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  “Where are you?” Kendra demanded.

  “About to sign in. Why?”

  “The post is wrapping up.”

  “Our post?”

  “Yeah, Jane Doe. Postmortem’s over, and his assistant is in there sewing her up.”

  “Where’s Nielsen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out.”

  Jacob entered the building and was met by a wall of cold air. They always kept this place freezing, even in the winter. Jacob peeled off his sunglasses and quickly signed in at the security desk, then grabbed his visitor’s badge and went straight to the wing that housed the medical examiner’s suite of offices. This wing was even colder and smelled of bleach and formaldehyde, a combination that always made him think of dissected bodies.

  Jacob took a long swig of coffee and pitched the rest in a trash can as he made his way down the sterile white hallway. He passed a sheriff’s deputy, then turned a corner and spotted Kendra. Even though it was Sunday, she wore her typical dark pantsuit, with her Glock 23 holstered at her hip under the jacket. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “What the hell?” he asked.

  “He decided to start early.” She rolled her eyes. “His assistant told me they got two traffic fatalities and a drug overdose in last night.”

  “So, he’s done with her?”

  “Yeah. Started at six.”

  A man in blue scrubs stepped into the hallway, and Jacob recognized Nielsen’s wiry build.

  “Doc, wait.”

  The man turned around. The pathologist had a buzz haircut and rimless glasses. A file folder was tucked under his arm and in his hand was an unopened can of Red Bull.

  Jacob approached him. “You got a minute?”

  He checked his watch. “I’ve got four.”

  “We’re working the Jane Doe from the lake,” Kendra said.

  Nielsen nodded. “The water recovery. My preliminary report will be ready Tuesday morning.”

  “What can you tell us now?” Jacob asked.

  The doctor gave him a long look. Nielsen was short and lean, and probably in his late thirties, but the somber look in his blue eyes tacked on some years.

  A young woman in green scrubs stepped from another doorway.

  “A detective just called from Hays County,” she told Nielsen. “He’s asking about the tox screen from that boating accident.”

  “It should be in by tomorrow. Hey, send me those files from the Jane Doe autopsy, would you?” He turned and gave Jacob and Kendra a brisk nod. “This way.”

  He led them down another white hallway to a closed door. He opened it with a key code and ushered them into a small office with a wall of gray file cabinets and a black metal desk. No picture frames or clutter of any kind. The desk was bare except for a laptop computer and a mechanical pencil, and Jacob figured this guy was either type A or ex-military or both.

  “Have a seat,” Nielsen said, gesturing to a pair of gray plastic chairs identical to the ones sprinkled throughout police headquarters.

  Nielsen dropped the folder onto the desk and took a seat. On the wall behind him was a topographical map of central Texas. The Travis County ME got cases from the multiple jurisdictions—all of them growing, population-wise—which was probably one reason they were swamped today. As a deputy ME, Nielsen caught much of the workload.

  The doctor checked his watch again, then popped open his Red Bull and took a swig.

  “We need to get the basics,” Jacob said. “No ID at the crime scene, so that’s priority one.”

  Nielsen cleared his throat. “Caucasian female. Sixty-four inches tall, one hundred sixteen pounds. Age twenty to twenty-five, I’d say, and I can narrow that down after I study her X-rays.” He flipped open the file. “We printed her yesterday.”

  “She’s not in the system,” Jacob said.

  “You try DPS?” he asked. Texas drivers were required to submit both thumbprints.

  “No hits,” Kendra said.

  “Missing-person report?” he asked.

  “Nothing that comes close to that description,” Jacob said.

  Nielsen flipped a page in the file. “Manner of death, homicide. Cause of death, sharp force trauma.” He turned the file folder 180 degrees and slid it toward Jacob and Kendra, showing them a black-and-white diagram of a female body, front and back views. Handwritten notes surrounded the diagram.

  “She had a wound measuring one point two inches in her upper back.”

  Kendra gave a low whistle as she took out her notepad.

  “The wound is just left of the vertebral column if the assailant is positioned behind the victim.” He pointed to several vertebrae. “The wound is between T-five and T-six.”

  “One point two inches is a wide blade,” Jacob said.

  The doctor nodded. “I understand there was no weapon recovered at the crime scene?”

  “That’s right,” Kendra said as she jotted notes.

  “What are these marks here?” Jacob asked, zeroing in on some cryptic notations beside the wound.

  “Anterior fractures, eighth and ninth rib. In addition, she had multiple abrasions around her mouth, as well as a laceration inside her mouth near the left lateral incisor. Looks like she bit her lip.” He looked at Jacob. “You want my take on what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “It looks like the assailant tackled her from behind, landed on her with his knees, and clamped a hand over her mouth during the struggle.”

  “So, he broke her ribs?” Kendra asked.

  “Her injuries would be consistent with that, yes.”

  “Any defensive wounds?” Jacob asked.

  “No parry wounds, no knuckle abrasions, no torn fingernails.”

  Kendra looked at Jacob. “Sounds like he ambushed her.”

  “Or she could have been chased,” Nielsen said. “She had scratches on her forearms consistent with someone running through some brush.”

  “What about sexual assault?” Jacob asked.

  Nielsen shook his head. “No sign of that in terms of contusions or abrasions. We did a rape kit, but I don’t expect that to be conclusive because she was partially submerged.”

  Kendra leaned forward, frowning. “But her clothes were all torn. It looked like—”

  “That happened after she was stabbed.” Nielsen pivoted to his computer. He tapped a few keys and brought up his email screen. He clicked open a file and scrolled through a series of grisly images, all showing the victim on a stainless-steel autopsy table, still wearing her ripped clothing. He paused on an image of the victim facedown on the table. She wore black running shorts and a form-fitting white tank top made of stretchy synthetic material. Jacob had gotten a glimpse of the clothing at the scene, but leaves and debris from the lake had made it hard to see the details.

  “We lined up her clothing with the wound. See here?” Nielsen used his mechanical pencil to point out a tear in the white shirt. The fabric around the tear was tinged brown from blood. “I measured the cuts, and the blade went through the fabric.” He scrolled to another picture. Clothing had been removed, and the photo showed a close-up of the wound with a metal ruler positioned beside it.

  “So . . . you’re saying he tackled her from behind, landed on her back, breaking her ribs, then muffled her screams while he stabbed her, and then tore her clothing?” Kendra asked.

  “That scenario is consistent with what I found.”

  “But no sexual assault?” Kendra sounded skeptical.

  “No obvious evidence of that, like I said.” Nielsen looked at Jacob. “But we don’t have the lab results yet.”

  “Anything suggest that she was moved from another location?” Jacob asked, thinking about the cell phone in the field behind the juice bar.

  “If you’re asking if she was k
illed elsewhere and transported to the trail, I’d say no, not based on her livor patterns. But it looks like she was moved a short distance. Abrasions on her knees suggest she was dragged facedown, possibly by her underarms, and deposited in shallow water. That’s where she was spotted by the jogger, correct?”

  “That’s right,” Kendra said. “The caller first thought it was a drowning, then thought she’d been shot. Called 911 in a panic.”

  “What about time of death?” Jacob asked.

  Nielsen smiled thinly. “Determining postmortem interval is difficult, imprecise, and often impossible, unless you’ve got a witness. Based on the water temperature and the condition of the body, I’d say she died between late Friday night and mid–Saturday morning.”

  Kendra blew out a sigh.

  “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

  Jacob pulled the file closer and examined the diagram, trying to decipher the notes scrawled in the margins. “What about any distinguishing marks on her body? Scars or birthmarks—anything that might help us with her ID?”

  Nielsen leaned back in his chair. “No scars, breast implants, joint replacements—nothing like that. Her orthodontics were interesting.”

  “How?” Kendra asked.

  “Perfectly straight teeth, evidence of bleaching treatments, a couple of porcelain crowns. She’d had good dental work, so if you track down those dental records, it shouldn’t be hard to get a positive ID.”

  Jacob tamped down his frustration. He didn’t have dental records. Without a missing-person report or a hit on fingerprints, they were no closer to getting an ID than they’d been at the crime scene fifteen hours ago. And time was ticking away.

  “There is one thing.” Nielsen turned to his computer again and scrolled through more photographs, and Jacob’s stomach clenched as the victim’s body went by in a blur. Nielsen paused on a photo of a bare ankle. The victim’s shoes and socks had been removed.

  “Some residual pigmentation,” Nielsen said.

  Jacob leaned forward.

  “A ghost image.” The doctor tapped the screen with his pencil. “See? She had a tattoo here at one point but looks like it was removed.”

  “Can you tell what it was?” Jacob asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  Kendra leaned closer. “How does that work? I’ve been meaning to check into it. How exactly do they get rid of the ink?”

  “The most effective way is using Q-switched lasers,” he told her. “Basically, different lasers are effective at removing different ranges on the color spectrum. Black is easiest to remove, but yellows and greens are harder. Takes numerous sessions, which can get expensive. It may never go away completely.”

  “So, she had a tattoo, but no telling what it was at this point.” Kendra looked at Jacob. “Our fabulous luck continues.”

  “Back to the murder weapon,” Jacob said. “What else do you know about it?”

  “It was a deep wound,” Nielsen said. “The blade penetrated all the way to the hilt—you can see the mark.”

  Kendra winced.

  “Most interesting thing, though, is the location. Typically, we see knife wounds to the chest. Second most common is head, then neck. This stab wound”—he nodded at the diagram—“directly to the heart from behind like that? That’s unusual. Haven’t seen that since Afghanistan.”

  Kendra pulled the file closer and stared down at the diagram. “You said she bit her lip during the attack, when he clamped his hand over her mouth. Any chance she bit him, too?”

  “I swabbed her teeth for DNA, just in case. But again, with the body being in water for several hours—”

  “A long shot.” Kendra heaved a sigh. “Got it.”

  Nielsen checked his watch. “I need to get back.”

  “Thanks for making the time,” Kendra said as they stood up.

  “No problem.”

  Jacob shook hands with the doctor. “Where were you in Afghanistan?”

  “Asadabad.”

  “Heard it was rough over there.”

  “It was.”

  “Doctor?”

  They turned to see the woman in green scrubs standing in the doorway. “Your nine o’clock is ready.”

  “Detectives.” Nielsen nodded at them. “I’ll send over that report Tuesday morning.”

  They parted ways in the hall, and Kendra watched him rush to his next appointment.

  “I can’t even imagine that,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Cutting people open all day long.” She shuddered. “I go to one of those things, I’m queasy for a week.”

  Jacob didn’t comment as they made their way back through the maze of hallways.

  “What happened with the cell phone you found last night?” Kendra asked.

  “I took it to Luis. It’s dead as a doornail, but he said he might be able to get it working.”

  Luis handled all the department’s hardware evidence—laptops, tablets, cell phones. He was a wizard with anything electronic, but even he might not be able to get anything useful off a waterlogged cell phone.

  “Bizarre case,” Kendra said.

  “In what way?”

  “Every way.”

  “Yeah, but what jumps out most?” Jacob wanted her opinion. She sometimes noticed things he didn’t, especially with female victims.

  “I don’t know.” She paused beside the door where they’d first spotted Nielsen. It was a break room, and Kendra made a beeline for the vending machine, digging some cash from the wallet she kept in her back pocket. They’d worked together three years, and Jacob had never seen her carry a purse.

  “We’ve got nothing whatsoever on ID,” she said, feeding a bill into the machine. “No license, no keys, no abandoned vehicle. No missing-person report. This thing’s been all over the news, and yet no one’s called to say maybe it’s their roommate or their girlfriend who hasn’t been home all weekend.” Kendra jabbed a button and a bottle of water thunked down. “Normally, I’d think maybe she’s a transient.”

  “Evidence doesn’t back that up,” he said.

  “Exactly. Expensive teeth, shoes, clothing. Hell, those designer running shorts alone cost eighty-five bucks.”

  Jacob shot her a look. “Eighty-five bucks for shorts?”

  “Yeah, at least. I’ve got a pair just like them. I—” She halted. “Damn, I just thought of something.”

  “What?”

  “I have an idea.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  THE DRYING ROOM smelled better than the morgue, but the technician working there didn’t look particularly happy with her job. Jacob didn’t blame her. She worked in a windowless space surrounded by evidence of violence. On the rack behind her was a torn pink blouse and a pair of white jeans, both streaked with blood.

  “This would have come in yesterday evening,” Kendra was telling the technician, who wore a white lab coat and a rubber apron. Thick purple gloves covered her hands.

  The woman tugged the paper mask from her face. “The water recovery?”

  “That’s right,” Kendra said. “We need to examine the clothing.”

  “We don’t usually let—”

  “It’s important,” Kendra said.

  The woman shifted her attention to Jacob, letting her gaze linger on his detective’s shield. “Table three.” She nodded toward the doorway. “Right in there.”

  Jacob followed Kendra into the adjacent room, where a series of numbered slate tables occupied the far wall. The victim’s clothing and personal effects were spread out atop a piece of white butcher paper. Beside the shoes was the black zipper pouch that had been found with the body. Unfortunately, all the pouch had contained was a packet of orange-flavored sports gel.

  “Everything’s still drying,” the woman said from the doorway. “When it�
�s done, it goes to the lab.”

  This room smelled earthy from the leaves and dirt still clinging to the clothes. Jacob approached the table, feeling intensely frustrated as he studied the torn white shirt. In this light, the hole created by the blade was clearly visible.

  “Glove up if you need to touch anything,” the technician said, handing Jacob a box.

  Kendra pulled on a pair of purple gloves and carefully picked up the shorts. She moved her fingers along the waistband, and her eyes brightened.

  “I knew it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Inside pocket.”

  Jacob eased closer, holding his breath as Kendra tugged open the zipper. She pulled out a white plastic card with a black magnetic strip on the back.

  “Check it out.” She smiled and held up the card. “Our first break.”

  * * *

  * * *

  THE NEWSROOM WAS quiet, even for a Sunday night. Bailey hitched her laptop bag onto her shoulder and meandered through the desks with the vague hope of encountering another metro reporter working late. But the only people in tonight were a couple guys from sports. Bailey followed the sound of hip-hop to the lifestyle editor’s office and leaned her head in.

  “I’m out,” she said.

  Sophia glanced up from her computer. “You get your story in?”

  “Yep.”

  “I saw the layout. It’s running above the fold.”

  Bailey winced. She should have been elated to have a story running top of page one, but this one didn’t merit that placement.

  “What’s wrong?” Sophia asked.

  “I’m just surprised. I didn’t turn up much, and I figured they’d bury it.”

  “Slow news day.” Sophia shrugged. “Just be glad for the byline.”

  “I am. Don’t work too late.”

  “Ha.”

  Bailey passed the elevator, where a janitor’s cart blocked the door. As she stepped into the stairwell, her phone chimed, echoing off the cinder-block walls. She rummaged through her bag and cursed as she read the number.

  “Rhoads,” she snapped.

  “It’s Jacob Merritt.”