The Christmas Killer by Jim Gallows

under this because the crime scene is tainted.’
    ‘I understand, Colonel,’ said Harper, turning his back on Jake.
    ‘One of the cruisers will give you a ride to City Hall,’ the colonel went on. ‘I’ll update you as soon as we’ve taken it all in.’
    ‘Thank you, Colonel. I would appreciate that.’
    Harper turned and strode off, his coat flowing behind him. Even in defeat he was able to make a hell of an exit.
    Asher turned to Jake. He nodded slightly and smiled. Jake walked over to the ditch and prepared himself for the sight of another mutilated corpse.



21
Wednesday, 9.20 a.m.
    Jake walked to the end of the construction zone. After a few yards he could see the leg that had drawn Snipes to the body. On the end of it was a shoe. He approached slowly, letting his eyes take in everything. It was a good shoe, a lot better than the shoes Marcia Lamb had died in.
    Was that the best he could do? He needed more but his mind refused to play ball – no impressions of the killer or the events that had brought them here were coming to him. It was all blank.
    He stopped and looked around, but that brought nothing. It was virtually the same view as Monday morning. No work had been done here since yesterday; construction had moved to a different part of the project. And despite what Jake had said to the foreman earlier, work would go ahead later today, after the body was removed. It would just happen further up the road. Nothing stopped progress when big business was involved. The interstate was too important to the politicians to be delayed by two bodies.
    He walked a little closer, and now he could see theway the woman was laid out. She was on her side, her lower arm stretched out and her head resting on it. She was curled, and her legs were drawn up, but not by much. Jake recognized it as the recovery position that paramedics and lifeguards put people into after CPR.
    Was she still alive when you laid her out? I don’t think so. There’s no disturbance, no sign of a struggle. You killed her at home, just like the last one. Then you brought her out here. You laid her out gently, almost tenderly.
    He looked again at her position.
    You didn’t hate her. You cared for her. After you killed her, you cared for her.
    So why did you kill her?
    Now Jake was close enough to be able to examine the body properly. It was not easy – his gaze was drawn to the mutilated face and the twin dark eye sockets that seemed to be the killer’s signature. But Jake had to force down his humanity and allow the cop to surface. How he liked to work a scene was from the outside in, gradually moving from generalities towards details. She was a blonde woman – looked to be in her late forties. Death, and the pooling of blood post-mortem, tended to make people look older than they actually were, so more likely she was late thirties or very early forties. Slim. Her clothes looked expensive. She wore black trousers that clung to the contours of her well-toned calves, suggesting a relatively strict health regime, and her blouse had the sheen of good silk. This was a woman who cared about her appearance.
    An ornate gilt belt circled her waist, and it was clasped.
    Two women, both attractive, and you have no interest in their bodies beyond forcing the life out of them. It’s not sexual with you – it’s about power.
    Ten feet from the body, and Jake moved slowly. He picked each step carefully so that he wouldn’t disturb any clues. Brilliant detective work caught criminals, but it was forensics that put them away. He bent low and looked at her face. He could only see one side of it. It was dominated by a dark smudge where the eye should have been, the skull contorted out of shape. The eyeball itself lay six inches from her nose, slightly crushed.
    He scanned around the corpse. Something white and glistening was lying on the ground. There was another, nearer her face. He took another step forward, reached into his pocket for tweezers, then