Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 180510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 903(@200wpm)___ 722(@250wpm)___ 602(@300wpm)
“Christ … have you not seen the news?” Dr. Cornwell asks.
The news. Yes, I watch the local news. Most of the time. This morning, I spent too much time convincing my get-Colten-out-of-my-head hookup from last night that he needed to leave my apartment. No time for the news.
“Our serial killer strikes again.”
I perk up before a single sip of coffee.
He smirks. “She’s all yours.”
“She?” I narrow my eyes while taking a drink of coffee.
“She. You need to find something, Josie. I’m sure you’ll have several detectives breathing down your neck before you even get on your PPE.”
Colten.
He means Detective Mosley will be breathing down my neck.
It’s been five days since I walked out of his house, fumbling with my emotions and tripping over the parts of my ego that are still a little jagged.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in the autopsy suite with a nice gathering of students.
“Dr. Watts is the best I’ve seen,” Dr. Cornwell announces as he passes my table on his way to an eight-year-old girl found dead in her room just after dinner last night. “Want to know why?” he asks the peanut gallery.
Cronk mumbles something just before speaking into the microphone hanging above the table to dictate. I know it was a jab at me.
“Because she thinks like a detective,” the young male student just to my right says, his eyes alight with confidence.
Cornwell and I have played this game. He’s prouder of the “correct” answer than I am.
“Partial credit, Hoffler. All forensic pathologists have to think like detectives. It’s the part that should come naturally in this field. Dr. Watts thinks like a killer—that’s what makes her so special.”
“My parents prefer ‘hunter,’ but thanks, Dr. Cornwell. I’m honored you think so highly of me.”
The students laugh.
Alicia winks at me when I glance up from my camera lens. I roll my eyes, swapping her the camera for my sketch pad and blue pen.
Over the next hour, we lose three of the students. Newcomers. There’s something about a mutilated body mixed with the stench of feces and stomach acid that gives even the most devoted students a moment’s pause. Or … a few moments to vomit or come to after passing out.
I finish my two assigned autopsies, shower in the locker room, and eat my lunch in my office while typing up case notes.
“Bet you expected to see me sooner.” Detective Mosley pokes his head into my office before taking a seat opposite me.
I lean to the side, eyeing him behind my computer monitor. “Or not at all.” I frown before returning my attention to my screen. “Did Detective Rains break up with me?”
“He has one of those…” Colten snaps his fingers several times “…camera up the ass appointments.”
“Colonoscopy. Good for him. Early detection is good.”
“You couldn’t pay me to do that shit.”
Again, I lean to the side, peaking a single eyebrow.
He shrugs, drumming his fingers on his legs clad in black pants. “Listen, about the other night …”
I clear my throat and take a bite of my sandwich, finding refuge behind the monitor again while mumbling, “You mean … about this morning. Did I find anything? Yes. I found a fetus. Fifteen weeks.”
“Jesus …”
Chewing another bite of my sandwich, I nod a few times. “They’re alive. All of the victims have been alive when their legs have been amputated. You have an angry killer on your hands.”
“Angry? Are you implying some killers are not angry?”
I shrug. “You know the answer to that. Kevin Gleason. Necrophile. Lust killer.”
Twisting his lips, he nods slowly.
“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t found anything to connect the victims. I’m afraid this will be on you. Friends. Family. Co-workers. What do you know about them? Did the victims belong to the same gym? Shop at the same grocery store? See the same massage therapist?”
“You’re assuming we’re dealing with an organized killer? Seems pretty random at the moment. Wrong place. Wrong time. Voices in their head.”
“You have no DNA that does not belong to the victim or the victim’s family. Four bodies. Always in a dumpster. No camera footage. Nothing. I think you have a highly intelligent person who is methodical, cautious, and patient.”
“What are you doing tonight?”
My nose wrinkles. “What?”
“I’m taking Reagan to the park for a little T-ball practice.”
“Okay. Have fun.” I wad up my sandwich wrapper and shove it into the sack.
“I thought you could come with us. Unless … you’re hooking up with someone tonight.”
“Detective Mosley, I’m pretty sure my personal life is none of your business.”
“Listen, I couldn’t care less if you go with us or not. It was Reagan’s idea.”
“Bullshit.” I flip up the straw to my water bottle and take several long swigs while eyeing him.
“Ask her yourself.”
“Sorry, I don’t have her phone number.”
“Call her dad around six, and he’ll let you speak to her. Say ‘Hi, Reagan. It’s me, Josie. Do you want me to play T-ball at the park with you and your dad?’ And I promise you she’ll say yes.”