Tully sipped his Coke, grateful for the break. Wenhoff had taken the seventeen-year-old’s driver’s license and fingerprints upstairs to the lab. But Tully knew they wouldn’t find any priors or runaway reports on Virginia Brier. From the bikini wax and the girl’s mid-November tan lines, Tully knew Virginia was not the typical high-risk victim. She wasn’t a prostitute or some throwaway or a homeless street kid. He guessed she came from a good home, a middle-to upper-class family. Somewhere a father and mother were still waiting for her to come home from last night or going crazy because it was too early to file a missing person’s report. It reminded him of waiting up for Emma last night. She had been only twenty minutes late, but what if…

“Hey, Tully?”

He realized O’Dell was staring at him again with a look of concern.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. Stayed up too late last night.”

“Oh, really? Hot date?” Racine hoisted herself up onto an empty countertop, her long legs allowing her to do it in one smooth motion.

“My daughter and I stayed up watching Rear Window.”

“Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly? I love that movie. I guess I didn’t realize you were married, Tully.”

“Divorced.”

“Oh, okay.” The detective smiled at him as if she was glad. Most people automatically mumbled some sort of apology, which he didn’t really understand, either.

He glanced over at O’Dell, who was pretending to be occupied with some evidence bags instead of paying attention to Racine’s flirting. Or at least, he thought Racine was flirting with him. He’d never been good at it himself or even good at detecting it, for that matter. At least O’Dell was trying to behave herself with Racine, as if being nice to the detective would make up for them keeping her in the dark about the cyanide capsule. He wasn’t sure he agreed that they should be withholding information. This was Racine’s case, after all. Not theirs. They were here only to assist and offer consultation.

Tully still wondered why Cunningham and BSU had even been called in on this case. Who had made that call and what did they know? Had someone already suggested a connection between this girl and the five young men from the cabin raid? And if so, who was it and how did they know? Evidently, it wasn’t anyone at the District PD, because Racine seemed clueless.

His stomach still felt queasy, though the Coke was helping. He was fine as long as he concentrated on the case and not the fact that the dead girl could just as easily have been Emma. He found himself wondering what had made this girl different. Why had the killer chosen her?

“Okay, you two,” Racine said. “Tell me what you know.”

Tully shot a look at O’Dell. Had Racine finally figured out they hadn’t told her something? Before either of them could answer, Racine continued, “Since we have some time, tell me about this guy from what we’ve learned so far. I have to get out there and start looking for this fucking psycho. You guys are the profilers. Tell me what I’m supposed to look for.”

Tully relaxed, almost sighing. O’Dell hadn’t flinched. She was good, impressive. They hadn’t known each other for very long, but he did know that O’Dell was a better liar than he was. He’d let her have the first shot at Racine’s question.

“Everything so far points to him as being organized.”

Racine nodded. “Okay, I know about organized versus disorganized. You can save me the textbook stuff. I’m after specifics.”

“It’s awfully early for specifics,” O’Dell told her.

This time Tully could tell O’Dell was not just being difficult with the detective; she was being careful. Maybe too careful. They owed Racine something.

“I’d say he’s between twenty-five to thirty years old,” Tully said. “Above-average intelligence. He probably holds a regular job and appears to be socially competent to those who know him. Not necessarily a loner. Maybe even a bit arrogant, a braggart.”

Racine flipped open a small notebook and was jotting the information down, though what he was giving her could be considered classic textbook generalities, exactly what she had said she didn’t want.

“He knows a thing or two about police procedure,” O’Dell added, obviously deciding it safe to divulge some of what they knew. “Probably why he likes to use handcuffs. Also, he knew how to ID-proof a body and that delaying her identity might delay us in identifying him, too.”

Racine looked up. “Wait a minute. What are you saying? That he could be an ex-cop or something?”

“Not necessarily, but he could be someone who knows a thing or two about crime scenes,” O’Dell said. “With some of these guys, it’s a fascination. It’s part of the cat-and-mouse chase. What they know about police procedure could be from cop shows or even suspense novels.”

Tully watched. Racine seemed satisfied and continued writing. At least the two women weren’t trying to contradict or outdo each other. For the moment, anyway.

“His posing the body is significant, too. I think it’s something more than just gaining control or some sense of empowerment.” O’Dell looked at Tully to see if he wanted to venture a guess. He motioned for her to go ahead. “It’s possible,” she continued, “that he wanted only for us to admire his handiwork, but I think there’s something more to it. It may be symbolic.”

“You said at the crime scene that it may have been to alter the scene, to throw us off.”

“Oh my God, Racine! You mean you were actually listening to me?” This time the women smiled at each other, much to Tully’s relief.

“Those circular indentations in the ground mean something, too,” Tully reminded them, “but I have no idea what. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh, and he’s left-handed,” O’Dell added as an afterthought.

Both Tully and Racine stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

O’Dell walked back to the body and pointed to the right side of the girl’s face.

“There’s a bruise here along her jawline. Her lip is split in this corner. Even bled for a short time. It’s her right side, which means, if he was facing her, he hit her from left to right, probably with his left fist.”

“Couldn’t he have used the back of his right hand?” Tully asked, trying to play out the possible scenarios.

“Maybe, but that would be more of an upward motion.” She demonstrated, swiping a backhanded motion toward him. He could see what she meant. A person’s natural tendency would be to start with the hand down and to bring it up and across. “This injury,” O’Dell continued, “looks like a direct hit. I’d say a fist.” She balled up her left hand and swiped again, this time straight in front. “Definitely, a left fist to the right jaw.”

Throughout this demonstration Tully noticed Racine watching quietly, almost with awe or perhaps admiration. Then she went back to her notes. Whatever it was Tully had noticed in Racine’s expression, it had been lost on O’Dell. She hadn’t been paying any attention. But then she was like that when anyone seemed to be amazed by her. Most of the time, she drove him a little nuts with her anal-retentive habits, her hotshot tactics or her tendency to overlook procedure whenever it was convenient to do so. However, this—her ability to be impressive and not take note or make a big deal of it—this was one of the things he really liked about her.

“One thing,” O’Dell said, addressing Racine, “and I really am not just saying this to bug the hell out of you. This is not a one-time thing. This guy’s going to do it again. And I wouldn’t be surprised to find that he may have already killed before this. We really should check VICAP.”

The morgue door swung open behind them. All three of them jumped, spinning around to find Stan Wenhoff, his ruddy complexion pale. He held up what looked like a computer printout.

“We’re in for a hell of a mess, kids.” Stan wiped at the sweat on his forehead. “She’s the daughter of Henry Franklin Brier…a goddamn U.S. senator.”