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CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

THE KELLERS

“I need to know everything I can about Natasha Belov,” Keller says into the phone. “Was she friendly with any of The Five? Did she have classes with them, date any of them? And when will we get her autopsy report?”

“Okay,” McCray says in a measured drawl, clearly trying to slow Keller’s racing thoughts.

Keller takes the hint. She needs to slow down. Investigators need to proceed deliberately, methodically, and not get worked up. That only leads to tunnel vision, mistakes, rushes to judgment that result in innocents behind bars. Not to mention, investigation hours wasted.

“Before she drowned, my office had some interactions with Natasha, mostly the usual college kid stuff, alcohol and the like,” McCray says. “I’ve also pulled her university file. She’s from a prominent family in Bulgaria. She spent her last two years of high school attending boarding school in New Hampshire and was a strong student with no disciplinary problems. Her first year at SCU was reportedly successful: lots of friends, good grades.” McCray pauses. “But by the end of her sophomore year, things turned.”

“Something happened?”

“We don’t know. Her roommate from last year thought it was drugs. Natasha started partying really hard—not just booze. Most of her friends distanced themselves since she was getting out of control. She started partying off campus with a rougher crowd. She nearly flunked out, and everyone was surprised she returned this year. She was on academic probation and she skipped most of her classes this quarter.”

Keller processes this. She’s seen the devastating effects of drugs on certain people. It’s such a roulette wheel. Lots of folks can use drugs recreationally. A line of coke here, some Adderall there. But for others, that first taste becomes a driving force in their lives.

McCray continues. “After she was reported missing we did a wellness check at her apartment, spoke to some students. She didn’t have many friends left at SCU. That’s why it took so long for anyone to notice she was missing.”

“Because she was always missing…”

McCray releases a breath into the phone, like he’s disappointed with himself.

“Who reported her missing?”

“It was an anonymous report.”

“Anonymous? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“At the time, we just thought it was another student who was out partying with Natasha and didn’t want to get in trouble.”

“What did they say?”

“The officer who took the call said it sounded like a young woman. Said she saw Natasha high or extremely drunk on Panther Beach last Tuesday night.”

“When was the call?”

“Thursday. I should’ve taken it more seriously. Her folks were furious we didn’t alert the media right away, have a larger search team sweeping the beach. We probably would’ve found her sooner if we had, but the coroner thinks she likely drowned late Tuesday night. When the tide filled the cave.”

“I need to talk to the coroner.”

McCray pauses like he’s going to protest, say it’s a waste of time since the preliminary report rendered this an accident. Instead, he says, “Trapman is an odd duck. Not sure he’ll meet with us on a weekend, but I’ll try.”

Twenty minutes later, Keller receives a text, the pin for a location. Then another:

Meet you there. Prepare yourself.

On the drive, Keller’s thoughts race as she tries to fit the puzzle pieces together, make the pixels come into focus. Natasha Belov died just a few days before the students disappeared. If Belov was the author of the Creep List posts, and the inclusion of Professor Turlington suggests that she was, she also accused The Five of being creeps.

She arrives at Grant Park thirty minutes later. Before she’s out of the car, McCray has materialized in the lot.

“The coroner’s here?” Keller asks, scanning the tree line, the late afternoon sun gilding the green leaves with gold. “Camping or something?”

McCray gestures with his head for Keller to follow.

Soon they veer off the path and into a clearing. The place is crawling with bearded men wearing ragged uniforms and carrying what look like old-time rifles.

“Please tell me this isn’t a Civil War reenactment,” Keller says.

McCray holds the faintest of smiles.

At the edge of the campsite, two men stand guard in front of a large tent.

“I need to see Trapman,” McCray says, no-nonsense.

One of the guards says, “The colonel isn’t taking visitors.”

Keller retrieves her badge, not in the mood. But McCray puts a hand on her arm.

“We have information on General Pemberton’s movement in Vicksburg,” McCray says. “It’s urgent we see the colonel—this could be the turning point in the battle.”

The two guys think on this, then step to the side, allowing them to pass.

Keller gives McCray a look.

McCray shrugs. “I was an American history major.”

They’re met by another uniformed officer at the tent entrance who opens the flap to allow them inside.

In the back, a man in a uniform decorated with several medals sits in front of a table studying one of those battlefield boards.

These guys really go all in.

“Jay?” the man says.

“Sorry to interrupt you on the weekend when you’re—” McCray gestures around the tent. “We’re working the missing student case and the Bureau wanted to speak with you.”

Keller shakes his hand, introduces herself. “You performed the autopsy of Natasha Belov?”

Trapman gives her a curious expression, like the name doesn’t register.

“The student who drowned,” Keller adds.

“Oh yes,” Trapman says.

“Your preliminary conclusion was that it was an accidental drowning?”

“That’s right. She had saltwater in her lungs. No bodily trauma or signs of foul play.”

“She’d been missing three days before she was found. A body submerged in water that long is often decomposed,” Keller says, testing his conclusion about bodily trauma. She’s seen a floater before and they’re usually bloated and unrecognizable, making it difficult to detect perimortem trauma.

As if reading her thoughts, Trapman says, “The sea cave where she was found is only submerged for brief periods each day when the tide rises. We surmised that she must’ve been exploring the cave and got trapped by high tide. We’ve had a couple deaths in the caves over the years. Same thing. People don’t understand it can turn from safe into death trap in a matter of minutes. She was found in the very back of the cavern, tucked in a space between some rocks. That’s why she didn’t get sucked out to sea, or we might never have seen her again. But she only spent brief periods submerged.”

“Did you find anything on the body?”

“She’d tucked her phone in her underwear; it was protected in one of those waterproof beach cases.”

“Anything else?”

“We found a small baggie wedged in the phone case, consistent with the type used for controlled substances. We’re awaiting tox but our theory is she was high, wandered into the cave before the tide shifted, and got trapped. We ruled out foul play because she was alone. If anyone was with her, they would’ve been goners too.”

A semireasonable conclusion.

“Where’s her phone?”

“It was bagged. Santa Cruz PD should have it, unless they released her effects to the family.”

“Was there anything out of the ordinary? Anything that stood out to you?”

He thinks on this. “One thing was a little odd.”

She waits.

“She had residue of a red compound in her hair and on her clothes.”

“Blood?” Keller asks.

“No. If I had to guess, red dye.” He pushes up the glasses on his nose.

Keller’s mind leaps to the sweatshirt Felix Goffman’s mother found in his laundry. It was covered in red. It matches, even if it doesn’t make sense. But nothing in this damn case makes sense.

She thanks Trapman for his time.

“If you’re ever interested in participating in reenactments,” Trapman says, “we could use more women. We can’t seem to get many interested.”

“Shocker,” Keller whispers to McCray as they duck out of the tent.