The moon peeked over the District skyline just as Maggie pulled her Toyota into the empty parking lot. She could see the yellow crime scene tape, flapping in the wind, blocking off the entrance to the viaduct. Several officers paced and waited, but she couldn’t see Racine. A mobile crime scene lab passed by as Maggie finished the last bite of her drive-thru dinner, a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder and fries. She got out of the car and brushed the excess salt from her knit shirt, then exchanged her suit jacket for her navy FBI windbreaker.

She dug under the front seat and pulled out a pair of rubber boots, low-tops that she slipped over her leather shoes. Out of habit, she started to reach for her forensic kit, too, then stopped. The medical examiner’s station wagon was already parked alongside the concrete wall, next to the opening of the viaduct. No sense in ticking off Stan any more than she already had.

However, as Maggie walked toward the scene, she wasn’t surprised to see Wayne Prashard emerging from the viaduct entrance instead of Stan. Not only had Stan probably had his share of after-hours call-ins for one week, but he certainly wouldn’t make the trip himself for some homeless woman. Maggie wasn’t quite sure why Racine was so certain she should be here, either. She hoped it wasn’t some ploy. Who knew what Racine could be up to.

Prashard nodded at Maggie as he opened the back of the wagon. “She won’t let me touch a goddamn thing until you take a look.”

“Good to see you, too, Wayne.”

“Sorry.” He surrendered a smile and his normal bulldog face creased into friendly lines. “It’s just that sometimes she can be such a pain in the ass, you know what I mean?”

Yes, she knew exactly what he meant, but she only smiled. Prashard wasn’t finished, though. “She never used to be that way.”

“Really?” Maggie couldn’t imagine Racine any other way.

“All she cares about now is making sure everyone knows she’s in charge. But before she made detective she was actually nice,” he said while he brought out a body bag from the back of the wagon. “Maybe a little too nice, if you know what I mean.” He glanced at Maggie and winked.

She ignored his invitation to join in trashing the detective. She might not like Racine, but she had never resorted to idle gossip about other law enforcement officers. She wasn’t about to start now. And it did look as if Prashard had a story or two he wanted to share. Instead, she turned to leave. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know Racine before she made detective.” And she left it at that.

As she continued toward the entrance, she checked the area, aware of the noisy traffic overhead, flashes of headlights between six-foot guardrails. The smell of diesel emanated from the bus terminal on the other side of the small empty parking lot where engines were left running and several mechanics climbed in and around the Greyhound buses. About a half-dozen broken-down buses lined the chain-link fence, blocking a direct view of the viaduct’s entrance.

Except for where the mechanics worked, the place was badly lit. It was dark and noisy, but deserted, and Maggie wondered why anyone would come here voluntarily. Except that the arch of concrete—more a tunnel than an arch—would provide shelter from the wind, if not some warmth. She could understand why it might be an enticing spot for someone looking to set up her cardboard home. Also an enticing spot for someone looking for a victim.

“Oh, good! You’re here.” Racine appeared and held up a section of crime scene tape for Maggie to crawl under.

Maggie could smell the body as soon as she walked into the tunnel. Racine led the way, carefully stepping around two crime lab technicians, one crawling the grid pattern with a flashlight, brush and plastic bags while the other set up several spotlights.

At the other opening, leaning against the cold concrete wall, sat a naked woman, stark and gray in the sharp glare of a spotlight. Her eyes were wide open, the corners already filled with white clusters of maggot larvae. Her head lolled to one side, revealing several ligature marks across her neck. Her dirty-and-smudged face was bloated, her mouth duct-taped shut. Her hands were folded into her lap, the wrists facing forward as if to show off the welts from where handcuffs had restrained her. Maggie noticed the insides of her elbows were clean, no track marks from needles. She hadn’t been lured here by the promise of drugs. There was no cardboard box, no shopping cart, no other personal belongings, other than the carefully folded rags stacked about a yard away.

“What do you think?”

She realized Racine was watching her and waiting while Maggie examined the scene, careful where she stepped and letting her eyes collect the evidence.

“The posing of the body looks very similar.”

“Looks fucking identical,” Racine said. “Although I get the idea we won’t find any ID stuffed down her throat.”

“She certainly doesn’t fit the victimology of our guy,” Maggie said, squatting in front of the body to get a better look. She was staring directly into the corpse’s empty eyes. The woman had been dead for more than thirty-six hours, the rigor mortis already leaving the body pliable again. Maggie could tell this by gently lifting one hand and carefully letting it fall back into place.

“I wish the hell you wouldn’t touch the stiff,” Prashard said from the entrance, making his way inside, staying close to the concrete wall.

“But she’s not stiff anymore. She’s been dead for a while. You have any estimates?” Maggie asked without getting up.

“I’m guessing forty-eight hours, but it’s a major guess since I haven’t been able to touch a fucking thing yet.” He shot a look at Racine, but she wasn’t paying attention. Instead, she was still watching Maggie.

“Check this out,” Racine said, bringing out a penlight and shining it at the dirt floor of the tunnel.

Maggie got up and went to Racine’s side. About five feet in front of the body was what looked like a circular indent in the dirt, although it and the area around it looked scuffed on purpose as if in an attempt to erase it and possibly other marks like it.

“Tully’s signature,” Racine said. “I don’t know what the hell it is, but tell me that’s not the exact weird imprint we found at the monument yesterday morning.”

Maggie looked around the tunnel again. The scene looked too similar to be a coincidence. “Forty-eight hours ago would put time of death at Saturday night. Why in the world would he target and kill a senator’s daughter and then some random homeless woman?”

“Maybe the guy’s just really fucked up?” Racine suggested.

“No. Both scenes are much too organized.” Maggie looked to Prashard. “Wayne, would you mind checking the victim’s mouth?”

“Out here?”

“Yes. It would be helpful and speed things up if we can check to see if anything is left inside her mouth.”

“I don’t know.” Prashard shrugged and scratched his head as though Maggie was asking him to do the autopsy out in the field. “It’s highly unusual.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Prashard,” Racine yelled at him. “Just do it.”

To Maggie’s stunned surprise, Prashard started getting out latex gloves and a pair of forceps from his bag. Then he took position over the body, bending stiffly at the waist instead of getting down on his knees.

Maggie glanced at Racine, who seemed neither pleased nor angry with the assistant medical examiner. Instead, the detective came in closer, crossed her arms over her chest and waited, pointing the penlight, ready to peek inside. Suddenly moonlight streamed into the exit, just above the arch, and illuminating the woman’s whole face, making her eyes glitter.

“Jesus!” Racine said. “That’s pretty freaky.” She glanced back at Maggie, and Maggie tried to remember when there had been a full moon, or if it was still to come. And did it mean anything?

“What exactly are we looking for?” Prashard asked, ignoring Racine and the sudden moonlight as he continued to peel back the gray duct tape, inch by inch, taking care to not lift away any skin. Maggie grabbed a plastic evidence bag from Prashard’s case and held it open for him to put the tape in.

“Should be a capsule,” Racine answered. “Check the inside of her cheeks.”

“You mean like poison?”

“Just check, Prashard. Jesus!” The detective seemed a bit unnerved and impatient.

Prashard finally opened the woman’s mouth, but before he could insert a gloved finger, quarters came spilling out.

“What the hell?” Racine shone the penlight, so that even standing over Racine’s shoulder, Maggie could see quite clearly. The woman’s mouth looked like a black, decaying slot machine filled with shiny coins, spilling out like she’d just hit the jackpot.