“If you ask me, it looks like a rape that got carried away.”

Tully winced at Detective Racine’s assessment, but he didn’t need to argue with her. All he had to do was wait for O’Dell to do it.

“If that’s what you think, then why did Agent Tully and I get called in to check it out?”

“Beats me.” Racine shrugged, lifting the collar of her jacket as another rumble of thunder echoed through the air. “It’s federal property.”

“Then someone at the field office would have been called. Still doesn’t explain why BSU would be consulted.”

Tully stared up at the rolling gray thunderheads. O’Dell was right. The two of them specialized in criminal analysis, coming up with profiles, especially of repeat offenders or serial killers. Someone other than Detective Racine must have thought it important to call Cunningham. Whoever it was hadn’t bothered to let Racine in on it. Didn’t make much sense.

“The scuffle happened over here.” Racine, anxious to prove her theory, pointed to a spot where leaves were smashed and crumbled. The mobile crime lab people had spent a good deal of time sifting and collecting from that area.

“Doesn’t look like much of a scuffle.” O’Dell squatted at the edge of the perimeter and examined the area without touching anything. “Someone definitely lay down here. Maybe even rolled around. The leaves and grass are packed down. But I don’t see any torn grass, any scuffs in the dirt or heel marks for the type of violent scuffle you’re talking about.”

Detective Racine snorted under her breath, and Tully couldn’t help thinking how unladylike it sounded. These two were strutting around each other like a couple of cockfighters. Sort of the equivalent of two men having a pissing contest.

“Look, O’Dell, I know a thing or two about rape scenes.” Racine sounded as though her patience was wearing thin. “Posing the body like that is just one more way for him to degrade his victim.”

“Oh, really?”

Tully turned away. Oh, Jesus! Here it comes. He recognized that tone of sarcasm. Had even had it launched at him a time or two.

“Did you ever think the unsub may have posed the body to alter the crime scene?” O’Dell asked the detective.

“Alter? You mean like on purpose, to throw us off?”

With his back to the two women, Tully rolled his eyes and hoped that O’Dell didn’t say “Oh, duh.” Detective Racine was in charge. Just once, couldn’t O’Dell remember that?

“Maybe he posed the body,” O’Dell was saying slowly as if speaking to a small child, “to redirect the investigation away from himself.”

Another snort from Racine. “You know what your problem is, O’Dell? You give criminals too much credit. Most of them are stupid bastards. That’s the premise I work from.”

Tully walked away. He couldn’t take any more. It had been entertaining at first. Now he no longer cared who won the pissing contest, although he’d place his money on O’Dell. He wandered over to Wenhoff, who was finishing his examination of the young woman’s body.

“Any guess on time of death?”

“My best guesstimate right now judging from the stage of rigor, the rectal temp and the invasion of only the early feeders—” he batted away a few of the persistent blowflies “—is less than twenty-four hours. Maybe about twelve hours. I’ll need to do some other tests. I also want to check with the weather service and see how cold it got last night.”

“Twelve hours?” Tully knew enough about dead bodies to have estimated on his own that the murder had been recent; however, he hadn’t expected it to have been that recent. Suddenly, he felt a knot twist in his stomach. “That would make it last night, maybe somewhere between what—eight and midnight?”

“That’s a good guess.” Wenhoff pushed himself up with great effort and waved over a couple of uniformed officers. “She’s ready to bag, boys, but she’s stiff as a board. Be careful you don’t break something.”

Tully moved out of the way, not wanting to watch how they’d get her from a sitting position into the black nylon bag. He looked out over a clearing in the woods. In the distance he could see tourists wandering along the Vietnam Wall. Buses were winding around the police blockade to bypass the FDR Memorial and snake around to the Lincoln Memorial. Last night Emma and her friends had been here, walking those same sidewalks. Had the killer watched them while choosing his target? Hell, this girl didn’t look much older than Emma.

“Tully.” O’Dell came up beside him, startling him. “I’m heading over to the morgue. Stan’s going to do the autopsy today. You want to meet me there, or should I just fill you in tomorrow?”

He only heard about half of what she had said.

“Tully? Are you okay?”

“Sure. I’m fine.” He rubbed his hand over his face to cover up the sense of panic he was feeling. “I’ll meet you over there.” When she didn’t move and continued to stare at him, he decided he needed to convince her. No better way to do that than to change the subject. “What’s with you and Racine? I get the feeling there’s some history there?”

She looked away, and immediately Tully knew he was right. But instead she said, “I just don’t like her.”

“How come?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I know I probably don’t know you very well, but yeah, I’d say you’re the type of person who needs a reason to not like someone.”

“You’re right,” she said, then added, “You don’t know me very well.” She started to leave but said over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at the morgue, okay?” She didn’t look back, only waved a hand at him, a gesture that said it was a done deal and that any conversation about her and Racine was over. Yes, there was definitely something there.

Now, as he watched everyone pack up, including the officers with the body bag, he could allow the nausea to take over his stomach. He walked to the ledge and looked out over Potomac Park. This time a rumble of thunder cracked open the sky—as if it had been waiting out of respect—and the rain came pouring down.

Tully stood still, watching the tourists below, scattering for shelter or popping open umbrellas. The rain felt good, and he lifted his face to it, letting it cool the sweaty, clammy feeling that had taken over his body. Yet, all he could think about was—Jesus—how close had his daughter come to being this guy’s victim?