At ten the next morning, Hank Griffin strolled into the homicide office and stopped when he saw Nick sitting in almost the same position as the previous night.
“Damn.
Don’t tell me you stayed here until morning.” “I went home before midnight,” Nick replied without looking away from the computer.
“I just arrived earlier than you.” He pushed a food container across the desk.
Inside were several homemade sausage, egg, and cheese biscuits that were still warm.
“Your favorite breakfast.
I made them this morning.” Hank hooked a nearby chair with his foot and pulled it toward the desk.
He sat down, grabbed one of the biscuits, and took a large bite before asking about the investigation.
“Did you find anything useful last night?” “Almost nothing.” Nick moved the mouse aside and rubbed his temples.
He had remained at the precinct until after eleven, reviewing Sylvie Oster’s online activity and eliminating possible suspects.
The work had not been completely useless, but it had failed to produce the lead he wanted.
The violence of the crime scene initially suggested a personal motive.
Sylvie’s age and appearance made a jealous former partner, rejected admirer, stalker, or sexual predator seem more likely than a completely random attacker.
Nick had considered whether the dismemberment might have been intended to destroy physical evidence rather than reflect the killer’s true objective.
Sylvie’s daily running routine had kept her in excellent shape.
Her driver’s license listed her as five-foot-five and roughly 135 pounds.
She was not a model or celebrity, but her photographs carried the natural energy of a healthy nineteen-year-old whose adult life had barely begun.
Her social-media pages contained hundreds of pictures taken by friends, classmates, and Sylvie herself.
Digital filters had not yet reached the point where every face looked artificially perfect, so identifying people through their online photographs remained relatively easy.
Nick hoped her messages and public interactions would reveal someone who had become obsessed with her.
Instead, her digital history appeared ordinary.
Sylvie had dated a boy during high school, but they separated after graduation.
He was currently serving overseas with the military and could not have been in Forest Park when she died.
Nick also reviewed her available AIM conversations, Facebook messages, email correspondence, and public posts.
He found no threatening ex-boyfriend, secret affair, persistent admirer, or obvious stalker.
After returning to the precinct that morning, he contacted Sylvie’s roommate again.
The young woman had already learned about her friend’s death through the college and spent most of the call crying.
Even so, she confirmed that Sylvie had not been dating anyone and had never mentioned feeling watched or threatened.
Hank finished the first breakfast biscuit and reached for another.
“So we may be dealing with a random attack.” “That’s where the evidence points.” Hank’s expression darkened.
Random killings were among the most difficult cases to solve because investigators could not begin with the victim’s relationships.
If Sylvie had never met her attacker before entering the park, there might be nothing connecting them except the crime itself.
Such a case could remain unsolved until the killer made a mistake or attacked again.
The second possibility meant another victim.
If the deaths near Manson Falls and Forest Park were eventually linked, the FBI might become involved in what appeared to be a developing series.
By then, public fear would spread far beyond a single Portland neighborhood.
Forest Park made the investigation even more difficult.
Its vast woodland and extensive trail network created countless places where evidence could vanish.
Dense vegetation, steep terrain, rain, wildlife, and ordinary hikers could destroy a crime scene within days.
The killer had left Sylvie’s remains near a frequently used trail.
Had the body been carried only a short distance deeper into the trees, it might not have been found for months.
A complete corpse could disappear in a forest that size, let alone scattered remains.
Nick began to wonder whether Portland’s low homicide rate reflected reality or merely the difficulty of finding every victim.
In a city where someone could leave a residential street and enter dense woodland within minutes, concealing a crime was disturbingly easy.
Hank wiped his fingers on a napkin and removed a photograph from inside his jacket.
“We have one lead.” He placed the image on Nick’s desk.
The laboratory had compared the tread pattern from the boot print found near the fallen log with commercial footwear records.
The closest match was an eight-eyelet suede Dr.
Martens boot.
The model was common and available in several colors, including tan, olive, brown, and dark red.
The estimated size suggested an average-height wearer, though footwear alone could not provide an exact physical profile.
Nick studied the photograph carefully.
“That doesn’t narrow the field much.” “No, but it gives us something to look for.” Nick lacked specialized experience in footwear analysis, so he memorized the sole pattern and returned the image to the case folder.
If the suspect wore the same boots again, the distinctive tread might still help connect him to the forest.
The two detectives spent the rest of the morning examining Sylvie’s personal life from every possible direction.
They called professors, classmates, neighbors, former coworkers, and friends from high school.
Each interview produced another description of an ordinary young woman.
Sylvie studied sculpture, exercised regularly, attended parties with friends, and occasionally complained about assignments.
She had no serious debts, public enemies, or history of dangerous relationships.
Real investigations rarely resembled television dramas.
Most hours were consumed by phone calls, reports, database searches, and repeated interviews that led nowhere.
Sudden revelations and dramatic confrontations were exceptions rather than daily events.
By afternoon, Nick and Hank had reached another dead end.
Then every phone in the homicide office began making noise.
Electronic chimes, vibrating pagers, and incoming-message tones spread through the room almost simultaneously.
Detectives stopped working and reached for their devices.
Nick’s iPhone screen lit up with a departmentwide emergency notification.
AMBER ALERT He opened the message and read the basic description of a missing child.
Before he finished, Captain Renard’s voice came over the office speaker, ordering available detectives to report to the briefing room.
Hank stopped his Mercury Grand Marquis across from a white house where several marked patrol cars already lined the street.
“This should be the address.” Nick climbed out and spotted Drew Wu near the front walkway.
He raised a hand as they approached.
“Wu, what happened?” “A girl named Robin Howell disappeared about an hour ago,” Wu replied.
“She left school and was supposed to walk directly to her grandfather’s house, but she never arrived.” Robin’s mother and grandfather stood near the entrance speaking with uniformed officers.
The mother looked close to panic, while the older man repeatedly scanned the road as though expecting his granddaughter to appear at any moment.
Wu’s expression had become unusually blank.
Nick knew him well enough to recognize it as a sign of anger rather than calm.
Leaving a young child to walk alone across several neighborhoods had clearly irritated him.
“Any problems within the family?” Hank asked.
“Custody dispute or a relative who might have taken her?” “Nothing obvious,” Wu answered.
“Her parents are still together, and there’s no conflict between either side of the family.
We’re verifying everyone’s movements, but a custody abduction doesn’t look likely.” He glanced toward Robin’s family.
“They may not be arguing now, though I expect today’s decisions will create a few conversations later.” Wu removed a recent school photograph from the folder in his hand.
A young blonde girl smiled brightly at the camera.
She had round cheeks, clear eyes, and the trusting expression of a child who had never imagined that someone might deliberately hurt her.
Nick felt his chest tighten.
“This is the clearest picture we have,” Wu said.
He handed them copies before directing the detectives toward the house to speak with Robin’s family.
A slide projector clicked inside the precinct briefing room.
Robin Howell’s school photograph appeared on the screen at the front.
Captain Renard stood beside it with a map spread across the next slide.
Detectives, patrol supervisors, search officers, and several federal agents crowded the room.
“We don’t have time for a long briefing,” Renard began.
“At this stage, we cannot determine whether this is a family abduction, a ransom kidnapping, or a sexually motivated crime.
Every possibility remains open.” He changed the slide, revealing addresses connected to Robin and her relatives.
“The FBI is assisting with the investigation.
Agents will install recording and tracing equipment at the homes of Robin’s parents and grandfather in case the abductor makes contact.” Renard pointed to the school on the map before tracing the route toward the grandfather’s house.
“Our officers will divide into search teams.
Begin at the school and examine every reasonable path Robin could have taken.
The direct route is approximately a mile and a half and crosses seven intersections.” Several streets and side paths were highlighted across the display.
“Collect surveillance recordings from businesses, residences, traffic cameras, and public buildings.
Speak with crossing guards, mail carriers, delivery drivers, and anyone else who regularly works in the area.” Renard replaced Robin’s portrait with a full-body photograph.
“She was wearing purple pants and a bright red hoodie when she disappeared.
Do not overlook discarded clothing, a backpack, or anything that could belong to a child.” The words red hoodie caught Nick’s attention.
He turned toward Hank.
His partner had made the same connection.
Sylvie Oster had worn a red athletic jacket when she was attacked.
Now a blonde child dressed in red had vanished while walking through another part of Portland.
Their gazes shifted to the map.
A rectangular patch of green lay directly between Robin’s school and her grandfather’s neighborhood.
Berkeley Park.
The official road route went around it, but several walking paths cut through the wooded area and offered a much shorter journey.
A child eager to reach her destination might easily ignore instructions and take the shortcut.
Nick leaned closer to Hank.
“Sylvie was wearing red.” “I know.” “The earlier victim near Manson Falls?” “I’ll check the report.” Neither man needed to say more.
The boot print, the red clothing, and the second wooded location might be coincidences.
Yet after everything Nick had seen during the past week, he no longer trusted coincidences.
Renard began assigning search sectors.
Nick kept his eyes on Berkeley Park.
Their first homicide investigation might already have become a race to prevent another murder.
A review helps a lot.
P1treon: