Police in America

After all, New Mexico had gold mines and scandals that needed to be covered up, while this place had nothing—no interests, only trouble.

So, from the moment Jack promised Alya he would find the truth, he never intended to rely on normal channels to achieve his goal. As he had told Cory Lambert, he was here to hunt, to track down a "beast"—or perhaps a pack of them.

The next day, just as Jack and Jane were about to accompany Alya to her parents' house to learn more about Natalie, Sheriff Ben Shaw called.

The coroner's office in Loveland had performed an autopsy on the body as soon as it arrived and had preliminary results. The old sheriff hoped Jane could meet him there as soon as possible.

Surprised by the coroner's efficiency, Jack and Jane had to head straight to Loveland, where the tribal police station was located, while Braxton accompanied Alya home.

The weather was nice today, perhaps because spring was approaching, and the temperature during the day had risen quite a bit—just around minus five or six degrees Celsius.

However, this made their journey more difficult. The road, repeatedly run over by vehicles, was now a muddy mess, forcing Jack to slow down and carefully avoid the potholes that could trap their car.

It was almost noon by the time they arrived in Loveland, a small town not too far from Wind River Valley. At the coroner's office, they found Sheriff Ben Shaw already waiting for them.

"You look much better than yesterday. Had a good night's sleep?" The old sheriff greeted Jane, a stark contrast to the coldness he had shown when they first met.

"Yes, it was okay," Jane replied, glancing briefly at Jack. She had hardly spoken to him on the way because she felt embarrassed. She had invited him to discuss the case, only to fall asleep shortly afterward.

When she woke up in bed that morning, she wished she had a spell to erase memories so that Jack could forget everything that had happened the night before.

Back at the academy, Jane had noticed Jack. When she found out she was assigned to Las Vegas, not too far from Los Angeles, she had secretly rejoiced.

However, she quickly realized she had celebrated too early. After spending months barely adapting to the busy and trivial work of an FBI trainee, she was stunned to find out that Jack had become something of a minor celebrity within the agency.

Jack's role in the plane crash was classified, and she didn't have the clearance to know about it. But whether it was the mall terrorist attack or the cases swiftly solved by the newly formed BAU, Jack Taveller's name appeared frequently.

After hearing some gossip, Jane could only lament that she shouldn't have hesitated back at the academy. If she had made a move then, even if she couldn't have been the female lead in those tabloid stories, at least she could have had some good memories.

But God seemed to love playing tricks. Just when she thought she might never cross paths with Jack again, here he was, suddenly appearing in front of her, like a knight in the snow, rescuing her from her predicament.

Thinking of her embarrassing behavior last night, Jane cringed internally. The more gentlemanly Jack behaved, the more she wanted to strangle her past self. She didn't even know she had been ill the night before.

"Has the identity of the body been officially confirmed?" Jack, unaware of Jane's feelings, directly asked the sheriff.

"Yes, the girl's father came to claim the body last night," the old sheriff replied as he led them through the office.

Jane shook her head, pushing away her scattered thoughts and forcing herself to focus on the task at hand.

"Did he explain why he didn't report his daughter missing?"

"No, she didn't live with her parents, and she was already 18. She could do whatever she wanted."

As he spoke, the sheriff opened a door, revealing a young woman's body lying on a stainless steel autopsy table, her chest cavity exposed.

Behind the table stood a completely bald man with only a few tufts of brown hair on the sides of his head and glasses. His beard was thick and connected to his sideburns.

"Good afternoon. I'm Randy Whitehurst, the coroner here," the man said, introducing himself succinctly as the three entered.

Jane, clearly lacking much experience in autopsy rooms, stood stiffly in front of the table, trying to maintain her composure. "Uh, I'm Jane Banner, from the FBI."

"Jack Taveller, with her." Jack kept it brief, stepping up to the body and closely examining the autopsy work.

He couldn't speak to the coroner's overall skill, but the incision into the chest was clean and precise, a job well done.

"As you can see, the deceased has a deep laceration on her forehead," Randy Whitehurst began, detailing his findings.

"Two broken ribs, varying degrees of frostbite on both feet extending to the ankles, and frostbite on her nose and hands."

"The frostbite on her feet is fourth-degree, with parts of the skin already blackened."

Frostbite is classified into four levels, with fourth-degree indicating severe damage to muscles and bones. Even considering the fact that the victim wasn't wearing shoes, it's clear she was exposed to the cold for a long time.

"She ran for a long time in the snow," Jack muttered.

"That's a reasonable assumption," Randy Whitehurst nodded.

"Also, I found multiple lacerations on the walls of her vaginal canal."

"Were there multiple assailants?" Jane's voice was hoarse. As a rookie agent, she was still far from mastering emotional detachment.

The coroner shook his head. "It's impossible to determine. It could have been the same attacker repeatedly assaulting her."

"At your request, I collected secretion samples from her body and sent them via courier to the FBI crime lab in Loveland, Colorado."

"The DNA results should be ready in six weeks. I hope they'll be of some help."

Though his tone remained calm, Jack detected a hint of sarcasm in Randy Whitehurst's voice.

"What do you think her cause of death was?" Sheriff Ben Shaw, who had been standing by the door, asked.

"I'm afraid you won't like the answer," Randy Whitehurst sighed, pulling off his rubber gloves and sitting down on a nearby chair.

"She died from pulmonary hemorrhage. When she ran for a long time in the cold, her lungs filled with sub-zero air, causing the alveoli to rupture, which—"

Before the coroner could finish, Jane interrupted, her tone less than polite.

"Sorry, are you concluding this wasn't a murder?"

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