French circled the body. Silver tape had been twisted around the victim’s head to bind her mouth and keep her quiet. Parts of her had been opened up, and parts removed. Her toes grazed the floor, and he saw drag lines in the blood. The way she’d fought. The way she’d swung. “White female. Mid- to late twenties.” French sought comfort in the routine; couldn’t find it. “Jesus, Ken. I’ve never seen anything like this. Not ever, not even close.”

“I tried to count the cuts while I waited for you. I stopped at ninety-seven. That’s when I got to the, uh, the…” Burklow pointed at the raw patches where her breasts had been cut away. “You think she was alive when that happened?”

“Possibly.”

French pulled on rubber gloves, and moved blood-crusted hair from the woman’s face. One eye was swollen closed, the nostrils black with blood. He studied cheekbones, the good eye. Something about the face was familiar.

“You okay, Bill?”

“Um…”

“What is it?”

“I was just, uh…” French shook his head as if to hide a sudden sickness. He pointed, but had no idea if Burklow was looking or not. “She chewed through the tape. No wedding ring. No other jewelry. Any sign of her clothing?”

“Not yet.”

French stepped away from the body, more than shaken. Undone. “Check for me, will you?”

“Bill, you don’t look so great.”

“Search for the clothing, okay? I need a minute here.”

“Yeah. Course. Whatever you say.”

Burklow lurched into the shadows, and French took the most difficult breath of his life as a cop. He counted to ten, then lifted the woman’s head a second time.

He knew the face; he’d met her.

A week ago she was screwing his son.

Twenty minutes later, the place was crawling with cops, technicians, pathologists. Directing their movements, French appeared to be in perfect control; but deep down, he warred with himself.

Tyra …

That was her name.

“Do we have ID on the victim?”

French turned in the hot sun. He’d not heard the footsteps. “Captain, I’m sorry. Say again?”

“Do we have a name yet? An address? Did you find a wallet? A driver’s license?”

David Martin stepped closer. As a homicide captain, he was competent, fair, and smart. Generally, French liked him. Not now. “No, sir. No ID.”

“What about the kid who found her?”

The captain was a clear-eyed, narrow man in his early fifties. French looked past him. The kid was still in the car. “He’s pretty shut down. I’ll try him again in a bit.”

The captain nodded, already distracted. “This’ll be a media shit storm. You know that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So let’s keep it tight. You and Burklow, the medical examiner and me.” He pointed at other detectives. “Martinez. Smith. We’re the only ones who’ve seen the body, right?”

“The boy…”

“Of course, the boy.”