She staggered deeper into the woods. She needed to cool down. She needed to draw a breath. She had suffered this kind of episode before. She could survive it again.
She careened through the underbrush, unmindful of the small twigs scratching her cheeks or the tree limbs snatching at her hair. She searched desperately for cooler shade.
Breathe deep, count to ten. Focus on your hands, and making them steady. You’re tough. You’re strong. You’re well trained.
Breathe, Kimberly. Come on, honey, just breathe.
She staggered into a clearing, stuck her head between her knees and worked on sucking air, until with a final, heaving gasp, her lungs opened up and the air whooshed gratefully into her chest. Inhale. Exhale. That’s it, breathe . . .
Kimberly looked down at her hands. They were quieter now, pressed against the hollow plane of her stomach. She forced them away from her body, and inspected her splayed fingers for signs of trembling.
Better. Soon she would be cool again. Then she would resume jogging. And then, because she was very good at this by now, no one would ever know a thing.
Kimberly straightened up. She took one last deep breath, then turned back in the direction of the PT course . . . and realized for the first time that she was not alone.
Five feet in front of her was a well-worn dirt path. Wide and very smooth, probably used by the Marines for their training. And right smack in the middle of that path sprawled the body of a young girl in civilian clothes. Blond hair, black sandals, and splayed tanned limbs. She wore a simple white cotton shirt and a very short, blue-flowered skirt.
Kimberly took one step forward. Then she saw the girl’s face, and then she knew.
The goose bumps rippled down her arms again. A shiver snaked up her spine. And in the middle of the hot, still woods, Kimberly began to frantically look around, even as her hand flew to the inside of her leg and found her knife.
First rule of procedure, always secure the crime scene.
Second rule, call for backup.
Third rule, try hard not to think of what it means when young women aren’t safe even at the Academy. For this girl was quite dead, and by all appearances, it had happened recently.
CHAPTER 7
Quantico, Virginia
10:03 A.M.
Temperature: 86 degrees
“ONE MORE TIME, Kimberly. How did you end up off the PT course?”
“I got a stitch in my side, I went off the course. I was trying to walk it out, and . . . I don’t think I realized how far I had wandered.”
“And you saw the body?”
“I saw something up ahead,” Kimberly said without blinking. “I headed toward it, and then . . . Well, you know the rest.”
Her class supervisor, Mark Watson, scowled at her, but finally leaned back. She was sitting across from him in his bright, expansive office. Mid-morning sun poured through the bank of windows. An orange monarch butterfly fluttered just outside the glass. It was such a beautiful day to be talking about death.
At Kimberly’s cry, two of her classmates had come running. She’d leaned forward and taken the girl’s pulse by then. Nothing, of course, but then Kimberly hadn’t expected any signs of life. And it wasn’t just the girl’s wide, sightless brown eyes that spoke of death. It was her violently stitched-up mouth, some kind of thick black thread sealing her waxy lips in macabre imitation of Raggedy Ann. Whoever had done this had made damn well sure the girl had never screamed.
The second classmate promptly threw up. But not Kimberly.
Someone had fetched Watson. Upon seeing her grisly find, he had immediately contacted the FBI police as well as the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Apparently, a death at the Academy’s front door did not belong to the FBI, but rather to NCIS. It was their job to protect and serve the Marines, after all.
Kimberly and her classmates had been hastily led away, while young Marines in dark green camouflage and more sophisticated special agents in white dress shirts descended upon the scene. Now, somewhere in the deep woods, real work was being done—death investigators photographing, sketching, and analyzing; an ME examining a young girl’s body for last desperate clues; other officers bagging and tagging evidence.
While Kimberly sat here. In an office. As far away from the discovery as a well-meaning FBI supervisor could bring her. One of her knees jogged nervously. She finally crossed her ankles beneath the chair.
“What will happen next?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” Her supervisor paused. “I’ll be honest, Kimberly, we’ve never had this kind of situation before.”
“Well, that’s a good thing,” she murmured.
Watson smiled, but it was thin. “We had a tragedy a few years ago. A National Academy student dropped dead on the firearms course. He was relatively young, which led to speculation. The ME determined, however, that he had died of a sudden massive coronary. Still tragic, but not so shocking given the sheer numbers of people who pass through these grounds in any given year. This situation, on the other hand . . . A facility of this kind relies heavily on good relations with the neighboring communities. When word gets out that a local girl has been found dead . . .”
“How do you know she’s local?”
“Playing the law of averages. She appears too young to be an employee, and if she were either FBI or Marine, someone at the scene would’ve recognized her. Ergo, she’s an outsider.”
“She could be someone’s sweetheart,” Kimberly ventured. “The mouth . . . Maybe she talked back one too many times.”
“It’s possible.” Watson was eyeing her speculatively, so Kimberly pressed ahead.
“But you don’t think so,” she said.
“Why don’t I think so?”
“No violence. If it were a domestic situation, a crime of passion, she would show signs of battery. Bruises, cuts, abrasion. Instead . . . I saw her arms and legs. There was hardly a scratch on her. Except for the mouth, of course.”
“Maybe he only hit her where no one would see.”
“Maybe,” her tone was doubtful. “It still doesn’t explain why he would dump the body on a secured Marine base.”
“Why do you think the body was dumped?” Watson asked with a frown.
“Lack of disturbance at the scene,” Kimberly answered immediately. “Ground wasn’t even stirred up until I crashed in.” Her brow furrowed; she looked at him quizzically. “Do you think she was alive when he brought her onto the grounds? It’s not that easy to access the base. Last I saw, the Marines were operating at condition Bravo, meaning all entrances are guarded and all visitors must have proper ID. Dead or alive, not just anyone can access Academy grounds.”
“I don’t think we should—”
“That doesn’t make sense, either, though,” Kimberly persisted, her frown deepening. “If the girl’s alive, then she would have to have clearance, too, and two security passes are harder to find than one. So maybe she was dead. In the trunk of the car. I’ve never seen the guards search a vehicle, so she wouldn’t be too hard to sneak in that way. Of course, that theory implies that the man knowingly dumped a body on Quantico grounds.” She shook her head abruptly. “That doesn’t make sense. If you lived here and you killed someone, even accidentally, you wouldn’t take the remains into the woods. You’d hightail it off the base, and get the evidence as far away from here as possible. Leaving the body here is just plain stupid.”
“I don’t think we should make any assumptions at this time,” Watson said quietly.
“Do you think he’s trying to make a personal statement against the Academy?” Kimberly asked. “Or against the Marines?”
At that comment, Watson’s brows fired to life. Kimberly had definitely crossed some unspoken line, and his expression firmly indicated that their conversation was now over. He sat forward and said, “Listen, the NCIS will be handling the investigation from here on out. Do you know anything about the Naval Criminal Investigative Service?”
“No—?
??
“Well, you should. The NCIS has over eight hundred special agents, ready to be deployed anywhere around the globe at a moment’s notice. They’ve seen murder, rape, domestic abuse, fraud, drugs, racketeering, terrorism, you name it. They have their own cold case squad, they have their own forensics experts, they even have their own crime labs. For heaven’s sake, these are the agents who were called upon to investigate the bombing of the U.S.S. Cole. They can certainly handle one body found in the woods at a Marine base. Is that understood?”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“You’re a rookie, Kimberly. Not a special agent, but a new agent. Don’t forget that difference.”
“Yes, sir,” she said stiffly, chin up, eyes blazing at the unexpected reprimand.
Her supervisor’s voice finally softened. “Of course NCIS will have some questions for you,” he allowed. “Of course you will answer to the best of your ability. Cooperation with fellow law enforcement agencies is very important. But then you’re done, Kimberly. Out of the picture. Back to class. And—this should go without saying—as quiet as a church mouse.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell?” she asked dryly.
Watson didn’t crack a smile. “There are many times in an FBI agent’s career when she must be the soul of discretion. Agents who can’t be prudent don’t belong on the job.”
Kimberly’s expression finally faltered. She stared down at the carpet. Watson’s tone was so stern, it seemed to border almost on threatening. She had found the body accidentally. And yet . . . He was treating her almost as if she were a troublemaker. As if she’d personally brought this upon the Academy. The safe course would be to do exactly as he said. To get up, seal her lips, and walk away.
She’d never been good at playing it safe.
She lifted her gaze and looked her supervisor in the eye. “Sir, I’d like to approach NCIS about assisting with the investigation.”
“Did you just hear anything I said?”
“I have some experience in these matters—”
“You know nothing about these matters! Don’t confuse personal with professional—”
“Why not? Violent death is violent death. I helped my father after my mother’s body was found. I’m now seven weeks from becoming a full-fledged FBI agent. What would it hurt to jump the gun a little? After all, I found her.” Her tone was possessive. She hadn’t meant to sound that way, realized it was a misstep, but it was too late to call it back now.
Watson’s face had darkened dangerously. If she thought he’d appeared stern before, he was downright intimidating now. “Kimberly . . . Let’s be frank. How do you think you’re doing as a new agent?”
“Hanging in there.”
“Do you think that’s the best goal for a new agent?”
“Some days.”
He smiled grimly, then steepled his hands in front of his chin. “Some of your instructors are worried about you, Kimberly. You have an impeccable resume, of course. You consistently score ninety percent or higher on your exams. You seem to have some skills with firearms.”
“But?” she gritted out.
“But you also have an attitude. Nine weeks here, Kimberly, and by all accounts you have no close friends, allies, or associates. You offer nothing to your classmates. You take nothing from them. You’re an island. Law enforcement is ultimately a human system. With no connections, no friends, no support, how far do you think you’re going to get? How effective do you think you can be?”
“I’ll work on that,” she said. Her heart was beating hard.
“Kimberly,” he said, gently now, and she winced further. Anger could be deflected. Gentleness was to be feared. “You know, you’re very young.”
“Growing up all the time,” she babbled.
“Maybe now is not the right time for you to join the Bureau—”
“No time like the present.”
“I think if you gave yourself a few more years, more space between now and what happened to your family . . .”
“You mean forget about my mother and sister?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Pretend I’m just another accountant, looking for a little more excitement in my life?”
“Kimberly—”
“I found a corpse! Is that what this is about? I found a blight on the Academy’s front porch and now you’re kicking me out!”
“Stop it!” His tone was stern. It finally shocked Kimberly into silence and in the next instant she realized everything she had just said. Her cheeks flamed red. She quickly looked away.
“I would like to go back to class now,” Kimberly murmured. “I promise not to say anything. I appreciate the task NCIS has before it, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to compromise an ongoing investigation.”
“Kimberly . . .” Her supervisor’s tone was still frustrated. It appeared he might say something more, then he just shook his head. “You look like hell. You obviously haven’t slept in weeks, you’ve lost weight. Why don’t you go to your room and get some rest? Take this opportunity to recuperate. There’s no shame in slowing down a little, you know. You’re already one of the youngest applicants we’ve had. What you don’t accomplish now, you can always accomplish later.”
Kimberly didn’t reply. She was too busy biting back a bitter smile. She had heard those words before. Also from an older man, a mentor, someone she had considered a friend. Two days later, he’d put a gun to her head.
Please don’t let me tear up now. She would not cry.
“We’ll talk again in a few days,” Watson said in the ensuing silence. “Dismissed.”
Kimberly headed out of his office. She walked down the hall, passing three groups of blue-clad students and already hearing the whispers beginning again. Were they talking about her mother and sister? Were they talking about her legendary father? Or maybe they were talking about today, and the new body she of all people had managed to find?
Her eyes stung more fiercely. She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples. She would not give in to pity now.
Kimberly marched to the front doors. She burst back into the blistering hot sun. Sweat immediately beaded across her brow. She could feel her T-shirt glue itself stickily to her skin.
But she did not return to her room. NCIS would want to talk to her. First, however, they would want to finish up at the scene. That gave her a solid hour before anyone would come looking for her.
An hour was enough.
Kimberly made a beeline for the woods.
CHAPTER 8
Quantico, Virginia
11:33 A.M.
Temperature: 89 degrees
“TIME OF DEATH?”
“Hard to tell. Body temperature reads nearly ninety-five, but the current outside temp of eighty-nine would impede cooling. Rigor mortis appears to be just starting in face and neck.” The white-clad ME paused, rolled the body slightly to the left and pressed a gloved finger against the red-splotched skin, which blanched at his touch. “Lividity’s not yet fixed.” He straightened back up, thought of something else, and checked the girl’s eyes and ears. “No blowfly larvae yet, which would happen fast in this heat. Of course, the flies prefer to start in the mouth or an open wound, so they had less opportunity here . . .” He seemed to consider the various factors one last time, then delivered his verdict. “I’m going to say four to six hours.”
The other man, probably an NCIS special agent, looked up from his notes in surprise. “That fresh?”
“That’s my best guess. Hard to know more until we cut her open.”
“Which will be?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
The special agent stared at the ME.
“Six A.M.?” the ME tried again.
The special agent stared harder.
“This afternoon,” the ME amended.
The special agent finally cracked a smile. The ME sighed heavily. It was going to be one of those cases.
The investigating officer returned t
o his notes. “Probable COD?”
“That’s a little trickier. No obvious knife or gunshot wounds. No petechial hemorrhages, which rules out strangulation. No bleeding in the ears, which eliminates some brain traumas. We do have a large bruise just beginning to form on the left hip. Probably occurred shortly before death.” The ME lifted up the girl’s blue-flowered skirt, eyed the contusion again, then shook his head. “I’m going to have to do some blood work. We’ll know more then.”
The investigating officer nodded. A second man, also clad in khakis and a white dress shirt, moved in to snap more shots with a digital camera, while several grim-faced Marines stood guard along the yellow-ribbon-draped scene. Even in the deep shade of the woods, the heat and humidity were impossible to escape. Both NCIS special agents had sweated through their long-sleeved shirts, while the young sentries stood with moisture rolling down their chiseled faces.
Now the second special agent, a younger man with the requisite buzz-cut hair and squared-off jaw, looked down the heavily wooded path. “I don’t see drag marks,” he commented.
The ME nodded and moved to the victim’s black sandals. He picked up her foot and studied the heel of her shoe. “No dirt or debris here. She must’ve been carried in.”
“Strong man,” the photographer said.
The first special agent gave them both a look. “We are on a Marine base cooccupied by FBI trainees; they’re all strong men.” He nodded back toward the victim. “What’s with the mouth?”
The ME put his hand on her cheeks, turned her head from side to side. Then suddenly, he flinched and snatched his hand away.
“What?” the older agent asked.
“I don’t . . . Nothing.”
“Nothing? What kind of nothing?”
“Trick of the light,” the ME muttered, but he didn’t put his hand back on the girl’s face. “Looks like sewing thread,” he said curtly. “Thick, maybe like what’s used for upholstery. It’s certainly not medical. The stitching is too rudimentary to be a professional’s. Just small flecks of blood, so the mutilation probably occurred postmortem.”