“Wow, you were quick. Didn’t know you would be done already.”

Sam looked up and smiled through her plastic shield.

“I’m not early, you’re late. It’s seven-thirty already. Tim, could you finish up here for me?”

“Sure, Doc, no problem.” Sam handed off the tools to her assistant and walked toward the decontamination room, pulling off her smock and gloves as she went. Taylor followed dutifully.

It was only after Sam was cleaned up, they both had a cup of tea and were ensconced in Sam’s office, that she would comment on the autopsy.

“She didn’t take a terrible amount of abuse.”

“I don’t know, Sam, being strangled and having her hands cut off seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

Sam nodded. “Well, of course it is. I just meant that she wasn’t horribly abused, beaten or anything. The hands were done postmortem. The strangulation was manual, there was no evidence of rape. It wasn’t as bad as some I’ve seen. She wasn’t torn up, just had the characteristic bruising and tearing I’d associate with rough consensual sex. He used a lubricated condom, and I didn’t retrieve anything that would qualify for DNA. I’ve taken all the samples and sent them to be run. Dr. John Baldwin, FBI agent extraordinaire, called early 50

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and told me to send all the trace and the blood work to the FBI lab. It’ll go quicker that way.”

Despite all efforts to the contrary, Nashville didn’t have their own forensics laboratory to process elements from their crime scenes. Baldwin had just saved them both a major headache.

“So do you have any other info for me?”

“Not really, Taylor. The results won’t be back for a couple of days. Cause of death was definitely manual strangulation. We’ll just have to wait for the rest. Baldwin mentioned this was an ongoing case?”

“He seems to think this is the work of a serial killer the FBI has christened the Southern Strangler. Based on the transportation MO, this is his third kill.” She drifted off for a moment. “I wonder what he does with their hands? Why he’s leaving one behind at every scene?”

Sam grinned. “Probably an acrotomophiliac. You know, less is more.”

Taylor wrinkled her brow. “What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t sound good.”

“Means he’s sexually attracted to amputees.”

“Aw, Sam, that’s really—”

“Relax, it was just a joke. The hand that was recovered yesterday didn’t have the level of decomposition I’d expect from one that had been excised a month ago, so I’m operating on the theory that it was frozen. Running all the tests on that one, too. C’mon, let’s get out of here and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

They went to breakfast, catching up, pointedly not talking about the case. Sam was pregnant, effusive with excitement and joy at the impending arrival of her first child. All of their conversations lately ultimately found All the Pretty Girls

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their way back to the being inhabiting Sam’s belly. When they finished the umpteenth round of baby-name options, Taylor dropped Sam off back at the medical examiner’s office, then went to her own. Lincoln had pulled together the information on the previous murders, trolling information that must have been supplemented by Baldwin at some point, since the crime scene photos were copies of originals with the FBI stamp in the lower right-hand corner. The files were on her desk, and she delved into them. There was little more to be gleaned than what Baldwin had already shared with her. The first murder, Susan Palmer, had occurred April 27. She was reported missing, and when police went to her house, they found an almost exact replica of the scene Taylor had witnessed at Shauna Davidson’s apartment. There was no sign of forced entry, the bedroom was the source of interest. Taylor gazed at the bed, stripped of sheets, bloodstains on either side of the mattress. The blood was ultimately matched to Susan Palmer, and there were fibers adhered to both the bed frame and the blood that came from a national brand of industrial-grade rope. The photos from the area Susan Palmer’s body had been found were also eerily familiar. Long saw grass obscured her body in the first few shots. Closeup pictures of her handless arms had attendant blowups, detailing the wounds. She absently noted that the photographer was wasting his life working for the police, he was adept at making the scene come alive. There was one inconsistency in the photos that caught her eye. She pulled out a magnifying glass and examined it. Tracing back through the report, she 52

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matched the numbered card to the line in the report. Number 38, unidentified vomit. Hmm. She tucked that tidbit away and went on.

She opened the next file, immediately drawn to a picture of the victim. Jeanette Lernier had a wide smile and laughing eyes. She looked like someone Taylor would have enjoyed sharing an off-color joke with. Her animation bled through the photograph. Finally breaking the trance, she read through the rest of the report. Mind-numbingly similar, down to the close-up shots of the bloody stumps.

She read through the witness statements. Jeanette’s family and friends adored the girl, that much was certain. People not so close to the family made a few disparaging remarks, accusing the girl of fast living. One mentioned she thought Jeanette was having an affair with a coworker, but supplemental reports didn’t address the issue. She made a mental note to ask Baldwin why.

Finished with her perusal, she set to work doing the paperwork detailing the case of Jessica Ann Porter. She compiled a comprehensive murder book, pulling together all the reports from the various officers attendant to the crime scene. It was boring work, tedious but necessary. Even if the FBI swooped in and completely wrestled the case away from her, she wanted her diligence noted. She worked most of the day by herself. Lincoln and Marcus were both off, and Fitz was running the search for Shauna Davidson and gathering more information on the missing girl. At five o’clock, she decided to call it a day. She hadn’t heard from Baldwin but assumed All the Pretty Girls

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he’d show up sometime in the evening or during the night. She didn’t need to be in his way right now, he’d have enough on his plate getting his own investigation under way. She brought the murder book with her, just in case.

Seven

Taylor felt the hand slowly sweeping up the back of her thigh. She stretched languorously, burrowing her face deeper in her pillow. The hand drew closer and closer to her panties and she took a deep breath of anticipation. The shrill ring of the telephone brought her fully awake, as did the muttered curse of the man who belonged to the hand.

“Damn, who’s calling this early?” growled Baldwin.

“If I had to guess, I’d say work. Generally, no one calls me this early in the morning unless someone’s dead.” She slapped his hand away playfully, for despite the ringing phone, his fingers had not veered off course. She reached across the bed and picked up the phone, glancing at the caller ID. She was right. “Lieutenant Jackson here.”

“Taylor, it’s Price.”

Captain Mitchell Price didn’t usually call her at home unless it was absolutely necessary. She struggled All the Pretty Girls

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to sit up, smashing a pillow behind her back so she’d at least sound like she was up and awake.

“Good morning, Cap. What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got a situation that needs to be handled.” It wasn’t like him to be so gruff. She could only imagine what could be wrong to have him snapping at her. She glanced out the window and saw that it was raining softly.

“We’ve had another attack by the Rainman.” She could hear the strain in the captain’s voice. “It was his choice of victim that’s got us involved. I need you to head over to Betsy Garrison’s house.”