“Just like the Forest Service officer said, there haven’t been any reports of large predators near the crime scene in years,” Nick said.
“I checked twenty-three carnivorous species found around Oregon, and the largest realistic match in that part of Portland is a raccoon.” He accepted the cup of instant noodles Hank handed him and immediately started eating.
“So our killer probably isn’t Bert Raccoon?” Hank asked.
Nick glanced up from the noodles.
“You’ve been waiting all evening to make that joke, haven’t you?” Hank ignored him and opened the folder he had brought from the lab.
“The good news is that we may have identified our victim.
A college student went out for a run this morning and never returned.
Her roommate filed a missing-person report this afternoon, and the information entered into the system matched the thumbprint recovered from the iPod.” Nick finished the noodles so quickly that he barely tasted them.
He pushed back his chair and reached for his jacket.
“Then why are we still sitting here?” The women’s residence hall at the Portland Academy of Art was a three-story brick building with steep gables and tall windows.
Cherry trees lined the walkway and surrounded the front courtyard.
Late summer had stripped the branches of their spring blossoms, but the campus still had plenty of scenery.
Groups of students crossed the lawn, laughing, carrying sketchbooks, and enjoying the last warm weeks before autumn.
Hank watched several young women pass.
“You should’ve pushed me harder after high school,” he said.
“If I’d known college looked like this, I would’ve applied somewhere else after community college.” Nick gave him a sideways look.
“Getting myself into Portland State was difficult enough.
I couldn’t drag you through the admissions process too.” “I had potential.” “You had a talent for skipping class.” The detectives had contacted the woman who filed the missing-person report, but they waited outside the residence hall rather than entering the building.
Campus housing rules were fairly relaxed, yet two unfamiliar men wandering through a women’s dormitory would create unnecessary problems.
Nick’s badge did little to discourage attention.
During the ten minutes they waited, three students approached him.
One asked for his AIM screen name, another offered her MSN contact, and the third wanted to add him on Facebook.
Nick politely declined each invitation.
Hank watched the final student walk away with a disappointed expression.
“I can’t imagine what your college years were like.” “Not as exciting as you think.
I wasn’t in a fraternity, so my social circle stayed fairly small.” That was mostly true.
Students who focused heavily on academics were not always welcomed into the most popular campus groups.
Nick avoided fraternities, rarely attended large parties, and spent most of his free time studying or training.
His ability to defend himself had prevented anyone from treating him like an easy target.
It also helped that few people wanted to challenge the quiet student who could drop a larger man without leaving obvious injuries.
Nick had never joined the high school football team or belonged to a college fraternity.
Somehow, he had still dated his high school’s cheerleading captain and later caught the attention of a sorority president.
That had earned him more resentment than any academic success ever could.
A petite Latina woman hurried out of the residence hall.
Her dark hair was tied behind her head, and anxiety showed clearly across her face.
“Detectives?” Nick and Hank displayed their identification.
“I’m Detective Burkhardt.
This is Detective Griffin.
You reported your roommate missing?” “Yes.
Her name is Sylvie Oster.” The young woman clasped her hands together as she spoke.
“She left for her run at seven-thirty this morning.
She usually comes back within an hour, even when she takes the longer trail.
When she still wasn’t here by noon, I called campus security.” Her voice tightened.
“Do you know what happened to her?” Nick did not answer immediately.
He removed his iPhone and opened the photograph he had taken of the evidence bag.
“Do you recognize this?” The roommate stared at the pink iPod.
“That’s Sylvie’s.” “You’re certain?” “Yes.
She always listens to music when she runs.
She turns it up so loud that I keep telling her she’s going to damage her hearing.” Fear spread across the woman’s face.
“Oh my God.
You found it?
Did you find Sylvie too?” Nick looked toward the residence hall and considered the distance between the campus and the trail where the remains had been discovered.
A steady runner could have covered it in approximately thirty minutes.
If Sylvie left at seven-thirty, she might have reached the attack site around eight.
The hiker reported finding the remains more than two hours later.
By then, a living nineteen-year-old woman had been reduced to pieces scattered throughout hundreds of feet of forest.
No ordinary raccoon could have done that.
Even a cougar or bear would not have left the scene in such a condition without producing tracks, hair, or other evidence.
Joshua Coffey’s animal-like face surfaced in Nick’s memory.
If Nick had encountered Coffey without a weapon or his enhanced reflexes, could the Wesen have torn him apart the same way?
He also remembered the blonde woman outside Northwest Armory.
Her elegant features had collapsed into the face of a rotting corpse when their eyes met.
That creature disturbed him even more.
A savage animal was frightening but understandable.
A beautiful woman who could transform into a decaying nightmare without warning presented an entirely different kind of danger.
A man could spend an evening believing he had met the perfect woman, only to discover the truth during the worst possible moment.
The experience would be enough to destroy his confidence for life.
Hank noticed Nick’s silence but mistook it for careful consideration.
He stepped forward and answered the roommate.
“I’m sorry, but the investigation is still active.
We can’t release specific details yet.” The young woman’s eyes filled with tears.
“Can you tell us what Sylvie was wearing when she left?” Hank asked gently.
“Black running leggings, a red athletic jacket, and pink Nike shoes.” She wiped her eyes and reached into her pocket.
“I have a picture.
She wore the same outfit almost every morning.” The woman opened a photograph on her iPhone and handed it to Nick.
Sylvie stood beside her roommate in front of the dormitory.
Both women smiled brightly at the camera, their faces filled with the energy and confidence of people who believed their lives were only beginning.
Sylvie wore the same red jacket and pink running shoes recovered from Forest Park.
There could no longer be any doubt.
“Sylvie Oster,” Hank said later that evening.
They were back inside the homicide office, standing before a computer displaying her Oregon driver’s license.
“Nineteen years old.
Born and raised in Portland.
Sculpture major at the Academy of Art.” He leaned back in his chair and exhaled.
“I can’t believe that photograph is the same woman we found in the woods this morning.” Nick studied the license picture.
Sylvie’s expression was more restrained than in the photograph from her roommate, but the same youthful confidence remained.
“At least we made progress,” Hank continued.
“I just hope she died quickly.” The clock on the wall showed that their shift had ended long ago.
Hank gathered the files from his desk.
“I’m going home.
You aren’t planning to stay here all night, are you?
We don’t even know whether the case officially belongs to homicide yet.” “You should get some rest,” Nick replied.
“Tomorrow morning, check with forensics about the boot print we found near the fallen log.
I think it may be our best lead.” “What are you going to do?” “Look into Sylvie’s friends, classmates, and social life.” Nick’s attention remained fixed on the computer screen.
He had already opened Sylvie’s Facebook profile.
Hank studied him for a moment.
“Don’t stay too late.” “No promises.” Once Hank left, the office became quiet.
The remaining detectives worked behind closed doors or had already gone home, leaving only the hum of computers and the occasional ringing telephone.
Nick moved through Sylvie’s online profile carefully.
He examined her friends list, recent photographs, public messages, campus organizations, and every person who frequently commented on her posts.
She appeared popular and socially active, but nothing immediately suggested that she had enemies.
Professional investigators were repeatedly warned against forming strong emotional attachments to victims.
Overidentification could distort judgment.
Detectives might ignore evidence that contradicted their assumptions, pursue suspects for personal reasons, or become obsessed with securing a conviction rather than discovering the truth.
Nick understood the danger.
During his former life, veterans who later became police officers had given him similar advice.
Compassion mattered, but an investigator could not allow grief or anger to replace evidence.
That did not mean he had to become indifferent.
Nick looked at the photograph Sylvie’s roommate had shown them.
The two young women stood together beneath the cherry trees, smiling as if they had endless time ahead of them.
Only that morning, Sylvie had put on her running clothes, selected a song, and left the dormitory expecting to return for breakfast.
Someone had taken that future away from her.
Whether the killer was human, animal, or one of the hidden creatures Nick had begun seeing throughout Portland, he intended to uncover the truth.
For the first time since becoming a detective, Nick felt the full weight of the badge resting against his belt.
It was more than a promotion or a new title.
He had a victim whose voice had been silenced, a frightened roommate waiting for answers, and a killer still walking free.
Nick turned back to the computer and continued searching.