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A shift in the wind forced Damien to look away, the smell of rotting flesh rushed across his face like a hard slap. The more he stood there, the more he felt the scent of death would cover him like morning dew.

“Damien,” a voice said.

Ted Sherman, Damien’s best friend and fellow cadet, appeared from behind the crime scene van.

“You made it,” he continued, eyeing Damien’s uniform. “Nice outfit.”

“Shut up. Next time don’t sound so emphatic.”

“Yeah,” Ted said with a laugh. “It’s my fault.”

Damien motioned to the body under the stairs.

“Looks like Mark’s work,” Damien said.

“Yeah, which is probably why we’re here.”

“Who called you?”

“Dispatch,” Ted said.

“Then who wants us here?” Damien asked.

“I do,” Lieutenant Decker said, suddenly behind them. Damien turned to face his commander, who gave Damien’s uniform the once over, but remained silent.

Decker was thick with muscle, but still lean enough to move quickly, and had a strong jaw that a sculptor would love.

“So, I’m guessing that’s not a prostitute under the stairs?” Damien asked.

“Final identification is still in progress, but my guess is she’s Mandy Templeton. Twenty-one. A cashier from Discount Joes down by the citrus plant. Been missing for three days. Went out to the back alley for a smoke and never came back.”

“Just like Mark’s last victim.”

“Which is why you’re here,” Decker said. “How can we help?” Damien asked.

“Have either of you been in touch with Mark? Visited him on death row?”

Damien and Ted shook their heads no.

The thought had occurred to Damien. More than a thought, a persistent urge gnawed at him. He wanted to look Mark in the eye to see if there was still a part of the child he once knew, but he was afraid of the evil that would stare back at him. Mark’s horrific acts had already caused enough nightmares for Damien. He didn’t want to add more material for his subconscious to chew on while he slept.

“What about fans?” Decker asked. “You hear about any fans of Mark’s work? Anyone who may want to emulate him? Do him homage by copying his crimes?”

“There was some chatter back in high school when Mark got caught. Some guys talked about how he was doing the world a favor by getting rid of sluts, but it seemed more like people trying to prop themselves up than somebody looking to kill.”

“Do you remember their names?”

Damien and Ted shared a look and nodded.

“I think we could piece them together,” Ted said.

“But sir, that was almost ten years ago,” Damien said. “That’s about as cold of a lead as you can get.”

“You never know,” Decker said. “Sometimes it takes killers years to evolve, to get enough balls to finally act out their fantasies. Maybe Mark planted a seed in one of your classmates that took ten years to bear fruit.”

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” an officer said from the other side of the police tape.

Decker approached him while Damien and Ted stepped carefully toward the body under the stairs.

One of the crime scene techs used a battery powered drill to unfasten the steps from the wooden porch and eased it away from the corpse, exposing the entire body.
Flies hovered above the woman, whose cold body was nearly hidden by the dirt of her shallow grave. The closer Damien got, the more the smell grew unbearable. It reminded him of the stench of road kill, only a thousand times worse.

“How long has she been dead?” Damien asked the technician.

“Don’t know,” she said. “We don’t touch the body. That’s the morgue’s job. After we’re done, they’ll take her and the coroner will perform the autopsy.”

“How long will that take?”

“They normally finish in a few days, before the body turns any more sour, but his official report could take a couple of weeks.”

Damien leaned over the technician’s shoulder and looked at Mandy’s hand sticking out of the sand. The tips of her fingers had scrapes and small cuts, perhaps from her fight to save her own life, and dirt had settled in the creases of her skin so completely that Damien could almost see her fingerprints.

In stark contrast, Mandy’s nails, which had been bitten down to the quick, were painted with fresh red nail polish. No chips or scratches. No dirt under her nails. It appeared the polish was applied after her death, before she was buried.

Damien didn’t remember reading about such behavior in the police files on Daisy Hicks, Mark’s last victim. Her nails were painted red, but were also broken as she clawed at Mark’s thick arms. No care was taken post mortem by Mark to clean her up. She was dumped, like garbage.

Maybe this wasn’t a copycat and had nothing to do with Damien’s childhood friend after all. Or, perhaps this was the new killer’s identifying mark, the thing that separated him from his idol on death row.

Either way, it appeared a serial killer was loose in Hayeston again and, if they were mimicking Mark’s crimes, Damien knew at least one more blonde young woman was going to die.