The wedding band on the body’s left ring finger gleamed in the bleak December light; despite the layer of flat clouds that shaded that corner of the world.

The man’s face had been viciously assaulted, but the rest of the body seemed unharmed. Blood vessels of an intense blue were visible beneath the skin on either side of the neck. The man had shaved on the day he died. The shadow of a beard they could now see was caused by the postmortem tightening of the skin on his face.

“Minimal signs of hemorrhage, not compatible with the severity of the wounds inflicted. There is likely to be more blood on the clothes, which would have been removed after the fact.”

A pause.

“The killer stripped and prepared the victim.”

Despite the meticulous arrangement of the scene, there were prints everywhere, on the body and on the ground—now a cross between mud and ice—as if the perpetrator had somehow forgotten to take care of the most basic of details. There was only one other set of footprints apart from the victim’s own, and judging by their size—a 10—they belonged to a man.

There were no signs of ligature anywhere on the dead man’s arms, wrists, or ankles. The victim had been tall and robust, of relatively athletic build, yet the killer had managed to overcome him easily. He had attacked with animalistic fury.

You knew the killer; that’s why you didn’t immediately try to defend yourself. What went through your mind in that moment, when you realized you were about to die?

It was hard to tell from the expression on the body’s face. The lips were sealed shut, and the eyes . . .

The body had been left in a spot between a natural drainage ditch and a walking path that was used by tourists throughout most of the year. A hiker had found it a few hours earlier. It was neither a coincidence nor a mistake; the assassin had deliberately chosen not to hide it.

“I see no signs of sexual activity, yet the killer stripped the victim.”

The chief of the local police force had informed them that the body belonged to a family man who had disappeared two days ago after dropping his son off at school. His car had been found about a hundred yards from the body, shielded from view by trees. It had been pushed off a cliff. There were footprints and tire marks on the ground above.

“The killer travelled on foot. The footsteps lead to the forest.”

Detective Superintendent Battaglia paused the voice recording and looked up at the sky. A few crows squawked overhead. Dark clouds carried the threat of snowfall.

They were running out of time. They had to move faster, be more efficient.