It was one of her new T.A.s, Stephanie Wilhelm, a slight blonde with a sharp sense of humor to match her highly unorthodox look—today a black Metallica concert T-shirt under a black men’s pin-striped jacket and dark jeans tucked into leather combat boots. Sam liked the girl. Her independence among the clones had landed her the coveted T.A. position in the first place.
“Forgive me, Dr. Owens, but this letter arrived for you. It’s marked urgent. I thought I should bring it to you right away.”
Her words were directed to Sam, but her eyes were locked on Xander, who was sitting on the edge of Sam’s desk, arms crossed on his broad chest, vibrating in amusement as he watched her fumble with her button.
“Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it.”
“If you need anything else...” She dropped off, winked lasciviously.
“Out,” 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?”