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"Of course." Finkley began printing documents. "But I have to say, I can't imagine Sarah hurting anyone. Odd, yes. Intense about her work, absolutely. But violent?" He shook his head.
"People can surprise you," Kari said quietly. As Finkley gathered the requested documents, Kari moved to the window, looking down at the fleet vehicles. Any one of them could be used as cover for approaching victims, for moving through areas where Sunburst vehicles were expected and unremarkable.
"Here's everything I can give you without a warrant," Finkley said, handing over a thick folder. "Dr. Hampton's public information is on top—published papers, conference presentations, anything already in the public domain. The other team members' contact information is behind it."
"What about after her medical leave?" Maria asked. "You said she was different when she returned. How specifically?"
Finkley considered the question. "She started conducting more solo surveys, said she worked better alone at certain sites. She'd spend hours at locations that should have taken thirty minutes to document. And she began including what she called 'spiritual assessments' in her reports—not just the archaeological significance but the active spiritual energy of places."
"Did the company have a problem with that?" Kari asked.
"As long as the official documentation was complete, management tolerated her... expanded reports." Finkley shifted uncomfortably. "At first, they were actually useful. She'd interview elders, document which sites had active ceremonial use, explain why certain locations triggered strong community responses. That information helped us avoid conflicts."
He paused. "But after her accident, the reports changed. Less documentation of what tribal members said, more of her own... interpretations. Talk about 'spiritual energy' and 'active power centers.' Management started viewing her additions as, well, eccentric at best. But she still did solid archaeological documentation, so they let it slide."
"Did anyone express concern?" Maria asked.
"HR suggested she might benefit from additional counseling," Finkley admitted. "But she wasn't doing anything that violated policy. Just adding weird appendices to otherwise professional reports."
"The liaison you mentioned," Maria said. "The one who coordinates security access for the team. Who is that?"
"Thomas Ashcroft, our head of security. He's the one who authorizes access to restricted areas, provides security escorts when needed." Finkley's expression grew thoughtful. "Come to think of it, Ashcroft mentioned that Sarah had been requesting more solo access lately. Said she felt the security presence was disturbing the spiritual atmosphere of the sites."
"Did Ashcroft grant those requests?" Kari asked.
"You'd have to ask him. But knowing Tom, probably. He's ex-military and takes a practical approach. If someone wants to take personal risks to get their job done, he's not going to stand in their way."
***
Kari and Maria stood in the parking lot between their vehicles, reviewing the files Finkley had provided. The tension from their morning confrontation still lingered, but the rhythm of the investigation provided neutral ground.
"Hampton's file is interesting," Maria said, flipping through pages. "Undergraduate degree from University of New Mexico, masters and PhD from ASU, both in archaeological studies with emphasis on prehistoric southwestern cultures. Published papers on ceremonial sites, ritual significance of petroglyphs, the spiritual landscape of ancient peoples."
"The perfect background for someone who'd understand the symbolic weight of the murder sites," Kari observed. "And after her cave-in experience..."
"She'd have the motivation to protect those sites through extreme means?" Maria suggested. "It's a reach, but trauma can fundamentally change people."
Kari studied a photocopy of Hampton's ID photo. The woman looked to be in her early forties, with intense dark eyes and prematurely gray streaks in her brown hair. There was something in her expression—a kind of fervent intelligence that could be dedication or obsession, depending on the context.
"Look at this," Maria said, pointing to a section of the personnel file. "During her medical leave, she reportedly studied with various spiritual advisors. Navajo medicine men, Hopi elders, even some new-age practitioners in Sedona."
"Studying what, exactly?"
"Doesn't say specifically. But the timing is interesting—six months of intensive spiritual seeking after a near-death experience in a sacred cave." Maria closed the file. "That's long enough to gain the kind of knowledge our killer seems to have."
They were quiet for a moment, both processing the implications. A Sunburst employee with access to vehicles and security schedules, academic knowledge of sacred sites, and a potentially transformative spiritual experience that might have left her psychologically unstable.
"We need to talk to her," Maria said finally. "Today, before she has time to dispose of evidence or create alibis."
"Finkley said she's at Survey Point 12." Kari pulled out her phone, checking the GPS coordinates against a map. "It's remote—rough terrain, limited cell service."
"All the more reason to approach carefully," Maria said. "If she's our killer and feels cornered..."
She didn't need to finish the thought. A confrontation in an isolated location with a potential serial killer was the kind of scenario that could go wrong in dozens of ways.
"I'll call for backup," Kari said. "Have units standing by at a distance in case we need them."
"While you do that, I'm going to dig deeper into her academic publications," Maria said, pulling out her laptop and settling onto the hood of her car despite the heat. "Someone doesn't just jump from scholarly interest to ritual murder. There might be warning signs in her earlier work."
As Kari made the necessary calls, arranging for backup units to position themselves strategically, she watched Maria work. The afternoon sun caught the small bulge beneath her partner's collar where the protection bundle rested. Such a small thing, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But it was there—proof that Maria still valued Ruth's blessing, still carried that connection despite the morning's painful confrontation.
When we stop seeing the small things, we miss the large ones too.
"Kari," Maria said suddenly. "Look at this."
She'd pulled up one of Hampton's published papers on her laptop. The title read: "Sacred Violence: Ritual Sacrifice and Territorial Protection in Prehistoric Southwest Cultures."
"Published two years ago," Maria continued. "A year after her accident. Listen to this abstract: 'This paper examines archaeological evidence for ritual violence employed by ancient peoples to protect sacred territories from desecration. Through analysis of burial sites and ceremonial remains, we can trace patterns of symbolic killing that served both practical and spiritual purposes in maintaining cultural boundaries.'"
"She's academically studied ritual murder," Kari said slowly. "Specifically in the context of protecting sacred land."
"It's more than that," Maria said, scrolling through the paper. "She's not just documenting; she's theorizing, justifying... It's the kind of intellectual groundwork someone would lay before acting." Maria looked up from the laptop, her expression grim. "Kari... what if she's neither the fool nor the heretic Ruth described? What if she's both?"
Kari felt a knot tighten in her stomach. "What do you mean?"
"She has the deep, academic knowledge to be the 'heretic'—to know exactly how to subvert these traditions. But her trauma, the cave-in... that could have given her the delusion, the 'foolishness,' to believe she had the right to do it." Maria closed the laptop. "She's a perfect, terrifying hybrid of both possibilities. That makes her more dangerous than we imagined."
Kari's phone buzzed with the text from dispatch confirming backup.
"We should go," Kari said, her voice now filled with a new urgency. "If she's that committed, that convinced... we can't predict what she'll do when confronted."
Maria stood. "Together or separate vehicles?"
It was more than a logistical question. After the morning's confrontation, riding together would mean confronting the personal tension between them. Taking separate vehicles would maintain professional distance but might make coordination more difficult in rough terrain.
"Together," Kari decided. "My Jeep handles the terrain better than your rental."
Maria nodded, gathering her things. As she moved to the passenger side of Kari's vehicle, she paused.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I understand why you reacted the way you did this morning. If I'd overheard that conversation without context..."
"You were protecting the investigation," Kari said. "I should have trusted you had a good reason."
"We can talk about it properly later," Maria said, climbing into the Jeep. "After we figure out if Dr. Hampton is our killer or just another academic with boundary issues."
As Kari started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, she felt the weight of the afternoon's discoveries settling on her shoulders. Three murders, each more elaborate than the last. And now a suspect who'd literally written papers on ritual violence as cultural protection.
Somewhere ahead, Dr. Sarah Hampton was either conducting routine archaeological documentation or preparing for another ritual murder.
They'd know soon enough which one
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Survey Point 12 revealed itself after twenty minutes of rough dirt road that had Kari's Jeep suspension working overtime. The site sat in a natural bowl between two mesas, sheltered from the worst of the wind but exposed to the late afternoon sun that painted everything in shades of gold and rust. A white Sunburst Energy SUV was parked near a cluster of standing stones, its doors open to catch any stray breeze.
"That's her," Maria said, checking the vehicle number against their notes. "Fleet 23, assigned to Dr. Hampton."
Kari parked thirty feet away, close enough for easy conversation but far enough to avoid seeming aggressive. Through the windshield, they could see a figure moving among the stones, occasionally kneeling to take photographs or measurements.
"She doesn't look like she's running," Maria observed.
"Or she's very good at maintaining appearances," Kari replied. She keyed her radio, confirming their arrival to the backup units maintaining position a mile away. "We're making contact. Stand by."
They exited the Jeep, the heat hitting them immediately despite the approaching evening. Dr. Sarah Hampton looked up at their approach, shielding her eyes against the sun. Up close, she matched her ID photo but with subtle differences—her face looked leaner, her gray streaks more prominent, and there was an intensity to her gaze that the camera hadn't captured.
"Can I help you?" Hampton asked, her voice carrying a slight rasp that spoke of too much time in dry air. She wore practical field clothes—khakis, a long-sleeved shirt to protect against the sun, and sturdy boots. A wide-brimmed hat hung from a cord around her neck.
"Dr. Hampton?" Kari showed her badge. "I'm Detective Blackhorse, this is Detective Santos. We'd like to ask you some questions."
"About the murders, no doubt," Hampton said. She set down her camera carefully, brushing dust from her hands. "I wondered when you'd come. After Danny Torres... well, anyone connected to the pipeline is probably on your list."
"You knew Mr. Torres?" Maria asked.
"Professionally. He provided security for some of my survey work when Thomas—Mr. Ashcroft—deemed it necessary." Hampton moved to her vehicle, pulling out water bottles from a cooler. She offered them to the detectives, who declined. "Danny was a good man. Respectful of the sites, unlike some of the security personnel."
"We're actually here about a vehicle," Kari said, watching Hampton's reaction carefully. "Fleet number 47 was in the vicinity of the Torres murder scene last night. Records show you checked it out."
Hampton paused in the act of drinking water, then lowered the bottle slowly. "Fleet 47? I haven't used that vehicle in weeks. I prefer 23 here—better ground clearance for the terrain I work in."
"The log shows it was checked out under your authorization at 8:47 PM yesterday," Maria said.
"That's impossible." Hampton moved to her SUV, pulling out a battered field notebook. "I was here until almost nine last night, finishing documentation on these standing stones. Then I drove straight home. I can show you my notes, the timestamps on my photographs."
She flipped through pages covered in neat handwriting interspersed with sketches and measurement notations. "Here—8:30 PM, final shots of the western stone alignment. Eight forty-five, packing up equipment. I was on the road by nine."
"Can anyone verify that?" Kari asked.
"Out here? Alone?" Hampton gestured at the empty landscape. "This isn't the kind of work that lends itself to witnesses, Detective. The whole point is to document these sites in their natural state, without human interference."
"You work alone often?" Maria asked.
"More and more lately," Hampton admitted. She moved to sit on a flat rock, seemingly unbothered by the heat radiating from its surface. "Some of my team members have become... uncomfortable since the murders started. They request not to be assigned to remote locations, especially near sites that might be considered sacred."
"But not you," Kari observed.
Hampton met her gaze directly. "Detective Blackhorse—I assume from your name you have tribal connections?"
Kari nodded cautiously.
"Then perhaps you understand. These places—" Hampton gestured at the standing stones, "—they're not just archaeological artifacts. They're living connections to the past. They deserve to be documented properly, murders or no murders."
"Some might say that academic interest in sacred sites is part of the problem," Maria suggested. "Another form of desecration."
Hampton's expression hardened. "Some might say that. They'd be wrong, but they might say it." She took another drink of water. "I've spent my career trying to bridge the gap between academic knowledge and cultural respect. Not always successfully, I'll admit."
"We understand you had an experience a few years ago," Kari said carefully. "In Utah."
The change in Hampton was immediate. Her shoulders tensed, and her fingers tightened on the water bottle. "The cave-in. Yes. I suppose that's in my file."
"Would you mind telling us about it?" Maria asked, her tone gentle.
Hampton was quiet for a long moment, staring at the standing stones. When she spoke, her voice was distant. "Do you know what it's like to be buried alive, Detectives? Truly buried, with tons of rock between you and the sky?"
Neither responded, letting her continue at her own pace.
"I was documenting a ceremonial chamber, deep in a canyon system that the Anasazi had used for rituals we barely understand. The supports gave way—my own fault, I was too eager, didn't test them properly." She laughed bitterly. "Twenty years of fieldwork, and I made a rookie mistake."
"You were trapped for thirty hours," Kari prompted.
"Thirty-three hours and seventeen minutes," Hampton corrected. "I know because I kept checking my watch, watching the minutes crawl by. After the first few hours, when I realized my radio was smashed and no one knew exactly where I was... well, the mind does interesting things when faced with death."
"What kind of things?" Maria asked.
Hampton stood abruptly, moving back to the standing stones. She ran her hand along one of them, tracing patterns invisible to the detectives. "I started hearing things. Voices in languages I didn't recognize. Seeing shadows move in the darkness. Classic symptoms of stress and oxygen deprivation, any psychologist would tell you."
"But you don't believe that," Kari said.
"I don't know what I believe," Hampton admitted. "But I know that when they finally pulled me out, I was different. The sites I'd been studying academically for years suddenly felt... alive. Like I could sense the intentions of the people who'd built them, feel the weight of their ceremonies."
Kari felt a chill. Hampton's language was that of a true believer, not a detached academic. Ruth had described two paths—the fool and the heretic. Hampton was presenting herself as a transformed initiate, but which was she? Was her knowledge deep enough to be heretical, or was this the grand delusion of a highly intelligent fool? The line between the two felt terrifyingly thin.
"Is that why you took the medical leave?" Maria asked. "To explore these new feelings?"
Hampton turned back to them, a slight smile on her face. "You've done your homework. Yes, I spent six months trying to understand what had happened to me. I studied with anyone who would teach me—traditional practitioners, new age healers, even a psychiatrist who specialized in near-death experiences."
"What did you learn?" Kari asked.
"That there are more ways of understanding the world than academic methodology allows for," Hampton said. "But also that I'm still fundamentally a scholar. I can feel the power in these places now, but I document them the same way I always have. With measurements and photographs and careful notes."
"Dr. Hampton," Maria said, "we need to ask you directly. Have you been conducting any activities at these sites beyond standard documentation?"
"Such as?"
"Ceremonies. Rituals. Anything that might be construed as trying to protect or activate these locations."
Hampton laughed, sounding genuinely amused. "Detectives, I'm a middle-aged academic who spent six months learning that I don't have the cultural or spiritual authority to conduct any kind of ceremony. I document. I preserve. I advocate for protection through proper channels. But I don't pretend to have powers or permissions that aren't mine."
"Yet you wrote about ritual violence as cultural protection," Kari pointed out.
"Ah, you found that paper." Hampton didn't seem surprised. "Published in a peer-reviewed journal, analyzed through anthropological frameworks, based on archaeological evidence. I'm a scholar, Detective. I study violence the same way I study pottery shards or architectural patterns. That doesn't mean I advocate for it."
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