Perfect Victim by Jay Bonansinga Page B

came back, toxicology has a cocktail of thiopental, prescription antidepressants in her bloodstream.”
    Grove clenched his teeth as he watched the poorly framed high-def image zoom into a close-up of the dead woman’s porcelain-white face, matted with blood and hair and seaweed. A cold, sharp knife-edge touched his heart. His eyes watered. “Agent Phipps, Ulysses Grove here—got a question.”
    â€œGo ahead, sir.”
    â€œWhat part of Galveston is the scene located in?”
    â€œI guess you could say this part of the island’s more of a transitional area. Commercial docks, bait shops, marinas, things of that nature.”
    The averages clicked in Grove’s mind. He stared at the screen. The shaky image panned across the blood-soaked sand, the stains like photocopies of both the blood-spattered wall in Minneapolis and the carnage-strewn beach in North Carolina. “Let me guess,” Grove said. “There’s a grand total of eleven sharp trauma wounds between the six vertebra and the sacrum.”
    On the screen the field agent looked at the coroner’s report, then looked up. “That’s right, did somebody—?”
    â€œTime of death,” Grove went on, staring at the table now, “is somewhere between eleven and noon Central Standard Time.”
    â€œYeah, that’s correct, but how did—?”
    â€œCause of death is heart failure stemming from hypovolemic shock.”
    â€œThat’s correct.”
    Grove closed his eyes. “Victim was last seen at a public place within fifty miles of the dump site.”
    Onscreen, Agent Keith Phipps was frowning. “Right again. But how—?”
    Corboy let out an irritated sigh. “Grove, that’s enough—”
    Grove kept his eyes closed. “Victim was kept alive for approximately twelve hours before the fatal wounds were inflicted.”
    â€œGrove—”
    â€œThere were three distinct shoeprints found at the scene, one of them male, size eleven and a half E.”
    â€œGrove, we get it,” Corboy grunted.
    â€œTire marks a hundred yards from the scene indicate a large multipurpose vehicle.”
    â€œGrove, I said that’s enough!”
    The suddenness and volume of Corboy’s outburst made Agent Phipps jerk with surprise at the pop in his earpiece. He stared into the camera. “What’s going on?” He let out a dry little nervous chuckle. “Y’all didn’t tell me I’d be visitin’ with a psychic.”
    â€œAgent Phipps,” Corboy said, his voice laced with thinly veiled anger, “we have reason to believe we got a copycat situation—”
    Grove saw something. “Hold on a second, hold on…hold on.” He stood up, his startled tone of voice making everybody in the room pause. He stared at the shaky video. “Stop the playback—freeze it!”
    â€œWhat?” Agent Phipps looked confused.
    â€œFreeze the video, please.”
    Agent Phipps glanced off-camera, whispering something to an assistant.
    Grove watched the shaky image panning across foamy waves washing up across the beach. He cocked his head slightly, favoring his good eye, as he stared—an unconscious habit he had developed since his left eye had been injured.
    All at once the video froze.
    â€œOkay, now I need you to rewind it, just go back about five seconds.”
    Agent Phipps glanced off camera. “Johnny, you get that? Back it up five seconds.”
    Corboy rose. “What is it, Grove? What are we looking at here?”
    The image blurred slightly as it quickly rewound. The camera was panning across the beach in reverse, scanning the dirty sand, the shells and trash and shards of driftwood littering the beach. Grove took a step closer to the screen. “Right there! Freeze it there!”
    Phipps said, “Pause it right there, Johnny.”
    Corboy stared at the screen. “What is it?”
    The image froze at