Seeing his subordinates file out to carry out their respective assignments, Captain Renard gathered his briefing materials, preparing to head out and personally supervise the search grid.
Before he could step away from the podium, he found Nick and Hank calmly blocking his path, their expressions solemn.
“What is it, Burkhardt?” Renard asked, his brow furrowing slightly.
“The case we were assigned yesterday—the victim in Forest Park was wearing a bright red hoodie when she was attacked,” Nick said in a low voice, keeping his tone measured.
It was a delicate connection to make in a room full of officers; after all, two people wearing red clothing in the same city could easily be a tragic coincidence.
Captain Renard was visibly troubled by the Forest Park homicide.
Hearing Nick’s observation, his expression darkened further.
“The female college student found in Balch Creek Canyon?”
Hank nodded grimly.
“Yes, sir.”
Renard instinctively glanced down at the high-gloss photograph in his hand.
The bright, innocent smile of nine-year-old Robin Howell felt painfully heavy against the backdrop of an unsolved dismemberment.
“Let’s hope we aren’t dealing with the same predator.”
Twenty minutes later, Hank pulled the unmarked Mercury onto the gravel shoulder at the southern perimeter of Berkeley Park.
“According to Robin’s parents, her usual route home takes her through Hunter Alley from the south, cutting halfway around the edge of the park before heading straight to her grandparents’ house,” Nick said, scanning the neighborhood map laid out across his lap.
Hank stepped out of the car, adjusting his coat as he surveyed the treeline.
“Her grandparents live directly north of the park, right?”
“4753 Schidiland Road—directly across the street from the northern entrance,” Nick replied, scanning the preliminary interview notes Wu had dispatched to his phone.
“Her mother explicitly warned her never to venture deep into the woods alone.”
“Because nine-year-olds are famous for following parental advice,” Hank said with a faint, sympathetic smile, leading the way toward the overgrown trailhead.
Unlike the towering, ancient Douglas firs in Balch Creek Canyon—where the forest canopy reached sixty meters into the sky—this urban park was dominated by dense stands of cedar and hemlock.
Because the canopy wasn’t thick enough to completely choke out the sun, the understory was a wild tangle of blackberry vines, sword ferns, and dense native shrubbery.
Stepping thirty paces past the treeline, the late-summer heat vanished instantly, replaced by a cool shade.
The park lacked formal fencing, and multiple narrow dirt paths branched out from the primary gravel trail.
“Keep an eye on the heavy brush,” Nick reminded his partner, veering onto a narrower, more secluded trail that cut through a dense patch of ferns.
Portland’s late summers were famously dry, yet even a small four-square-kilometer patch of urban forest created its own distinct microclimate. The source of this chapter is g.com.
The heavy scent of damp humus, decomposing leaves, and pine resin filled his lungs—a sharp, earthy atmosphere that felt miles away from the surrounding suburban streets.
The forest environment stirred old, buried memories.
During a specialized cross-border operation years ago in his past life, Nick and his unit had laid in ambush inside a remarkably similar stretch of dense subtropical rainforest for over two weeks.
At the time, violent civil unrest had erupted in a neighboring state, and a contingent of heavily armed insurgents had attempted to cross the border to raid civilian settlements.
In the end, every single intruder was buried deep within that forest canopy.
Nick recalled the conversation his regimental commander and political officer had shared after the unit returned to base.
The commander had expressed concern that a combat engagement so swift and decisive might trigger severe post-traumatic stress among young soldiers who had never seen blood before.
The political officer, however, had merely patted his chest with quiet confidence.
“Don’t worry, Commander.
Our boys were defending their home and their families.
They aren’t foreign mercenaries invading someone else’s land.”
His words held true.
Neither Nick nor his comrades suffered lasting psychological trauma, returning to duty once the debriefings concluded.
When Nick eventually transitioned back to civilian life, those events remained classified, reduced in the public record to brief news briefs about border security drills.
The fleeting memory vanished as quickly as it had surfaced.
“Nick!
Over here!
I’ve got something!” Hank’s voice echoed through the trees from fifty yards to the east.
Nick’s chest tightened.
Ducking under low-hanging cedar branches and pushing through a wall of briars, he jogged toward the sound of his partner’s call.
He found Hank crouching beside a moss-covered spruce, carefully lifting a tangle of wild ivy to reveal a small, bright purple backpack.
“R.H.,” Hank said grimly, pointing to the two block letters written in black permanent marker on the inner flap.
“Robin Howell.”
Nick emerged from the thicket, picking dead twigs and leaves from his hair, his eyes fixed on the backpack.
“She was taken right here,” Nick said, dropping to his knees to inspect the surrounding dirt.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Griffin.
We’ve established a primary crime scene in Berkeley Park, just south of Schidiland Road.
Send crime scene techs and a forensics team to our location immediately.”
While Hank radioed the precinct, Nick scanned the damp loam nearby.
There, pressed clearly into a patch of soft mud beneath the ferns, was a distinct boot print—an eight-eyelet, heavily lugged tread pattern identical to the Dr.
Martens impression cast at the Balch Creek Canyon site.
As before, ground moisture was still seeping into the edges of the depression.
“Hank!
I’ve got a fresh trail!” Nick shouted.
Without waiting for a response, Nick followed the broken foliage and deep heel marks heading west.
The killer had deliberately avoided the established gravel paths, cutting through the dense brush to stay hidden from nearby homes.
His heavy boots had snapped low twigs and churned up damp earth, leaving a clear trail through the underbrush.
Nick tracked the prints with a knot of anxiety in his stomach.
The horrific image of Sylvia Coleman’s scattered remains remained sharp in his mind.
The thought of a nine-year-old child suffering a similar fate ignited a cold, focused anger inside him.
The heavy boot prints continued across the forest floor, finally veering upward toward a low earthen embankment at the park’s western perimeter.
Nick scrambled up the slope in three strides, emerging at the edge of a quiet residential street.
Berkeley Park transitioned directly into a suburban neighborhood without a physical barrier.
Across the asphalt stood a quiet row of detached single-family houses with manicured lawns and parked sedans.
Standing on the crest of the slope, Nick paused, scanning the street in both directions.
There were no municipal traffic cameras or public security feeds anywhere in sight.
He checked the pavement, then looked across at the houses.
While private closed-circuit security systems were relatively uncommon in 2008, he knew his best chance was to start knocking on doors to see if any resident had noticed a suspicious vehicle or individual leaving the treeline.