teas. Of course, she hadn’t expected to run across a freshly butchered body her first week.
She scanned the area. No sign of her photographer even though he’d said he’d meet her here. Good thing she always kept her camera in her car. This could be big. She was glad her boss had gotten hold of the story so quickly, though it would have been nice if she’d beaten the TV reporters here.
“Get these people out of here—now. You can start with the broad on stilts.”
Caroline spun around to see who was barking orders and singling her out for his scorn. The guy was tall and brawny, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that had seen a couple of thousand washings.
“I’m a reporter with the Prentice Times and I have every right to be here,” she shot back.
“Wrong. It’s a crime scene. You have no rights.” He stormed past her and headed to the spot where the TV camera was rolling.
“Obnoxious ass,” she murmured, too low for him to hear, but apparently not low enough. Another cop stepped to her side while she stood there debating what to do next.
“Don’t pay no attention to Sam,” he said. “That’s just his way.”
“Rude and all bark?”
“Hell, no. Sam’s more vicious than a bulldog on speed. I just meant you shouldn’t take it personally. He feels that way ’bout all reporters.”
That was just too bad. The TV cameras were running. She had to at least get a story. Someone else came up and started talking to the cop and she slipped away, this time all but running toward the action.
The cop yelled at her to come back. She ignored him, hoping that wasn’t grounds for arrest. A few yards later she was close enough to see the body. The woman was lying on her back, naked. Her neck was gaping open and giant X’s had been painted in blood across her breasts.
Caroline’s stomach heaved and she turned away, suddenly so nauseated she could barely stand. Someone told her to get out of the way. This time she did, slinking into the nearby bushes and throwing up everything but the lining of her stomach. When she finished, the young cop who’d tried to stop her earlier was standing right behind her.
“Must have been something I ate,” she said.
“Yeah. I almost did the same thing when I saw the victim.”
Almost. Meaning he hadn’t. She was obviously green, both literally and figuratively.
“Are you all right now?” he asked.
“I will be in a minute. What’s the story on the dead woman?”
“There isn’t one yet.”
“Who found the body?”
“Not sure, but whoever it was called the TV station. They were here before the cops, which is why Sam’s fit to be tied. Probably the most brutal crime to ever hit Prentice, and his crime scene is compromised.”
“Is he in charge of the investigation?”
“He’s the head of homicide. Makes sense he’d head up this one.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Turner.”
Detective Sam Turner. The name seemed familiar, but she was certain she’d never met the man before. He might be irritating, but he wasn’t the kind of man you’d forget. More intimidating than handsome, but rugged—and brawny enough that a woman had to notice.
“I hate to run you off,” the cop said, “but Sam gave orders to clear the area of reporters.”
Yeah, especially the “broad in stilts.” She nodded and started back in the direction of the gate. Only, she made a turn at the last minute when she realized no one was watching her, took a deep breath to calm her stomach and rattled nerves, then walked back to the body. This time when she got there, she started snapping pictures, though she imagined they’d be too gory to run in the morning paper.
Detective Sam Turner appeared from nowhere and stuck his hand in front of her lens. “I hope there’s a very good reason why you’re still here.”
“I’ll be writing an article for tomorrow’s edition of the local paper, and I have a couple of questions.”
“Oh, well, let’s just forget the killer and try to get you a story.”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Do you have any suspects?”
“Hey, Turner,” someone called from an area beyond the immediate crime scene. “Come take a look at this.”
“Be right there.” He turned back to her. “I don’t have a suspect or a motive or even an identification of the victim, and I don’t give a damn what you write in your little article. I do care that some woman was sliced up like a slab of meat, so if you’ll get out of my way, I’d like to find out who did the carving.”
“Should the public be concerned that…”
He turned and walked away as if she were a pesky fly not even worth swatting.
But he had told her what she needed to know. There were no leads and the victim was as yet unidentified. Slim, but she could stretch it into a front-page story, especially if any of the pictures were publishable.
This was no doubt the most macabre murder to hit quiet little Prentice in a long, long time. Maybe since forever. She’d have to call her boss the minute she got to the car and tell him to hold her a spot on the front page.
The Prentice Times was a small-town daily and John Rhodes, both editor in chief and managing editor, had a very hands-on management style. He’d want to see every word of this story before it went to print.
According to the lore of reporters, she should be experiencing some kind of rush right now. But all she felt was a queasiness deep in her gut and a nameless dread that seemed to reach clear to her soul.
She’d write the article, and every parent who picked up the morning paper would feel a knot of fear when they read it. Those who didn’t know where their daughters were would become sick with worry.
This was some career she’d chosen—or that had chosen her. A frightening, challenging, dubious hell of a career.
COPS, TV CAMERAS, reporters. What a show. And down to a man—and woman—they’d recoiled at their first glimpse of the body. But they stayed and stared, soaking up the sight of gore as if they couldn’t get enough.
They were wondering, no doubt, how it felt to actually wield the knife, imagining the frisson when the first blood spilled from her body. They envied him. Not that they’d ever admit it. They considered themselves above such cravings, but he knew better.
They were fascinated with the act of murder, the same way racing fans lived for the big crashes and people stayed glued to their TVs when tragedy hit.
He watched and studied them all, especially Detective Sam Turner. But his gaze was drawn again and again to the reporter in the sexy red dress.
