“That’s it. I’ve had enough for one day. I say we head inland, away from these goddamn little flying vampires.”

“Good idea,” Andrew said, though the insects still appeared to ignore him. “First we’ll take a look at the body, then we’ll visit with Edith Chiong.”

“Who’s Edith Chiong?” Dorsey started toward the car.

“ Shannon ’s roommate.”

“Where’s the body now? She hasn’t been buried yet, right?”

He caught up with her at the car.

“No. They’ve only just identified her a few days ago. The body is still at the ME’s. My understanding is that it’s going to be transported to a funeral home in Hatton, South Carolina, within the next day or so, so I want to make that the priority. I’m hoping Shannon herself will be able to give us a clue as to what happened to her.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Dorsey opened the passenger door and hopped in as quickly as she could, hoping to leave most of the swarm on the other side of the glass. “Would you mind stopping back at the Crab Shack so I can pick up my car? I can follow you from there.”

“Sure.”

Andrew backed out of the parking spot and headed down the narrow road that led back to the bridge.

“A profiler I worked with told me that you can’t find the killer without knowing the victim,” Dorsey said. “That the victim will tell you what you need to know, if you pay attention.”

“Anne Marie McCall.” He nodded.

“Right. I worked a case with her last year. She’s great. Have you worked with her?”

“Yes.” He was suddenly intent upon studying the road.

“Oh, my God, I forgot…” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I shouldn’t have…I forgot…”

“Right. She was engaged to marry my cousin, Dylan.” Andrew’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “Who was murdered by my brother.”

“Andrew, I’m sorry,” she told him softly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He made a left onto the bridge.

A moment later he said, “Good point, about knowing the victim to find the killer. That’s exactly what I intend to do. I’m interested in seeing just what Shannon has to tell us. Hopefully, she’ll give us something that in the end will lead us to her killer.”

“She’s been a real popular girl these last few days.” The middle-aged receptionist at the medical examiner’s office inspected the credentials Andrew offered, then barely glanced at Dorsey’s badge as she pushed her chair back from her desk and stood. “Course, rumor has it she was real popular when she was alive, too. And busy. Very, very busy.”

“Are you referring to the fact that it’s been alleged she was a prostitute?” Andrew slid his badge back into the inner pocket of his jacket, his face unreadable.

“Honey,” she drawled, “there is no alleging about it. She was what she was. This wasn’t the first time the cops found that girl out late at night, if you know what I mean.”

She took five steps and opened the door leading to the hall. Andrew opened his mouth as if to speak, but the receptionist didn’t seem to notice.

“Course, that don’t make it right, what happened to her. Don’t make it right at all.” She waved the agents on with her right hand. “Just saying, you keep putting yourself in harm’s way, sooner or later harm’s gonna catch up with you, that’s all.”

It was hard to argue with that logic. Hookers were high risk, there was no way around it.

“Doc Fuller’s in the back room. He told me to bring y’all on back when you got here.” She continued to chat as she led them down the hall, and stopped in front of a solid gray door. “Most activity we’ve seen around here in a while. Can’t remember the last time the FBI was here. Maybe not since that bus crash out on the old Hollow Tree Road back four years or so now. Illegal alien driving a car that hit a bus, you may have heard about that…”

She swung the door back and stepped aside so they could enter.

“Doc, the FBI agents you were waitin’ on are here. This here’s Agent Shields,” she pointed to Andrew, then turned to Dorsey. “And this is Agent Collins.”

Dorsey extended her hand to the dapper white-haired gentleman in the crisp lab coat. It was so clean that she suspected he’d just slipped it on. No way could he have performed autopsies in that spotless garment.

“Agent Collins, good to meet you.” He shook her hand firmly, then turned to Andrew. “Agent Shields. We spoke on the phone, I believe.”

“Yes, sir. We appreciate you making time to see us. We know your time is valuable, and-”

“Not at all.” The ME waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t have a damned thing better to do. No autopsies scheduled today, and if the good folks of our fine county are lucky, I’ll have none again tomorrow. Come on over here. Have a seat and we’ll talk.”

He beckoned the agents to follow him to the far side of the room, where several chairs stood around a wooden table. In the center of the table, a Mason jar held a handful of blue flowers.

“Maise’s idea of decor.” He nodded in the direction of the door the receptionist had left open. He walked to it and gave it a shove, to close it. “That oughta keep her guessing for a while.”

He turned back to his guests.

“Now. You wanted to talk about Shannon Randall.” Fuller took the chair nearest the window and rested his hands on the table. “How can I help you?”

“Actually, we were hoping to see the body,” Dorsey said before Andrew could respond. She caught the look he sent her: Back off. I take the lead. With a slight nod of her head, she acknowledged she’d jumped the gun, and gestured to him to pick up at that point in the conversation.

“We’re still not clear on cause of death,” Andrew explained. “We’ve heard she was shot, we heard she’d been stabbed.”

Dorsey’s head snapped up. She stared at Andrew.

“Yes.” Fuller nodded. “Yes, she was.”

“Which?”

“Both.”

“She was shot and she was stabbed?” Dorsey heard herself ask.

“Yes. And here’s the odd thing: either could have killed her. The gunshot was at close range, right to the heart. Whoever pulled that trigger wanted to make sure she was good and dead, good and fast.” Fuller leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “And the stab wounds? Any one of three or four of them could have been fatal.”

“How many were there?” Andrew asked.

“Nine.” Fuller nodded grimly. “That girl’d been stabbed nine times.”

“Which actually killed her?” Andrew wanted to know.

“That would have been the gunshot. Like I said, straight to the heart. But the stabbing must have been almost immediately thereafter.” He shook his head. “I pride myself on being meticulous, being up on all the latest forensic techniques. I believe she was technically dead when she was stabbed. Judging by the amount of blood she lost, her heart was still pumping for a time after she was shot.”

He stared at the table for a moment, then said, “I do believe it was the gunshot that killed her.”

“Why stab her if you’ve already shot her?” Dorsey thought aloud.

“Why, indeed?” Fuller asked. “My first thought was the killer was trying to cover up the fact that she’d been shot, three of the stab wounds being precisely over the entry point.”

“She was stabbed over the gunshot wound?” Andrew asked.

“Repeatedly.”

“Was the gun used to kill her something out of the ordinary, something that could be easily traced?” Andrew suggested.

“Looked like your basic.38 caliber to me,” Fuller told them. “Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“Anything else you can tell us about the stab wounds?” Andrew asked.

“Made with a really sharp knife. Kitchen knife most likely. The kind my wife uses to cut up chickens, goes through bone?” Fuller told them. “Blade was an inch and a quarter wide, non-serrated, pushed in pretty far in most places. Two, almost three inches, in some spots.” Fuller let that sink in, then added, “But here’s the funny thing about that. Usually you see someone with that many stab wounds, they’re jagged in places because the killer’s been in a sort of frenzy, but not here. It was all very deliberate. Edges of each cut nice and clean. Took his time, whoever did this. Sliced her up nice and neat, emphasis on the neat.”