Page 47 of Dirty Valentine
We all started gathering our things.Lily looked up from her textbooks.“I’ll stay here with Sheldon,” she said.“Someone should keep an eye on him.”
“Good thinking,” I said, looking over at Sheldon.He’d fallen asleep on the couch sometime during our briefing.“Don’t let him leave.And just in case, don’t answer the door for anyone.We’ll lock the front gate and be back as soon as we can.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
The drive toRappahannock River State Park felt endless despite being only twenty minutes from our house.The darkness beyond the Tahoe’s headlights seemed to press against the windows like something alive, and the humid night air carried the promise of more rain.I found myself gripping the door handle as Jack navigated the winding park roads, my mind racing through possibilities I didn’t want to consider.
“Daniels is already on scene,” Jack said, checking his phone at a red light.“Full CSI team deployed.Whatever we’re walking into, it’s not going to be pretty.”
The boat launch area was lit up like a movie set when we arrived, portable floodlights casting harsh white pools of illumination across the graveled parking area and wooden dock that stretched into the Rappahannock.The familiar controlled chaos of a major crime scene was already in full swing—yellow tape stretched between orange cones, CSI techs moving with practiced efficiency, the low murmur of professional voices cutting through the night sounds of water lapping against the shore.
Lieutenant Daniels stood near the body like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of evidence collection.The recent blond additions to her braids caught the portable lights, and despite the late hour and grim circumstances, she radiated the kind of calm competence that made everyone around her work better.Daniels was the best CSI supervisor in the state, a stickler for details who somehow managed to combine absolute professionalism with genuine compassion for victims.
“Sheriff,” she said, turning as we approached.Her beautiful tawny eyes were serious but warm, and I felt that familiar comfort that came from working with someone you trusted completely.“Doc.Got a messy one here.”
“Run it down for me,” Jack said, pulling on latex gloves.I followed suit.
“Female victim, appears to be in her forties.Found by a jogger around seven thirty this evening.”Daniels consulted her tablet with the methodical precision that made her team the best in the business.“Jogger is Robert Peterson, local resident, regular evening runner.He’s clean—no connection to the victim that we can find.”
Cole and Martinez had arrived right behind us, pulling up in Martinez’s sedan.Cole immediately headed toward the jogger who was waiting near a park bench, while Martinez approached the CSI tech who was setting up to photograph tire impressions in the muddy area near the boat launch.Even in the harsh artificial light, I could see the grim set of their faces, the way they moved with the careful deliberation that came when a case turned personal.
“Anything unusual about positioning?”I asked.In reality, I was hoping there would be some similarities to the first body to help us narrow down the identity on the victim.
“Nothing that stands out,” Daniels said, leading us toward where the body lay under the portable lights, her steps careful not to disturb any potential evidence.“Someone dumped her in a hurry.”
The smell hit me first—the metallic tang of blood mixed with the organic decay that came from being near the river, plus something else I couldn’t immediately identify.The woman lay crumpled near the water’s edge, her body showing the unmistakable signs of having been discarded rather than carefully positioned.Her face was so badly beaten that identification would be difficult, but I could see she wore medical scrubs.
“Could be our missing doctor,” I said, studying the scrubs.
The light blue fabric was stained dark in several places, and I could see immediately that she’d fought for her life.Her hands bore defensive wounds, knuckles scraped raw, fingernails broken and bloody.Someone had beaten her badly before putting a bullet in her chest.
“Between the medical scrubs and the timeline, this has to be Victoria Mills,” I said, studying the body more closely.“We’ll need dental records or DNA for official confirmation, but everything points to our missing doctor.”I knelt carefully beside the body.“She suffered.”
The woman’s face was a mass of bruises and swelling, her features distorted beyond easy recognition.Dark hair matted with blood stuck to her scalp in clumps, and defensive wounds covered her hands and forearms—evidence of a desperate fight for life.The scrubs she wore were torn and stained dark with blood that had dried to a rusty brown.
I began my preliminary examination with the methodical precision that years of training had ingrained in me.Starting with external observation, I noted the positioning of the limbs, the condition of her clothing, any obvious trauma.My hands moved carefully over her body, checking for injuries while being mindful not to disturb potential evidence.
“Single gunshot wound to the chest,” I said, studying the entry point.“Close range based on the powder burns and stippling around the wound.Looks like a small caliber, probably a .22.”
The bullet had entered just left of center mass, and the lack of an obvious exit wound suggested it was still lodged inside her chest cavity.I’d know more once I got her back to the lab.
But as I continued my examination, something else caught my attention that made my blood run cold.
“Look at this,” I said, carefully moving aside the torn fabric of her scrubs to reveal markings carved into the skin just below her collarbone.
The symbol was crude but unmistakable—scales of justice, roughly the same design we’d seen etched into Rachel Mills’s headstone at the cemetery.The cuts were precise and deliberate, made with something sharp like a knife or scalpel.
“Postmortem,” I said, studying the edges of the wounds that showed no bleeding or inflammatory response.“Someone took time to send a message after she was already dead.”
“Same symbol from the cemetery,” Jack said grimly.“Someone’s completing their historical revenge list.”
“But this is an escalation,” I said.“The cemetery markings were on stone.This is carved into flesh.The killer’s getting more personal, more violent.”
“Or more desperate to send their message,” Jack said.
I photographed the symbol from multiple angles before continuing my examination.The defensive wounds on her hands and arms told the story of someone who’d fought back with everything she had.Broken fingernails, scraped knuckles, bruising on her forearms where she’d tried to block blows—this woman hadn’t gone quietly.
“She fought hard,” I said, carefully examining her hands for trace evidence.“There’s material under her fingernails—looks like fabric fibers, possibly skin cells.She got a piece of her attacker.”
