Three things were certain: she was beautiful, naked, and dead.
The bullet holes in her forehead and between her dazzling breasts were actually the halves of maraschino cherries dripping red syrup, the needle marks in the crook of her elbow nothing more sinister than vaccine-flea bites. Even the circular bruises on her inner thighs matched her own thumbprints.
Rubbing his enlarged, hairless head, Kaltenbrunner relished the intellectual challenge. All he had to go on were the unusual stains on her lips and the remote control in her hand.
That, and the expression of utter bliss on her face.