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a stranger murder, and the chocolate comment still puzzled her. Was it some sort of marker left behind by the killer, a signature of sorts? That thought propelled her into the office. She dropped her notes and purse on the edge of her desk and sank into her chair. After her computer booted up, she searched the paper’s online archives for any other cases that might match Maggie’s.
    A few minutes later, a story caught her eye. Stephanie Mortimer, 27, had been found dead in a rocky glade off Murfreesboro Road four months earlier. Sydney scanned the rest of the article, scribbling down pertinent facts as she went. Stephanie had been found nude and raped. Cause of death, strangulation. She spent the next hour scanning the follow-up articles about the case, one still open as far as she could tell.
    Her research found other similarities between the two girls. They both lived alone, were blond and quite striking. Quotes from those who knew them offered the same observations — they had lots of friends, no one could imagine anyone wanting to kill them.
    Unless that someone had picked them specifically for those reasons.
    Sydney exited the archives, then dialed Radley’s office, determined to get him to admit something bigger was going on, that there was information the women of Nashville needed to know to protect themselves.
    As the phone rang, she thought back to his parting comments the night before. He’d seemed so sincere, pained almost. If he was truly keeping quiet because he didn’t want to jeopardize the case, she could respect that. But she wouldn’t quit trying to convince him otherwise. He very well might have been burned before. Lord knew there were some reporters out there who bordered on unethical. She had no more use for them than the cops did.
    A woman on the other end of the line finally answered. When Sydney asked for Radley, the woman said, "Detective Radley is at the medical examiner’s office this morning. Can I take a message?"
    "No thanks." She hung up then headed for the door.
    "Where you off to?" Becky asked.
    "An autopsy."
    Becky shuddered. Sydney couldn’t agree more.
    When she reached Dr. Prewitt’s office, she stepped inside just long enough to verify Radley was still there then returned to her car to wait. The thought of an autopsy gave her the creeps. Though they were often necessary, she couldn’t get over the fact that they seemed invasive on some level other than the physical. She’d had nightmares for more than a year after she’d learned her mother’s body had undergone an autopsy.
    And now poor Maggie Field, who’d already been violated, was being subjected to even more intrusion in death.
    Maybe this time, the body would provide a trail of clues leading to the slime who’d taken life and death into his own hands and chosen death.
    ****
    Jake leaned against the wall and tried not to breathe too deeply. It didn’t matter that he’d stood in this room dozens of times before, he never got used to the smell of preservative, strong cleaners and death. The jars of tissue and body parts awaiting their day in court didn’t bother him, but the smell stuck in his nose for hours every time he attended an autopsy.
    Harry, however, whistled as if he were strolling down Myrtle Beach at sundown. Of course, he’d been doing autopsies since Jake had toddled around in diapers, and there wasn’t a type of homicide he hadn’t seen. The medical examiner circled Maggie’s body in the same precise way he always did, giving a running commentary to the recording microphone above the table.
    Jake remained quiet throughout the process. Unlike some of his colleagues, he didn’t interrupt Harry when he was working and didn’t suggest the older man lean one way or the other in his findings. Jake’s father had tried influencing Harry once when he’d been a young detective, and Harry had told him in no uncertain terms that he was wasting his breath. When it came to his job, Harry Prewitt was devoted to