Rage. Pure rage, thought Brody. “Can you tell me anything about the killer?”

“The deepest bruise on her neck is from his right thumb. He was likely right-handed. The span of his hands indicates an average to large adult male.”

Not much help. Ninety percent of humans were right-handed.

“I’ll let you know as soon as the rest of the lab tests come back.”

“Thanks.” On his way out of the suite, Brody glanced back at the corpse. A visual played in his head: a man sitting on top of this woman, punching her, wrapping his hands around her throat until she stopped breathing, then getting up and pounding her face with a bat. His gaze strayed to the photos fixed to a board next to the body, close-ups of her injuries, X-rays of her throat. Manual strangulation was a very intimate means of murder.

Did he know you?

Most murders were committed by someone who knew the victim. In this case, Brody hoped that was true. An intimate killing might be a one-time thing. If not, Scarlet Falls had a very violent and unpredictable killer on the loose.

Brody left the medical examiner and walked across the parking lot of the municipal complex to the neighboring building that housed the crime scene investigator’s offices. He paused to sniff the crisp air and clear his nose, mostly, of the foul stench that had accumulated in his nostrils in the autopsy suite. But the scent of death clung with stubborn determination. Two minutes in the morgue, and Brody swore his hair and clothes stank of decay.

The CSI unit occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor. Brody found Darcy Stevens, latent fingerprint examiner, at her desk.

He knocked on the door frame.

Darcy looked up. Though he knew her to be almost fifty, Darcy’s coffee-colored complexion was wrinkle free. She wore her hair pulled back in a painfully tight bun. Her suit and blouse were solid black to defy the dark powders intrinsic to her job. Sipping from an extra-large paper cup of coffee at her elbow, she waved him in.

“Hi, Brody.” Her voice was deep, the 900-number richness of it countered by her severe dress and hairstyle, no doubt as she intended.

Brody smiled at the picture of a wrinkled newborn tucked into the corner of her blotter. “Morning, Darcy. How’s the new grandbaby?”

Handing the photo over, she beamed. “He is eight pounds and four ounces of adorable perfection.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of hair.” Brody gave it back. “How does it feel to be a grandma?”

“Wonderful. I get to cuddle with him all I want, then go home and get a full night’s sleep.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“It is.” She slipped the picture into place. “I bet you’re here about the Jane Doe that came in yesterday?”

“I am. Have you had any luck?”