Sam said, and Stephanie left with a grin.
“I’m hot for teacher,” Xander said, and Sam swatted him with the letter.
“Quit it. The last thing I need is a reputation for looseness among my students.” She sat on the desk next to him and opened the letter. Thick strokes of black ink, the words slanted to the right. A man’s handwriting.
She read the first line, felt the breath leave her body. “Uh-oh.”
Xander caught her tone. “What’s wrong?”
She scanned the rest of the letter. “You need to hear this.” She read it aloud, vaguely noticed her voice was shaking.
“Dear Dr. Owens,
If you are reading this letter, I am dead. I would be most grateful if you would solve my murder. I know how determined you are, and talented. If anyone can figure out this mess, it’s you.
I’ve compiled a list of suspects for you to look at, and set aside some money to cover your expenses. I fear your life may be in danger once they find I’ve contacted you, so I urge you to take every precaution.
Yours,
Timothy R. Savage”
“Let me see that.” Xander took the letter from her, barely touching the corner between his thumb and forefinger. Sam watched his face as he read it, saw the darkness draw over him like a shroud.
“Who the hell is Timothy Savage?”
“I have no idea. But it’s a pretty sick joke. Who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. John Baldwin, maybe? Trying to draw you into a case against your will?”
She opened her mouth to deny the possibility, but stopped herself. She’d known Baldwin for many years. He was engaged to her best friend. He was a good man, a no-nonsense cop in addition to being a talented profiler. He wouldn’t resort to manipulation. Would he?
“No. It’s not him.”
Xander shrugged. “Where’s the envelope?”
In her surprise, she’d dropped it on the floor. She pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and picked it up, careful not to directly touch any part of it. Ridiculous, she’d already gotten her prints all over it, so had Stephanie and countless others, but she had to treat it as evidence now.
“Return address is Lynchburg, Virginia,” she said. “Let me plug it into my laptop, see if it’s real.”
He read the information to her, and she entered it into Google. The name Timothy Savage popped up, along with a map of his address, and a death notice from the local Lynchburg paper.
“Oh, no. Xander, Timothy Savage really is dead.”
Xander breathed hard out his nose. “Then Sam, honey, you better call Fletcher. This might not be a joke, after all.”
Chapter
2
Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens
Anacostia
Washington, D.C.
D.C. HOMICIDE DETECTIVE Darren Fletcher was knee-deep in marsh water, standing over the body of a male Caucasian, approximately twenty to twenty-four years of age, who didn’t appear to have a mark on him. But he was dead, without a doubt, staked to a small canoe dock ten feet offshore, bobbing in the gentle tidal flow of the Anacostia River. Fletcher stared at the boy—he really was too young to be called anything else—and thought of his own son, only a few years younger, and promised to be a better father. He’d lost count of how many times he’d stood over deceased young men and made the same fervent prayer.
He slapped at a mosquito, brought his hand away from his neck with a smear of blood on his palm.
Murder. It came in all forms.
But this, who would kill a man this way? Tying him to a stake in a river, leaving him to drown? Had the killer watched as the tide slowly rose, waiting to see the results of his handiwork? Watched the terror of his victim, the dawning knowledge that death was coming for him? The boy’s eyes were open, caked in mud, as if he’d looked at someone in his last moment. The water had spilled over his head, then receded, leaving its filthy, choking mark.
Fletcher shook off a chill, glanced around for cameras and saw none.
Lonnie Hart, his longtime partner, came down the path to the water. He gave a sharp, clear whistle.
Fletcher’s head snapped up. “What’s the matter?”
Lonnie waved for him to come back onto dry land. He headed off, not unhappy to have to get out of the marshy water. It smelled, fecund and ripe, and the body’s bloated rawness wasn’t helping.
When he got closer, Hart said, “We’re in luck. Another five feet out and it would belong to us, but you’re standing on federal land. I called the Fibbies, told them to get their pretty little behinds over here. National park, it’s their jurisdiction. We’ll let them take over.”
“Thank God for small mercies, eh, Lonnie?” And to the body: “Sorry, dude. Red ties are coming. They’ll treat you right.”
He squished up the bank, climbed out of the muck. Hart stuck out a hand and helped tow him onto the small wooden dock. Once on dry land, he shook like a dog, spraying droplets of water on Hart, who punched him on the shoulder and nearly toppled him back into the river.
“Ugh. Come on, man. That’s gross.”
Fletcher grinned at him, then stripped off his socks and wadded them up, stowed them in the pocket of his gym shorts and slid his dry loafers back on his feet. It was a stroke of luck his gym bag was still in the car, sheer laziness on his part not taking it into the house after his workout last night. He hardly wanted to ruin his good pants getting into the nasty water.
“Not sure if I’m happy about this being a Fed case. Haven’t seen one of the strange ones lately. I could have used a challenge.”
“Fletch, you’ve seen enough weird for two lifetimes.”
“True that.”
He cast a last look toward the boy, shrugged and started back up the hill into the park. There were two patrol officers guarding the scene, both sweating in the steamy August heat, plus several others milling about, waiting for Fletcher and Hart to tell them what was what. It might rain this afternoon, a welcome storm to cool things off for the evening, but now the air was still, hot and sticky, and Fletch was thankful he wasn’t in uniform.
Hart grabbed the logbook and signed out of the scene. Fletcher followed suit, then said, “Heads up, kids. The Feds will be coming. Once they’re here, you can release the scene to them.”
The patrols nodded miserably, the lights from their patrol cars flashing red-and-blue streaks across their faces.
He ignored the rest of the masses, went to his car
