Free Body Count by P.D. Martin Page A

Flynn and see the dead woman. It’s her! Her face looks just as it did last night, when I saw her throat being slashed. My legs go weak. What the hell’s going on?
    â€œHer name’s Susan Young. Twenty-nine years old, ran her own training firm,” Sam tells me, though I am barely listening.
    I force myself back to the scene. “Who found the body?”
    â€œWe got a tip-off early this morning,” Flynn says.
    I take my eyes away from the victim. “The perp call it in?” Killers like to get involved in the case, and sometimes they report the crime itself.
    â€œProbably. The caller said he was a jogger, but it would be pretty hard, if not impossible, for a jogger to see into here from the path,” Flynn says.
    â€œSo why’d he want us to find this one so quickly?” I say, looking at Susan. A couple of strands of her long red hair lie across her face.
    Flynn shrugs. “The note, I guess.”
    Sam holds up an evidence bag with a pink envelope in it. “They found this in the victim’s pocket.”
    On the front is cursive writing addressed to:
    Sam Wright
    Behavioral Analysis Unit
    FBI
    â€œHandwriting. Maybe he’s not as smart as we thought.”
    â€œHe is.”
    I look at Sam questioningly.
    â€œThe note is handwritten, but he’s printed and used caps.”
    I nod. Printing and capital letters are harder for handwriting experts to analyze, or even to compare samples. It’s not impossible, but it makes the going tough.
    â€œWhat does it say?” I ask.
    Sam and Flynn both flip open their notepads.
    â€œYou go,” Sam says.
    â€œDEAR MS WRIGHT, I WAS DELITED TO HEAR MY CASE HAS BEEN ASSIGNED TO YOU. I’VE FOLLOWEDYOUR WORK CLOSELY AND AM IMPRESSED. I PARTICULARLY LIKED THE WAY YOU HANDLED THE MINNESOTA CASE IN 2002. YOU SHUT HIM UP GOOD, DIDN’T YOU?”
    I wince. The Minnesota case was Sam’s last in the field before coming to the BAU. It was a drug bust but the police hadn’t told her they had someone on the inside. During an exchange of fire he pointed his gun at Sam. She shot him, naturally, but his gun had blanks. It caused lots of problems—official and emotional.
    Sam gives me a tight smile.
    â€œThis is the really worrying bit.” Flynn doesn’t notice the exchange and continues reading out the letter. “I LOOK FORWARD TO WORKING WITH YOU. WITH LOVE, ME. PS I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE WINE LAST NIGHT.”
    He flips the pad shut. “This is not good.”
    A rush of images hits me. I’m standing at my window, pulling the curtains closed and there’s a shadow on the street. Then I am that shadow, watching my living room. I see myself pull the living-room curtains closed and the shadow’s angry. Angry that I’ve shut him out. The images bring with them a burning pain across my eyes and I stumble forward.
    Flynn catches my elbow and steadies me. “Are you all right, Sophie?” He’s never used my first name before.
    â€œYeah. Sorry. I think I’ve got a migraine coming on.”
    This is getting creepy. Real creepy. The girl I saw in my dreams is lying in a flower bed only two feet away from me. Are they dreams, or could I be having premonitions? I immediately want to reject the notion.
    Sam’s voice breaks my train of thought. “Do you want to look around?”
    I look up at her, still a little dazed.
    â€œYou sure you’re all right?” she says.
    I pull myself together. “Yeah, just a headache.”
    â€œI’ll send you both my report once I’ve done the autopsy,” the coroner says, addressing Flynn and Sam.
    â€œTime of death around midnight last night?” I have to ask, to be sure, but I know that at precisely five after midnight, I somehow witnessed this woman’s murder.
    â€œSomewhere in that vicinity, yes. I’ll pinpoint it back at the lab. How’d you know?”
    I have to think fast. “Well, the perp