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fourth.
    The girls were linked in death by gaping neck wounds, the newspaper clippings, the knots and that damnable Chanel lipstick. Blood tests indicated they were over the legal limit for intoxication, with BAL’s in the 1.5-2.0 range. Rohypnol showed on the tox screens. It was obvious they’d all been killed by the same man. Whether it was the original Snow White or a copycat was still up for debate. A marked difference in the new murders versus the 1980’s slayings was the slick, creamy residue on the girls’ faces. Hindered by the fact that they couldn’t do their own DNA testing, Sam was still waiting on DNA results. The DNA would tell the truth—a copycat or the original killer. Taylor leaned toward the former. The differences were subtle, but there.
    “Yo, earth to Taylor? Can I get some help here?”
    “Oh, gosh, Sam, sorry. I was thinking about something else.”
    Sam gave her a sharp glance, then pointed at the girl’s lower body.
    “Can you pull up her right leg for me? I should put her in stirrups, but since you’re here…”
    “Sure, of course. Yeah, no problem.”
    Taylor reached for the dead girl’s leg, ignoring the bizarre sensation of dead flesh against her thin latex gloves. It felt a bit like the skin on a store-bought chicken breast, rubbery, loose. Her hand almost slipped, and she chided herself. Jeez, girl, get a frickin’ grip already. She took a better hold and pulled the leg back, exposing the girl’s genitals. Sam was already at work, swabbing, following the necessary indignities. Taylor tried to watch the back of her friend’s head, but saw something glint, a reflection of the light. She looked closer.
    “A clit ring?”
    “Yeah,” Sam replied, a bit of disgust in her voice.
    “You’d be amazed at how many I see. Not someplace I’d particularly enjoy having a needle shoved through, but hey, that’s just me.”
    Taylor shuddered at the thought. Ouch.
    “Here it is.”
    Taylor’s heart sank as she watched Sam ease a small package out of the girl’s vagina. Wrapped in cellophane, it was coated in junk—blood, sperm and whatever else—Taylor really didn’t want to know. Sam eased the package, no bigger than a business card, onto a stainless-steel tray. She gestured to Taylor.
    “It’s all yours, if you want.”
    “No, I think I’ll let you dissect it for me, but thanks.”
    “You’re never going to get the hang of this, are you?”
    “Sweetie, that’s the reason I didn’t go to med school and you did. Open it up, let’s see what we have.”
    Sam picked the packet open gingerly, putting aside the cellophane for later testing. “Trace is going to have a field day with that,” she murmured.
    Taylor gazed at the body. What was it about this one that felt different?
    “How long had she been dead, Sam?”
    “By the time I got there? No more than an hour.”
    “So we just missed him. Why did he change his MO?”
    “Beats me, T. You’re the detective. Detect.”
    Taylor gave her a brief smile, then grew serious again.
    “How is no one missing this girl? All three of the other victims had missing-person reports on file. She looks maintained—fresh manicure, eyebrows shaped, hair’s healthy and well cut. She got drunk somewhere, with someone. She’s not lost. We should have a report on her.”
    “You’re right, we should. She’s younger than the earlier victims. Look at her X-rays over there. The dental series shows that her third molars are still developing. If I had to wager, I’d say she was between fifteen and seventeen. I don’t know, sweets. Maybe the system just hasn’t been updated, or her parents are out of town and don’t know she’s missing.”
    Sam finished tweezing out the contents of the little cellophane package. It was a piece of paper, newsprint. They both knew what it would say once they got it open. They were right.
    Murder in Nashville
    Snow White Killer Strikes Again
    The date on the article was December 14, 1986. Sam was staring