His Perfect Crime, Emily Slate FBI Mystery Series - Book 1

Deep in the woods lies a box, buried where no one would find it. But someone has…

FBI Special Agent Emily Slate is no stranger to tragedy. After losing her husband three months ago, then botching the biggest case of her career, she’s barely escaped a full suspension. Determined to get her life back on track or die trying, she takes a seemingly impossible case in hopes she can turn her fortunes around.

But as Emily arrives in the small Virginia mountain town and dives into the mystery, she discovers the remains of a woman, buried, with her eyes sewn shut. As she peels away the layers of the complex case, Emily realizes that a disturbing mind lurks in the shadows, and it’s only a matter of time before they strike again.

While Emily puts all of her skills to the test in solving the case, she doesn’t realize that the evil forces she hopes to stop now have her in their sights. She’s stumbled on something far larger and more treacherous than she could have ever realized, and if she’s not careful, she’ll be the next body to end up in a box.

Eye See You, Agent Slate.

Secrets are meant to stay buried.

Better turn back before you find yourself among them.

Great book, I just loved it. I can't wait to read the remainder of Emily Slate's life. Twist and turns to the end.

~Kindle Customer, Amazon

This book was action packed.,Well written and so interesting I forgot my glass of wine! You will like this, if you enjoy reading good detective stories, that leave you guessing til the very end.

~E. Meza, Amazon

Don’t screw this up.

As I approach the yellow caution tape, a familiar pit forms in my stomach, the one that always comes when I’m near a corpse. I can’t seem to help it, despite seeing many bodies over the years. But this time is different. This time I feel like an imposter, like I shouldn’t even be here.

I shouldn’t be nervous; this is my job. A job I’ve done a hundred times before. I’m a trained FBI agent, this is what I do. But this is the first one back after…the incident, and I can’t help but feel the weight of the situation bearing down on me. It’s a test; we all know it. And if I can’t keep it together then I’ll be out of a career, no matter what they say. More than that, I’ll have lost the last thing in my life worth hanging on to.

Frost crunches beneath my boots and I pull my overcoat tighter as I near the scene. If it weren’t for the murmurs of the beat cops who were on patrol all night guarding the site, this place would be as quiet as a grave. For being in the middle of the woods, there’s not a sound out there. No birds, no small mammals scuttering around, nothing. It’s like they know something bad has happened here, and they want no part of it.

I pull the collar of my coat up around my face, bracing myself against the cold. It’s the type of cold that isn’t from a blowing breeze, instead it’s biting, from another temperature drop overnight. Once the sun comes up it’ll warm, but right now it’s a shock. I wish I hadn’t left my coffee in the car.

“Morning,” I say, nodding to the cop standing beside the yellow tape. He’s bundled up too, a wool hat with the word POLICE embroidered on the front pulled down over his brow, but I still see his eyebrow arch. He’s wondering what a five-six, hundred-and-thirty-pound brunette woman who looks like she’s a couple of years out of high school is doing on a crime scene. I’ve always had a young face, so I get that a lot. It comes in useful sometimes. Other times, like this one, it makes my job harder.

I show him my badge. “Special Agent Slate,” I say. “I was called in.”

The change in demeanor on his face is almost comical. It goes from skepticism to downright loathing in half a second. I wish I could say that my reputation precedes me, but I know this is just normal local cop bullshit. Anytime the FBI steps within a half mile of one of their crime scenes they can’t help but make a fuss about it.

He pinches his face like he might try and argue with me, and I catch sight of his name badge: Rutherford. He must see me eyeing it because he lifts the tape up and ushers me through.

God, I hate politics.

They’ve cordoned off an area that looks to be about three hundred feet in all directions. And from my approach, this means I have to make my way down a shallow hill to reach the place she was found. Thankfully, these are reliable boots, and I have no trouble navigating the hill, even with the frost.

Another officer stands at the bottom of the hill, his arms wrapped around him as vapor escapes his mouth. He’s tall like a basketball player; I’d be surprised if he didn’t play when he was younger. He eyes me, doing nothing but rubbing his hands on his arms as he tries to stay warm.

“You’re early,” he calls out when I’m close enough. “The detective won’t be here for another thirty minutes, at least.”

That was the point. “Where is she?” I ask.

He motions to a dark area about fifty feet behind him. There’s a small clearing, surrounded by bare trees. A portable light and generator have been brought in, but both are off. The sky beyond is beginning to show signs of life, but it’s barely a dark blue now and all I can make out are the tops of the trees against it. The sun won’t be up until seven-thirty. Maybe it was foolish coming out here before daylight, but I wanted to get a jump on things. It’s an axiom in my life: if I’m not early, I’m late, no matter the appointment. I also wanted to make sure I was here before anyone else, so I’d have the site to myself for a few minutes. It’s another one of those things that helps other members of our profession take me more seriously, despite my looks.

Still, it’s always an uphill battle.

“Need any help?” the cop asks.

I don’t reply, instead I pull on some gloves, switch on my flashlight and make my way to the scene, careful not to disturb anything. Until the crime scene techs get here, I don’t want to make a dent; I just want to have an understanding of what I’m looking at.

“Whatever,” I hear him mutter as I press forward, having not responded to his inquiry. He’s obviously new, otherwise he wouldn’t have scored such a cushy assignment such as standing out in the cold all night. In fact, he’s probably younger than I am, despite the fact that he looks like he could pass for someone in their late thirties.

I sweep my light beam across the path in front of me. Even though it’s light enough to see, I’m looking for anything that might stand out. Though, from what I understand about how she was found, I’m unlikely to find it.

According to the initial report that was filed with the FBI, the body was only found because this area has had some heavier-than-normal rains over the past few months, causing a lot of erosion, which probably explains the slippery hill back there. The site itself is on a partial hill as well, and as I reach it, I can see where water has cut drainage valleys into the soft dirt. Near the edge of the clearing is a shallow pit, and a small pile of dirt off to the side. The report said she was found by a trapper, out with his dogs. In reality it was probably the dogs who smelled her first, drawing the trapper here, who, judging by how much dirt he moved, had probably figured he’d found buried treasure instead of a body.

Imagine his surprise.

Any residual evidence of the burial site is no doubt long gone by now, either from the weather or from the trapper himself, but I look around anyway. No one is perfect, and no matter who left her out here, they left a trail. All that remains to be seen is if anything has survived the weather. There’s no telling how long she’s actually been here, at least not until the coroner gets a good look at her.

I’m intentionally avoiding the site itself because I know it’s not going to be pretty. And despite always having a strong stomach, I can’t help but feel some connection with my victims. Seeing them in death…especially lately…let’s just say it hasn’t been good. But I need to do this.

I perform another sweep of the surrounding area, finding nothing. When the sun comes up and provides me more light to work with, I’ll take another look, but for now, all that remains is the big show.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. It’s not him. It’s not him.

Bending down, careful that I don’t get too close to the edge, I shine my light in the shallow grave. The trapper dug down deep enough to uncover the top of what looks like a small shipping crate, or maybe even a footlocker, though I haven’t seen one of these in a long time. The lid is down, but he’d already broken the seal on the side and inspected the contents, otherwise we wouldn’t even be here. I reach down and slowly pull back the lid on its hinge.

I turn away at the smell, which is more concentrated than I’d expected, the body reeking of spoiled milk. Once I have my reflexes under control, I look back to see what I’m working with.

She’s in an advanced state of decay. Parts of her skeleton are clearly visible, though bits of skin still hang on in places. She’s still dressed, though the clothes have been ravaged by all the organisms slowly eating the body from the inside out. If it weren’t for her clothes and long, red hair, we wouldn’t even know the sex of the victim.

But what stands out most is her eyes. Sewn shut with a thick thread, they now hang from pieces of skin barely connected to the sockets.

Equally as strange is how she’s folded up into this box. A human child can easily fit in a footlocker. An adult, not so much. She’s been contorted and shoved inside, like someone was packing a too-full suitcase. I don’t see how they got her in there without at least breaking a few of her bones, especially around her pelvis, to get her legs to fit. Not only would that take an immense amount of strength, but it would have been cumbersome. And messy. We might be looking at more than one killer here. But first, we need to figure out who this woman is, and if she matches any of the missing persons reports from the area. But I can already tell this isn’t recent. Which makes my job even more difficult. Pinpointing her time of death will be crucial to finding out who did this, and based on what I’m seeing, she’s been here months instead of weeks.

No wonder they called us in. Stillwater is a tiny town two hours outside of D.C. They’re not equipped to deal with this kind of thing.

Light begins to peek through the woods as the sun finally breaks the horizon, illuminating the skeletal face of the victim. I purse my lips and slowly close the lid of the locker again. This person, whoever she was, deserved better than this. And she deserves a respectful resting place, not being left out here, forgotten, in the middle of nowhere.

Part of me curses Janice for sending me here. And yet, another part knows it was completely warranted. It wasn’t like she was going to throw me a softball after what I pulled. I stand, watching the sun illuminate the skeletal trees, finally reaching me.

Last chance, Emily. Better make it a good one.

Books in The Emily Slate FBI Mystery Series