Hidden ( CSI Reilly Steel #3) (12 page)

There was a fairly even coating of mud filling the treads, although a couple of them at the toe and heel were clear. Rory took a long slender tool – like a dentist’s excavator – from a tray at the back of his desk. He began to gently poke at the soil, and when it started to crumble and flake, he took the shoe between his hands and bent it gently. This action allowed the hardened soil in some of the treads to come loose in one piece. He then placed a piece of tissue over the sole and turned it over so the soil came out and rested on the tissue paper. Now he was left with a couple of pyramid-shaped samples, the larger side of the pyramid being the newest soil and the point being the oldest.

Rory picked up one piece with a set of tweezers and held it under the magnifying viewer. Even with a naked eye he could see definite differences in the cross section. The older part of the sample was stony gray in color whereas the newer part appeared darker and more peat-like.

He then set about the difficult process of taking a separate sample from each end of the pyramid. When he was finished placing the four samples – two from each end of the sample – into vials, he proceeded to run the tests.

The beauty of analysis with the ‘Perkin’ was the speed at which it gave a result. Within the hour Rory had four reports giving him the chemical make-up of each sample.

Sitting down at his computer he opened a soil analysis program, input the two sets of data and waited while the on-screen hourglass icon indicated the search of their reconnaissance soil map.

After a few seconds the screen blinked and the message he didn’t want appeared.

‘No Match Found.’

He sighed.

He then manually inputted the details into the older general soil database, which would give him general non-specific pointers. The results came back almost instantly with three possible areas in which the samples could have originated: Sligo/Mayo, Donegal/Derry and Wicklow.

Rory gathered the printouts and headed for Reilly’s office.

‘I think we can safely say that the girl was local unless she walked all the way from Mayo the night she died,’ Rory stated as Reilly looked up.  ‘The samples don’t match anything on our own soil map, but the general map shows three possibles: two in the North West from Mayo to Derry, over three hundred kilometers away, and the other from where she was found in Wicklow.’

‘Are the results consistent for all samples?’ Reilly asked.

‘No, there is a difference, both on visual examination and on further analysis. The older material is high in mineral content, it’s almost 100 percent granite. Not solid rock, but  more like compact granite dust, possibly sediment from a river or something like that,’ he speculated.

Reilly nodded.

‘Something else, too – traces of paraffin and petrol at a similar ratio to what was found on the other girl.’

Reilly’s head snapped up. ‘Same as what was in the swabs?’

‘I think so.’ He checked his files. ‘Yeah, toenail swabs it says here.’

Her mind raced.  It was small but it gave them strong reason to suspect that both girls had at one stage been present on the same terrain.

‘That’s fantastic, Rory, thank you!’

Rory allowed himself a smile. ‘No worries, boss. Anything else you need before I get stuck into the mountain of paperwork on my desk?’

She shook her head, and picked up the phone to call the detectives. ‘Hey, never let it be said that I’d stand  in the way of officialdom.’

‘Hello, I’m ringing about the young girl in the paper, the one with the tattoo ... it’s terrible altogether, I’ve not been able to sleep thinking about the poor thing.’

The Garda tipline operator’s voice was gentle and friendly. ‘Thank you for your call, madam. What information do you have about her?’

‘Well, I was just saying to the girls at bingo last night that she looks a bit like the Farrell girl that used to live at the end of my street. Nice family, would always give you a friendly wave when you passed. Mary said I should call the number from the news – it said any information might help.’

‘Yes, anything that rings a bell might indeed be useful to our investigation. Is there anything else you can tell me?’ the operator asked as she automatically logged the call detail into the system.

‘I had to take half a Zanax to get off to sleep last night. It’s just terrible that such a beautiful young girl was left alone like that, how could anyone …?’ The woman’s voice trailed off.

‘Can you give me an address for the Farrell family you mentioned?’ The operator knew from experience that this was yet another time waster, but she needed to be sure just in case. She tried to refocus the caller’s mind.

‘Yes, of course,’ the lady continued with a sniff. ‘They lived two doors down from me. Number 23 Woodside, Oranmore, Galway. They moved out a good few years back now, can’t remember exactly when, but my Paddy was still alive so I’d say ninety-four or five – maybe even ninety-six. I really hope it isn’t her though, lovely little thing she was, the youngest, can’t remember her name, Aoife, I think … she was probably around ten or so when they moved,’ she babbled on, and the operator had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. ‘I’m not sure where they moved to but some of the girls were saying the council might have a record of it. Do you think you’ll be able to track them down?’

Doing the maths, little Aoife was in her late twenties now and the caller was typical of those who often phoned in these circumstances: elderly, lonely and fearful. They meant well but they didn’t realize their calls were a hindrance rather than a help.

‘We’ll certainly try, madam. Thank you for your call, it’s been most helpful,’ she said, barely able to make a note of the details before the phone rang yet again.

Later that evening, Reilly pounded the dark streets, her running shoes splashing though puddles and scattering piles of windblown leaves.  It was past nine when she’d got home, but some days she just needed to get out and run, clear her head, no matter how late it was. And tonight she’d felt the urge all the more.

It was stupid really.  She’d long ago stopped caring and celebrating these things, but this was the first time she’d never received so much as a single card or phone call.

Even Mike was too caught up in his new romance to remember, she mused, feeling truly sorry for herself. Maybe she should stop resisting joining Facebook; at least then her ‘friends’ would automatically be reminded that today was her thirty-third birthday. She’d sort of hoped that Chris might remember at least, given that he’d wheedled the date out of her before, back when they’d shared such things. But obviously those days were gone.

Reilly slowed for a road crossing, briefly passed under the bright lights of a junction, then disappeared into the shadows of the pavement, shaded by a line of tall trees.

Self-pity was not an emotion she liked to indulge and so she forced her mind to focus back on the events of the day, particularly the new possibility of a cult being involved. Everything they’d discovered – the tattoos, the girls’ mysterious lack of belonging and otherworldlyness – could indeed suggest that both had once been part of a cult. Given the latest discovery of corresponding trace elements, it seemed the girls had almost certainly spent time in a similar area too.

But seeing as there was almost a decade between the discovery of the bodies, if they had been members of the same cult, it would have to have been in existence for some time.

When Reilly had worked on the case involving the New Eden Cult back in the US, there had been some similarities. Two extended North Carolina families called Bullard, who owned a two-hundred-acre farm and woodland, decided under the leadership of Ruddy Bullard Snr that the world was gone to hell and it was time to sever all links with it. The group had moderate religious beliefs but were extreme survivalists. They had spent years gathering supplies and becoming self-sufficient. They had pretty much built a fortress and a small army by the time one of the younger Bullard boys came to the attention of the Greensboro PD for his part in an assault.

When they eventually tracked him down to New Eden, they were rebuked by Ruddy Snr, and when they came back with a warrant and reinforcements, the leader had called a code red.  The families hunkered down in their fortress and a high-profile three-week stand-off ensued.

The FBI were called in within days, and Reilly’s old mentor and friend Daniel Forrest had profiled Ruddy and three other senior family members. Reilly was one of the many officers stationed there for the duration of the stand-off, as well as the subsequent clean-up and investigation.

The clean-up was the part that still resonated with her; the faces of the kids in the barn, teenagers who looked so much younger and more innocent than their peers at the local mall or high school had ever done. They had discovered a small township inside the compound. The group had collected everything from generator fuel to tinned food; enough supplies to out live a nuclear winter, complete with bunkers where some of the clan – mostly the younger kids – were discovered gassed to death as part of a mass suicide. Sixty-three men, women and children dead, and four officers too.

But the reason the follow-up investigation had lasted so long was the kids.  It seemed Ruddy had wanted to widen the gene pool so that when the outside world destroyed itself, they could flourish and repopulate, aided by the dozen or so non-family members who had been abducted and brought to the compound from as far away as Seattle. Tracking the children’s identities had taken months; some of them had been missing for several years, and Reilly had helped match DNA from missing children’s reports to New Eden victims.

Yet something about the cult theory  for their current investigation didn’t sit well with Reilly.

All too often, cults were about male dominance, sexual and otherwise. Yet, there was no evidence of sexual abuse – or indeed any kind of physical abuse – on either of the girls.  They were both well nourished, healthy and indeed the lack of dental work suggested that they had had very wholesome diets.

Reilly glanced at her GPS watch. She was running an eight-minute-mile pace and barely out of breath.

And what of the algae? How did this fit in? Was the supposed cult’s homestead situated somewhere near those lakes and mountain streams Chris mentioned were so prevalent in the area? And if such a group did exist and none of the locals seemed to know about it, how had it remained undetected for all this time?

Without context the very notion was simply another mystery.

She felt there was something more, something out there, a piece of evidence, a clue, something that would help the whole thing fall into place like the last tumbler that opens a lock.  But what was it?

Despite the cold, the sweat was building up on Reilly’s forehead.  She wiped at it with her sleeve and picked up speed as she neared Ranelagh.  Pushing herself
harder, her feet danced over the wet pavement, the extra exertion pushing out every thought and instinct except the urge to suck in more oxygen.  She rounded the last turn and sprinted all the way to her front gate before slowing down and dropping her pace to a gentle jog.

One more lap around the block to cool down, then she’d finally allow herself to relax and have some dinner.  Pushing herself, driving herself, that was all she knew.  She applied it to her work life
and
her personal life. If you work hard enough, push yourself – some might say punish yourself – enough, then eventually you will get what you want.

Did it work?  She slowed to a walk as she approached her door, and slipped her key from a pocket in her sweats. Sometimes yes, sometimes no, but it was the only way she knew to assuage the guilt of failures past.

She slid the key into the lock and opened the door. Welcome home to an empty house, another night alone with just her thoughts and a glass of wine for company. Happy birthday.

Pushing hard may be a good tactic for work, she thought regretfully, but it sure wasn’t doing anything for her social life.

She threw her running clothes in the laundry basket and stood in the shower. Time to try and forget about work for a few hours before it drove her crazy. Let the subconscious mind work on it while she watched ten-year-old repeats of
Friends
and tried to make a single glass of wine last all evening.

She was settling down to do just that when the shrill sound of the phone made her jump. But the number on the caller display made her grin.

‘Happy birthday to you … happy birthday to you ....’ a familiar voice with an unmistakeable Virginia burr sang.

‘Well, thank you, Daniel, but I’m glad to say it’s nearly over,’ she replied with a smile in her voice.

‘Oh contraire, my dear. It’s early in the day here.’

‘And where exactly is “here” these days?  I can’t keep up with you since you retired.’ The former FBI profiler now worked in a private consultation role and frequently traveled around the country.

‘Clearwater, and forget retiring, I’ve never been busier. But enough about sunshine and easy living.  How’s the Emerald Isle treating you?’

‘Great,’ Reilly lied. They chatted a while about their respective work lives, Reilly feeling more than a little jealous of Daniel’s beach house on Florida’s Gulf Coast. It seemed his consulting practise was going from strength to strength.  ‘Todd is with the Tampa force down here too.’ Reilly had meet Daniel’s  oldest son several times before – a nice guy who was shaping up to be a real chip off the old block.