Page 35 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s not what it looks like.
“Step away from the body,” Jack commanded, his Glock already in his hand with that fluid economy of motion that meant his brain had shifted into tactical mode. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”
Blackwood’s hands went up like he was surrendering to more than just Jack’s weapon. “I didn’t—she was already—someone called me. Last night at ten oh-seven. I know the exact time because I was watching the news and looked at the clock when my phone rang.”
“Stop talking.” Jack’s voice carried that particular tone that made smart men shut their mouths and criminals confess just to avoid whatever was coming next.
“The voice was distorted,” Blackwood rushed on anyway, desperation overriding common sense.
“Electronic. Like those voice-changer things. They said Margaret had found something—documents that could prove my family wasn’t part of the conspiracy.
That we tried to stop it.” His voice cracked like expensive crystal under pressure.
“Said she wanted to meet me here at two o’clock to share it before going to the police.
When I got here five minutes ago, the door was open. I found her like…like that.”
“Face the wall,” Jack said. “Hands against it, feet spread.”
While Jack controlled Blackwood, I kept my hand on the Beretta at my back, scanning the shadows for any other surprises. The mill felt alive around us, every creak of ancient wood making my nerves fire. The killer could still be here, watching us discover their handiwork.
“Call it in,” Jack told me, never taking his eyes off Blackwood. “Full response. CSI, backup, the works.”
My fingers were steady as I pulled out my phone, though my pulse hammered against my ribs. “This is Dr. Graves at Hawthorne Mill off River Road. We need immediate backup, CSI team, and the medical examiner. We have one deceased, one detained at scene.”
“Copy that, Dr. Graves,” the dispatcher responded. “Units are en route. ETA four minutes.”
Jack patted Blackwood down, checking for weapons while I kept watch. “Your phone on you?”
“Right jacket pocket,” Blackwood said.
Jack retrieved an iPhone in a leather case, handling it carefully to preserve any fingerprints. The screen showed numerous missed calls and texts, probably from Blackwood’s wife wondering where he’d disappeared to this afternoon.
“The voice,” Jack said. “Male or female?”
“I couldn’t tell.” Blackwood’s words tumbled over each other in his desperation to explain.
“They said Margaret had found documents in the courthouse archives that could protect my family. That she’d discovered who was really behind these murders and had proof that would stop us from being next.
I was supposed to meet her here at two. When I arrived, the door was open.
I went in and found her like…like that. I was checking to see if she was really dead when you arrived. ”
I studied Blackwood as he spoke, noting the details that would matter later.
His torn jacket and disheveled appearance made sense now—he’d stumbled through the dark mill, maybe tripped over equipment in his shock at finding Margaret’s body.
The scrapes on his knuckles looked fresh, probably from catching himself when he fell.
The sound of sirens grew closer, and within minutes, the quiet mill became a hive of controlled chaos.
Cole’s pickup truck arrived first, followed by Martinez’s sedan, then two patrol units.
The rain had picked up again, drumming against the restored cedar shake roof that the historical society had painstakingly re-created using Colonial-era techniques.
Despite the authentic restoration, water still found its way through the centuries-old stone walls where mortar had worn away—preservation could only do so much against time and weather.
“Quite a scene,” Cole said, taking in Margaret’s displayed corpse with the grim expression of someone who’d seen too much death. “Want me to take Blackwood?”
“We need to secure him as a witness,” Jack said. “Cole, take Mr. Blackwood outside. Get a preliminary statement while we process the scene.”
Cole nodded and approached Blackwood. “Mr. Blackwood, I need you to come with me. We’ll need a full statement about what you’re doing here and what you saw.”
“I already told you—” Blackwood started.
“And you’ll tell us again, in detail,” Cole said, his tone firm but not hostile. “Right now you’re a witness to a crime scene. Let’s keep it that way.”
Blackwood’s shoulders sagged as Cole escorted him outside.
Through the mill’s entrance, I could see Cole guiding him through the rain to one of the patrol cars, opening the back door for him to sit inside, out of the downpour.
Cole slid into the front seat, turning to take Blackwood’s statement through the partition.
Standard procedure—separate potential witnesses from the crime scene, get their story while it’s fresh, then determine if there’s probable cause for arrest.
The CSI van arrived next, and Lieutenant Daniels emerged with her usual calm efficiency, Potts right behind her carrying equipment cases.
Even in the chaos of a crime scene, Daniels moved with the methodical precision of someone who’d processed hundreds of scenes and knew exactly what needed to be done.
“Sheriff, Doctor,” Daniels said, pulling on latex gloves. “What do we have?”
“Margaret Randolph, professor at the university,” Jack said. “Found her approximately twenty minutes ago after receiving a tip. Richard Blackwood was already on scene—claims he was lured here by a phone call.”
Potts was already photographing the entrance, the whir and click of her camera adding to the soundscape.
She moved with her characteristic precision, documenting every angle before anyone could contaminate the scene.
There was something almost meditative about the way she worked, as if crime scenes were puzzles she was born to solve.
“The body’s been staged,” I said, leading them toward Margaret. “Similar theatrical presentation to what we saw with Thomas Whitman.”
As we approached Margaret’s corpse, I watched Daniels’s expression tighten. Even for seasoned professionals, the sight of that gaping mouth and missing tongue was jarring.
“We’ll need extensive photography of the body positioning and the surrounding area,” Daniels said, already directing her team. “Potts, start with overall shots, then move to details.”
I pulled on fresh gloves and knelt beside Margaret’s body, beginning my preliminary examination while the CSI team set up their equipment. The liver temperature probe would give us a more accurate time of death, but rigor mortis was already well established in the small muscle groups.
“Based on the degree of rigor and the temperature drop,” I said, carefully inserting the probe, “I’d estimate death occurred between 10 p.m. and midnight last night.”
The numbers on the digital thermometer confirmed my estimate. “Margaret has been dead for at least twelve hours, probably more. Which means if Blackwood’s call came at ten oh-seven, Margaret could’ve still been alive when he received it.”
“Or freshly dead,” Jack said.
Potts was photographing the books arranged around Margaret’s body, documenting each one’s position and title. “These appear to be academic texts,” she said, reading the spines for the evidence log. “All related to Colonial Virginia history. Should I bag them individually or as a set?”
“Individually,” Daniels instructed. “We’ll need to process each one for prints.”
I continued my examination, documenting every detail. The tongue had been removed with surgical precision—one clean cut at the base with something incredibly sharp.
“No defensive wounds,” I noted, examining her hands and arms. “She never fought back.”
“Sheriff,” Potts called from near the grinding wheel. “I’ve found something.”
We gathered around as she photographed a dark button lying in the dust about three feet from Margaret’s body. Using tweezers, she carefully lifted it for closer examination.
“Looks expensive,” she said, turning it to catch the light. “Mother-of-pearl, maybe? With gold threading.”
I glanced toward the entrance where we could see Blackwood in the back of Cole’s patrol car. His suit jacket was expensive, certainly, but even from here I could see all his buttons were intact.
“Bag it,” Daniels instructed. “We’ll compare it to Blackwood’s clothing and check for prints.”
The team worked with methodical precision for the next hour. Every inch of the mill was photographed, measured, documented. They found fresh tire tracks from only the two vehicles parked outside.
“Land Rover is registered to the victim,” Martinez said. “The BMW belongs to Blackwood.”
“Killer drove her to her execution in her own vehicle,” I said. “How’d the killer get away?”
“Want to bet money that Victoria Mills’s vehicle was parked somewhere down the road?” Jack asked.
“That’s a sucker’s bet,” I said.
“Victim’s purse was on the passenger seat,” Martinez continued. “Wallet and credit cards intact. Her phone was missing.”
“This is a bold killer,” Jack said. “A true sociopath. They don’t worry about being caught.
That’s something to think about. The killer took time in the cemetery.
Staged the body. Moved each board and stone.
Then they moved on to Victoria. But things didn’t go as planned.
The drugs didn’t do what they should have, so there was fight and the killer resorted to a bullet instead of whatever had been planned. ”
“At least Victoria took some DNA with her into death,” I said. “So at least we’ll have that when we catch him.”