a filled glass and they began eating their meals while still going over the

files.

 

Puller took a bite of steak and said, “The locals didn’t do a great job of

processing the crime scene, and it doesn’t seem that the FBI raised the bar much

when they came on board.” Knox swirled the wine in her glass before taking a

sip. “Well, we know the high standards you have, Chief Puller.” “This isn’t a

joke, Knox,” he retorted.

 

She glanced up at him. “I never said it was. And unless you’ve forgotten, I’ve

seen you process a crime scene, so it was actually a compliment. And just for

the record, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t bite my head off over everything I

say.” Puller looked down. “I’m sorry. This case…” “Is like no other, I get that,

Puller. So let’s keep digging and see what we find.” “Okay,” Knox said a few

minutes later. “The best I can make out, all the women murdered were single,

professional types in their late twenties.” “Which is very unusual for a serial

murderer,” noted Puller. “The populations they often go after are prostitutes,

runaways, people with little family support, risky occupations.” “And no one to

care when they go missing,” added Knox. “But your mother fits none of those

categories. And she also doesn’t fit the young professional type.” “It could be

a one-off,” suggested Puller. “Or a wrong place, wrong time. If he saw my mother

walking alone in her Sunday best? And while she was older than the murdered

women, my mom looked a lot younger than her age.” “She was a beautiful woman,

Puller.” He looked up to find Knox staring at him from the bed. “You’ve seen a

picture of her?” “Like I said, I did my homework before I came here.” She