Total Victim Theory by Ian Ballard

find something on the radio, but it's all static and he turns it off.
    Before long, I see the dune's vast, and now familiar, southern rim. Soon after, I make out the shape up ahead of what must be Officer Sandoval's Land Cruiser. For some reason, he's got his lights off. Silva flashes our headlights and a moment later Sandoval answers the signal.
    As we near him, our headlights penetrate the interior of theother vehicle. I can see the officer's silhouette through the window. Just sitting there waiting. Our high beams flood the vicinity with light, but I don't see any sign of the body yet. Silva pulls up next to the officer and yanks up the parking brake. Both men roll down their windows.
    “Detective Silva, I'm glad you're finally here,” Sandoval says, his face looking a bit pale. “It's a little creepy sitting out in the middle of nowhere with a body.”
    “Where is she?” Silva says.
    Sandoval clears his throat. “Just on the other side of my car.”
    Silva reaches in the glove compartment and grabs a flashlight that's beneath some paperwork. We both get out of the car, as does Sandoval. Car doors slamming.
    Sandoval appears in front of his Range Rover. “Here.” He gestures at a place on the ground that the vehicle is still blocking from view.
    Sand crunches underfoot as we walk over to where the officer stands.
    The dim outline of the body comes into view.
    Silva shines his flashlight on the woman.
    She lies on her back, arms straight at her sides. A white handkerchief covers her face and a profusion of blonde hair flows out from beneath. The beam lingers on her severed legs and seems to study the injury.
    An image of the woman's foot amid the pile of belongings flits through my mind—a flash of those pink toenails and a thought of who they reminded me of.
    On the cloth that covers her face, a pair of red stains darken the cloth just above where you'd expect to find the eyes. “Where did that handkerchief come from?” I ask.
    “The villager said he covered her face with a handkerchief when he found her,” says Silva. “Out of respect for the dead.”
    “You think it's the same one?” I ask.
    “I don't see why it wouldn't be.”
    “Is this the same place where she was the first time around?” I ask.
    Silva points the beam at a spot just behind the body and examines some marks in the sand. “Looks like he put her back exactly the way she was. Her legs are still lined up with the trail shemade the first time around.”
    “Is this guy just fucking with us, or what?” I say.
    “I can't believe no one saw anything,” Silva says. He turns to Officer Sandoval. “Have you spoken with the officer who was here before you?”
    “No, sir,” the officer says, reluctantly. “I . . . I was a half hour late getting out here, so there was a gap in the coverage. It's possible the killer came during that time. . . .”
    “Jesus fucking Christ,” says Silva. “We need to stop dropping the ball here.”
    “I'm truly sorry, sir. I had no idea that—”
    “Are there new tire tracks?” I ask.
    Silva's struggling to regain his composure. The anger on his face gradually subsides, and he canvasses the sand around the body with the beam. After a moment, the light freezes on a point about fifteen feet from the woman's head. “Yeah. Here are his tracks. These are the fresh ones. I'm gonna say it's the same Firestone tread we've seen before.”
    “From the red Ford truck they saw in Morelia,” I suggest.
    “Quite possibly,” says Silva.
    I squat down next to the woman's body to get a closer look. The light catches glimpses of her pale skin. “Doesn't look like she's from around here, does she?” I say.
    “She's kind of the odd man out among the seven of them.” Silva's standing a few feet behind me, looking down. I glance back at him, and for just a split-second I mistake his expression for a grin. Maybe it's the angle or just the configuration of his mouth that gives this impression—the way dogs seem to