with an enormous number of violent crimes.
Even so, television created unrealistic expectations about how quickly evidence could be processed.
DNA testing was powerful but slow.
A homicide case might receive priority, yet overwhelmed laboratories could still require a week or longer to return a definitive result.
Medical examiner offices faced similar backlogs.
Autopsies could be performed quickly in urgent cases, but toxicology, tissue analysis, and detailed wound comparisons often took far more time.
Nick and Hank could not sit at their desks waiting for laboratory reports.
The first days of a homicide investigation were the most valuable.
Witness memories faded, surveillance recordings were erased, and physical evidence disappeared beneath weather or ordinary human activity.
If they waited a week to confirm that the Forest Park victim had been murdered, their best opportunity to catch the killer might already be gone.
Fingerprint comparison offered a faster option.
Automated databases had made the process far more efficient than it had been decades earlier.
If usable prints remained on the iPod and matched someone with a driver’s license, criminal record, government job, or other indexed file, the detectives might obtain a name within hours.
Nick continued reviewing missing-person reports as daylight vanished beyond the precinct windows.
He found several possible matches but nothing strong enough to justify contacting a family.
One woman owned red running clothes but had disappeared from Seattle.
Another lived in Beaverton but was nearly fifty.
A third matched the estimated age, yet her family reported that she had left home wearing work clothes rather than athletic gear.
He recorded each possibility for later review.
The smell of instant noodles eventually announced Hank’s return before the detective reached the desk.
Hank placed a steaming cup beside Nick’s keyboard and dropped into his chair.
“I brought dinner.” Nick looked at the container.
“This is barely food.” “You asked me to bring you something.
You didn’t specify quality.” Hank removed a folder from beneath his arm and placed it on the desk.
Nick immediately forgot about the noodles.
“You got a match?” Hank’s tired expression gave way to a satisfied smile.
“The lab lifted several partial prints and one complete thumbprint from the iPod.
The database found an identification.” Nick opened the folder.
Before night had fully settled over Portland, their unknown victim finally had a name.
[Community Goals Ongoing]