Justice For All by Todd Nettleton

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But if any harm results, then the offender must be punished according to the injury. If the result is death, the offender must be executed. If an eye is injured, injure the eye of the person who did it. If a tooth gets knocked out, knock out the tooth of the person who did it. Similarly, the payment must be hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.

Exodus 21: 23-25 (NLT)

The avenger of blood himself shall put the murderer to death;
when he meets him, he shall put him to death.
Numbers 35:19 (NKJV)

Prologue

He braced himself and began to cut, carefully rinsing off each piece of the body before placing it into a large garbage bag and wrapping and fastening the bag. He cut as much as possible with the sharp hunting knife, using the electric cutter with the special blade only for bones.
     The blood drained into the tub, and he paused occasionally to rinse it down.
     It was a gruesome task, but this was not the first time he had done this. He had thrown up repeatedly the first three times. So he tried to do it while a little drunk, but that made him careless; and carelessness leads to mistakes.
     After his experiments with a bottle of vodka by his side, hed forcibly pushed the horror from his mind and saw it as a job that had to be done, like picking up dog poop in the yard or changing a babys messy diaper.
     It wasnt pleasant, but it had to be done.

1

Walking through a major airport anonymously wasnt easy; not for Patrick J. OReiley, Jr.
   It wasnt easy when you were the only son and spitting image of Patrick J. OReiley, Sr., the minority leader of the United States Senate and two-time presidential candidate. It wasnt easy when you were a high-profile prosecuting attorney in a major city, almost a fixture on the nightly news with conviction after conviction of drug dealer, killer, rapist and every other kind of criminal.
   PJ, as friends and family called him from birth, was strikingly handsome. At 6-foot-3, the 35-year-old had a presence that filled any room he entered. His dark black hair always seemed perfectly combed, and his piercing blue eyes looked even bluer on TV. Hed been tabbed for political success since high school, and it seemed natural when he followed in his fathers footsteps through the University of Washington and then Harvard Law School.
   His face had become more familiar since the killings started. As the Prosecuting Attorney in the jurisdiction where the first of the bodies had been found, it was assumed that his office would prosecute the killer, if the killer was ever found. Hed become a regular guest on TV news shows, doing 27 interviews on national TV since the first body had been found. He hadnt told anyone, but that was eight more national interviews than his father had done during the same span.
   He walked out of the restroom and headed back toward the baggage-claim area. He continued out the sliding door and hailed a taxi, trying to blend in to the pacing, suit-wearing, brief-case-carrying crowd of early-morning business travelers. He looked the part, with his gray suit, rumpled white shirt and power tie.
   In fact, he fit the part exactly.
   "To the downtown LA Hyatt," he told the taxi driver as he tossed his black, designer-leather bag into the back seat of the yellow sedan, then climbed in.
   After graduating from Harvard Law School near the top of his class, he took a job with the King County Prosecuting Attorneys office in Seattle. Political spectators saw it as the first step along the path his father had taken to the United States Senate.
   Two years later, he was promoted to senior prosecutor, the youngest person in the countys history to hold that honored position. He became a highly visible prosecutor with a reputation as a cagey, passionate courtroom operator. He got the job done, popular opinion held, and sent the bad guys to jail. Five years later his reputation, and an endorsement from the retiring PA, had gotten him elected King County Prosecuting Attorney, where his list of successes continued to grow. As he sat in the back of the taxi, lost in thought, he had a reputation as one of the Republican Party's future stars. Many people, on both sides of the law, hoped that reputation would get him to Washington.
   The senior OReiley had gone to Washington at 35, and was approaching retirement. Many in the Grand Old Party assumed hed step down when his current term expired in two years, passing his mantle to his son and using his extensive party influence to assure there would be no challengers in the primaries.
   PJ was working in that direction when his world was shattered by an event that made politics or prosecutions seem a travesty, causing almost a nauseous reaction in his stomach.
   The shattering, world-turning blow hit more than two and a half years ago, on September 12th. It was supposed to have been a night of fun and frolic for the OReiley family.
   PJ took his wife, Kathleen, out for a long dinner while a friend cared for eight-year-old Kelly and five-year-old Kaitlyn. After dinner and a play, PJ and Kathleen drove to pick up the girls in his Lincoln.
   On the way, PJ took a call on his cell phone. It turned out to be a life-changing call. The CEO of one of Seattles prominent software companies had been found in his office, four bullet holes in his chest. PJ would oversee the sure-to-be-high-profile case when and if suspects were brought to trial, so he was called even before the body had grown cold.
   He wearily put down the phone, thinking of the activities hed planned after the girls were safely tucked into bed.
Ive got to go to a scene, Kath, he said apologetically. Theres been a murder.
   It was not an uncommon refrain in his marriage; his wife knew that arguing or complaining could not change her husbands responsibilities, or his passion to be good at his job.
   OK, she said simply, punctuating it with a gentle squeeze of his arm. It was that gentle squeeze and the brush of her fingertips against his skin that he always remembered later.
   They collected the girls and took them home. PJ stayed long enough to see everyone inside and tuck his daughters into bed before kissing his wife passionately, apologizing once again for the demands of his job, and walking out the door. As he pulled out of the driveway, the cell phone rang again. He put it to his ear.
   "Hurry home," his wife purred. "I'm going to be waiting for you."
   PJ smiled and promised that he would indeed hurry home. But he would never again see her alive.

2

   It was the kind of San Francisco morning that made normal people want to stay in bed, turn off the alarm clock and sleep until noon. It was cold, and a light drizzle sent droplets of water down every exposed surface.
   Special Agent Lukas Breyer didnt have the luxury of staying in bed.
   He'd not had the luxury of a full nights sleep in six months, since hed been assigned by the Assistant Director over the FBIs criminal division to find a killer. The killings, which began two months before he was assigned to the case, hadnt been far from his conscious thoughts since. He and the San Francisco field office of the FBI had come into the case when victim number four, a computer science major from Berkeley named Akiko Mazakito, had been found near Reno. It appeared that Mazakito had been kidnapped and taken across state lines, which gave the FBI jurisdiction. At the time, Lukas was an Assistant Special Agent in Charge (ASAC) in the San Francisco office and was put in charge of the case.
   Victim number five was Jesse White-Eagle, a 44-yearold Navajo believed to have been killed on a reservation, making his murder a federal case due to federal statutes involving Crime on a Government Reservation (CGR).
   When the killings continued and the case grew, generating more media attention, the FBI Director assigned Breyer as Inspector to oversee the case. He had the full resources of the FBI behind him and the job of catching the killer, no matter what it took. It was a job no one wanted, a thankless task coordinating hundreds of policemen and agents across half the nation. So far theyd uncovered almost nothing, and editorials in more and more papers from Lincoln to Los Angeles were calling for results, or for Breyer to be replaced at the head of the case.
   Breyer had brought together a bright group of agents from a variety of backgrounds to work with him on the case, but to date his team was working with a whole bunch of nothing.
   Since the previous September, 12 bodies had been found along interstate highways west of the Mississippi. The bodies were in pieces, dropped one piece at a time at precisely one-mile intervals wrapped in green garbage sacks, the kind that could be bought in any store in America.
   The mode of operation was the same in all 12 cases: Death caused by poisoning, and dismemberment of the body had come after death.
   So far, that was the sum of the FBIs knowledge, and it wasnt enough for Breyer, the media, or the public.
   In almost 10 years of Bureau work, Breyer had never seen a killer leave such a dearth of evidence.
   The first body, discovered September 13th, was that of a black prostitute from Spokane, Washington. She was found along Interstate 90 east of Seattle. The second body, discovered three weeks later, was a white homeless man believed to be from St. Louis. He was found along I-44 about 60 miles east of Tulsa.
   Since those two, 10 more had been found, from South Dakota to Arizona and Washington to Louisiana. All killed the same way, and all cut into nine pieces and spread one piece at a time along interstate highways.
   The victims ranged in age and ethnicity, with no discernible pattern. None were prominent members of society, and most hadnt been missed by friends or relatives for days after their disappearance.
   There'd been no hints and no messages from the killer. The bodies had been discovered by motorists, highway patrol officers or road crews.
   For Breyer, the case had become an obsession, ever present in his mind. He thought of it as he lay in bed at night, and the thoughts resumed when the alarm called him to wake. He even dreamed about the case. He wanted this killer, and he wanted him soon--before the body count got higher.
   Breyer showered quickly on this cold, gray morning, dressing as usual in a gray suit and conservative tie. His appearance would best be called average, for there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. He was of medium height and build, with widely spaced brown eyes and close-cropped brown hair. He owned the kind of face that seemed to remind people of somebody else, although they never could quite think of who it was. Lukas kissed his wife, Leyna, on the cheek before tiptoeing out of the room. She stirred and mumbled goodbye, but Breyer knew she wouldnt remember it later.
   He paused in the kitchen long enough to spread cream cheese on two rice cakes, then walked out the door to the garage. He checked the dashboard clock as he started the car 6:22. Another early start to another long day.
   Maybe, he hoped, this is the day we get a break.

3

   PJ OReiley moved after the death of his wife and daughters. The house theyd shared in Lake Forest Park seemed ominous and lonely without the sound of Kathys laughter and the pitter-patter of their daughters feet. Hed sold the house six months after the murders, to the first person that made an offer, and bought a town house closer to his office.
   He pulled his city-owned gray Buick into the parking garage. The trip from SEA-TAC airport after the flight from LA had been uneventful.
   Grabbing his bag, OReiley unloaded three days of mail out of his box on the way into his townhouse. It was a three-bedroom, two-story unit, cookie-cut into a row of 11 others just like it. It still smelled of new carpet and paint, which were redone just before he moved in. Living there for almost two years hadnt changed the smell or the feel of OReileys new living space or made it any more of a home.
   The place was immaculately clean, because OReiley paid a young woman handsomely to keep it that way; she came three times a week. Her job was easy, for he came home only to sleep at night. He rarely even ate a meal there. In fact, there were many weeks she spent more time there than he did.
   OReiley collected the newspaper off the front porch and sat down at the table to peruse the mail and paper, catching up on what his wife had always called domestic business affairs. The men who killed her had been caught, tried and convicted within nine months of the murders. PJ had assisted the prosecution in building their case, although hed not been allowed to argue the case himself. All theyd let him do in the trial of the men who killed his wife and daughters was help in the prep and spend an hour on the witness stand.
   He felt driven to do more.
   He was the killers target.
   The attack was planned as a warning to him to let him know his aggressiveness in attacking the Seattle underworld had been noted, and that it would earn him an early grave if he persisted.
   The two animals sent to do the job were instructed to tie up his wife and daughters, then ransack his home. It was intended as a warning, not as the final assault.
   Once inside his house, things had gone a lot farther than planned. They had raped and beaten PJs wife and daughters, then slashed all three to death with machetes. It had taken dental records to positively identify PJs beloved Kathy after the brutal treatment.
   Their conviction was easy. Evidence had been delivered to OReileys office that told the who, what, why and how and even gave an address for each of the perpetrators.
   A police informer said the killers were given up for two reasons. On one hand, it was a message to other underworld employees to do what they were told and only what they were told. It was also a peace offering to OReiley the chance to be sure his wifes killers ended up behind bars a chance to garner a little favor from the countys chief prosecutor.
   The offering served only to redouble PJs efforts to stop the criminals in his city. What had been 10-hour work days became 16 hours, an obsessive life few could match.
   Kathy had been a balancing influence on her husbands workaholic nature. She would accept no more than 10 hours at the office each day, no more than 13 during a trial. She gently but firmly demanded that he not work on Sundays but take the time to be with her and their daughters.
   With her death, that influence was gone. Since the murders, he spent at least 15 hours a day at the office, sometimes as much as 20. Hed had a couch brought in, and some days he would spend what little time he slept on that couch, never going home. He rarely socialized and found the stares, questions and words of hollow sympathy, which people still felt obligated to offer, almost too much to bear.
   Midway through the mail pile was an envelope that caught his eye. In the upper left corner was the Harvard Law School crest in a shiny gold foil.
   For PJ, three years in law school at Harvard had been the best years of his life. Theyd been years of intense intellectual stimulation, as well as social satisfaction. For the first time in his life, he was much more than the Senators son. Amidst the money and prestige of Harvard, he was just another student, and he reveled in the newly discovered anonymity.
   The envelope was from the alumni office and contained an engraved invitation to the 10-year reunion of his Harvard Law class.
He had returned to Harvard once since graduation five years ago. Could he go back now, without Kathy, the most precious thing hed taken with him from Massachusetts?
   He carried his flight bag up the stairs and into his bedroom. Setting the bag down, he thought of Kathy. In the months since her death, his mind never strayed far from the memory of his wife. He saw her face everywhere. He thought of her now, blinking back tears, and began to unpack.
   How terrible the end must have been for her. Thoughts of her final moments of pain and terror haunted PJ, driving him to tears and thoughts of bloody vengeance. He forced them out of his mind before heading back down the stairs and to the Buick for the drive to the office.

4

   Lukas arrived at work before almost every other agent. He flashed his badge as he entered the federal building and was allowed to walk around the metal detector and security station. Breyer took the elevator past the ATF and other federal offices in the building to the FBIs area on the 13th floor, and then went to his office to map out the days activities for himself and his team.
   Chasing a serial killer was an intricate and confusing business. It required the coordination of hundreds of people and thousands of tiny bits of information.
   His first stop was the coffee pot, where he put in a new filter and grounds and started it brewing before entering his office.
Lukas believed, in his less-pressured moments, that his office was a small-scale picture of his mind: It was pleasantly cluttered, including a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf along one wall and a desk in the middle of the floor holding several piles of various depths.
On the wall behind the desk and the $300 leather office chair (the highlight of his promotion to ASAC, for whom leather office furniture is a federal perk) was his Wall of Fame. In the center of the wall was his Harvard Law degree, which he considered his greatest accomplishment thus far. Around it were his bachelors degree from UCLA, a picture of his FBI Academy class, a picture of his family, and a picture of him with the Directorall neatly arranged and hanging perfectly straight. Alone on another wall was a glass case which held a gray fedora, which had been worn by J. Edgar Hoover himself. The hat was a gift from his parents upon his graduation from the academy, and he later learned it had cost them more than $500. He didnt have the heart to tell them that he was not a Hoover admirer, believing the late Director had misused agents to maintain his private home and misused confidential information on government leaders to protect his job and his precious Bureau. He knew that Hoover had also made the FBI what it was, and many senior agents he respected whod worked under Hoover loved the man. So hed hung the hat in his office, out of respect for his parents and to remind him of the temptations that his job could offer, and which he had sworn to avoid.
   Lukas had always been a straight arrow. He was raised in a conservative Jewish home in San Diego, and had migrated northward first to UCLA, then eventually to his current home in San Francisco after law school. Even as a child, Lukas had stayed on the right side of the rules. He was, his mother often bragged, the kid on the playground who put away the toys and broke up quarrels between classmates.
   In high school his life had revolved around studies and sports, with little time for girls, close friends or trouble.
The result was a straight-A student and three-sport letterman who since graduation had spoken to less than five members of his high school class.
   College had been much the same, although the sports activity had fallen to the intramural level. He also held down a job to provide for his living expenses. His tuition was covered by academic scholarships.
   After four more straight-A years, he was welcomed to Harvard Law with open arms. He left only one close friend in LA a fellow sports-and-grades freak that was headed to Stanford for medical school.
   Being a straight arrow at Harvard was somewhat more difficult, because Lukas found himself vastly outnumbered in the student body. His conservative beliefs were also challenged by many left-leaning professors, and for the first time in his life, he had to be ready to debate and defend the values he held close to his core. He tried to keep a low profile, keep his nose clean and keep bringing in the grades.
   One person changed his plans, and for doing so he married her. She was an undergraduate art major who brought an abstract viewpoint to Lukas ordered and precise world. He fell in love with her for her warm smile and the way she helped him to see things differently and to relax and enjoy life. She was his joy, and he often thought that losing her would be worse than losing life itself.
Leyna had supported Lukas completely in his desire to become an agent, and had already packed up their home and belongings three times, as the Bureau moved him from office to office and city to city. San Francisco had now been home for four years, and they were becoming more settled. He hoped they would be there a long time.
   Lukas went back out to the coffee pot and filled his cup, then took a long drink, feeling the warmth flow all the way down to his stomach.
   Walking back into his office, he grabbed the mail from his in-box, shuffling quickly past superfluous memos (an FBI specialty) and unnecessary status reports (how many ways could people write that they had nothing to go on, he wondered). At the bottom of the pile was a letter that caught his eye with the simple, majestic Harvard seal.
   He opened it quickly, assuming it was yet another plea for funding from the schools many rich alumni, a club to which Lukas did not belong. Lukas hated such letters, because they reminded him that most of his classmates were taking home checks three or four or 10 or 20 times larger than his.
   The expected letter was not there, though. Instead, it was a simple invitation to the 10-year reunion of his law school class.

5

   From the first days of his career, PJ liked to be at the office early. He loved the time before the secretaries and the less-ambitious Assistant PAs arrived, when the office was quiet and the coffee was fresh. He often thought that, with the silence, he could accomplish more between 7 and 8 a.m. than he could between 8 and 5, with the phone ringing and the constant distractions and interruptions.
   That extra hour was even more important after hed been out of town, when he had to catch up. And since the murder of his wife, hed been out of town as often as possible. OReileys status as a senators son made him a recognizable face around the state, and the murder of his wife and children had put him on front pages across the nation, a position hed resumed since the first of the grisly murders had occurred in his jurisdiction. A gifted speaker, he was now in demand across the country to speak to law schools, bar associations and law-enforcement organizations. His most recent excursion had been to the annual meeting of the LA Trial Lawyers Association, where he was the keynote speaker.
   The busy speaking schedule earned him some extra income, but more importantly it had made him many contacts that would be extremely valuable should he decide to follow his fathers footsteps to the Senate. But for him, it was a more basic need that the busy schedule fulfilled: not to be in Seattle alone. Since the murders, his hometown seemed like a prison, and around every corner were reminders that he was alone in the world.
   He found it possible to lose his loneliness in the action and new people of a conference or speaking engagement and enjoyed being the center of attention. Occasionally he met women at these conferences, and occasionally they slept together, filling for a moment his need to be close to another human being. These liaisons never produced a serious relationship. It didnt take long for women to sense the chill that lived where PJs heart had been. He didnt really try to hide it, and once a woman realized she could not warm that place, she quickly fell by the wayside.
   The most attentive had been a third-year law student who introduced herself to PJ after he spoke at her graduation by saying that she worshipped the ground he walked on and would just love to work in his office. She was one of those bright, energetic women like Kathy had been; and she was a stunner: long, blonde hair; deep blue eyes; a body that showed she was very familiar with the inside of a gym; and a deep, glowing, healthy tan that only California girls really have. She had worshipped him that whole weekend in every way he wanted and had called several times after. He helped her find a job in the DAs office in San Francisco, calling in a favor to move her to the front of the line. Her calls suddenly stopped after the job came through, but he wasnt disappointed. He didnt have the energy or desire for anything more than a casual relationship.
   After a trip, there was always catching up to do at the office, and often his quiet, first hour was completely swallowed up by reading through his in-box pile: Briefs, bar association updates, letters, plea agreements, and on and on. He went through the stack quickly, jotting instructions or comments on sticky notes on various pages, then forwarding most of them to someone else to handle.
   "Welcome back," Cass' cheerful voice said as she came through his door.
   The office work went much smoother since Cass had taken over the day-to-day management. She dealt with most of the mail, leaving only the most crucial to take up his time.
   "Thanks," he sighed, leaning back in his chair and motioning her to one on the other side of the desk. She carried a green mug of steaming liquid.
   Cassandra Karsten was his second-in-command in the office, and in truth the person who made the whole place work. Shed been a law school classmate of PJs, after working her way through Iowa State while living on her parents farm. Physically, she possessed to notable attributes: a great mane of dark brown hair and sparkling, jade-green eyes. At 5-foot-9, she also possessed the best pair of legs in the office, though her professional-looking suits didnt always display them to their full effect. She owned a keen intellect, one that could effortlessly break large problems into manageable bits and work through them quickly. In front of a jury, she was all down-home Iowa charm, and by the end of most trials they were ready to do anything she asked.
   Cass only mistake in life was marrying a lawyer, and a high-priced LA corporate hot shot at that. Shed righted that wrong by divorcing Frank five years ago, and came to Seattle to make a fresh start. Shed had no trouble convincing PJ to give her a job and rapidly rose to second-in-command of the office. The only positive thing to come out of her relationship with Frank was Tammy, a 12-year old spitfire with her mothers hair and eyes but her fathers temper and cockiness. Tammy lived with her father and his new wife during the school year, attending one of LAs finest girls schools, and summered in Seattle with Cass.
   "How was the trip?" Cass asked, setting her mug on PJs desk and leaning back in the comfortable office chair.
   "You know. It was a whole room full of lawyers for a whole weekend. I saw Frank."
   "Thats all I need to know," she laughed. "If he was there, it must have been quite a group."
   "It was. But they loved my speech. Lawyers love all that Truth, Liberty and the American Way stuff. They want to be reminded that they're the good guys, even though a lot of them would sell their mother if it would get them a new Mercedes or a partnership."
   "That would be Frank," Cass sighed. "You didn't miss much here. Four murders over the weekend, three gang-related. I can't believe how many kids weve got in Seattle killing each other. Thought I left that in LA. The other murder looks like a husband-wife thing that got out of hand. The wife was found Saturday morning in a dumpster. Husband reported her missing at noon that day and said her car had been stolen. Cops are looking at him pretty closely. Apparently he took out a $2 million insurance policy on her three months ago."
   "Sounds like a slam dunk. Some people are so dumb!"
   "Yeah, I know. Hey, want to come over for dinner?"
   "Let me see how the day goes. Call me about 4."
   "OK."
   "Are you OK, PJ?"
   "Yeah, I'll be all right. Just having starter problems this morning."
   "OK, See you later. Dont forget that dinner invitation."
   "I won't."
   She walked out the door, and PJ paused to admire the eight inches of leg that he could see between the hem of her skirt and the top of her pumps.
   PJ returned to the work at hand, sifting through the paperwork on his desk. His secretary checked in three minutes before eight with a smile and a "Welcome back." PJ handed her the pile of documents hed gone through already, so that she could distribute them.
   "Thanks," he said.
   Cass rushed into his office at 8:15, flipping on the TV and switching the channel quickly to CNN.
   "What is it?" PJ looked up mildly.
   "They found another one," she said, pointing at the screen.

6

It hadnt taken the camera crews long to arrive.
   Journalists make careers creating and feeding mass hysteria, and hundreds of journalists were trying to make careers on this case.
   Law-enforcement vehicles of one kind or another were parked at one-mile intervals along I-40 just east of Barstow, California. Crime-scene technicians were carefully searching the ground around each of the trash bags for traces of anything out of the ordinary, with little success. Each site was being photographed extensively, from every conceivable angle. Already the desert sun blared down unmercifully on everything as the mercury climbed above 85 degrees, even before 9 in the morning.
   The rented van from the airport pulled off the road close to where several official-looking cars were parked. Lukas exited first, immediately scanning the landscape for whoever was in charge, wanting to be sure things were done right. The members of his squad exited right behind him.
   Alan Pelson followed Lukas. At 32, he was the teams second-in-command and one of the FBIs rising stars. He served as case coordinator, managing the details of the investigation. At 6-foot-3, he ducked cautiously as he exited the van, moving forward in an athletic crouch. He was a rock of a man, a former linebacker at USC who once had a string of three straight games where he knocked the opposing running back unconscious.
   Behind Pelson came Isabel Rosario, age 31, a short, dark-complexioned Arizonan who coordinated the physical evidence gathered in the case. Following her dual-degrees in criminology and chemistry from the University of Arizona, she had worked in a private evidence lab for two years before joining the Bureau, where she specialized in evidence gathering and analysis. She would be working with the Evidence Response Team (ERT) from the nearest FBI office, in this case Los Angeles.
   Behind Rosario came Mike Wright, 40, who served as the teams public affairs liaison, the media agent, as well as working with local law enforcement. His job was to smooth the path between Lukas team and the local cops on the case, letting them know how the FBI would help them, and then to stand in front of the microphones and cameras and reassure the press that they would, in fact, catch this killer.
   The final member of the squad was Kip Sato, 24, the junior agent in the group, in his first office assignment. He would pretty much do what he was told. Today he was the crime scene photographer, which was fine with him since he enjoyed taking pictures. He would take literally hundreds of rolls of film, getting pictures of each of the trash bags and their contents and the area around them. It was gruesome, painstaking work, but Sato was good at it, and patient enough to do it well. He knew his pictures could help catch the animal whod done this, and he rather liked being at the center of the action in the nations biggest case.
   More agents were coming from the LA field office, including the ERT, but it would take them another 45 minutes to be on the scene.
The foursome headed up the highway, toward the nearest trash bag. A California Highway Patrol cruiser sat beside it, lights flashing, with a short, skinny patrolman beside his vehicle.
   "Who's in charge here?" Lukas asked as they marched up to the officer.
   "I don't know, sir." Lukas had an air of authority about him, although not overpowering. The patrolman sensed that this man would be in charge soon.
   "What have we got?"
   "Looks like pretty much the same as the others, sir," answered the patrolman. "Body parts in plastic garbage bags, spread at one mile intervals. Victim appears to be black female, mid-20s. The found the head about 20 minutes ago. First part found was an arm, which was found by some people who stopped to change a flat tire. I was told to guard this area until the evidence techs get here."
   A sheriffs four-wheel-drive pulled up as the patrolman finished his summary.
   "You folks with the FBI?"
   "Yes, Im Lukas Breyer."
   "Hop in, I'll take you to the temporary command center."
   Part of the team crowded into the seats of the Suburban and headed off. Sato and Isabel followed in their rented van. One lane of the interstate was closed, and they zoomed forward on that empty lane. Isabel noticed the glaring and horn-honking of the other drivers, slowed in their travels by the closing of the lane.
   "I'm Deputy Wallis," the Suburban driver told Lukas. He then proceeded with a case update, which repeated the information they'd heard from the highway patrolman.
   "Who's in charge?" Lukas asked when the story was complete.
   "Right now Sheriff Rusty Wells is," Wallis answered.
   At least until you guys get there. There was something in Wallis voice. Lukas wasnt sure if it was awe, envy or anger, and he didn't much care. He would be in charge, because the Director had assigned him to oversee the case. He didn't lord it over local officers, because he needed their help. But at the same time, he wasnt shy about taking command.
   They pulled to a stop just off the road, one of about 10 official vehicles parked haphazardly around the scene. Sato pulled the van in behind them. Lukas and the members of his squad piled out of the two vehicles.
   "Find out when well have more agents," Lukas said to Pelson as they walked toward a group of men gathered around something on the side of the highway. Lukas steeled himself as he headed to the center of the pack. He'd seen literally hundreds of murder victims during his career, and still it almost made him sick every time. He couldn't get past the thought that it was somebody's mother or father or son or daughter or husband or wife or sister or brother.
   "What are we doing here gentlemen?" Lukas asked loudly as he pushed into the group.
   In the center of the group sat the trash bag. It had been pulled open to reveal the closed eyes of the victim and most of her face, but not enough to see the blackened gore of a severed neck.
   "Was this area photographed before all you men began trampling all over it?"
   The men backed up several steps, realizing that in their haste, finding evidence had been their last thought. No one seemed ready to step forward and admit to being in charge.
   "Which one of you is Sheriff Wells?" Lukas called out. A burly man with a red beard and dusty hat stepped forward.
   "I'm Wells."
   "My name is Lukas Breyer, and I am with FBI. Well be coordinating with you in the investigation of this murder. Who has been in charge of collecting evidence?"
   "I have an investigator out here," answered Wells. "And there are three detectives from the Barstow PD."
   Lukas motioned to Rosario.
   "Find those guys and make sure this doesn't get screwed up." Lukas said to her. He spoke quietly, and yet knew that the gathered men could hear.
   "This is Special Agent Rosario. She is an evidence expert, and she will coordinate the collection of evidence. We have called for an Evidence Response Team from the LA office, and they should be here shortly. They are experts in the collection of all types of evidence."
   There was grumbling among the men, but Rosario was used to being underestimated. "Where are these detectives?" she asked Wells.
   Wells didn't speak but pointed to two of the men who were standing in the group.
   "Why the hell didnt you cordon off this area?" she asked. "We've got 25 sets of big feet trampling all over a crime scene. We won't get any evidence from here." Her voice was tinged with contempt. She hated unprofessionalism and despised men who put up with it.    "Sato, be sure you get some good shots of all these law enforcement professionals trampling the evidence."
   In the age of the Simpson trial, when evidence gathering was subjected to intense scrutiny in trials, Isabel almost couldn't believe the stupidity she saw.
   A silver sedan with a shield on the side screeched to a halt on the highway. A tall man in slacks and a sport coat rushed toward the group. He headed straight for Wells.
   "I think I've got a tire track!"
   "Where?" Lukas asked, getting only a blank stare from the yeller.
   "Who are you?"
   "Special Agent Lukas Breyer, FBI. Wheres the track?"
   "Up the road, beside the last bag. Some dirt and gravel have blown onto the shoulder of the road, and there's a pretty good track through it right beside where the package is."
   "Isabel?" he called to her, saying her name with the Spanish pronunciation that she insisted on.
   "Let's go," she answered tersely. "Maybe we can get there before the professionals have trampled it all to hell."
   Lukas went with Rosario and Sato and the investigator in his car.
   Wright introduced himself to Wells and began to collect the background data on the discovery of the body and what had been done so far.
   Pelson pulled out his secure digital phone and dialed the office back in San Francisco. The officers around him heard only his side of a brief conversation.
   "This is Pelson.... Yeah, its another one.... How many agents are coming from LA? We probably need a press agent from there, too, theres a lot of media out here.... OK, I'll let you know."
   He put the phone back in his jacket and stared for a moment at the face of the victim. She had been pretty once, he thought. Finely drawn features and a healthy head of hair. What a waste!
   Pelson knew that theyd be out there the rest of the day, sweating in the blazing desert sun and looking for clues that probably weren't there. The tire tread was a break, he knew, but not a big one. Theyd have to find the car first, then try to match the tires, and that would be worse than looking for a golf ball in the ocean.