surface for a shot, a thin layer of fine whitish dust had caught her attention. She guessed it was icing sugar (possibly the non-bleached organic kind) or something related to dessert, but would be taking samples in any case. Finding out exactly what was on the menu before the murder occurred could be crucial.
Taking a pack of sample dishes from her kitbag, Reilly used a cotton bud to pick up some of the fine powder. She also procured a few scraps of the leftover food before assigning a number to each dish, attaching a sticker and then number to the corresponding sample before placing each dish into individual evidence bags.
Feeling suddenly warm in her dust suit, she wiped her forehead with a latex-clad hand. She guessed the heating in the flat must be set on high, and knew this was something the ME would have to take into account, given how it would affect her time-of-death assessment.
It was the last thought Reilly had before she collapsed to the ground, and her head crashed against the tiled floor with a sickening thud.
CHAPTER 2
Tampa, Florida
Holly’s little Russian doll, Todd Forrest of the Tampa PD forensic unit decided.
That was what this crime scene reminded him of: one of those Russian nesting dolls that opened up to reveal another one inside. Babushka dolls, he thought, recalling the correct description. His childhood friend had carried that damn thing with her everywhere until she was eleven years old. Todd shook his head. He didn’t want to think about such memories now, not while he was standing at the scene of a vicious murder. It seemed like bad luck, somehow. Besides, he had a case that needed his focus.
The south city apartment complex was laid out in four two-story blocks, forming a square surrounding a fountain. Inside the square was a section blocked off by yellow crime scene tape, an area filled with a group of police officers. The top of the fountain was just visible over the heads of the tallest officers, but no one was looking up. All eyes were on the base of it upon which their victim, a brown-haired, green-eyed Russian girl, was splayed.
She didn’t look older than seventeen and she’d never be older than that now. She’d also been just as cute as the little babushka doll Todd remembered. And like that doll, it looked like someone had been expecting to find a smaller one inside. The girl had been sliced from ribcage to groin, leaving her stomach a gaping mess.
Todd felt the sudden desire to try to put her back together, good as new, the way you could with a toy, and he had to swallow around a lump in his throat. No one could ever put this poor girl back together. But he set his jaw; what he could do was piece together any clues he found to find the monster who did this, and help nail the son of a bitch to the wall.
He raked his thick dark hair back from his face and thought, not for the first time, that he needed a haircut. Between that and the clear blue eyes and fine features he’d inherited from his mother, he’d earned the nickname ‘Pretty’ almost immediately. One of the reasons he got on with his partner, senior forensic investigator Bradley Ford, was that the 42-year-old never used the moniker. Part of it could’ve been that Bradley’s Italian heritage had given him fairly exotic looks that attracted quite a bit of attention too.
Todd raised the camera and started snapping photographs from every angle. He’d learned to detach himself from what he saw through the lens. If every time he had to document a crime scene he saw the body as a person, he would’ve quit long ago. But too detached was just as dangerous, he knew. His father – esteemed ex-FBI criminal profiler Daniel Forrest – had taught him that.
So Todd had learned over time to try and balance emotion and professionalism, yet now at thirty-six years old and ten years working with Tampa CSI, he still wasn’t sure he’d gotten that particular equilibrium
Taking a pack of sample dishes from her kitbag, Reilly used a cotton bud to pick up some of the fine powder. She also procured a few scraps of the leftover food before assigning a number to each dish, attaching a sticker and then number to the corresponding sample before placing each dish into individual evidence bags.
Feeling suddenly warm in her dust suit, she wiped her forehead with a latex-clad hand. She guessed the heating in the flat must be set on high, and knew this was something the ME would have to take into account, given how it would affect her time-of-death assessment.
It was the last thought Reilly had before she collapsed to the ground, and her head crashed against the tiled floor with a sickening thud.
CHAPTER 2
Tampa, Florida
Holly’s little Russian doll, Todd Forrest of the Tampa PD forensic unit decided.
That was what this crime scene reminded him of: one of those Russian nesting dolls that opened up to reveal another one inside. Babushka dolls, he thought, recalling the correct description. His childhood friend had carried that damn thing with her everywhere until she was eleven years old. Todd shook his head. He didn’t want to think about such memories now, not while he was standing at the scene of a vicious murder. It seemed like bad luck, somehow. Besides, he had a case that needed his focus.
The south city apartment complex was laid out in four two-story blocks, forming a square surrounding a fountain. Inside the square was a section blocked off by yellow crime scene tape, an area filled with a group of police officers. The top of the fountain was just visible over the heads of the tallest officers, but no one was looking up. All eyes were on the base of it upon which their victim, a brown-haired, green-eyed Russian girl, was splayed.
She didn’t look older than seventeen and she’d never be older than that now. She’d also been just as cute as the little babushka doll Todd remembered. And like that doll, it looked like someone had been expecting to find a smaller one inside. The girl had been sliced from ribcage to groin, leaving her stomach a gaping mess.
Todd felt the sudden desire to try to put her back together, good as new, the way you could with a toy, and he had to swallow around a lump in his throat. No one could ever put this poor girl back together. But he set his jaw; what he could do was piece together any clues he found to find the monster who did this, and help nail the son of a bitch to the wall.
He raked his thick dark hair back from his face and thought, not for the first time, that he needed a haircut. Between that and the clear blue eyes and fine features he’d inherited from his mother, he’d earned the nickname ‘Pretty’ almost immediately. One of the reasons he got on with his partner, senior forensic investigator Bradley Ford, was that the 42-year-old never used the moniker. Part of it could’ve been that Bradley’s Italian heritage had given him fairly exotic looks that attracted quite a bit of attention too.
Todd raised the camera and started snapping photographs from every angle. He’d learned to detach himself from what he saw through the lens. If every time he had to document a crime scene he saw the body as a person, he would’ve quit long ago. But too detached was just as dangerous, he knew. His father – esteemed ex-FBI criminal profiler Daniel Forrest – had taught him that.
So Todd had learned over time to try and balance emotion and professionalism, yet now at thirty-six years old and ten years working with Tampa CSI, he still wasn’t sure he’d gotten that particular equilibrium
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