Seconds to Live(58)

“Yes.” Frank propped one hand on his hip and the other on the back of his head as he glared at the body. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Stella stepped up to stand next to him. “This is exactly like Missy Green’s death.”

“Don’t say it.” Frank looked over his shoulder.

Stella followed his gaze to a news crew climbing out of their van. She signaled a uniform to keep them far away from the scene. He nodded and moved in, hands spread and palms out. A lollypop-thin brunette newswoman cocked a hip in irritation.

“Do not imply these two cases are related,” Frank warned. “The media will broadcast that Scarlet Falls has a you-know-what.”

Stella nodded, but anger surged in her veins. The news media shouldn’t dictate her discussion with the medical examiner. But Frank was absolutely right. If the press got any wind of any possible similarities between the deaths, the words serial killer would be scrolling across the next special bulletin. The chief would have a coronary, the mayor would implode, and Stella would be writing parking tickets for the rest of her career.

“The deaths have commonalities.” Frank prodded her with an elbow. “But let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Stella tilted her head and raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

Frank raised a palm. “I know. We know the truth, but we can’t tell everybody. Not yet.”

She stared at Dena. “The way he left her . . .” The careful planning, the positioning, the scarf. This hadn’t been a dump and run. “It took some time.”

Just like Missy’s body had originally been staged.

“More than the first, as if he didn’t get enough attention with the other.” Frank rubbed a hand across his head. “Christ, now you have me jumping to conclusions.” He frowned. “Let’s get her bagged and out of sight before the press gets a look at her fingers or that scarf. We don’t need any public speculation. I’ll move her autopsy to the top of my list. I’ll call you as soon as it’s done.”

“Can you give me any idea how long she’s been dead?” Stella asked.

Frank moved Dena’s arm, testing for the telltale stiffness that would indicate rigor mortis had set in. “Six to eighteen hours. I’ll be able to give you a tighter window when I get her on the table.”

Stella glanced at her watch. It was just past noon. If Frank was right about the time since death, then she’d died in the twelve hours between six p.m. Thursday night and six o’clock this morning. They’d picked up Spivak around nine o’clock the previous night. The window of opportunity for him to have killed her had just narrowed to the unlikely three-hour slice of daylight between six and nine p.m. Thursday night.

A brown mark on the inside of Dena’s forearm caught Stella’s attention. “What’s that?”

Frank rotated the arm, revealing more faint marks. “I’d say they’re track marks.”

“Like Missy’s.” Stella rocked back on her heels. Adam hadn’t mentioned that his wife had a drug habit. But if Dena had injected drugs, that gave her and Missy a real connection before they died. Was this the work of a serial killer or were the women murdered for personal reasons?

A door slammed. Carrying cameras and plastic field kits, three coverall-clad forensics techs followed the same path toward the pond.

Stella used a gloved finger to open the clasp on the purse. Inside, on top of Dena’s wallet and assorted female paraphernalia, a syringe rested on a bed of cotton batting. A pale blue ribbon was tied around the needle.

The same person had killed Dena Miller and Missy Green. His ritual was getting more complex, his staging more elaborate. Thoughts whirled in Stella’s head. She needed to talk to the chief and Brody, and she needed to question Adam Miller again.

Stella straightened, moving out of the way to give the forensic team room to work. Side by side, she and Frank watched the photographer capture the body from all angles and distances. When he’d finished, he stepped back and let the morgue attendants bring the gurney in.

Brody arrived. He was quiet as he surveyed the scene, but his grim expression agreed with Stella. “Mac wants to talk to you.”

He was still waiting by the car, leaning on the front fender, arms crossed over his chest.

She walked over. “I’m sorry. I’m going to be tied up, probably for a while.”

His gaze drifted over her shoulder to where the black-bagged body was being loaded into the medical examiner’s van. “It’s Dena?”

She nodded.

“Can you tell me anything?”

She glanced toward the news van. “Not here. Later.”