Stranded

Gwen thought again. Agent Alonzo probably had a PowerPoint presentation ready to go.
    Alonzo divided the board into six sections, then listed the name of each victim in order of their discovery at the top, left to right. He talked as he jotted down keywords, the data technician becoming professor.
    “First is Orange Socks number one. Selena Thurber on her way home to Jacksonville, Florida. Her vehicle was found at a rest area off I-95 south of Richmond, Virginia. Her body was found in a culvert under a remote gravel road about a mile away. But only after Otis told a reporter where to look. It was recovered intact, though in very late stages of decomp. She had been missing for over a year. Identification was made from dental records. Coroner’s estimation is that she was killed shortly after being taken from the rest area.
    “Victims number two and number three are Gloria Dobson and Zach Lester. Business colleagues from Concordia, Missouri. They were almost to their destination, a conference in Baltimore,when they were killed. Dobson was found in an alley beside a burning warehouse. Lester and their vehicle were recovered from a rest area off I-64 east of Covington, Virginia. Dobson’s face and teeth were bashed in, leaving her unrecognizable. She was ID’d by the serial number on her breast implants.”
    Gwen refused to look at Racine, who would be watching her again. Gwen already knew this about Dobson. She also knew she had been a wife and mother of three, a breast cancer survivor. None of these victims was ordinary or an easy target.
    Breast implants—good Lord
, she hadn’t even thought about that.
    She had missed the rest of Agent Alonzo’s rundown on Lester. Didn’t matter. She knew the poor man had been decapitated and his body eviscerated. “Left for the crows,” was how Tully had worded it.
    Life was so fragile. In the end did it really matter whether it was cancer metastasizing through your body or a serial killer slicing out your guts or a bus plowing into you at an intersection? A quick glance and yes, Racine was watching her.
    “Victim number four has been identified as Wendi Conroy from Philadelphia,” Agent Alonzo was saying. “She was on her way to Greensboro, North Carolina, to visit her sister. Her vehicle was discovered last month at a rest area off I-95 just south of Dale City, Virginia. Her body was found two days ago in a garbage bag buried at an Iowa farmstead. That property borders a rest area off I-29 just outside of Sioux City, Iowa. Her body was decapitated. She, too, was found wearing orange socks, but we believe they were put there by the killer postmortem. He left the receipt for the socks in the same bag he stuffed Ms. Conroy’s head into. He did us a favor and left her driver’s license with the body.
    “At that same farmstead, inside the barn, was victim number five, a male. We’re still waiting for more information on him as well as an ID. Agents O’Dell and Tully did examine a tattoo that leads us to suspect the man may have been a motorcycle enthusiast.”
    “Oh for Christ’s sake,” Kunze interrupted again. “He was a biker with a Sturgis tattoo.”
    “Yes, that’s correct.” Agent Alonzo didn’t take offense and continued. “The local coroner hasn’t performed an autopsy or given any assessment for time of death.
    “Victim number six was discovered today. I heard from Agent Tully earlier. They believe the remains found in a ravine outside Manhattan, Kansas, are those of a missing teenager named Ethan Ames. He’s been missing for two days. His vehicle was left at a rest area off I-70. Also just outside of Manhattan. His body, according to Agent Tully’s early assessment, was partially dismembered. Oddly, however, the boy’s friend survived the attack but has provided no information on the attacker.”
    “That doesn’t sound right,” Keith Ganza said. “How do we know this is the same killer?”
    “Agent O’Dell’s phone number was left at the scene,” Alonzo said.
    “In a plastic bag with the kid’s severed finger,” Kunze added. “It’s him. And he’s playing some jackass game.”
    “What I don’t understand,” Racine spoke for the first time, “is why he was willing to give up such a primo dumping ground. That farmstead sounded perfect. Vacant for years with nobody around. He even had a house to stay in. He could come and go as he pleased.”
    “Actually, I checked on that,” Alonzo said. “When the owner passed away she left