At 10:00 AM, Hank stepped fashionably late into the sprawling Homicide bullpen, halting mid-stride when he spotted Nick sitting in the exact same chair, behind the exact same desk, as when he had left him the night before.
“Damn, partner.
Tell me you didn’t pull an all-nighter on day one.”
“I didn’t,” Nick said, his eyes glued to the computer screen as he slid a warm foil container across the desk.
“I just got in earlier than you.
Your favorite pork soup dumplings—made them fresh this morning, so eat up while they’re warm.”
Hank hooked a rolling chair with his foot, pulled it over, and eagerly dug in with his fingers.
“So, what did the digital deep-dive yield last night?”
“Next to nothing,” Nick replied, pushing his mouse aside and rubbing his temples to soothe a dull headache.
He had stayed at the precinct past 11:00 PM before heading home to catch a few hours of sleep.
It wasn’t that he had uncovered zero information—at the very least, he had systematically eliminated dozens of dead-end leads—but the core answer remained elusive.
Given the horrific condition of the crime scene, paired with the victim’s age, gender, and appearance, Nick had initially suspected an emotional dispute or a sexually motivated assault, assuming the dismemberment was an attempt to destroy forensic evidence or impede identification.
Sylvia had been an avid morning runner, standing five-foot-five and weighing 135 pounds, with a lean, athletic build.
While not a cover model, she possessed the vibrant, natural charm of a nineteen-year-old college student.
Her social media profiles were packed with campus photos, drawing plenty of online admirers leaving likes and comments.
In 2008, long before heavy beauty filters spread globally across social media apps, online photos offered an accurate representation of a person’s physical appearance.
Nick’s initial strategy had been to trace her digital footprint to identify potential stalkers or jealous acquaintances.
The evidence proved him wrong.
Although Sylvia had an ex-boyfriend, the two had broken up amicably after high school graduation, and he was currently deployed overseas with the U.S.
Army.
Nick had thoroughly combed her chat logs across AIM, MSN, and Facebook without finding a single suspicious contact, aggressive admirer, or hostile message.
Coming in early that morning, Nick had re-contacted Sylvia’s roommate.
The girl was sobbing hysterically over the phone, having finally learned the tragic truth from campus administration, but she insisted Sylvia wasn’t dating anyone, had no active romantic drama, and had no known enemies.
“So we’re looking at a random, predatory attack?” Hank mused between bites, a dark shadow crossing his face.
A random attack in a dense forest was every homicide detective’s nightmare.
It meant the case stood a high chance of going cold—at least until the killer struck again, leaving behind a new trail of blood.
And if this turned into a serial spree, the FBI would inevitably step in to assume primary control.
Beyond the jurisdictional headaches, the nature of the body dump site was deeply troubling.
If the killer had dragged the body just fifty yards deeper into the thick brush of Forest Park, it might have been months—or years—before anyone stumbled across the remains. This chapter was taken from novelping . com without permission.
Covering over 5,000 acres, Forest Park was the largest municipal forest reserve in the country, laced with over seventy miles of interconnected trails.
Dense stands of old-growth timber and ancient moss-covered ravines choked the terrain.
In a landscape like that, a body buried deep off-trail could lie undiscovered indefinitely.
Nick couldn’t help but reflect on Portland’s reputation as a safe, low-crime city.
Perhaps the statistic was partially an illusion born of geography: No body, no crime.
In a city where anyone could vanish into a temperate rainforest within ten minutes of leaving downtown, disposing of evidence was disturbingly easy.
Hank reached into his jacket’s inner pocket and tossed a printout onto Nick’s desk.
“The lab finished analyzing the cast of that shoe impression near the log.
It’s a suede, 8-eyelet Dr.
Martens work boot.”
Nick picked up the sheet.
It displayed a standard boot print design, widely sold in shades ranging from tan to dark mahogany.
The European size 42 indicated a male wearer of modest height—roughly five-foot-eight or five-foot-nine.
Lacking extensive specialized training in forensic podiatry, Nick carefully committed the sole geometry and tread wear characteristics to memory.
For the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon, the pair dug into Sylvia’s broader social network, placing tedious calls to her professors, classmates, and family members.
In reality, real-world police work lacked the dramatic, rapid-fire twists seen in television dramas.
Most homicide investigations were defined by hours of grueling, repetitive administrative cross-checking that frequently ended in dead ends.
Just as the silence in the bullpen grew heavy, a sharp, piercing chime echoed from every cell phone in the room simultaneously.
Nick pulled his iPhone from his pocket.
The screen flashed bright yellow, displaying a high-priority emergency broadcast: AMBER ALERT.
“It should be right across the street,” Hank said an hour later, pulling the Mercury to the curb opposite a suburban white house framed by flashing red and blue lights.
Stepping out into the afternoon air, Nick spotted his former patrol partner, Officer Drew Wu, standing by the driveway, clipboard in hand.
“Wu!
What’s the briefing?”
“An hour ago, nine-year-old Robin Howell vanished on her way home from school,” Wu said, gesturing toward an elderly, panicked couple standing on the porch.
“Her grandparents called it in when she didn’t show up for her afternoon snack.”
Nick recognized the flat, rigid expression on Wu’s face—it was the look he wore whenever he was holding back deep frustration over irresponsible guardians.
“Any domestic friction?” Hank asked immediately, zeroing in on the most common cause of child disappearances.
“Custody battles?
Estranged relatives?” This story is hosted at g.com.
Wu sneered faintly, his tone dripping with cynicism.
“Not that we’ve found yet.
Custody disputes are off the table for now.
Parents and both sets of grandparents are all legally married and living under their respective roofs.
Whether they stay that way after this mess is anyone’s guess.”
Wu pulled a high-gloss photograph from his folder and handed it over.
“This is the most recent picture her parents provided.”
The photo showed a bright, golden-haired little girl beaming at the camera, her sweet smile making the situation feel exponentially heavier.
Click.
The projector hummed to life inside the precinct briefing room, casting Robin’s portrait onto the central screen.
Captain Sean Renard stood before the assembled room of homicide detectives, patrol officers, and federal liaison agents, his commanding presence instantly hushing the room.
“Time is against us, so I’ll keep this brief,” Renard said, his voice echoing off the hardwood walls.
“We haven’t established a definitive motive.
This could be a non-custodial abduction, a ransom kidnapping, or a predatory snatching.
Every possibility remains on the table.”
Renard gestured toward two suit-clad men standing by the doorway.
“The FBI has established a field command post and is currently setting up wiretaps and trace equipment at the homes of Robin’s parents and grandparents.
Our immediate mandate is to flood the grid.
We split into teams, starting at her elementary school, and canvass every foot of her walking route.”
He hit the advance button on the remote, switching the slide from the young girl’s portrait to a high-resolution neighborhood map.
A bright red line traced a path through the grid.
“The distance from her school to her grandparents’ house is precisely 1.5 miles, spanning seven major street intersections,” Renard continued, his long finger tracing the route.
“Pull every traffic camera, business security feed, and residential doorbell log along this corridor.
Robin was last seen wearing purple pants and a bright red hooded coat.
Keep your eyes wide open…”
The words red coat hit Nick like a physical shock.
He instantly turned his head, his eyes meeting Hank’s across the room.
Without a word, both detectives shifted their focus back to the projected map, their eyes locking onto a rectangular green space situated directly along the little girl’s path.
It was Berkeley Park—a heavily wooded urban green space spanning several acres, nestled squarely between the elementary school and the child’s destination.