Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The flight to Fort Yukon hadn't been a long one and, much to Garcia's relief, had been quite smooth despite the light snow that persisted throughout most of the trip. The team had been able to ask a number of questions of their pilot, who seemed content to chat and who, despite being a self-professed city girl, knew a lot about the goings on in Fort Yukon.
Fort Yukon was first established as Fort Youcon by Alexander Hunter Murray as a Hudson's Bay Company trading post in 1847. While the post was actually in Russian America, the Hudson's Bay Company continued to trade there until expelled by the American traders in 1869, following the Alaska Purchase when the post was taken over by the Alaska Commercial Company. A post office was established on July 12, 1898 with John Hawksly as its first postmaster, but the settlement suffered over the following decades as a result of several epidemics and a 1949 flood. During the 1950s, the United States Air Force established a base and radar station at Fort Yukon; the town was officially incorporated in 1959.
The town was located at 66°34'2″N 145°15'23″W / 66.56722°N 145.25639°W / 66.56722; -145.25639 (66.567586, -145.256327), on the north bank of the Yukon River at its junction with the Porcupine River, about 145 air miles northeast of Fairbanks. Just 8 miles (13km) south of the town is the Artic Circle.
When they landed at Fort Yukon Airport, the snow had just stopped and it looked as though the gravel runway had been plowed moments earlier. A quartet of vehicles, one brown SUV with police markings, a smaller, red SUV and two blue trucks, all with plow blades attached to the front ends, idled by the side of the runway, warm engines preventing the snow from building up on the hoods.
After shutting down the plane, Abby rose and said, "Thanks for flying Penstlatala Air. Give us a buzz when you're ready to head out of here."
Then she popped open the door, lowered the stairs and descended to open the luggage/cargo area. As she did this, the drivers side door of the four trucks opened and each disgorged a warmly dressed figure.
As the BAU team, led by Hotchner, made their way down the stairs to the frosty runway, Abby paused and waved. "Hi, Harry!" she shouted over the wind, "Got your guests here in one piece."
"Never doubted you!" the man, Harry, who had exited the police vehicle, shouted back. He and the other three men were wrestling something off of the bed of one of the trucks. It took a moment, in the dusky light and whipping wind, for Hotch to recognize their burden as a body bag strapped to a back board.
"You're flying the body out?" Hotchner asked Whirlwind, who was busily pulling out their baggage from amidst various other boxes and crates.
She nodded, bobbed hair flying around her face, partially obscuring his view of her dark eyes. "Doctor Riley isn't equip to deal with this sorta thing," she said quietly, leaning in close as she pushed his bag into his hands. "The ME's office in Fairbanks will have someone waiting for the body when I land. That's how it works up here when someone needs an autopsy."
"I just don't have the facilities," a man in a red parka said as the four approached with the back board held between them.
Brown coat-- Harry-- peered into the plane's hold. "You making' a delivery?"
She nodded. "Leo and Hamish are supposed to be here, but you know how they are."
There were rumbles of acknowledgement and disgruntlement from the locals and Harry nodded over to the BAU team. "Deputy Harry Finn," he greeted them. "Thanks for coming."
"SSA Aaron Hotchner," the unit chief said, then indicated each of his team in turn. "SSA's David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Dr. Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau and technical analyst Penelope Garcia."
Finn nodded pleasantly. "This here's Dr. Mike Riley, Jim Chigliak and my brother in law Tom Dyer. Doc's here with the body, and, well, we didn't know how many of you there was going to be, so they agreed to come drive where you need to go. No enough room in my car, plus daylights fading. Sheriff's trying to round up folks, figure out who this is and Dani's out at the crime scene."
Hotchner nodded. "Garcia, why don't you set up at the sheriff's office. Morgan, take Prentiss and Reid and go to the crime scene. JJ, Rossi, we'll go meet the sheriff."
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The extended cab of Tom Dyer's pick up truck was thankfully roomy enough for all four of them, as it was not the time of year to be riding in the truck bed. On the way, he spoke sparingly, but what he said was informative. Even though the people in town didn't know the specifics of the crime, everyone was spooked. And now that the FBI had arrived, panic would set in. Everyone remembered the last time Federal Agents had visited their town.
Normally, they would have had their own rental SUV, but they were thankful not to have to attempt to drive on the icy, snow covered roads. Additionally, the crime scene was located off the beaten path and would have been very hard to find for a non local.
"Connor and Nancy stopped for a little alone time and found…what they did," Dyer sighed as the parked, sheriff's SUV came into sight. "Poor kids…never gonna forget that. Jimmy and Peter sure didn't."
From the back of the cab Reid said, "Jim Chigliak was one of the teens who found the first body during the original killings."
Chigliak had agreed to drive Garcia back to the police station while Finn brought the others to see the Sheriff. He hadn't said much, seemed a bit shaky as he didn't look at the body bag he had helped load it onto the plane.
Dyer nodded. "We were 'bout the same age and what they saw changed them. Pete died a few years later, car accident and Jimmy…is haunted."
The trunk of the SUV was propped open, crated of equipment easily accessible. Several large blue tarps with mounds of snow piled atop them were in a neat line beside the crime scene tape. A woman stood from a crouch by a small ditch in the snow and waved at them.
He stopped the truck beside he SUV and said, "That's Dani Winchester."
"Thanks for the ride," Prentiss said to Dyer as they piled out of his truck.
The local man nodded. "Just find this guy."
Then he drove away, leaving them in the middle of, what seemed like, the artic tundra.
The temperature was probably somewhere in the mid teens, the wind chill dropping it even lower, but Deputy Winchester wore jeans, a University of Alaska Fairbanks sweatshirt, uniform shirt peeking out above the collar, service weapon at her hip and gloves. Her brown hair was braided, but hard work and exertion had allowed many locks to escape the confines and lay against her flushed red face.
"You folks with the FBI?" she asked as they ducked under the tape to approach. "Stay in the shoveled track please. Right now, the snows preserving any evidence, but kick it around and it becomes a liability."
Morgan reached her first. "Derek Morgan," he said, shaking the offered palm. "Agent's Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid."
"Dani Winchester," she said gravely, looking them over and pausing on Reid, who looked about a strong wind away from visibly shivering.
Gazing around the scene, Prentiss asked, "This scene is very….I don't really know how to categorize this."
"Did the UNSUB leave any evidence behind?" Reid questioned, though he too looked around and saw only lots and lots of snow as well. The scenes fifteen years earlier had been fairly clean, but forensics had evolved over the years.
Also at a loss, Morgan was surprised when Winchester said, "Quite a bit, yes. Foot prints and tire marks and blood droplets leading away from and toward them. The sulfur casts will have set by now."
"You don't use dental stone?" The question was from Reid, who carefully followed the Deputy over to one of several ditches dug in the snow.
"Detail's better with sulfur, plus it cures much quicker," she informed them, reaching down and picking up an impression of a boot print. "With dental stone, you have to mix in potassium sulfate and the reaction generates enough heat to melt the snow and ruin the impression."
"Any idea what time the body was dumped?" Prentiss asked, peering at the casting with interest. Winchester handed it to her, then bent to retrieve another.
Winchester rolled her neck, then pointed off beyond the crime scene tape. "Usually, during the few hours of light we have this time of year, this place is lousy with snowmobilers," she informed them. "Sometimes even until dusk, but after dark it gets dead. We're fairly sure she was left out after sundown."
Turning the mold over in his hands, Morgan had to admit, the detail on the impression was impressive. He looked around in the fading light and tried to see what the UNSUB must have seen as he dumped the body.
The area was remote, but kids often came out here to go parking. Not the most easily accessible of places, some sort of all terrain vehicle or large truck would be necessary to transport the body to the dump site. In the dark, it would be a dangerous place to venture if one was unfamiliar with the territory.
But he knew this place. Felt safe and sure of the anonymity provided by the solitude for his task, but often enough used that the body was sure to be discovered before too long. The perfect place to leave the body….
"I can also tell you the bastard's wearing new boots," the deputy said with a huff, nodding at the pair of prints. "See how sharp and defined the tread pattern is. No wear and tear."
If they were an uncommon brand, that could help track the UNSUB and even if they were the most common boot in the state, the individual tread pattern could be compared when they found a suspect. Adding this fact to what little they knew to be true of the UNSUB, Morgan looked up when he heard Prentiss say, "Reid, your lips are turning blue."
The cold was getting to Morgan too, and he was originally from Chicago, where snow and cold winds were not unheard of. Prentiss had grown up all around the world, had experienced many climates. Reid had spent the majority of his life in Las Vegas, a city built in the desert.
His arms wrapped tightly around his torso, it was obvious the younger man was trying to will his muscles not to shiver. His face was pale, save the wind burnt red nose and cheeks and blue tinged lips. Despite this, he too was inspecting the scene, a consummate professional even in his misery.
Winchester blinked at him, then stuck a hand into the pouch pocket on the front of her sweatshirt. Withdrawing her keys, she held them out to Reid. "There's a warm jacket and a few thermal blankets in the backseat," she said with a gentle smile. "A better hat too. Need to keep your head warm to conserve heat. Hot coffee in the thermos in the insulated carrier. Close the trunk."
Seeing Reid looking like he was about to protest, Prentiss reached around him and accepted the keys. "Thank," she said, the caught one of Reid's arms. "Come on, before go hypothermic on us."
"Turn on the headlights for me, please," Winchester called after them, then looked at Morgan. "All I have left to do is grab the cast of the tire tracks and pack up my stuff. You can wait in the truck with them if you like."
A particularly harsh gust of wind eroded the last of Morgan's own reserve and he nodded. "Anything I can carry out for you?"
As she began picking her way carefully around piles of snow, over to the last sulfur casting, Winchester said, "You can take the snow dispersal device by my kit, if you like."
Morgan looked down at the forensics kit, collapsible shovel and…leaf blower? "The leaf blower?" he called to her and heard the soft snort carry over the snow.
"Yup."
Hefting the blower, Morgan shook his head, unsure what the device had been used for. Reid would probably know. He'd ask him when he got in the truck.
Which is exactly what he did.
But, contrary to the usual outcome of such a thing, Reid didn't know. He said as much from the backseat, where he was huddled under a blanket with Prentiss, who had joined him after starting the truck and cranking the heat. For a moment, Morgan considered climbing back there with them, but reigned in the impulse.
He settled on asking them to pass the coffee.
Almost fifteen minutes late, the barest hint of light still in the sky, Winchester hopped into the drivers seat, having stowed all her evidence and gear. Stripping off her gloves, she held her hands in front of one of the heaters and briskly rubbed them together. Eyes sliding toward them, she said, "Bit chilly, eh?"
Her ears were a deep, ruddy shade of red that sent a new series of chills down Morgan's spine. Trying not to look at the little lobes, he offered her the thermos. "Coffee?"
"God yes," she said, accepting it and taking a deep draft, before sitting back and saying, "Okay, ready to head to HQ?"
Far warmer than the bitter cold outside, the interior of the car was still not the sort of place that would allow the chilled FBI agents to thaw out. The thoughts of a warm station house were obviously pleasing and her question was met with a resounding, "Yes."
Careful of the icy conditions, she eased the SUV into motion and tossed Morgan a look out of the corner of her eye. "It could be worse," she informed him, seemingly offhandedly. "A few of the crime scenes were inaccessible by car the last time. They had to use sled dogs and ski-doos."
In the silence that followed that statement, there was a tiny muffled groan.
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TBC
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