LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 2

      Washington, D.C.

      Dr. Samantha Owens

      Dr. Samantha Owens walked into her lecture hall at exactly 7:00 a.m. The students were already arranged in the chairs, some sitting upright, some obviously wilting. Sam placed her notes on the lectern and turned to the class.

      “Perk up, buckaroos. I know it’s early, and I realize the ice-cream social last night involved more ethanol than frozen coagulants, but we have work to do. Who can tell me what Locard’s Exchange Principle is?”

      There was quiet laughter, the rustling of paper and laptops opening. Despite the obvious hangovers of many of the students, hands shot up all over the room. Sam called on the closest.

      “First row, blue shirt. Go.”

      The boy didn’t hesitate. “Any time you come in contact with an object or a space, you take something away and leave something behind.”

      “Very good. So when you’re thinking in terms of a crime scene?”

      The class chanted together, “There are no clean crime scenes.”

      “Exactly.” Sam turned to the whiteboard and wrote Locard’s Theory at the top.

      Sam was two weeks into her first teaching gig, and loving every minute of it. She missed the hands-on work that came with being a medical examiner, sure, but this was almost like vacation. Eager, happy, excited, sometimes—okay, often—hungover kids, all dying to learn the tricks of the trade so they could rush out and become the latest and greatest forensic investigators. Once the fall semester began, she’d be teaching at Georgetown University, heading up their new forensic pathology program, but in the meantime, her boss, Hilary Stag, the Georgetown University Head of Pathology, had volunteered Sam for the summer science continuing education program, which included a week of guest lecturing at their rival medical school, George Washington.

      She’d been back in D.C. for just a month now. The move had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Her house in Nashville had sold quickly despite the depressed market, so instead of rushing into another mortgage, she’d decided to rent on N Street in Georgetown, a beautiful three-story Federalist townhouse that had been gutted inside and completely redone in nearly severe modernism, all glass and stainless and open stairwells, with an infinity lap pool in the backyard. It was as opposite from her snug home in Nashville as she could find, and she quickly realized the minimalist aesthetics pleased her. The only pricks of color were from the flowers she brought in and a few Pollock-like paintings on the walls. Everything else was black and white. She’d sold the vast majority of her furniture anyway, keeping just a few things she couldn’t bear to part with, including a supple white leather couch and her rolltop writing desk—it had been her grandmother’s. She purchased a bed, a small glass table and Eames chairs for the eat-in, and left the rest to chance.

      Once the house was set up to her liking, she’d ventured west, into the mountains, to another aesthetically pleasing home nestled in the Savage River State Forest. Alexander Whitfield—Xander—a former first sergeant in the Army Rangers, held a similar outlook: less is most definitely more.

      She’d spent a month on the mountain with him, fishing, hiking, sitting in companionable silence in front of his huge fire pit, listening to him play the piano, scratching his gorgeous German shepherd Thor’s ears in languorous time with the music. He wrote songs for her, and with each new note, she could feel the pieces of her soul slowly knitting back together. She treaded gingerly but purposefully into the new relationship, finding surprising compatibilities in many areas, intellectually and physically.

      Running away from Nashville had been the smartest move she’d ever made.

      D.C. greeted her with warm, sunny days, white marble-columned buildings, grassy expanses and gray-blue waters flowing quickly under the majestic bridges. Xander greeted her with himself. The city paled in comparison.

      She realized heads were cocked, awaiting her next bit of wisdom. Anytime Xander got into her thoughts, she got distracted. She figured that was a good thing.

      With a smile, she apologized, then ran the class through a typical homicide crime scene, from the job of the death investigator to investigation and collection of the body to the postmortem. A few faces pinched when she started with the autopsy slides, but most hung on her every word.

      She was nearly to the last slide when a low murmur began in the back of the room.

      She turned to see what the issue was. No one was looking her way. Instead, they were staring at one of the students, a slight blonde who was clearly not paying attention.

      “Are my slides boring you?” Sam asked.

      The girl didn’t look Sam’s way. She was slumped in her chair. Sam could immediately see something was wrong, though her first thought was, Wow, she’s completely hungover. Hope she doesn’t puke.

      A brunette four rows back raised her hand. “Um, Dr. Owens? I think she’s really sick.”

      The room began to titter. Sam glanced at her teacher’s assistant. “Reggie, hit the lights.”

      The room brightened immediately, and she could see concern written on the students’ faces.

      She walked up the stairs to the student and started to take inventory.

      Her eyes were glassy. She was shivering, a fine tremor that moved on a loop through her body. Her breathing was shallow and labored, and a sheen of sweat glistened across her face. Her lips were even tinged blue.

      Respiratory distress. Hypoxia. Fever.

      Shit.

      “What’s your name, sweetie?”

      Sam felt terrible that she didn’t already know the answer to the question; she’d only learned a few names so far. The students had a month of different classes, and this group had only rotated in a couple of days before. The girl didn’t answer, just stared at the floor and coughed a bit.

      “Her name is Brooke Wasserstrom. She’s in my dorm.”

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