Dakota gave no hint of what he was thinking as he watched the doctor catalogue the victim’s exterior physical landmarks. She had a scar on her forehead, two moles on her right breast, and two older tattoos, a filigree at the base of her spine and a heart on the inside of her right ankle. There was also an appendectomy scar. All these markings offered glimpses into a woman who cared about her appearance.
The doctor leaned toward the victim’s face, pulling a magnifying glass closer to study the tattoo work as she continued to give her report. “We did a full X-ray work-up on her this morning, and there were no broken bones. She does appear to have suffered a fracture in her right wrist, but that would have been at least a decade ago. I checked her eyes and nasal passages for signs of asphyxiation, but found none. I also ran a full tox screen. I put a rush on the test results, so we should have some details back in the next forty-eight hours.”
“How old is she?” Dakota asked.
“I’d say between twenty-five and thirty. Her skin is in great shape, though it’s clear she liked tanning, as evidenced by the faded lines around her breasts and groin.”
“Tan lines take a couple of weeks to fade,” Vargas said. “That might help with fixing a timeline.”
“They fade anywhere between a week to six weeks,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“She’s thin,” Dakota said.
“She’s underweight by about ten pounds,” Dr. Kincaid said. “But if you look at her biceps and quads, you’ll see some muscle definition. At one point she worked out regularly.”
“A woman who cares this much about her looks suddenly decides to disfigure her face? Makes no sense,” Vargas said, more to herself than anyone else in the room.
“I can tell you she had intercourse right about the time of her death,” Dr. Kincaid said. “No signs of vaginal tearing, and I was able to swab a satisfactory DNA sample from the semen that her partner left behind. If this guy is in any kind of DNA database, you’ll find him.”
“Let’s hope only one DNA signature is present. Narrows the field,” Vargas said.
“Agreed,” Dr. Kincaid said.
“This kind of detailed tattoo work, if done against her will, takes planning,” Vargas said. “Why plan so carefully and then leave a DNA sample behind?”
“He might not be that smart, but I doubt it. He could have gotten sloppy, but after all the time and effort he took to change her and pose her, that makes no sense either,” Dakota said. “If I had to guess, I’d say he is simply arrogant and knows he isn’t in a database.”
“This doesn’t look like the work of a first-time offender,” Vargas said.
“No,” Dakota said. “He’s never been caught before.”
The internal exam lasted an hour and proved that the victim had been healthy. Her lungs were clear and her other internal organs in top shape. Her heart was a normal weight and size. Stomach contents revealed what appeared to be oatmeal. There were no signs of a pregnancy in the uterus.
When the entire exam was complete, Tessa began to suture the victim’s chest. Dakota backed away from the table and tugged off his gown, clearly anxious to be away from the room, and most especially, her. The body had been a barrier between them and had been a neutral subject to discuss.
“Vargas, let me know if anyone shows on the surveillance tapes or there are hits with DNA,” Dakota said, depositing his gown in the trash.
The agent joined him and tossed her wadded-up gown in the disposal bin. “You’ll be the first to know if we spot anyone.”
“Good.”
Vargas reached for her jacket and pulled it on. “Keep those lines of communication open on your end, Agent Sharp. I want to know what you know.”
“Right.”
Vargas turned toward Tessa, who was using the classic baseball stitch to close. “As soon as the tox screens arrive, Doc, you’ll call me?”
“You two will be the first to know,” Tessa said.
Dakota tossed a look toward Tessa and held her gaze for a beat. Heat rose up inside, making her cheeks burn.
“Thank you, Dr. McGowan,” Sharp said.
He’d never called her Dr. McGowan when they’d been together. Until their relationship was settled, working with him was going to be maddening.
“Right, thanks, Dr. McGowan,” Vargas said.
“Certainly, Agents. Call me with any questions.”
Sharp had too much work on his plate to be sidetracked by Tessa. The sooner one of them filed papers, the better for both of them.
As he slid into the car, he checked his voice-mail messages. An officer in the city of Richmond had an eyewitness who’d seen Terrance Dillon about 11:00 p.m. on Sunday. He redialed the officer’s number. “This is Sharp. Got your call regarding Terrance Dillon.”
“Yes, sir. We have a bartender who thinks he saw your murder victim with an older guy on Sunday night.”
Sharp cradled the phone under his chin as he pulled a notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. “Do you have a number of the bar?”
“Sure do.”
Sharp scribbled the name and number, thanked the officer, and dialed. The bar manager answered and told Sharp to come in about four when the Sunday-night bartender arrived for his shift.
He drove the twenty miles north toward Terrance Dillon’s town, parked, and walked down the street toward the diner called Bessie’s. He remembered as a teenager how he’d hated hanging around town. It had felt so small and confining, and he was always angling for any reason to leave. He’d left, anxious to chase the thrill of battle and conflict. Finding both had given him a new appreciation for large lawns with old oaks; historic, slow-paced charm; and the tedium of everyday life.
He pushed through the front door of the diner he’d eaten at dozens of times as a teenager. The 1950s decor and the smell of coffee and burgers brought back memories as he sat at the counter. Back in the day, he sat here dreaming of better places. Excitement. Now he wondered why he’d hated the place so much.
The waitress, a redhead in her late thirties, set a menu in front of him. Sharp ordered coffee and the number six without looking at the menu.
“You know what the number six is?” she asked as she set a coffee mug in front of him.
“I’ve eaten here before.”
She filled his cup and studied his face. “You’re the Benson boy.”
“Roger Benson was my stepfather. I’m Dakota Sharp.”
She set a creamer pitcher within reach. “You were a couple of years ahead of me in school. Weren’t you the one who set off those fireworks in the center of town when we were in high school?”
A smile edged up the corner of his lips. He and Jacob McLean had gotten ahold of extra fireworks left over from the Fourth of July celebration and decided to re-create the show with what they had left. It did not go over well that it was the middle of August and two in the morning.
“That would be me.”
“I’m Ellie Duncan. You’re a cop now, right?”
He nodded. “Karma’s a bitch.”
“I heard folks talking at breakfast this morning. You’re here to ask about the Dillon kid, aren’t you?”
He sipped his coffee as the flicker of nostalgia vanished. “That’s right.”
“Damn shame about him. Terrance was a good boy. Always looking for odd jobs and ways to make extra money. He wanted to go to college.”