Page 27 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The drive to Rappahannock River State Park felt endless despite being only twenty minutes from our house.

The darkness beyond the Tahoe’s headlights seemed to press against the windows like something alive, and the humid night air carried the promise of more rain.

I found myself gripping the door handle as Jack navigated the winding park roads, my mind racing through possibilities I didn’t want to consider.

“Daniels is already on scene,” Jack said, checking his phone at a red light. “Full CSI team deployed. Whatever we’re walking into, it’s not going to be pretty.”

The boat launch area was lit up like a movie set when we arrived, portable floodlights casting harsh white pools of illumination across the graveled parking area and wooden dock that stretched into the Rappahannock.

The familiar controlled chaos of a major crime scene was already in full swing—yellow tape stretched between orange cones, CSI techs moving with practiced efficiency, the low murmur of professional voices cutting through the night sounds of water lapping against the shore.

Lieutenant Daniels stood near the body like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of evidence collection.

The recent blond additions to her braids caught the portable lights, and despite the late hour and grim circumstances, she radiated the kind of calm competence that made everyone around her work better.

Daniels was the best CSI supervisor in the state, a stickler for details who somehow managed to combine absolute professionalism with genuine compassion for victims.

“Sheriff,” she said, turning as we approached. Her beautiful tawny eyes were serious but warm, and I felt that familiar comfort that came from working with someone you trusted completely. “Doc. Got a messy one here.”

“Run it down for me,” Jack said, pulling on latex gloves. I followed suit.

“Female victim, appears to be in her forties. Found by a jogger around seven thirty this evening.” Daniels consulted her tablet with the methodical precision that made her team the best in the business.

“Jogger is Robert Peterson, local resident, regular evening runner. He’s clean—no connection to the victim that we can find. ”

Cole and Martinez had arrived right behind us, pulling up in Martinez’s sedan.

Cole immediately headed toward the jogger who was waiting near a park bench, while Martinez approached the CSI tech who was setting up to photograph tire impressions in the muddy area near the boat launch.

Even in the harsh artificial light, I could see the grim set of their faces, the way they moved with the careful deliberation that came when a case turned personal.

“Anything unusual about positioning?” I asked. In reality, I was hoping there would be some similarities to the first body to help us narrow down the identity on the victim.

“Nothing that stands out,” Daniels said, leading us toward where the body lay under the portable lights, her steps careful not to disturb any potential evidence. “Someone dumped her in a hurry.”

The smell hit me first—the metallic tang of blood mixed with the organic decay that came from being near the river, plus something else I couldn’t immediately identify.

The woman lay crumpled near the water’s edge, her body showing the unmistakable signs of having been discarded rather than carefully positioned.

Her face was so badly beaten that identification would be difficult, but I could see she wore medical scrubs.

“Could be our missing doctor,” I said, studying the scrubs.

The light blue fabric was stained dark in several places, and I could see immediately that she’d fought for her life. Her hands bore defensive wounds, knuckles scraped raw, fingernails broken and bloody. Someone had beaten her badly before putting a bullet in her chest.

“Between the medical scrubs and the timeline, this has to be Victoria Mills,” I said, studying the body more closely. “We’ll need dental records or DNA for official confirmation, but everything points to our missing doctor.” I knelt carefully beside the body. “She suffered.”

The woman’s face was a mass of bruises and swelling, her features distorted beyond easy recognition.

Dark hair matted with blood stuck to her scalp in clumps, and defensive wounds covered her hands and forearms—evidence of a desperate fight for life.

The scrubs she wore were torn and stained dark with blood that had dried to a rusty brown.

I began my preliminary examination with the methodical precision that years of training had ingrained in me.

Starting with external observation, I noted the positioning of the limbs, the condition of her clothing, any obvious trauma.

My hands moved carefully over her body, checking for injuries while being mindful not to disturb potential evidence.

“Single gunshot wound to the chest,” I said, studying the entry point. “Close range based on the powder burns and stippling around the wound. Looks like a small caliber, probably a .22.”

The bullet had entered just left of center mass, and the lack of an obvious exit wound suggested it was still lodged inside her chest cavity. I’d know more once I got her back to the lab.

But as I continued my examination, something else caught my attention that made my blood run cold.

“Look at this,” I said, carefully moving aside the torn fabric of her scrubs to reveal markings carved into the skin just below her collarbone.

The symbol was crude but unmistakable—scales of justice, roughly the same design we’d seen etched into Rachel Mills’s headstone at the cemetery. The cuts were precise and deliberate, made with something sharp like a knife or scalpel.

“Postmortem,” I said, studying the edges of the wounds that showed no bleeding or inflammatory response. “Someone took time to send a message after she was already dead.”

“Same symbol from the cemetery,” Jack said grimly. “Someone’s completing their historical revenge list.”

“But this is an escalation,” I said. “The cemetery markings were on stone. This is carved into flesh. The killer’s getting more personal, more violent.”

“Or more desperate to send their message,” Jack said.

I photographed the symbol from multiple angles before continuing my examination.

The defensive wounds on her hands and arms told the story of someone who’d fought back with everything she had.

Broken fingernails, scraped knuckles, bruising on her forearms where she’d tried to block blows—this woman hadn’t gone quietly.

“She fought hard,” I said, carefully examining her hands for trace evidence. “There’s material under her fingernails—looks like fabric fibers, possibly skin cells. She got a piece of her attacker.”

Using small evidence bags, I carefully collected samples from under each fingernail, documenting everything with photographs and detailed notes.

“Left shoe missing,” I noted, looking around the immediate area. “And her right shoe has a torn sole.”

“Found the missing shoe down by the water,” Potts said, appearing beside us with an evidence bag. Even under Daniels’s watchful supervision, she maintained her usual professional competence.

Cole approached from where he’d been interviewing the jogger, his expression grim but determined.

“Peterson’s clean. Regular evening runner, lives about two miles from here.

Says he saw a dark sedan leaving the area when he pulled into the park entrance.

Around six o’clock. He said the car stood out because there isn’t much traffic at this time in the evening, but also because the driver almost hit the gate leaving the park.

Said he was driving kind of erratically. ”

“He’s sure the driver was male?” I asked.

“No,” Cole said. “He couldn’t confirm that. He said he just seemed male because of the way he drove.”

“That’s helpful,” Daniels said.

“That’s the timeline we’ll work with,” Jack said. “Victim was killed elsewhere and dumped here around six. Body was discovered ninety minutes later.”

“Wait,” Martinez said, frowning. “If Mills was dumped here at six, who was driving her car at Sheldon’s house just a few hours ago?”

“Our killer,” Jack said grimly. “They’ve been using her vehicle to move around undetected. Bold move, considering we have a BOLO out on it.”

“Or desperate,” I added. “The killer’s timeline is accelerating.”

Jack pulled out his phone, checking for updates. “Still no hits on the BOLO for Mills’s Mercedes. How does a car that distinctive just vanish?”

“It doesn’t,” I said. “That car has been all over King George the last two days—the cemetery, Sheldon’s house. Someone’s using it, but they’re being smart about where they park it.”

“I’d like to know the answer to that as well,” Jack said.

“Car might still be AWOL,” Martinez said, joining our group. “But we found her cell phone.” He held up an evidence bag containing what looked like the shattered remains of a smartphone. “Someone really didn’t want us seeing her call history.”

“I want every available unit looking for that Mercedes,” Jack said, pulling out his phone. “Roadblocks, checkpoints, BOLO alerts to surrounding counties. I want it found.”

Daniels took the bag, examining the damaged phone under the portable lights with the kind of thoroughness that made her legendary. “Might be able to recover data even with this level of damage. Maybe Lieutenant Derby could take a look.”

“The contrast between the murders is striking,” I said. “Thomas Whitman’s death was almost clinical—cardiac arrest, careful staging. But this? This is rage. Personal.”

“The killer’s deteriorating,” Jack said. “Or Mills fought back and forced them to get messy.”

“Either way, they’re not as in control as they were three days ago,” I said.

The night air carried the sound of Martinez’s voice as he coordinated with the park maintenance worker who’d seen the dark sedan.

Everything felt surreal under the harsh portable lights—the way shadows danced between the trees, the constant hum of generators powering the crime-scene equipment, the methodical click of cameras documenting every detail.

Cole made the call to Derby while we continued processing the scene. Twenty minutes later, his unmarked sedan pulled into the parking area, and I watched the tall, thin man unfold himself from behind the wheel.

His blond hair was already staging its usual rebellion against whatever product he’d used to try to tame it this morning, and he pushed his glasses up his pointed nose as he surveyed the crime scene with sharp intelligence.

“Got something,” Derby called out from where he’d set up his laptop and specialized recovery equipment near Daniels’s vehicle. “Memory card is intact. I can see recent call activity.”

We gathered around his setup, watching as he navigated through recovered data with the kind of technical expertise that made him invaluable to investigations like this.

“Last outgoing call was yesterday at 5:47 p.m.,” he said, scrolling through the call log. “Number’s listed in her contacts under the initials JMH.”

“JMH?” I asked, perking up at the mention of those familiar initials

“That’s our connection,” Jack said, his voice carrying the satisfaction of a puzzle piece finally clicking into place. “JMH. is the link between both murders.”

“Can you get me a name for that number?” Daniels asked.

Derby typed rapidly, running the number through various databases. “It’s a landline registered to Judith Marie Hughes. Address is 1247 River Road.”

“Hughes,” I said. “That’s one of the families whose ancestors testified against Bridget Ashworth.”

“Now we need to figure out if she’s the killer or the next victim,” Jack said. “Let’s head over to River Road and see what we find.”

“I’ll get EMTs to transport the body,” I said.

Since the jogger had called 911 it was automatic that the ambulance arrived on the scene, which was nice considering I was shorthanded with Lily and Sheldon both being out. It would be a while until the scene was cleared so I’d have time to go with Jack to River Road.

Somewhere in this river, Colonial ships had once carried tobacco to market, their holds filled with the wealth that had built the great plantation houses of King George County. Now those same waters reflected the lights of a modern crime scene, witness to murders that spanned three centuries.

The drive back through the Virginia countryside felt different this time—less ominous, more determined.

We had a name, an address, a concrete lead to follow.

But as we passed the darkened fields and sleeping farmhouses that dotted the landscape, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were racing against time.

Somewhere in King George County, Judith Marie Hughes was either in mortal danger or planning her next murder. And somewhere in the shadows of history and revenge, a killer was waiting to complete their three-hundred-year-old mission of blood and justice.