“I appreciate that. Thank you, Devyn.”

Before I set up my tripod and digital camera, I inspect the reeds around the trunk base of the trees. The grass has been flattened, creating a clearing. No noticeable footprints. As I walk the perimeter, I come up to a blackened patch of reeds. The grass has been singed and burned away by fire to create a pit.

“No remains in there,” one of the techs say as he passes. “Already processed.”

“Thanks.” But I still snap a round of pictures with my phone and text them to my field manager, Aubrey. Which is an odd title to hold when he never actually enters the field. A point I make often when he rides me on field hours and reports.

A couple curious glances are directed my way from the crime-scene techs, but otherwise, the locals let me work independently in peace. Which, I suppose, is all any of us can aim for in the face of chaos.

I document the scene, starting from a distance and work my way closer. The dissected eyes have been removed from the eyelids cleanly, giving no initial indication of ethnicity to any of the victims, and they all appear a similar silver, grayish-blue due to corneal opacity and the film covering the irises.

I use a plastic probe to reach overhead to inspect one. The whole oculus of the organ is present. The optic nerve has been neatly severed. A medical examiner may be able to identify the exact instrument used, but for the purpose of my preliminary report, I note a general scalpel.

The pupils stare emptily out into the marshland, unseeing. I wonder what horrors they took in right before the perpetrator carved them from the sockets as, based on the cell structure, all organs appear to have been removed while the victims were still alive.

I try to imagine the difficulty, the patience and sheer sadistic brutality one would need to master in order to remove not just one pair of eyes from a struggling victim, but over thirty people.

How did he detain them? Were they drugged? Where were they kept?

Where are the bodies?

I’m impressed with the offender’s measure of medical knowledge, if not horrified. The perpetrator was able to extract the eyes so efficiently. No retinal tears or mistreatment.

Every observation is noted and logged in a spreadsheet on my tablet, which is fed directly to the CrimeTech database in real time. But I also keep notes in a basic notebook—my own personal findings no one can access.

Once I’ve completed my preliminary examination, I move on to what really interests me. The eyes were not just simply tacked to the trees. That would’ve been sloppy, but also a timesaver. No, he took the time to painstakingly thread lace-weight yarn around the nerves in such precise manner and detail that the thread is almost unseen at first glimpse.

Then he strung the thread to the bark, weaving it in so it disappears around the girth of the three trees. It’s clever and well-constructed. The techs will need to cut thread away from the trees and run individual tests. They might even be able to narrow down the age and where the skein was purchased. If it’s a rare brand or color, that would be even more helpful.

I highly doubt there will be any DNA retrieved from the yarn or anywhere else in this scene. But, I’m not here to collect and run lab tests. That’s up to the techs and detectives to build their case against any suspects.

I’m here to tell the scene’s narrative, to paint the gruesome picture of an offender who is methodical enough to dissect thirty-three pairs of eyes and string them to eerie trees in the middle of a killing field.

It’s my job to find the killer’s story.

When building a profile of a crime scene, I have to consider all the elements. The location, the weather, the wildlife. I have to walk in the killer’s proverbial—and sometimes literal—footsteps to uncover evidence the killer may have left behind.

While I’m photographing the intricate detail work on the woven thread, the caw of a nearby crow captures my notice.

Finding the source, I move away from the scene and duck under the caution tape, slogging farther out toward the low-lying ground of the marsh where a murder of crows circle overhead. I don’t have to walk far before I see what’s drawing their attention.

A fresh kill.

A large stag has been skinned and gutted and left to bake in the sun.

I get close enough to search for a kill shot before stepping away from the putrid stench. From this angle, I can’t determine what was used to kill the deer. But what I do notice is this animal wasn’t killed for its meat.

I glance over to the scene to gauge the distance, then look up at the circling fish crows.

If he used a dead animal to attract the birds away from his exhibit, then he knew the area well enough to anticipate the crows pecking at the remains. He didn’t want his work destroyed.

He could have buried the bodies out here and simply left them to decay. The bodies may have never been found. Instead, he made a production of a very specific organ.

He’s telling his own story.

The decisive difference is in whether or not the display is for his own purpose or for someone else’s. Because if it’s a message, why go through the burden of wandering all the way into the deep marsh where there’s a chance no one will ever come across his work? Carting all those remains and tools twenty minutes into the killing fields wasn’t an easy feat.

Then of course he had to hunt and kill the deer. Skin it, mutilate it. Leave it in a strategic and possibly tested distance away from his display.

The perpetrator could be a hunter.

So why didn’t he claim his trophy and take the antlers?

Because those aren’t the trophies he keeps.

I look up at the darkening sky, at the crows circling the barren trees. A team is already scouting the marshland in hopes of recovering the bodies.

A commotion of shouts erupt at the crime-scene perimeter as a man with a press badge tries to gain access. He snaps pictures around Devyn as she tries to barricade him from the scene. I start in her direction to help, but suddenly the reporter takes off back through the reeds.

Exasperated, she shakes her head and looks at me. I shrug, because she seemed to handle him just fine.

I’m honestly surprised only one member of the press has found their way out here, considering the history of this town and the media craze this scene will incite once the story breaks.

About five years ago, Hollow’s Row was a national hotspot for conspiracy and innuendo when people went missing.

Disappeared.

Thirty-three town residents vanished, never to be heard from again.

As I head back toward the crime scene, I feel it in the dense, marshy air, the whisper too fragile to voice. It’s what’s not being said in the silence that screams so loud.

Every single person on this scene knows who the victims are—some may even be their family, their friends—even if no one is willing to give voice to that thought. They’re just waiting for DNA analysis to confirm it.

Thirty-three pairs of unseeing eyes with a horrific story to tell.

Where have these people been for the past five years? The mystery is far more disturbing than the gruesome scene.

The mystery is the reason I’m here.

Deciding I’ve cataloged enough of the scene for the first day, I begin to pack up my case and bag the rest of my tools and supplies. I’ll return tomorrow when there are less people so I can immerse myself in the scene. I roll off my gloves and stuff them into my jacket pocket as Devyn comes to see me off.

“The trees have eyes…” she mutters beneath her breath.

The fine hairs along my skin stand up, and a fierce shiver races up my spine. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just something I recalled from a torturous college class. It’s been stuck in my head since I got on-scene.”