‘Who’s the lead agent, do you know?’

‘Same one as last time,’ Garcia replied. ‘Dr. Susan Slater.’ He gave Hunter a quirky smile.

‘What was that?’ Hunter asked.

‘What was what?’

‘That “I ate the last donut” smile. What was that for?’

‘C’mon.’

Hunter paused and squinted at his partner.

Garcia made a face. ‘C’mon, Robert, she’s hot and you know it.’

‘Who, Dr. Slater?’

‘No, my grandma in a Brazilian bikini, doing the samba on Copacabana beach. Yes, Dr. Slater. Don’t play dumb, Robert, it really doesn’t suit you. I saw the way you were looking at her last time . . . and she at you. You should ask her out.’

‘We were working a crime scene, Carlos.’

‘So? Romance can blossom in the strangest of places.’

Hunter chuckled. ‘You’re sick.’

As they set off towards the house again, Hunter felt a drop hit the top of his head and looked up. Garcia did the same. Another one hit them both on the forehead.

On the driveway, the CSI agent searching for tire tracks seemed to have found something, but he too saw the first drops of rain hit the concrete and all of a sudden his movements became a lot more urgent.

‘Shit!’ they all heard him say as he frantically searched the bag he had with him for something he could use to cover the driveway patch directly in front of him.

Hunter and Garcia rushed over to help him, but one of the agents on the front lawn beat them to it.

‘Have you got something?’ Hunter asked as he towered over them, unzipped his jacket, and pulled it wide open like bat wings, to use it as an improvised umbrella.

The raindrops got thicker and more frequent.

‘I think I’ve got a partial tire track here,’ the agent replied, without looking up. ‘If we manage to protect it from the rain, that is.’

Garcia unzipped his jacket and mimicked Hunter’s movements.

‘Crap!’ the first agent said to the second. ‘I didn’t even have time to photograph it. If the rain washes this off, we’ve got nothing.’

The two agents were moving as fast as they could. A few seconds later, after using some tape to fix a piece of impermeable material to the concrete, the first agent finally looked up at Hunter and Garcia.

‘This will hopefully do it,’ he said. ‘Even if the rain manages to wash some of it off, I’m sure we’ll still get something. You guys with Homicide?’

Both detectives nodded, as the rain got a little heavier.

‘As I’ve said,’ the agent continued. ‘I barely had time to analyze it, but one thing I can tell you is, this partial doesn’t seem to belong to an SUV like the Cadillac.’ He nodded at the car parked on the driveway.

Hunter and Garcia zipped their jackets back up and rushed towards the house.

The officer standing at the porch handed them two sealed plastic bags containing disposable forensic coveralls. The officer at the door got them to sign the crime-scene manifesto before stepping to one side.

Hunter and Garcia finished suiting up, pulled their hoods over their heads and finally stepped into a brand new horror show.

Forty-Four

Cassandra Jenkinson’s house was no less gracious on the inside. The front door led Hunter and Garcia into a spacious anteroom with a striking crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A large, gothic-framed round mirror occupied most of the wall to their left. To their right, a sculpture of twisted stainless steel sat atop a rectangular, double-pedestal console table. On the floor, directly in front of them, a circular, Turkish knot rug filled the room with color. At first glance, nothing seemed disturbed or out of place.

Nicholas Holden, the same forensic fingerprint expert who had worked the first crime scene, was carefully dusting the door lock and studying its keyhole.

‘Any signs of a break-in?’ Hunter asked, bending down to have a closer look.

Holden shook his head. ‘Nothing apparent. Neither the door nor the lock look to have been forced in any way.’

‘Picked?’ Garcia questioned.

‘Unlikely. That’s what I was looking at right now, but this is a five-lever mortise lock. They are hard to find in the US, which is surprising because they’re rock solid. Due to its five levers, picking it becomes a monstrous task. You’d need all the right tools and plenty of time to get through it.’

‘How much time?’ Garcia pushed.

Holden shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but probably a lot more time than any assailant would be prepared to waste at the front porch of an exposed house.’

None of the houses on Flanders Street were sheltered by any sort of gate or fence. A person standing or kneeling by the Jenkinsons’ front door would’ve been easily spotted by most of the neighboring houses.

‘I’ve just started here,’ Holden added. ‘But I’ve already come across two sets of prints. One – female, probably belonging to the victim herself. The second one, undoubtedly male. Big hands.’

Both detectives thanked Holden, pulled open the next door, and moved on to the following room, which had been drenched by the brightness of two powerful forensic spotlights.

The split-level living room they entered was simply stunning, with a towering dark-granite fireplace and gleaming hardwood floors. It had been lavishly decorated with antique furniture, works of art, and a large Persian rug that gave the space a somewhat serene but exotic feel. If the chandelier they saw as they entered the house was striking, the one at the center of the living room ceiling was nothing less than impressive, with ten candle-shaped light bulbs surrounding hundreds of stringed crystal beads that dropped down like sparkling raindrops. But all that beauty, all that tranquility, had been completely shattered by the horror that now took center stage in the room.

From the dining table that sat across from the fireplace, one of its six chairs had been dragged closer to a wall where several framed original paintings hung. On the chair, with her hair, face and torso drenched in blood, a woman sat naked, with her eyes wide open and her mouth contorted in a frozen scream that Hunter was sure had reached no one, except the monster who had mutilated her.

‘Detectives,’ Dr. Slater said in greeting, nodding at Hunter and Garcia. She was standing just behind the victim’s chair.

Neither detective replied, their intrigued stares still battling against the terrorized one that had mummified in the victim’s eyes. Dr. Slater didn’t take offence.

‘Not what you were expecting, is it?’ she added.

Hunter looked deep in thought, like a chess player analyzing his opponent’s unexpected move, trying to figure out what he was up against.

‘I’m not really sure what I was expecting,’ he finally replied, before returning the doctor’s greeting gesture. ‘Hi, Doc.’

Garcia followed suit.

Dr. Slater gave them a few more seconds. A lock of blonde hair escaped from under the hood of her Tyvek coverall. Calmly she moved it back into place.

‘How certain are you that this is the same perp from three nights ago?’ she asked.

Both detectives could clearly see why Dr. Slater had asked that question. Judging from the crime scene alone, anyone would be forgiven for thinking that the killer’s MO and signature suggested otherwise.

‘Right now,’ Garcia replied, ‘not that certain.’

‘I figured as much,’ the doctor came back. ‘And that’s why I asked, because I sure have my doubts. Linking both murders based solely on crime-scene evidence . . .’ she allowed her eyes to quickly circle the living room, ‘. . . would be a hell of a stretch. Other than the fact that the victim was also left sitting on a dining chair.’ She reinforced her point by indicating it. ‘Most of the killer’s MO differs greatly from the one we saw the first time we met.’ She stepped away from behind the chair. ‘Here, let me show you.’