Her Final Breath (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 2) by Robert Dugoni

limbs, tightening the noose and cutting off the supply of oxygen. Eventually, she passes out.”
    “How long could she last?”
    “Hard to say, considering the victims are under considerable stress.”
    “What about the burn marks on her feet?” Kins asked.
    “Definitely from a cigarette,” Funk said.
    “But no marks on Nicole Hansen?”
    “No.”
    “So something’s changed,” Tracy said. “Any other scars or healed bruises to indicate she was into this kind of thing?”
    “No. Couple bruises but nothing dramatic,” Funk said.
    “How long before we get the rest of the toxicology report?”
    “Lab promised to rush it, along with the vaginal swabs and cultures. But I don’t believe it will reveal she was sexually assaulted.” Funk exhaled a long sigh. A serial killer changed every aspect of the investigation. The stakes were higher, the pressure for an arrest were exponentially greater, and the consequences of a mistake that allowed a killer to stay at large were fatal.
    Tracy checked her watch. “We better meet Veronica Watson’s family.”
    Funk rolled his chair away from the desk. “Shirley and Lawrence Berkman. They live out in Duvall.”
    “You meet with them yet?” Tracy asked.
    Funk shook his head. “I spoke to the mother over the phone.”
    “How’d she take the news?” Tracy asked.
    “She sounded pretty shaken up. I didn’t talk to the father.”
    “Stepfather,” Kins said. “Some indication he’s the reason she left home.”
    Funk led them down a pristine hall and pushed open the door to the family room. Comfortably furnished and softly lit, the room was a dramatic improvement from the cold and drab waiting area in the old facility. A middle-aged couple facing the windows turned from the view when the door opened. Tracy assessed Shirley Berkman to be midfifties trying to look midthirties. Her blue jeans were too tight and tucked into knee-high black boots. A white blouse displayed a freckled chest. She wore heavy makeup and an assortment of rings and bracelets, and Tracy wondered if she’d been so adorned when she received the news of her daughter’s murder or had taken the time to put on makeup and jewelry before coming downtown.
    Lawrence Berkman had a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a black leather jacket covered with colorful patches and blue jeans creased like neatly pressed slacks, which flared over cowboy boots. He, too, favored silver rings and bracelets—and, according to Earl Keen, his young stepdaughter.
    Funk introduced himself and then Tracy and Kins. Shirley Berkman extended a limp hand. Lawrence kept a hand pressed against his wife’s back, as if steadying her.
    “Is it Veronica?” Lawrence asked Kins.
    “We think so,” he said.
    “I’m going to need you to positively identify her,” Funk said.
    Shirley asked Kins, “Did you find her?”
    “We did,” Kins said.
    “What happened to her?” Lawrence asked. Tracy detected a Texas accent, a subtle twang—and an underlying tone of anger or irritation.
    “We’ll have time for that later,” Kins said.
    Funk gave the Berkmans his rehearsed spiel about the shock of seeing a loved one and the possibility they could feel faint. He explained that Veronica was in the processing room, her body covered with a sheet. “I’ll wait until you say you’re ready. It will only be the face.”
    When the Berkmans nodded their understanding, Funk led them into the room. Tracy and Kins kept back a respectful distance. No amount of soft lighting or interior decorating could camouflage the cold and harsh reality of the stainless steel tables and sinks. The polished linoleum floors reflected the overhead fluorescent lights, creating a kind of mirage that could be momentarily disorienting.
    Funk’s staff had placed Veronica’s body on the table farthest from the door. Even with Veronica beneath a sheet, Tracy could tell her muscles had relaxed sufficiently for Funk to straighten her limbs, and she