Fireproof

with a scaly pattern.
    “I’m guessing animal hair, but it doesn’t look like a dog or cat.”
    “Correct. Her clothes had plenty of primary transfer, which I’ve already cross-checked as her own. The secondary, however, is a bit tricky.”
    “She was found in the alley. There could be all kinds of critters. Even if she wasn’t murdered there, how do you know if this strand is from the alley or the actual murder site?”
    “I’m sure it’s not from the alley. This animal most likely was never in the middle of the District.”
    “Dumpsters attract all sorts of wildlife—raccoons, rats, possums.”
    “But probably not deer.”
    Maggie stared at him for a moment, almost waiting for him to say “Just kidding.” But Ganza didn’t kid or joke about evidence. She pressed her eye against the viewfinder again.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure. The scale patterns are unique features to determine different species. I had several samples to examine. All had roots, which discounts the idea that maybe they came from a fur coat. Pelts made into clothes are trimmed and usually dyed. These hairs have characteristics of being naturally dislodged, most likely by shedding.”
    The microwave’s buzzer went off and Ganza stepped aside to check on the lasagna. He opened the microwave door and the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce made Maggie’s mouth water. Ganza set the timer for another couple of minutes. He fingered a set of slides on the counter and brought another over, changing out the deer hair on the microscope’s faceplate.
    “This was also attached to the folds of her clothing.”
    Maggie stared down at what looked like a dusty yellow seed with traces of green.
    “ Centaurea diffusa ,” Ganza said. “It’s a typical knapweed.”
    “You know where this grows?” she asked.
    “It grows wild in the Midwest.”
    “That’s an awfully big area. And a lot of miles between here and there. Are you sure? Maybe someone grows it closer? In their backyard or garden?”
    “They’d be in violation of the law.”
    “It’s a weed.”
    “It’s on the federal noxious weed list. There are penalties for moving invasive plants.”
    “Okay, so where in the Midwest would this have come from?”
    “It’s common along the roadside or in pastures and meadows. You know … where the deer and the antelope roam.” He offered a lopsided grin.
    “Why would he kill her somewhere in the Midwest and haul the body halfway across the country to dump her in an alley in the District?”
    “Wouldn’t be the first time a killer drove around with a dead body in his trunk. You know these guys do strange things. Remember Edmund Kemper left a severed head in his trunk while he met with two state psychiatrists, who after that meeting pronounced him ‘safe’ and good to go.”
    Maggie pulled out the set of autopsy photos Stan had allowed her to take. She flipped through and found the imprint stamped into the dead woman’s flesh. She handed it to Ganza.
    “I was thinking this might be a grate in the pavement of another street or alley,” she told him. “But now I’m wondering, could it be the bed lining in a truck or SUV?”
    Ganza took the photo and moved to a counter, sliding it under a magnifying glass. He switched on an overhead light and examined it, his nose practically touching the glass.
    “May I keep this for a day?”
    Maggie glanced at the magnified image. “Do you see something?”
    “I’d like to scan it into the computer and break it down. Sometimes those liners have the brand imprinted on them.”
    Maggie thought about what Ganza had said about Edmund Kemper. Kemper was a textbook case every profiler hoped they never ran into. Nicknamed the Co-ed Killer, the giant of a man had murdered his grandparents when he was only fifteen. He would hang around university campuses and pick up female hitchhikersin the Santa Cruz area. He murdered and dismembered six of them. It wasn’t until after he killed his mother and her friend that he turned himself in to authorities.
    She looked over at Ganza just as he glanced up. The lines on his forehead bunched together in a frown when he saw something in her face that prompted him to ask, “What is it?”
    She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, but felt a sudden chill as she thought about the dead woman’s battered face. “I was just thinking of Edmund Kemper. He used a claw hammer to beat his mother to death while she was asleep.”
    She didn’t add that she