Cereal Killer

foothills. Untouched, the hills stretched into the distance above the town, providing a tawny suede backdrop for the glowing white stucco buildings and their red tile roofs.
    With its sharp curves, the road presented a bit of a challenge to the locals’ driving abilities, especially on a moonless night or during a storm when boulders or mud sometimes slid off the hills and down onto the pavement. And since joggers enjoyed the rural peace and the scenic views afforded by the road, the occasional accident wasn’t uncommon.
    They rounded a curve and were upon the scene before they knew it. Again, yellow tape signaled passersby that something was amiss in society. And if that hadn’t alerted the witnesses, the bright yellow tarp spread over the body on the side of the road would have.
    “Right here next to the pavement,” Dirk said as he pulled in behind one of the three cruisers that were parked on the dirt shoulder. “Somebody probably got her when they came around that curve back there.”
    “Yes,” Savannah said, but with little enthusiasm. “Maybe.”
    He gave her a quick, questioning look, then got out of the car. She followed him, walking along the edge of the road where the scrub brush, sage, and marguerites surrendered to asphalt.
    As they approached the body, a middle-aged uniformed officer recognized them and came over to meet them.
    “Hey, Howie,” Dirk greeted him, “how does it look?”
    “Jogger,” Officer Howard Potter replied with a shrug. “They get it out here all the time. Car whizzes around the corner and “Bam!’ That’s all she wrote.”
    Savannah winced. “Fresh?” she asked.
    “Yes. Probably early this morning.”
    “Any ID?” she said.
    “Nope. Nothing on her but her clothes.”
    “Who found her?” Dirk wanted to know.
    Officer Potter nodded toward a twenty-something guy with red running shorts who was sitting in the back seat of one of the cruisers. He was talking to a policeman who was squatting beside the open door and taking notes.
    “He was out here running this morning at daybreak and practically tripped over the body,” Potter continued. “He’s barfed a couple of times.”
    “Is she messy?” Dirk asked.
    Savannah cringed again. She’d seen it all... but she didn’t relish seeing it all again. The really bad scenes made her old before her time.
    “Not too bad,” Potter replied. “Car ran over her, though. You can see the tire tracks.”
    “So much for hoping it was a coyote attack,” Savannah said dryly as she left them and walked on toward the body.
    “Coyote?” she heard Potter say behind her. “They don’t hurt anybody, ’cept maybe a miniature poodle or...”
    “Eh, Van’s got a weird sense of humor,” Dirk replied. “Don’t pay any attention to her. I don’t”
    Savannah’s eyes searched the ground as she approached the area that had been cordoned off with the tape. It was a matter of habit after years of investigating crime scenes. You never knew what you were looking for... until you found it. And she’d rather find an unexpected clue at a scene than a pearl in a fried oyster.
    But all she saw was roadside litter and none of it exceptional. The CSU would no doubt collect most of it because, even though the victim might have been hit accidentally, the motorist had left her there to die. And that turned an accident into a possible vehicular homicide.
    Savannah nodded to one of the cops who were kneeling beside the body, and when he acknowledged her, she stepped over the tape.
    “Mind if I take a look?” she asked. “I might be able to ID her for you.”
    “Sure.” The youngest of the two reached over and pulled the tarp back from the face. “There you go. Know her?”
    Even with the road dirt, the scraping, and the blood that covered a bad wound on the left side of her head, Savannah recognized her instantly.
    “Her name is Kameeka Wills.”
    “I’m sorry,” the young cop said. “A friend of yours, huh?”
    “No, I never met her. But I’ve seen her pictures often enough. She’s... she was a high-fashion model.”
    The policeman looked down at the body and pulled the tarp halfway down so that he could see her figure. She was wearing a simple tank top that had been partially torn, revealing a lacy bra, and running shorts. Across one thigh Savannah could see the distinct mark of tire treads where the vehicle had run over her.
    “She’s a model?” he said. “No way! She’s a blimp.”
    For the tenth time in