Chapter 50

Dana neared the police tape,wishing she'd be able to stay on this side of things. But Hartwell spotted her, immediately waving her over. She ducked under the yellow plastic tape delineating the crime scene in the parking lot of Montrose Park and joined Hartwell.

"Sorry it took me so long," she apologized. "Getting clear of the news coverage at my house wasn't easy."

"I hope Shepard conveyed that wasn't my doing."

Dana nodded; her lips pressed together in concern. "We've got a bigger problem."

"What's that?"

"Your John Doe … Claire ID'd him."

Hartwell scratched his head in confusion after Dana finished relaying Claire's reaction to the news footage. "Cash Holloway? You're not serious?"

"I'm afraid so."

Even Dana knew Cash's celebrity parents. Theo and Zariah Holloway—rock royalty. The Cuban and Haitian born artists recently surprised the music world by putting down roots in D.C. where they were using their influence to lobby for civil rights.

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes. He was a patient at Passages with Claire. We both saw him today at St. Ann's. He's wearing the same thing," Dana said, gesturing to the jacket she could see peeking out from beneath the coroner's sheet.

Hartwell swore. "For once those vultures were helpful," he grumbled, glaring at the news cameras hovering just behind the police tape.

He pulled out his phone, punched in a number and spoke quietly to whomever was on the other end. "Get a message to the Holloways. I need a positive ID on a John Doe I'm sending to the morgue." He paused. "Yes, those Holloways. And do it discreetly."

Hanging up, Hartwell turned back to Dana. "Two bodies in 48 hours. This guy is out to prove something."

"The question is what?" Dana replied.

"I've preserved the scene for you. I'm hoping being here in person will give you a better picture of what we're dealing with."

"No fire this time?"

Hartwell shook his head. "I don't think we're dealing with an arsonist. The fire at the first scene was most likely a diversion. Our killer didn't need one out here."

"Were there any witnesses this time?"

Hartwell nodded. "About half a dozen. We took statements. They all add up to the same thing. Assailant in a black hoodie fleeing the scene on foot."

"Male?"

"There's some discrepancy there. We're still compiling statements."

"And the weapon?"

"Well, you're the expert. You tell me." Hartwell led the way into the fray of police officers, evidence techs, and first responders.

A thin mist of rain had begun to fall. The wet pavement danced with the reflection of police lights in the darkness. Dana stooped next to the sheet-draped figure to examine the large blade on the ground. The yellow evidence marker looked out of place next to the scythe. Like it was a movie prop rather than a murder weapon.

"The inscription is the same," she said, her gaze transfixed on the Latin phrase etched into the blade. Vita est morte est vita. She looked up at Hartwell, who stood over her like a shadow. "Are you sure the scythe used on Hayes is still in evidence?"

"Had the same thought. Everything was transferred when DOJ took over. So, no, I can't be sure. I can put a call in, but then we run the risk of them taking this case, too."

"It's a risk worth taking," Dana replied. "Besides, they'll know soon enough thanks to the press."

Hartwell frowned but conceded. "I'll make the call."

"I'd like to compare the snath."

Hartwell frowned. "English, Dr. Gray."

"The wooden pole the blade is attached to. This one is intact. If DOJ still has the scythe from the first scene in evidence, we can take a sample from both cores and see if they're a match. Wood can be as telling as a fingerprint."

Hartwell scribbled something in his notebook, sparking Dana's familiar longing for Jake. It was strange to be at a scene without him, but she was more comfortable than she'd expected.

She didn't know if it was a particularly good thing. Death was her life, but the destruction of it, she didn't want that to be something she ever got used to.

Dana walked the crime scene, her mind consuming everything, not just the garish yellow evidence markers that dotted the landscape like morbid Easter eggs. A gust of wind nudged a nearby swing set to squeak out a sinister lullaby.

Careful to sidestep the blood spatter, Dana circled back around to the victim. She needed to face what lay beneath the sheet. The EMTs lingered, gurney and body bag ready, waiting for the signal Hartwell wouldn't give until Dana finished with the scene.

Jake would've already peered beneath the sheet. It's where he would've started, but Dana needed to summon her courage. Crouching down she nodded to the two officers guarding the body. They looked to Hartwell for confirmation and once his team filed in, blocking the news cameras enough to allow the victim some dignity, he gave the signal.

The officers lifted the sheet with a reverence that made Dana's chest tighten. Having seen the crime scene photos from Hayes, she thought she was prepared. But she was mistaken.

She exhaled, fighting her reflex to recoil from the gruesome remains.

No one deserved to die like this.

The young man—Cash Holloway—lay face up, eyes wide, mouth ajar with a scream that no one could hear. His throat was so brutally lacerated it looked like someone had come at him with a chain saw.

Dana tucked her nose into her elbow, her eyes tearing despite her efforts to block out the smell of death permeating the air. She closed her eyes, trying to fight her body's dizzying response to the sight of blood.

Breathe…It was Jake's voice that calmed her. She closed her eyes and clutched at the dog tags beneath her jacket. Finding her inner strength, she pushed through, cementing every last grisly image to memory.