"How do you think she got here?" she asked, remembering to personalize the victim instead of falling into Stan's habit of using "it," something that could simply be "scooped up." But she knew it wasn't irreverence as much as it was a coping mechanism.
The crime scene tech followed Stan's lead. "It wasn't tossed __ not from the overpass, not from the ledge of the embankment. I can't see any impact marks or skids in the mud. It looks like he simply placed it here."
"So, the killer brought her down here himself?" She glanced back at the steep embankment, but saw only her own skid marks.
"From what I can tell." The tech stood, stretched his legs and looked grateful for the distraction. "There are some footprints. I'll make a plaster cast."
"Oh, yeah, the footprints," Racine said. "You've got to see this." She stepped carefully, pointing out the remnants of the impressions in the mud.
Maggie stood up and looked to where Racine pointed, except it was almost fifteen feet from the victim's head.
"How can you be sure they're the killer's?"
"We haven't found any others," the tech replied, shrugging. "It rained pretty hard two nights ago. He had to have been out here after that."
"The prints come out of nowhere," Racine said. "And get this __ they seem to lead right into the river."
"Maybe a boat?" Maggie suggested.
"Out here? And not be noticed? I don't think so."
"You said you had a tip?" Maggie examined the oversize prints. The tread marks were pronounced, but there was no recognizable logo.
"Yup," Racine said, crossing her arms as if finally feeling more in control. "An anonymous call. A woman actually. Called 911. I have no idea how the hell she found out. Maybe the killer told her. Maybe he got tired of us being so slow in finding the other two."
"Or maybe he wanted us to know the identity of this one," Maggie said.
Racine nodded, instead of coming up with a competing theory.
"So what do you suppose he does with the rest of the body?" the tech asked both women.
"I don't know." Racine shrugged and began to walk away. "Maybe our anonymous woman caller can tell us. They should have her number tracked down by the time we get back."
CHAPTER 3
Washington, D. C.
Dr. Gwen Patterson tried to see the crime scene from her office window, only she was on the wrong side of the Potomac. Even with binoculars the overpass blocked most of her view. But she could make out Maggie's red Toyota parked up on the road next to the mobile crime lab van.
There was an annoying tremor in her fingers as she ran them through her hair. Was it excitement? Nerves? It didn't matter. She knew the stress was starting to take its toll. And why wouldn't it? Three weeks, three victims. And yet today she had expected to feel a sense of relief. She expected the tension to begin to leave. Except there was no relief. Instead, the knot between her shoulder blades only seemed to tighten. Maybe it was silly to think that just because Maggie was on the case she would feel she had gained some sort of control over the situation. How did she ever let it get this far?
She was meeting Maggie later for dinner at their favorite hideaway _ Old Ebbitt's Grill. She'd order the pecan-crusted chicken. Maggie would have steak. Maybe they would share a bottle of wine, depending on Maggie's mood. And her mood would depend on what she had seen down by the river, under the overpass. But it didn't matter. She could count on Maggie sharing with her what evidence had been left behind. Maggie would be her eyes and ears. Gwen would ask questions, play devil's advocate like she usually did. And hopefully Maggie wouldn't recognize that Gwen already knew some of the answers. She could make this work. What other choice did she have?
It was ironic that something like this would happen, now that she had purposely distanced herself from patients and assignments that included criminal behavior. Gwen left the window and glanced at the walls of her office. The sunlight reflected off the glass of her framed credentials, creating prisms of color. A whole wall full of certificates and degrees __ and what good were they in a situation like this? Gwen rubbed at her eyes __ the lack of sleep was catching up with her, too, but she smiled. Yes, it was also ironic that the older and wiser and perhaps even the more deserving she became, the less those framed credentials mattered.
She was at the top of her game, or at least that's what her colleagues kept telling her as they referenced her articles and books in their own studies and research. All of those hard-earned credentials had gained her entrance to Quantico, the White House and even the Pentagon. She had contacts with United States senators, members of congress, ambassadors and diplomats, many of them patients. Several even had her number on their speed dial. Not bad for a little girl from the Bronx. And yet, here she was, all those contacts and credentials worthless.
The notes had all been brief, the instructions simple, but the threat had been ambiguous, that is, until today. If there had been any doubt before, she knew now that he wouldn't hesitate to follow through on his threat. But finally she would have Maggie. Yes, Maggie could go where Gwen could not. Maggie would describe the crime scene, create a profile and help her figure out who the bastard was. They had done it before, together, plenty of cases where they took the evidence, examined the victims' similarities, considered all of the circumstances and then followed a trail that led them to the killer. She would simply be Maggie's guide, just like the old days when Maggie had first come to Quantico as a forensic fellow.
God, that seemed like a lifetime ago. What had it been? Ten years? Eleven?
Back then Gwen had been Assistant Director Cunningham's number-one independent consultant. She had taken Maggie under her wing, acting as the seasoned mentor, gently pushing her and coaxing her. Despite their age gap, the two of them had become friends, best friends. And yet because of the fifteen years that separated them, Gwen oftentimes found herself in a variety of roles with her best friend __ sometimes mentor, sometimes psychologist, sometimes mother. Though the latter still surprised her. She had always believed she didn't have a maternal bone in her body, except when it came to Maggie. Maybe that's why this didn't seem so strange. Perhaps that's exactly why she thought she could pull this off without Maggie knowing, without anyone knowing. Why couldn't Maggie be her surrogate, going places she herself couldn't go, following this killer and yes, even capturing him? All Gwen had to do was lead her to him. She'd beat him at his own game. Could it be that simple? Could it actually work? It had to work.
Gwen packed her briefcase, stuffing papers and folders inside without really looking or choosing. Another sign that the fatigue was taking hold. Even her ordinarily pristine desktop looked as if a wind had blown through the office, disheveling the stacks of paper.
She grabbed the cell phone that had been left for her that morning in a plain manila envelope and dropped through the office complex's mail slot. She carefully wiped it down and while still holding it with a paper towel, she placed it in a brown paper sack. On her way home she'd find a Dumpster to toss it into, just as the note had instructed her to do.
CHAPTER 4
Omaha, Nebraska
Gibson McCutty found the back door unlocked, just as he had left it. He stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the vegetable bin and cursing under his breath when he heard something thump to the floor. He hesitated, listening. It was difficult to hear over his gasps for air.
Why couldn't he breathe?
He had raced all the way from the airport, standing and pedaling, pumping and pushing his Ironman Huffy through red-lighted intersections, ignoring honks and slowing only to climb up the final incline. So of course he was gasping for breath. He just needed to stop for a minute. He leaned against the refrigerator, waiting to catch his breath. He was surprised to feel an immediate sense of comfort from the appliance's familiar noisy hum. He was home. He was safe. At least for now.