Page 6 of Her Last Escape

Rachel squinted at her tablet screen as morning sunlight flickered through the trees lining I-95. Beyond the trees, pastures, and fields unspooled along the horizon. The glare made the crime scene photos even more difficult to stomach. She adjusted the screen's angle, but there was no making these images palatable.

She was currently looking at the bloodied body of a man named Thomas Whitman. His face was barely recognizable as human. The medical examiner's preliminary report noted that the skull had been struck at least twelve times with what appeared to be a cylindrical metal object, likely a crowbar or length of pipe. The right temporal and parietal bones had been reduced to fragments, some driven into the brain tissue. His baby blue button-down shirt was saturated with blood, bits of bone, and gray matter. His tie was looped in a weird U shape on the wooden floor of what the police report said was a back porch.

"Construction's backing up the merge ahead," Novak said from behind the wheel of their bureau SUV. He was proving to be a careful driver, which Rachel reluctantly admitted she appreciated. The morning traffic crawled along as cars tried to funnel into a single lane, exhaust hanging visible in the cold air.

She swiped to the next photo. "The beating continued well past the point of death," she read out loud. "The medical examiner estimates at least fifteen distinct impacts across the body, but the skull took the worst of it."

"Overkill," Novak said. "Rage killing?"

"Maybe." Rachel zoomed in on one of the wounds. "But look at the spacing and angles of the impacts. They're remarkably consistent. This wasn't just blind fury. The killer maintained control throughout the attack."

A semi-truck's air brakes hissed ahead of them as traffic ground to a halt again. Novak drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his default tell when he was working through something. Rachel had started cataloging his habits the way she did with any new partner. Knowledge meant prediction, prediction meant trust.

"What about the first victim?" he asked.

Rachel pulled up file labelled Foxworth, Diana. She was an attorney of great notoriety in the Charlottesville area. She'd been killed shortly after a work dinner...beaten to death just a few feet away from her BWW.

"Same weapon profile," Rachel said. "Though the attack seemed slightly less controlled. At least ten impacts, most to the head and upper torso. The killer may have been in a rush, though, as it was an open space. A parking lot."

"Christ." Novak shook his head. "And we're sure these are connected? Beyond the weapon and victim profiles?"

Rachel swiped through more photos, comparing the wound patterns. "Both victims were quite wealthy. Both were also attacked in locations that suggested the killer had studied their routines.”

“Okay…Foxworth was found in a parking lot. What about the second vic?”

“It’s a bit saucy, actually. He was discovered beaten to death by a woman he was having an affair with. By the mistress. And this happened just last night. Local PD have informed the wife.”

"Jesus, that's a lot of bad news to get all at once," Novak said.

Traffic began moving again as they passed the construction zone. The morning sun had burned away some of the chill, but frost still clung to shadowed patches of grass along the highway. Rachel found herself grateful for the mundane normality of the traffic and weather. It helped create distance from the brutality in the case files.

"You know," Novak said after a few minutes of silence, "I can't help wondering if the bureau would have still been called in for this if these murders happened in a different zip code. Two lower-income people beaten to death? Probably wouldn't make it past local PD."

Rachel glanced at him, surprised. It was the kind of observation Jack might have made back when they were partners. Grim, a little harsh…but undeniably true. "Probably not," she admitted. "Though the level of violence might have raised flags regardless."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced. "How're you holding up with all this, by the way? After everything at the hospice..."

"I'm fine." The response came automatically, perhaps too quickly. Rachel forced herself to soften it. "I appreciate the concern, but I need to focus on these victims right now. The hospice situation is being handled." And God, did it ever hurt to say that out loud.

Novak nodded, accepting the deflection. Another point in his favor – he knew when to back off. "So, Mrs. Whitman first? Even though the mistress was the last to see Whitman alive?"

"Yeah, I’d think so. The wife usually knows more than people expect, even about the affairs." Rachel closed the case files and pulled up directions to the Whitman residence. "And if she didn't know, her reaction to learning about it might tell us something useful. I think she’d be more likely to be helpful if there’s a link between the two victims."

The GPS indicated another forty minutes to Charlottesville. Rachel used the time to review the rest of Whitman's file, trying to build a picture of his final days. He'd been a rising star in the tech sector, recently landing a major defense contract for his company while also assisting the city of Charlottesville as well as the University of Virginia with a few cutting edge projects. According to the files, the mistress—Jill Satterfield—was a junior executive with the city council but also something of a stock broker,…a classic corporate cliché that had ended in anything but a classic way.

The third photo in the crime scene sequence caught her attention. Something about the blood spatter pattern seemed odd. The directionality suggested the killer had changed position mid-attack, but maintained the same mechanical precision with the strikes. It spoke of training, or at least significant planning.

"Most rage killers lose control as the attack continues," she said, thinking out loud. "The blows become erratic, excessive. But this..." She held up the tablet, showing Novak the pattern at the next red light. "This is almost methodical. Like the rage is being channeled, directed."

"Military background maybe?" Novak suggested. "Or law enforcement?"

"Possible. But killing Foxworth in a parking lot seems too risky for someone with that sort of training. The level of control definitely suggests someone with training in violence."

They passed a sign indicating Charlottesville was thirty miles ahead. The morning traffic had thinned somewhat, but there were still enough cars on the road to provide cover for anyone wanting to follow them.

“These are odd cases, you know?” Novak said.

“How so?”

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