Several uniformed deputies were already working the scene. One drove wooden stakes into the sand, stringing yellow Crime Scene – Do Not Cross tape between them. Another spoke with an older man whose fishing rod, folding chair, and tackle box sat abandoned nearby.
The man’s pale face told his story. He had come here expecting fish. Instead, he had found death.
Sean studied the stretch of sand surrounding the white cotton sheet as he approached. The tide had smoothed parts of the beach during the night, leaving broad swaths of damp, packed sand broken only by footprints and the early signs of activity from the deputies already working the perimeter. He didn’t envy the crime scene techs. Once they arrived, they’d spend hours on their hands and knees, sifting through sand with fine screens in the hope of recovering anything the shifting grains might have swallowed.
Stopping beside the body, he crouched and drew a steadying breath before lifting one corner of the sheet.
Damn.
The bastard had done it again. And Suki had been right. This kill had come sooner than expected.
For a moment, Sean simply studied the dead woman’s face, something about her features tugging at his memory. Then recognition clicked into place.
Jessica Daly.
The irony was heavy. Less than twelve hours earlier, the aggressive reporter had stood on television delivering her so-called exclusive. Now, she was Dare County’s fourth victim, and her own death would dominate every newscast in the region.
Like the previous victim, her vacant eyes stared skyward at the drifting clouds and circling gulls. A polished 1993 penny rested heads-up between her carefully plucked brows.
Sean lifted the sheet farther, and his brow furrowed.
The carved word across her torso was different.
Liar.
The wounds had clotted long before the body had been placed there. Deep purple bruising ringed her neck, wrists, and ankles, standing out stark against skin already ashen with death. Another bruise darkened the left side of her jaw and cheek.
Nothing else immediately drew his attention.
“She must have made him angry with that broadcast the other night.” Matt’s voice carried from just behind him.
“She’s the only one with that tag.” Sean lowered the sheet and rose to his feet. “If I were him, I’d have been angry too, but that doesn’t mean she deserved this.” His gaze drifted back to the covered body. “At least it answers our question about whether he was done after three.”
The sound of approaching voices drew their attention toward the dunes. Brian, Rafe, Brad, the coroner, and three crime scene techs emerged single-file through the narrow cut in the sand. The latter carried duffels, evidence cases, and equipment boxes.
One of the techs broke off at once, already pulling a video camera from its case. The official crime scene documentation was beginning. Once the initial video was complete, they’d move on to still photographs and measurements before starting the painstaking search for whatever trace evidence the killer might have left behind.
As Brian, Brad, and Dr. Peter Hansen approached, Sean caught the slight arch of his brother’s eyebrows.
Great.
Even with a dead body thirty feet away, Brian had undoubtedly noticed the dress pants and polished shoes paired with a Baltimore Orioles T-shirt. It didn’t take much to figure out what that combination meant, and Sean had no doubt his brother had already drawn the obvious conclusion—he hadn’t slept at home.
Knowing Brian would give him grief over it the first chance he got, Sean decided to cut him off before the commentary started. He stepped forward and extended his hand to the coroner.
Hansen took it, shaking both Sean’s hand and his head at the same time. “Agent Malone, I know none of this is your fault, but I’m starting to get sick of you already. No offense.”
A dry smile touched Sean’s mouth. “None taken. I’m hoping the killer made a mistake, though. He deviated from his norm.”
“Really?” The coroner crouched and pulled back the sheet. A low whistle escaped him. “Well, now. Ms. Daly must have said something that got under his skin. Who wants to bet she didn’t happen across our killer at a bar, club, or party?”
No one answered the rhetorical question.
Hansen peeled the sheet back farther, exposing the body as he reached into his equipment bag for a thermometer. With practiced efficiency, he began the grim work of collecting his preliminary readings. Time of death would be one of the first answers they needed.
Around them, the crime scene techs moved into position. One continued documenting the scene on video while another began setting measurement markers around the body. A third unpacked evidence flags and began preparing the tools they’d need once the formal documentation was complete.
Sean watched for a moment before shifting his attention to the uniformed deputy still speaking with the fisherman. “Let’s find out what he knows.”
