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a blackfly on the back of her neck. Her ginger-colored ponytail got in the way and she missed. He was tempted to slap it away but sensed whacking the back of her neck could be misinterpreted. She was all business, Dr. Hughes. From the top of her ball-capped head to the bottom of her rubber boots. Over her long-sleeved plaid shirt, she wore a vest in a hideous shade of green, covered in pockets. He couldn’t wait to see what she pulled out from them. He guessed that the kit bags they carried contained the usual excavation equipment: bags, markers, labels, tape, rubber gloves, string, stakes, notebooks and cameras.
Usually, if unidentifiable bones were found, the medical examiner sent them to Dr. Hughes’ lab. But very occasionally, the province’s forensic anthropologist was called to the scene. When Dr. Hughes learned that the body had not yet been removed from the site, she told Dr. Guthro that she wanted to see the remains in their untouched state. And given the challenge of excavating a peat bog, Dr. Guthro was more than happy to have her attend the scene.
Her excitement was palpable when they set off down the track toward the crime scene. “Haven’t excavated a bog before,” she said, swinging her mud-encrusted spade.
Ethan tore his gaze from the blood that welled from the bug bite on Dr. Hughes’ densely freckled neck and studied the terrain. The place was full of scrubby bushes and stunted trees, a living testament to the bleak ocean winds. No question that the first rule of survival for flora on this headland was to hunker low to the ground. Trench warfare for plants .
“So, Detective, do you have any missing-persons cases that fit this scenario?” Dr. Hughes asked, wiping the back of her neck with her sleeve and falling into step beside him. No easy task on the trail they followed.
He shifted the strap of his duffel bag. It held a bottle of water, some protein bars that he’d snagged from the station’s kitchenette, a camera, notepad and two missing-persons files. “I brought the most relevant files with me. One is for a fifty-three-year-old male, last seen in October of 2003. He had refused to take his antipsychotic meds.”
She gave him a thoughtful look. “You think it’s him?”
Ethan shook his head. “No. I think it’s someone else.”
A girl. Whom he had once known. “Her name was Heather Rigby. She went missing on the night of Halifax’s final Mardi Gras. In 1995.”
Dr. Hughes shot him a look. “God. I went to those Mardi Gras parties.”
He raised a brow. “Who didn’t?”
Mardi Gras. Halifax’s wildest street party. So wild, it eventually was banned from the streets. Held on the Halloween weekend, it attracted twenty to thirty thousand partiers—mainly university students—all in costume. And amongst those drunken revelers were the criminals, who took advantage of the costumed chaos to exact revenge and settle scores.
She threw a glance at his duffel bag. “So, what are the details on the missing girl’s file?”
Spill the dirt, Detective, her eyes said.
He dug out the file from his bag and flipped it open, although in truth, he had long ago memorized every word on the page.“‘Status—missing.Last seen—Mardi Gras, 1995.’” He stepped around a root. “‘Age—eighteen.’” He glanced at Dr. Hughes. “She was a student at Hollis University.” She had been a sweet, ordinary girl in his criminology class whom he had barely noticed until her disappearance became a headline story. He often wondered if it was Heather’s case that had sparked his desire to become a homicide investigator.
“What were her physical attributes?” Dr. Hughes asked.
Of course, for an anthropologist it was all about the body.
Heather had a cute smile . He glanced at his notes. “Five foot four, one hundred and fifteen pounds, shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, birthmark on lower back.”
“And the night she went missing—” Dr. Hughes brushed a blackfly away from her face. “What was she