“Sick,” Det. Gibbs said.

“Doesn’t smell pretty either,” her partner added. Gibbs already wore rubber gloves; Lt. Patrick was rolling his on as he looked at the horizon. “Crap.”

“LT?”

“Feds.”

“Crap.” Both stepped away from the scene, reluctantly preparing to let the FBI claim the case.

“Agents Fritz and Sato, FBI ,” the men showed their badges, and rolled on rubber gloves.

“Jogger saw the rug, thought she’d look at the pattern. Saw the blond hair.”

“The Carpet Killer,” Fritz spoke.

“It’s a rug,” Gibbs said.

“Credit the press for the name,” Sato told her. “They like aliteration.”

“Protection?” Fritz offered them booties so their feet wouldn’t contaminate the scene. “You two unroll the carp – the rug.” The officers did this slowly, gagging at the smell. “Check her mouth.” Patrick pried it open; Gibbs dug out plastic rosary beads. “Said her prayers.”

“Sick,” Patrick said. Then, eyes on the horizon again, he added, “Crap.”

“LT?”

“Press.”

“Crap,” they all spoke in unison.