Dreaming Death (Krewe of Hunters #32) - Heather Graham Page 0,8

be, as soon as you have a second to get some strength back. You’re smart and savvy,” he assured her with a smile. “Miss Maples, thank you so much. If you’d like to go home, we can speak with your employers. You’ve suffered a truly traumatic experience, and you reacted with a speed that has certainly helped us.”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of a child coming across...that,” she whispered.

She’d had the presence of mind to dial 9-1-1 immediately and get the call through despite what must have been a serious trembling in her fingers.

She was still shaking.

“I—I don’t want to go home. I live in an apartment alone. I don’t want to be alone.”

Understandable. But Keenan had to get over to see the victim; the medical examiner was waiting for him along with Fred Crandall.

He leaned out the back of the ambulance and beckoned to a uniformed officer to come and watch over their distraught witness, see that she was helped. Then he stepped down and headed for the crime scene. Passing by two DC officers with a nod, he ducked under the yellow tape.

And reached the body.

Fred Crandall was standing next to Dr. Beau Simpson, who was on his knees by the body, still doing his initial inspection.

Crandall was in his early forties, a longtime cop who had seen a hell of a lot. Washington, DC, could be beautiful beyond belief, beloved by natives to the city and by tourists who came from all regions. It was also a political hotbed where many a strange crime took place.

Fred was a veteran of many of those crimes and a damned good detective. Medium in height, he was still built with the wiry strength of a tiger. He was bald and had sharp blue eyes, the kind that could intimidate many a perpetrator.

Dr. Simpson was also a seasoned man. Fiftysomething with salt-and-pepper, close-cropped hair, he was impressively cool, calm and stoic, always.

Simpson had once told Keenan that it came from living in DC—the heart of the Union—and having been named Beauregard after the Confederate general P. G. T. Beauregard by a mother from South Carolina. He’d seen so many lifted eyebrows and smirks that he could maintain a totally blank expression at any time.

The three of them had worked together before. Keenan was glad Beau seemed to be the Washington medical examiner on the case. Along with giving investigators his findings on any case, he always told them how he determined every detail he found.

“To the best of our educated reckoning, she’s number three,” Dr. Simpson said, not looking up.

“Cause and method of death?” Keenan asked.

“No way like the old Whitechapel Ripper, as the rumors have been saying,” Simpson told him. “Or maybe a little. That killer possibly strangled his victims for silence before slashing their throats. No slashed throat here—she was strangled. And the removal of her internal parts...somewhere else.”

“The organs are missing?”

“The organs are missing,” Simpson said. He added, “Just like before.”

“Do we have an ID?” he asked Fred.

Fred shook his head. “No, but—”

“This is different. We know the first two were sex workers. Of the lowest and saddest variety, I’m sorry to say. On initial inspection, I’d say this woman is different. Doesn’t mean she wasn’t in the world’s oldest business, but she wasn’t out on the streets working. If it proves that she was a sex worker,” Beau Simpson went on, answering before Fred could say more. “Her hands. Look at the manicure she’s got. Yes, she could be a good manicurist herself, but she’s also wearing a diamond I judge to be an expensive one, and her hands are soft as a baby’s—she’d not doing dishes or laundry or any kind of manual labor. Well, that depends on your definition of manual labor.” He winced and let out a long sigh. “That was not an attempt at humor. I’m merely saying I don’t think this woman has ever washed a dish or even scraped one for the dishwasher.”

“Clothing looks designer,” Keenan said, hunkering down by the ME.

While much of what the woman was wearing had been shredded by the killer’s knife, Keenan could see that the skirt-suit had originally been impeccably fitted. He believed the material was a silk mix—even torn-up it looked expensive.

“I only have what I’ve gotten from the Virginia folks on the second victim,” Fred told Keenan, “but I’m sure you know that. The first victim, though, I saw her. Just like this. Belly ripped out and the guts gone. But her nails