Seeds of Evidence

Abingdon Press

CHAPTER 1

The beach is time, liberated. Sand escaped from an hourglass,water freed from a pipe, wind unhindered by concrete or glass,Kit without a calendar or timesheet or meetings, her life measuredonly by the rhythmic pounding of waves and the sun'sbold stride across the heavens.

The bright blue, cloudless sky prophesied the day wouldbe hot. The morning sun warmed the side of Kit's face as shejogged. Each receding ocean wave cast a mirrorlike sheen onthe wet sand. Ahead, a tiny band of sandpipers skittered, whilebehind, the waves washed away her tracks, slipping her pastinto the great, gray ocean.

At first, she thought the object she saw in the distance wasdriftwood covered by seaweed. Still, something about its shaperoused her curiosity. She quickened her pace.

She saw a group of teens, four—no, five—of them, approachthe object, then jerk back, shock evident in their action. Kit'sheart jumped. She ran faster, her heels flinging up sand, hermind racing. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. At thesmall of her back, the nylon fanny pack carrying her gun andFBI credentials—she was on duty 24/7—slapped her, urgingher on.

The kids began shouting, jumping up and down, waving ather, and as Kit grew closer, she saw why: at their feet lay thebody of a child.

"He's dead! Oh, God! He's dead!" a girl screeched. Shehuddled with her friends, their shoulders hunched, clutchingbeach towels like shields. The young men, two of them, stoodarched over the body, peering at it like curious colts.

"Don't touch him!" Kit commanded. "Did you call 911?"

"Yes, ma'am." The boys shifted back.

Kit's eyes fell on the body. The little boy, clad in long, loosepants and a long-sleeved green shirt, was most certainly dead.One big roller of the incoming tide had deposited him up onthe smoothly packed sand. Now, lesser waves lapped at him,fluttering his clothes, like fingers trying to grasp him and pullhim away. It wouldn't be long before the sea reclaimed him.

Dread washed over her. She needed to secure the body. Shedidn't want to touch it with her bare hands; neither did shewant it sucked back out to sea. She looked at the teens. Theyseemed frozen, unable to move. "Give me your towel," she saidto a young woman, but the girl just hugged it closer to herchest. Nearby, a laughing gull planted his three-toed feet on adune and chortled.

Another big wave hit, knocking Kit off balance and floatingthe boy's body. "No!" she breathed, watching the body drift.Germs or no germs, she had to do it. She grabbed the boy'sshirt.

"Hold on! Let me help!"

Kit looked up. A thirty-something man with brown hairthrew his surfboard down on the sand, put his iPod on top ofit, and rushed to her side. "I got it." The man grabbed one sideof the boy. Kit took the other, and together they gently movedthe body to dry sand, beyond the reach of the waves. The teensshied away.

"Scrub off your hands," the man said as he rubbed wet sandon his hands and arms and dunked them in the surf. "Did youcall it in?"

"He did," Kit nodded toward one of the teens. "Where'dyou come from?"

"Up north."

"Did you see anybody up there?"

"No."

"Any boats?"

"Nothing."

Kit squinted and shaded her eyes as she studied him. Midtolate-thirties, she figured, about 5'10", short brown hair,brown eyes, tanned, and fit. Very fit.

"Here comes your help." He nodded toward two four-wheel-drivepickups approaching from the south. "You OKnow?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Kit looked down at the boy. His skin was pale, a sort ofdusky gray. His large eyes stared into nothingness and hismouth hung open. Sand filled his nostrils and spilled out ofthe one ear she could see, and there were bruises on his neck.Ligature marks? Had he been murdered? Kit's breath caught.How long had he been dead? Already the flies were gathering.She wanted to shoo them away, to protect him from the ravagesof natural decomposition. The body looked fresh. Wouldthe water have preserved it?

By the time she looked up, the man had picked up his surf-board, andwas walking on down the beach. "Hey! What's yourname?" Kit called, but the man didn't respond, and the whitewires running down from his ears told her his iPod had claimedhis attention again. "That was a mistake," she muttered.

"Ew, gross!" A girl pointed. A seagull had landed on theboy's chest.

Kit reacted quickly. "Shoo!"

Behind the teens, the pickups jerked to a stop, and a manand two women in U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service uniformsclimbed out. Kit's mind raced: her vacation. Two weeks ofno responsibility. She could simply identify herself as an FBIagent, tell them what she knew, and walk away.

But before her lay a little boy ... possibly murdered!

But Fish & Wildlife could investigate it. And why wouldthe FBI get into a simple murder case?

Kit shifted on her feet. The sun blazed on her shoulders.An unidentified body, a child, no less. A child. A little Latinoboy ...

She didn't miss the half-smile on the man's face as the officersapproached. She had on a bright blue two-piece swimsuitand athletic shorts. No T-shirt. Sweat beaded on her skin.

"Where'd that come from?" A stocky, plain-looking womanwith close-cropped brown hair stopped in her tracks, abouteight feet away from the body.

"Kit McGovern, FBI." She flashed her creds at the woman."Are you the officer in charge?"

"Yeah. Brenda Ramsfeld, Fish & Wildlife."

"Kid fall off a boat?" The leering man strode up to the bodyand nudged it with the toe of his boot.

"Don't touch him!" Kit's anger surged. She turned toRamsfeld. "Do you see the marks on his neck?"

"Like somebody killed him? Cool!" the man responded.

"We've never had a murder here," Ms. Ramsfeld said, glancingat her coworker, a woman with blonde hair.

The man laughed. "You've seen CSI, Brenda. You knowwhat to do."

"You think he died here, on the beach? What about thosekids?" Ramsfeld gestured toward the teens.

"They found the body washing up in the surf. I saw them."

"So maybe he was murdered at sea and dumped overboard,"the blonde suggested.

"Quite possibly," Kit said, her heart jumping. If the murderdidn't happen on land, the FBI could rightfully claim the case.Thoughts of vacation slipped away like sand. "The lifeguardsdidn't report anything?" she asked Ramsfeld.

"They're just now coming on duty. Besides, look at the waythose waves are coming in."

Kit turned. The Atlantic was in fine form today, the three-footgray-green waves coming in at a slant, breaking about fiveyards out, sending sea foam sliding up over the hard-packedsand in a gentle caress, then sliding back. She squinted intothe sun, scanning the horizon, but saw nothing—no boats, nosurfers, no dolphins. She turned back to Ramsfeld. "From thenortheast?"

"Right. The littoral current would be from the same direction.So why would you think lifeguards to the south wouldhave seen anything?" Ramsfeld's voice dripped disgust.

She still kept her distance, Kit noted, standing nowhere nearthe body. "So he probably did die at sea. The Bureau wouldhave jurisdiction."

Ramsfeld threw up her hands. "All right, look. You want it,you got it." She shook her head. "Just my luck," she said, shootinga look toward the others, "something major happens andthe Bureau gets here first." She put her hands on her hips. "I'mguessing you'll need the medical examiner."

"Right," Kit said, "and identification from those teenagers.And photos of the body. Do you have a camera?"

"You want photos with or without the ghost crab nibblingat his ear?" the creepy guy joked.

Kit glared at him. "Just get the camera."

The onshore breeze stiffened a bit, sending a spray of saltwaterover the scene as a breaker crashed onto the beach. Kitlicked her lips, tasting the salt. "Until the ME gets here, we'llneed to secure the scene."

"It's July and in an hour I'm going to have a beach full ofvacationers. You're not expecting me to provide staff long-term,are you?" Ramsfeld said.

"If you could spare one person until they get here, I'd appreciateit." Kit hoped against hope it wouldn't be the man, whoreturned with a small digital camera in hand.

Ramsfeld shot her a look, then she turned to her blondestaff member. "Pat, you stay with her. Joe and I need to get backto work."

* * *

Kit took all the pictures she thought she'd need. Then, waitingfor the ME van, she listened to Pat complain about theway things had changed on the job since Brenda Ramsfeld hadbecome their chief. After a while, even Pat wearied of that talkand wandered off, climbing the dunes in search of shade. Aftershe left, Kit had only the sand and surf and sun and one deadlittle boy to keep her company.

She sat on a piece of driftwood, watching the tide comeinto her beloved Assateague. A barrier island off the coastof Virginia, Assateague cradled its smaller sister island,Chincoteague, in the crook of its arm, protecting the humanswho lived there from the brunt of the ocean's force. Kit hadbeen coming to the area since she was a child, drawn by herlove for her grandmother who lived there.

Kit had been on the wild, wind-swept island in the fallwhen snow geese by the thousands gathered on brackishponds, honking and calling, and in the winter, when the windwhipped up sea foam and deposited it in mounds well beyondthe dunes. She'd been there in the spring, when migrating birdscame again, so many different kinds she couldn't keep track ofthem, and the Sika deer fawned, and the wild ponies gave birthto their foals. And in the summer, when long days on the beachcalled her to an eternal perspective, the timeless pounding ofthe waves and the endless vista reminded her that her temporaltroubles were but a passing phase.

She needed to hear that reminder again. That was why she'dcome.

* * *

The medical examiner, Dr. Scarborough, was a fifty-something,burly man with snow-white hair and a brusque,businesslike manner. His eyes widened slightly when he sawKit dressed in a bathing suit and shorts, and she felt her facegrow warm. Thankfully, he didn't say anything.

She watched while he took pictures with a digital camera,and then snapped on gloves and gently examined the bodywhile dictating into a digital recorder. His assistant, a young,thin man dressed in khaki pants and a white shirt, looked on.

When he finished, Dr. Scarborough stood up and faced Kit,fixing his piercing blue eyes on her. "The boy was strangled.Autopsy will tell us whether that killed him or he drowned."

Kit's gut clenched. "How long ago?"

"As much as thirty-six hours."

"That long?"

"Cold salt water preserves the body. Again, the autopsy willnarrow it down." The ME looked down at the boy again. "I seeno other injuries, except for a few sea-life nibbles. He didn'tbleed out."

"Why is he so gray?"

"All his blood has gone to the center of his body."Scarborough pulled off his gloves. "My preliminary finding:homicide by strangulation, twenty to thirty-six hours ago."

* * *

Kit drove to her rental cottage. Scarborough's words tumbledover and over through her mind. Someone murdered theboy. Strangled him. Sometime in the last thirty-six hours.

Who would kill a little boy in that way? By strangling him?She tried to imagine it. A mother? She couldn't see a motherwrapping a cord around a child's neck and choking him untilhe died. A mother's boyfriend? Much more likely.

So why didn't she protect him? Kit knew the answer to thatwithout thinking. All too often women were too emotionallydependent on their men to protect their kids.

She showered, spread an aloe-based cream that smelledlike coconut over her sunburn, then dressed in work clothes—khakipants, a white shirt with a small, stand-up collar, anda Navy blue blazer, necessary, even in summer, to cover hergun. While she laced her highlighted, light brown hair intoa French braid, her mind worked hard, calculating how shewould sell her involvement in the case to her boss.

Sweat moistened her hand as she pressed her cell phone toher ear. At her boss's gruff "Hello," she described finding thechild on the beach.

"I thought you were on vacation," Steve Gould responded.

"Yes, sir, but I think this warrants our attention."

"Why?"

"I think we're the best agency to investigate it."

"One kid? Who cares about one kid?"

She knew he meant that the FBI generally got involved inmore complex cases. "If he were kidnapped, we'd care."

"He's not. He's dead."

"Yes, sir, but ... but his body ... his body was found on afederal reservation. We can assert jurisdiction."

"We don't want to."

"I want to."

Kit heard him sigh.

"Why, McGovern? Just tell me why."

Kit squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the little boy onthe beach. She realized she was trembling. Why did she careso much? "It's all about justice, sir. Somebody wrapped somethingaround this little boy's neck and choked him until hedied. Who did it? We have the best resources to figure that out.Otherwise ... otherwise I can almost guarantee this'll becomea cold case."

She could hear Steve tapping on his desk. "This is the wayyou want to spend your vacation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, for crying out loud," he grumbled. "Call the AssistantU.S. Attorney. If he won't prosecute, then drop it," he orderedher. "Otherwise, you have two weeks to convince me you're notwasting our resources."

As she hung up the phone, Kit wondered if her new bosswas naturally tough or if he had heard the rumors about her.She was not a loose cannon! She didn't care what her oldsupervisor said.

* * *

Kit drove to a vacation-property rental office in town. Theagent, Connie Jester, was Kit's friend, Chincoteague born andbred, a sixth-generation islander who knew every native, transient,and come-here who had wandered over the high, archedbridge and ended up settling down. Her position made her apipeline for a rich storehouse of information.

Kit told Connie about the body on the beach. "Well," theredhead responded, "that makes sense. When I heard the FBIwas involved, I knew it had to be you. But aren't you supposedto be on vacation?"

Kit shrugged. "I can't just ignore a dead child." Momentarily, inher mind's eye she saw faces, Honduran faces, Salvadoranfaces, faces from an adoption website. "Connie, what can youtell me about the local Latino community?"

"Oh, they come in at times, big groups of them, going overto the beach. Families, mostly, although there always seems tobe a bunch of unattached young men."

"Where do they stay?"

"Most of 'em are day-trippers. When they do stay, theyeither camp or pile people in a motel room." Connie's blueeyes flashed. "You know, there are a lot of migrant workerson the peninsula, picking tomatoes and melons, green beans.Some of 'em stay on, working in the poultry processing plantsor picking crabs. A few try their hand at making a living onthe water, but that's something few natives can do, much lessnewcomers."

"Is it likely they'd go out on a charter boat?"

"Have you checked those prices lately?"

Kit bit her lip, buying time to think. In all the years she'dbeen coming to Chincoteague, she'd never been out on a fishingboat, never seen Assateague from the ocean. "Who's thecommander of the Coast Guard station now?"

"Well, that would be Rick Sellers. Nice guy. From NewYork, but a nice guy, anyway."

Kit wrote his name down. "If a child disappeared, whywouldn't somebody report it?" she mused out loud.

"Running drugs," Connie suggested. "Either that or illegal.Nobody's gonna raise a flag when they're doing somethingwrong."

That made sense. Kit heard the sound of the office's dooropening.

"Here's David O'Connor," Connie said. "He's a D.C. cop.Y'all ought to get along just fine."

Kit looked up. Coming in the door was the thirty-somethingman from the beach.

The man grinned as their eyes met.

"David took your grandmother's house for six wholemonths," Connie said. "That's why I couldn't give it to you."

Six months, Kit thought? What was he doing onChincoteague for six months?

"It's a great place," he said.

Kit felt the color rising in her face. Her grandmother's housewas now a rental property. She wished she had the money tobuy it.

Connie smiled at him. "Kit here's a Fed."

"I met her this morning." Amusement crinkled the cornersof his eyes.

"Why were you up on the beach so early?" Kit asked.

"You don't surf, do you?"

She blinked, put off by the response.
(Continues...)Excerpted from Seeds of Evidence by Linda J. White. Copyright © 2013 Linda J. White. Excerpted by permission of Abingdon Press.
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