Maggie kicked off her leather pumps and put plastic shoe covers over her stockinged feet. She’d chosen the pumps for breakfast with her mother at the Crystal City Hyatt, not ones she would have picked had she known she would be working. Stan watched but said nothing. Perhaps he didn’t want to push his luck. After all, she was wearing her goggles without being told. Usually they stayed on top of her head. But there was something different about Stan’s behavior toward her; he seemed quieter. He hadn’t yet muttered a single “humph” or heavy sigh. Not yet, anyway. Was he worried she’d freak out on him again?

She had to admit, she wasn’t exactly comfortable being back here this soon. With little effort she could still conjure up the image of Delaney’s gray death mask. But lately, she was able to do that anytime, anyplace—being back at the morgue probably wouldn’t make it any worse. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. She needed to stop thinking about Delaney. It wasn’t just Delaney, though. It was all the memories his death had unleashed. Memories of her father that, after all these years, still left her feeling empty and hollow and, worst of all, alone.

It made her realize that with her impending divorce from Greg, she was on the verge of losing any sense of family that she had tried to construct. Or had she honestly ever tried? Gwen was constantly telling her that she kept too many people who cared about her at arm’s length. Is that what happened with her and Greg? Had she kept her own husband at arm’s length, not allowing him access to the vulnerable places inside her? Maybe her mother was right. Maybe the demise of her marriage had been all her fault. She felt a shiver. What a thought! That her mother could actually be right about something.

She joined Stan. He had already begun his external examination of the girl’s body and was taking measurements. She helped him with the menial tasks of placing the body block and removing fluid samples. It felt good to concentrate on something concrete, something familiar and constructive. She had worked with Stan enough times to know which tasks he’d allowed her to do, and which she needed to stand back and simply watch.

Maggie carefully slipped the paper bags off each of the girl’s hands and began scraping under the fingernails. There was plenty of material to scrape, which, ordinarily, would mean the girl might be able to tell them through DNA who her attacker had been. But from a preliminary look at the girl’s neck, Maggie could see at least a dozen horizontal crescentic abrasions among the various raw and deep ligature tracks and massive bruising. Horizontal marks meant it was a safe guess that much of the skin behind the girl’s fingernails was her own, caused by her clawing at the ligature.

Stan snapped enough Polaroids to fill the corkboard over the main sink. Then he removed his gloves, and for the third time since they had started, he scrubbed his hands, applying lotion and massaging it into his skin before putting on a fresh pair of gloves. Maggie was used to his strange ritual, but once in a while it made her acutely aware of the blood on her own gloves. Today would be one of those times.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Agent Tully said from the doorway where he stood, hesitating. He was dripping wet—even the brim of his baseball cap was soaked. He took off the cap and raked the wetness from his close-cropped hair. At first, Maggie thought his hesitancy was because he didn’t want to get the floor wet, which was crazy because it was cement with drains strategically positioned for nastier run-off than rainwater. But then, she saw he was waiting for someone. Detective Racine appeared behind Tully, looking too dry and refreshed to have come from the same place as him.

“Are we all here now?” Stan asked with the grumble he had suppressed until now.

“Yep. We’re all here and ready,” Racine sang out, rubbing her hands together as if they were gathering for a game of dodge ball.

Maggie had forgotten that Racine would be at the autopsy. It was her case—of course she’d want to be here. The last time Maggie worked with Racine the detective had been assigned to the sex crimes unit. Now she couldn’t help wondering if Racine had ever watched an autopsy before. Suddenly, Maggie was anxious to get to work.

“Shoe covers, masks, everything’s in the linen closet,” Stan said, pointing. “No one watches without being properly gowned up. Got it?”

“No problem.” Racine whipped off her leather bomber jacket and headed for the closet.

Tully lagged behind, taking more time than necessary to wring out his windbreaker and cap over one of the drains. He glanced several times at the girl’s body, splayed out on the aluminum table. Maggie realized suddenly she may have been mistaken. Was it possible Tully was the one who had never witnessed an autopsy?

Before he transferred to Quantico, Tully had been doing criminal analysis at the Cleveland field office for five or six years. But she also knew much of that time was spent viewing crime scenes via photos, digital scans and video. He had admitted once that he hadn’t physically attended many murder scenes until the Albert Stucky case. It was altogether possible he had never attended an autopsy until now. Damn it! And she had been so hoping it would be Racine who would upchuck her breakfast.

“Agent Tully.” Maggie needed to get his mind off the dead body and onto the case. “Are we sure there was no ID found anywhere at the scene?”

She saw him glance at Racine, but the detective was busy, taking too much time finding a gown her size, like they came in anything other than large, too large and extra too large. At this rate, Maggie knew it would take the woman another ten minutes to accessorize. When Tully realized Racine wasn’t paying enough attention to answer, he left his wet gear at the door and came over, grabbing a clean gown off a laundry rack and slipping it on.

“They found her handbag, but no ID. Her clothes were folded and stacked with the purse about ten yards away.”

The absence of ID didn’t surprise Maggie. Killers often disposed of any tangible identification in the hopes that if the victim couldn’t be identified, perhaps neither could the killer. Then, there were always the freaks who took the IDs as trophies.

“Her clothes were folded? What a neat and tidy rapist,” Maggie said for Racine’s benefit. Now the woman glanced over and frowned at her. So she was listening, after all.

“The girl’s underpants were ripped in the crotch area,” Racine couldn’t resist adding. She padded over to the table, tucking the goggles up onto her spiky blond hair.

Maggie waited for Stan to notice and reprimand Racine, but he was occupied with getting the nests of maggots out of the girl’s pubic hair. Then she reminded herself that she needed to concentrate and not let Racine get under her skin. She continued scraping evidence from beneath each fingernail, bagging the findings and labeling each as to which finger it had been taken from.

Besides, why should she care if Racine insisted on sticking with her theory of this being a rape that got carried away? That the District PD hadn’t noticed yet that their detective was incompetent shouldn’t be Maggie’s problem. Yet, it did matter if Maggie was going to be on this case, even as a consultant. The last case she’d worked with Racine had left Maggie with a bad taste in her mouth—Racine’s mistakes had almost cost them an indictment.

Maggie swatted a strand of hair off her perspiring forehead with the back of her wrist, so as not to contaminate her latexed hands. She caught Racine watching her. Maggie looked away.

Quite honestly, other than the one botched case, Maggie knew little about Julia Racine except what she had heard through rumors. She probably had no right to judge the woman, but if there was any truth to the rumors, Detective Racine represented a breed of woman that Maggie despised, especially in law enforcement, where playing games could get someone hurt, or even killed.

Since day one of her forensics fellowship, Maggie had worked hard to be just one of the guys and to be treated as such. But women like Racine used their sex as some sort of entitlement or bribe, a means to an end. Now, as she felt Racine’s eyes watching her, Maggie hated that Racine still thought she could use that tactic, especially with her. After the last time they had worked together, Maggie thought Racine would know better—pouring on the charm or flirting wouldn’t get her any favors from her. But when Maggie glanced up and caught the woman watching her, Racine didn’t look away. Instead, she met Maggie’s eyes, held her glance and smiled.