

The Tenth Caller by Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To Stacia, who helped immensely.

Thursday, November 8th... 3:16 a.m. Three hours to go until blessed relief. Shivering, Gulliver poured another splash of vodka into his orange juice and pushed a button on the console in front of him. "Are we ever gonna get any heat in this place, or what?"

In the control room, Manny leaned into his microphone. "Hey, I'm an engineer, not a heating repair man. It's winter. Bring a sweater." He clicked off and held a spread hand up to the glass. And five, and four, and three, two....

"Welcome back, angels of the night, wherever you are. This is Gulliver McKnight, your midnight cowboy, beaming out to the universe from central Indiana. That was the Moody Blues, cruising into your consciousness, or your unconsciousness perhaps, but either way me and Manny are here for ya' angels, just like always, tryin' to make sense of it all. Comin' up is some James Gang and then a little something for you Hendrix freaks out there, but right now we have to pay some bills so we can afford to get some heat into this dump." He pushed the mike away and saw Manny scrambling behind the glass. "Hey Manny, takin' five."

"You ever hear of something called a play list, for Christ's sake?"

"Fuck the play list Manny. Just do some spots. I need a cigarette." Manny gave him the finger. Gulliver grabbed his orange juice and smiled back. Like him, Manny would rather have been someplace else, but also like him, Manny was on the downslope of life. Like it or not, this was it until something better came along, but there was a distinct possibility that would never happen. Gulliver fished his last Parliament from the box and stepped out the back door of WXKO, AM Classic Rock, where the smell of stale cigarettes lingered in the air despite the never-ending wind that whipped across the cornfields of Butt-fuck, Indiana, more commonly known as Andersonville. It was home to the "mega-signal of the Midwest"—right— and a million cold crows. He took three quick drags on the cigarette and crushed it out next to countless others that already littered the filthy ashtray there. He scooted back inside before he froze to death.

Manny was giving him a dirty look through the dirty glass of the tiny studio, but he paid Manny no mind. Like he gave a fuck about Manny and his problems. He had problems of his own, primary among them being the fact that his former wife, his former agent, and his former employer were all suing him for some version of breach of contract, and none of the three would be the least bit hesitant of making a trophy of his testicles in lieu of the money they wouldn't get. He wasn't broke, he was worse than broke, and the chances of becoming un-broke anytime in the near future didn't look dim, they looked so far less than dim that a bat couldn't find its way out of that hole.

It had been quite the fall. He'd been up there, with Imus, with Howard Stern, with the Greaseman, in syndication, in every major market in the country, at $250K per. Before that he'd been Slammin' Sammy, shock jock extraordinaire on WCHI in Chicago. He'd done morning drive with Donny Simpson on WKYS in D.C., and he'd been the velvety Johnny Black, doing the set-up gig before Frankie Crocker on WBLS in New York. But that was years ago, before he'd been fired—not that getting fired was any big deal; he'd been fired before, but it had always been because some tight-asses clenched their sphincters over something he'd said on the air. It went with the territory. The last time was different. The last time, his boss didn't accept the notion that jail time was a valid excuse for not showing up for work. With good behavior, he was out in two years, but he was media shit at that point, blackballed and forgotten, doomed to doing voiceovers for car dealerships. Now, he was doing the graveyard shift on godforsaken AM at a 5,000-watt piss-ant station where the highest rated program was the tornado report. The only saving grace was that he had a following—as he called it. Others called it a cult. At night and under the right conditions, the AM signal could be heard a thousand miles away, and in the wee hours of the morning, the lonely, the depressed, and the depraved gathered on his broadcast doorstep to confide in his wisdom. His real name was Gordon Powers, and he was happy that he'd already paid his light bill this month.

Manny's voice came through the studio speakers. "Ten seconds, Tarzan. I gotta take a piss."

"Fine. Gimme something where I can take some calls."

"And five, and four, and three, two...."

"Back to ya' babies...." Babies had no teeth, like the rednecks who were listening, Gulliver thought to himself. "Like signals from the infinite universes of space, we are but pulses of plasma in the stream of humankind...." Manny smacked the glass and held up a CD as he pointed to his crotch. "And for the lucky plasma-ass who can tell me when this song was first recorded, we'll give away a complete dinner for four at Chucky's Chicken Barn. This version was recorded by Neil Young. I'll take the tenth caller." He glanced at the glass as Manny rushed toward the door. "That long enough for ya' Manny? You can take a leak and spank your monkey by the time we find ten hayseeds who can remember their own phone number." Manny gave him the finger again as he bolted down the hall.

Neil Young's high wail flooded the studio speakers as grating guitars screamed out what could have been a melody in a mellower version. As it was, the notes served to bring the voice, soaring off on its own flight, back toward harmony. Gulliver reached into the backpack lying next to his feet and pulled out the pint of Smirnoff he brought with him every night. This night, it was almost empty and he was only halfway through his shift. The first light on the console started blinking.

"WXKO. This is Gulliver."

"Is that really you?" It was a woman. The voice was slurred and raspy, and sounded distinctly southern.

"It's me. Where you calling from?"

"Tuscaloosa. Your signal's bouncin' off the planets, baby; comin' in loud and clear."

"What are you doin' up this time of night?"

"Just smokin' a little weed and lis'nen to you."

A joint sounded good right about now. "How many cigarettes you smoked tonight?"

"I dunno. Maybe a pack. Why you askin'?"

"You got a man?"

"Yeah."

"Where is he?"

"Right here next to me, passed out."

"Is he naked?"

"He was."

"Are you naked?"

"I was. Ain't now."

"If you win, how you gonna collect your prize from way down in Tuscaloosa?"

"I expect you to come down here and bring me my chicken. Am I the tenth caller?"

The second light started blinking on the phone console. "Sorry baby. You're the first."

"I haven't been the first in a long damn time."

"I know what you mean."

"Can I answer the question?"

"Sorry baby. Gotta go. Don't do anything stupid."

"I love you, Gulliver."

"I love you too, baby." He punched down on the second blinking button. "This is Gulliver."

"1974."

"Sorry, wrong answer." _Click._ "This is Gulliver."

"Yeah, this is Rocco from Brooklyn. Is this Gulliver?"

"Yeah. You whack anybody lately, Rocco?"

"Naw, not for a couple 'a months. Why, you need a favor or somethin'?"

Manny came back into the control booth and started clearing the calls. "Not right now, Rocco, but I might put a contract out on myself if I don't get out of this hole pretty soon. Thanks for callin'."

"Hey, wait a minute. Am I the tenth—" _Click_.

"You got the calls, Manny?"

Manny waved from behind the glass. Gulliver tossed his headphones on the console and poured the rest of the vodka into his cup. Neil Young's screaming guitar blasted through the studio speakers, cutting into the alcohol headache forming behind his eyes. By 6:00 a.m. it would be a raging pulse all the way to the base of his neck. He saw the lights flash on the phone console and then go out almost immediately as Manny cleared the calls, not giving so much as a "hello" to the lonely fucks on the other end of the line. The console went dark and stayed that way, and Gulliver wondered if they'd even get ten calls. He checked his cell phone, which was sitting nearby. Suddenly, as the song was ending, the volume through the studio speakers came down and Manny's voice broke through.

"We got the tenth caller, man."

"Then give the winner his chicken."

Manny banged on the glass. "This was your idea. Line six."

Gulliver looked up. Manny was pointing into the phone, his features tightly knit. Gulliver scratched the stubble on his chin, debating whether or not to put the call on the air. Finally, he put his headphones back on and impatiently punched the only blinking light on bank of phone lines in front of him. From the look on Manny's face, he decided to take it off the air. "Congratulations. It's your lucky day."

"What the fuck kind of name is Gulliver anyway? Why don't you use your God-given name, Gordon?"

"Who is this?"

"Never mind who this is and answer my question."

The song was ending and Gulliver made a rolling motion to Manny. Pressing his headphones to his ears, Manny nodded and Neil Young was replaced by Janis Joplin.

"Is that important to you?"

"Your mother gave you a name, why don't you use it? Are you ashamed of it, asshole? Are you ashamed of your mother?" The voice sounded altered and far away, as if it were on a speakerphone.

"Take your pick."

"She was a fine woman, you ungrateful bastard." Gulliver and Manny locked eyes. "It was you that fucked everything up."

Gulliver swallowed some of his vodka and orange juice. "She was a drunk and a slut," he spat into the microphone. "There was a different man at breakfast every Sunday morning." The line went silent for almost half a minute. Gulliver glanced at Manny who was staring at him intently. Gulliver leaned closer to the mike and kept his voice low, as if it was trying to get close to the ground. "Do I know you, man?"

"You fuck! Don't act like you don't know who this is!"

Gulliver did a mental sweep as Manny sat motionless, his greasy curls dangling in his eyes.

The voice dripped with disdain. "You're going to walk away from this, aren't you, you slimy bastard? Just like you've walked away from everything else in your worthless life."

"Walk away from what, man? What are you talking about?"

"Put me on the air so I can tell the world what a disgusting piece of shit you are."

Manny shook his head vigorously.

"Sorry, man. You're cursing too much."

"Put me on the air! Now!"

Gulliver shot back the rest of his drink. He touched the microphone with his lips as Manny quickly punched up another song. "Who is this, man?"

Silence, but the line was still open. Some moments later the voice came through, barely a whisper. "You have to put me on the air. I'm the winner. I'm the tenth caller." Then screaming so that it hurt in Gulliver's ears, "Let me talk to the world, you bastard!"

Gulliver didn't respond. Finally, he growled, "I'm not putting you on the air, man."

The voice came back immediately, quivering with rage. "I'll make you pay if you don't put me on the air."

"How? How will you make me pay?" Gulliver shouted back.

"You'll see," the tenth caller responded with a sudden calmness. "And whatever happens will be on your head."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, whatever happens?"

"Just keep reading the paper, asshole. You'll know."

Saturday, November 10th ... 5:02 p.m. The late afternoon rays coming through the ragged curtains were like spears piercing his eyes. He checked the time. He didn't remember setting the alarm clock when he went to bed. Good thing. Had it gone off, the shrill beep would have been like chain saw cutting into his skull. He remembered drinking that last shot of tequila at 8:40 that morning, however, then toasting Bugs Bunny for once again having outwitted Elmer Fudd. Andersonville only had one bar open at that hour—a sticky little place called The Shamrock—catering mostly to lifelong alcoholics and workers coming off the third shift at the three appliance assembly plants in the area. As it was for him, six in the morning was the end of the work day for them, and a couple of belts at the end of the work week meant downing shots and beers in front of the Saturday morning cartoons, while their kids at home downed Cocoa Puffs and milk in front of the same programs. His morning was midnight, and he normally went to bed with the sun at its peak. His life was upside down, in more ways than one.

Still in his clothes, Gulliver dragged himself off the bed. Detecting the reek of something nasty and hoping it wasn't him, he shuffled to the refrigerator and looked at his choices: coffee creamer and beer. Just thinking about either made him gag. There wasn't enough coffee to make a pot, and the only food was a wrinkled apple and some microwave popcorn. He actually debated the popcorn, but decided something more substantial was in order given that he could still feel the tequila sloshing around in his stomach. How many did he drink?

He took a piss and stumbled out to the car, checking his pockets to make sure he had enough for some hot coffee and a couple of depth charges at the Dunkin' Donuts. He found a five and wondered where the other ninety-five had gone from the hundred he'd gotten from the cash machine at 6:15 that morning. Into his shot glass, he guessed. There was a new dent on his SUV.

The engine coughed to life and he crunched over the frozen gravel of his driveway, shivering behind the wheel. The sun was going down and it settled in behind some thick gray clouds that sucked whatever warmth there was from the day. The radio crackled through the din of the tire noise, and he turned up the volume to hear WXKO's weekend voice lamely trying to be humorous.

"Just stick to the music," he spat, turning off the radio. Who wanted to listen to that shit?

Figuring there was a good chance that he was still legally drunk, he wound his way carefully to the state highway. The road led to a Walmart shopping center—the social center of Andersonville, he thought caustically—on the outskirts of town.

Inside the donut shop, the pimply-faced kid behind the counter gave him his coffee and donuts and asked, "Ain't you that Gulliver guy from the radio station?"

Fame in a small town had its drawbacks. "Yeah," Gulliver grunted. "How much?"

"Three sixty-five. I love your program, man. I listen to you all the time."

He threw down the five and took his coffee and donuts to an empty booth as far away from the kid as possible. Not surprisingly, he was the only customer, seeing as not a lot of people had breakfast at 5:30 at night. He got his change and grabbed a newspaper that someone had left in another booth. With the kid safely to his back, he proceeded to delve into his feast.

He'd only picked up one section of the paper, the sports section, and he scanned the headlines, not getting into the small print as reading would require way too much work. The coffee was bitter and steaming hot, perfect for cutting through the seemingly inch-thick film on his tongue. He turned the pages, sipping the coffee and feeling its warmth as it trickled down to his stomach. He ate the first donut, got up to get a napkin, and, seeing as he wasn't much of a sports nut, checked to see if the rest of the paper was lying around. He found the A-section of the Madison County _Herald Bulletin_ in another booth. The big news was in the A-section, the big news in Madison County usually revolving around corn, the price of corn, and what the fuck you could do with corn. He grabbed the paper without looking at it, noting that the glazed donut he'd just eaten didn't sit well with the coffee and tequila churning inside his stomach.

"You got a bathroom?" he called to the pimply-faced kid.

The kid thumbed to a hallway near the cash register. Gulliver looked at the front door momentarily, deciding it would be better to lose the breakfast he'd just eaten in private. He shuffled quickly down the hall and burst into the men's room. It was filthy. He took to the stall and dropped his pants, waiting to see which way his stomach decided to push its contents. He felt it settle a bit and decided to wait out the misery. The newspaper was turned to its middle and he turned it back to the front page, trying to focus while his guts twisted in pain. The words jumped off the page: _Murder in Madison County._ A twinge of interest cut through his distress and his eyes converged on the words beneath the headline. It was the second murder in as many months in the county, and he remembered reading the news copy about the first one on the air. The words had been written a thousand times in newspapers throughout the country, but they were no less tragic when he'd read them: a sixteen-year-old girl had disappeared on her way home from school, and her body was found a week later in a wooded area. She'd been raped and strangled—the stereotypical sick-shit crime. As far as he knew, it was still unsolved. With knitted eyebrows, he skipped around the page trying to catch a key phrase here and there: _hadn't been a murder in the county in over four years and now there were two... arson... charred body... beyond recognition... dental records... police asking for clues... computer search of missing persons reports... angel of the night._ He stopped and read the phrase again: _angel of the night_. Quickly, he traced back to the beginning of the paragraph. A source at the county sheriff's office had let it slip that the victim was female, and a piece of paper had been found beneath the body, charred and probably part of a larger document, a letter perhaps, written by hand. The only legible words were _"angel of the nig..."_ and police speculated that the partial word was _night_ , but didn't have any clue as to its meaning or if there were other words on the page that had been burned away. At this point, it was impossible to tell if that piece of information was pertinent, or not. _Angel of the night_. Hmm, thought Gulliver as his intestines coiled like a snake.

Monday, November 12th ... 10:22 a.m. Hernandez looked at the trail of black footprints he just laid down on the white linoleum. Chief Bergmann was following them like they were breadcrumbs, his scowl deepening with each step.

"I see you were out at the scene," Bergman said. "Nice of you to bring some of it back."

Hernandez stamped his feet and clouds of black dust billowed from his shoes, making it worse. "Sorry," he said.

Bergmann jumped back so as to not soil the cuffs on his trousers. "Well?" he asked, still scowling.

Hernandez flipped through the glossy photos he was holding. "Hard to tell, oh Great One. We could sift through every inch of the place and still come up empty. It burned pretty hot."

Hernandez knew that Bergmann hated being played with like that.

"Keep me posted," Bergmann ordered as he whirled and headed back to his office. "And Hernandez," he called back over his shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Get someone to clean up this goddamned mess."

Hernandez chuckled. Driving the chief crazy was usually the highlight of his day. Julie—short for Juliano—Hernandez flipped through the pictures one more time, then closed the folder and began to review his notes. They were good notes—thorough to say the least. It was better to write too much about a crime scene rather than too little, a fact he'd discovered the hard way. One of only three detectives on the Andersonville police force, he'd never really had a mentor in the department who'd officially trained him in the proper way to conduct a homicide investigation. They were all too busy just taking cases as they came: robberies, car thefts, stolen bicycles—they did it all.

There was another, deeper reason for him not having had of a mentor, however: his name ended with a "z." He was the only Hernandez or Rodriguez or Martinez to reach the new but exalted position of detective, and while no one would openly admit to feeling resentment that a "z" person had been promoted into the position, it had become obvious almost immediately. Tall and light skinned, handsome some said, part of his genealogy traced back to the Alps of northern Italy—hence the name Juliano, which was his grandfather's name—but the fact that he didn't look like the stereotypical "z" person didn't make things any easier. He was only thirty-three, younger than most of the uniforms that had put in for the job, but that only served to make _Hernandez_ synonymous with _shit_. The only way to prove that he deserved the shield was to do the job better than any non-"z" cop could do it.

The county boys had always taken the juicy stuff before Andersonville had its own squad of investigators, but this one took place on his watch and Julie was lucky enough to have been on duty at the time. He wondered if lucky was the right adjective. He read through his notes once, and went back to the beginning and went through them again. It looked like the source of the fire was the body itself, but he was waiting for official word from the county ME for the exact cause of death. He had a hunch it was something other than the obvious, and he bet himself a nickel that the body had been torched in order to cover up the real cause of death.

He read the list of objects bagged for examination by the lab boys down at county, but nothing stood out. Lifting prints at the scene was impossible. The only interesting tidbit was how the particular slip of paper—the one with the words _angel of the nig..._ written on it—had gotten underneath the body. The words seemed to have been written by the victim, as a charred journal, or diary, with what appeared to be the same paper and the same handwriting had been found at the scene. He was waiting for word from the county boys on that too. The phone rang, startling him.

"Detective Hernandez?"

"Yeah."

"This is Morgan down at the ME's office."

"Yeah, sure. You got cause of death on that fire victim yet?"

"That's why I'm calling. You lost your bet."

Hernandez hesitated. "You mean...."

"Yeah. She was alive."

"Jesus Christ."

"I hope she's with him now. She certainly deserves it if she went through what I think she went through."

"Which was?" There was some hesitation on the line. "Morgan, you there?"

Morgan's voice came back thick, with a distinct quaver to it. "She was wide awake the whole time, man. The way I figure it, someone poured gasoline all over her while she lay there—probably had a gun on her or something—then lit her up like a volcano. That body burned so hot that the fillings in her teeth had begun to melt. It must have been something awful for her."

Hernandez absorbed the horror of what he'd just heard. "How long do you figure she was alive before she.... I mean, how long did she feel pain?"

"I don't know for sure. I've never seen anything like this before. A couple of minutes, I'd guess. I can't even imagine."

"Neither can I." Julie flipped some pages in his notebook. "Were you able to zero in on how old she might have been?"

"Well, we'd have to have the dental x-rays to make a positive ID—I'll have word on that tomorrow—but, yeah, I can ballpark it for you."

"Well?"

"My guess? Sixteen, maybe seventeen. I'd bet your nickel on it."

"Jesus," Julie breathed into the phone. "Just like the last one."

"Yeah," Morgan noted. "That's what I said too."

Monday, November 19th ... 11:29 p.m. The few lights that were burning were like eyes in the darkness, following him as he made his way to the end of his street. What houses he could see stood outlined against a charcoal sky, their edges snagging a few glints of blue-cheese light from an almost full moon. Gulliver felt his SUV rock from the never-ending wind that came directly from the coldest place on the planet and blasted into Andersonville night after night after night. Noting the time on the dashboard clock, he turned down Main Street and headed for the truck stop near the interstate. It was out of his way, but everything else was closed and he was out of smokes. He checked the time; he'd be all right as long as he got to the radio station by quarter 'til. It didn't take a lot of preparation to talk to his nocturnal zombies anymore. He pulled into the stop and hurried from the car, plunking down $8.50 for two packs of Parliaments and dodging the hanging paper turkeys that dangled from the ceiling outside the snack bar. Thanksgiving was only a few days away, and he wondered if he'd be among the poor souls partaking in the delicious feast of pressed turkey loaf with bottled gravy, canned yams, powdered mashed potatoes, they served there on Thanksgiving. He knew what they served because he'd been there the year before. He could still smell it.

He got back in the car and headed for WXKO, the classic rock beacon of the Midwest. Right. More like the classic rock armpit, he thought. The streets of Andersonville were deserted save for the few poor souls, like him, who had to be out and about for some reason and wouldn't be able to enjoy the comfort of a warm bed for several hours yet.

He came to a light and waited, debating whether or not to run it seeing as he was the only one at the intersection and there wasn't another car in sight. Then he spotted one of Andersonville's eight police cars idling dark in the lot of the Kroger's supermarket catty-corner from the light, and figured it would probably be a good idea to wait it out. They'd come after him for sure simply because they had nothing better to do. He pushed the on button on his radio, set to 1310 AM, and listened to the nationally syndicated call-in show that preceded his gig five nights a week. The radio personality was Robert Dickson, the show was from L.A., and unlike the sickos that called in on his show, Robert's callers sounded like normal people. They called in about this or that: investment advice, renters messing up an apartment and what-do-I-do-about-it, do I really need a lawyer to sell my house? Robert was a conservative fellow, probably looked like Walter Cronkite, Gulliver guessed, not a lot of risky advice given out here. He listened to the next caller.

"My daughter is nineteen, out on her own, and has decided not to come to the house for Thanksgiving. She says she wants to give thanks by not watching football with me and her boyfriend this year, but wants to give food to the homeless." A mid-western accent; could have been from anywhere: Kansas, Ohio, down the street.

"And you have a problem with that?" Robert asked probingly.

The caller/father went on with his question/problem, which was: he'd like to be with his daughter at Thanksgiving—the mom in the family had passed—and he'd even go so far as to help her at the homeless shelter, but he didn't see the homeless in the same light as she did. She thought the homeless were unfortunate. He, the caller/father, thought most of them were lazy freeloaders who were happy enough to mooch change and food for a living. "What do I do?"

"Do you think all of them are freeloaders?"

"Most of them, yes. Hell, there's plenty of work out there. We can't find enough people to fill the open jobs down at the plant where I work. But that's not to say I don't have no heart. I mean, if all of a sudden these freeloaders couldn't get handouts and were forced to work for their food and shelter, well, then, the ones who couldn't work, the ones who were really down-and-out, they would sort of stand out, wouldn't they? Those I don't mind helping. The others? Well...."

"I understand," said Robert, agreeing certainly with most of his audience. "But what about the children, the young ones who can't help themselves?"

"Oh," the caller/father said. "I didn't think about them."

"So you think the children are worth helping?"

"I guess so. Being homeless ain't no fault of theirs, I guess. Half of them's being raised to freeload too, in my opinion, but ain't no way of tellin' which of 'em that's happening to. Either way, like I said, ain't their fault."

"So, do you think you could talk to your daughter? Maybe she'd be happy to do something like helping homeless children."

"If we could zero in on that."

"And even if you couldn't, would the face of the planet be any different twenty years from now if a few freeloaders were mixed in with the really needy ones on Thanksgiving?"

The caller/father paused. "No, I guess not."

Robert paused too, dead air, waiting for the realization to sink in deeper.

"So you're saying that my opinion ain't worth listening to."

Robert chuckled. "No, I'm saying to swallow a little pride and concentrate on making this the special Thanksgiving that your daughter wants—and that you want, if I'm hearing you right. The few freeloaders that sneak into the food line won't change that feeling one bit, in my opinion."

The caller/father choked a little—good radio drama, thought Gulliver. "I see your point. Thanks Robert. I knew you'd hit it on the head."

"Anytime," Robert responded, and he took the next call.

The images came quickly for Gulliver. Instinctively, he felt the caller/father's lie settle on him like a black mist; the homeless really weren't part of the equation. He pictured the caller/father's face twisted in consternation, not knowing what to do about the abusive boyfriend he'd only briefly mentioned to Robert. Wringing his hands, the caller/father had picked up the phone, knowing Robert's solution would be far more rational than what was going through his own mind, which involved violence.

The images remained in place, but the faces changed. Rubbing the stubble on his jaw, Gulliver reflected on his own daughter, with whom he hadn't spent a Thanksgiving in twelve years. She was nineteen now, just like the caller/father's daughter, and he wondered if she'd be spending the holiday with some drunken boyfriend who'd drink two six-packs and want to snatch a piece of ass between halves of the Cowboy's game. That part of his life was as fucked up as every other part.

The light turned green and Gulliver popped the accelerator, noting that it was twenty minutes to midnight. WXKO and his cult of freaks were waiting. He recognized his own voice as a promo spot crackled through the speakers. _Angels of the night_ : it was one of his favorite phrases, one he'd flat out stolen from a seventies TV sitcom, but it stuck. It took on a different meaning with him, and his cult. _Angels_ were what his listeners saw after taking one too many hits of acid. They'd call, requesting their special tune so that they could lie back on their disgusting sofas, wait for the rush, and see their _angels_ come to them in the darkness of their disgusting apartments. Now, he thought of another _angel of the night_. The burned teenager—her name was Amanda something, it had been revealed—she was an _angel of the night._

A gnawing feeling took him in a rush. _Angel of the nig..._ The only words on a piece of paper found under the charred body. Those words meant something, all right. They were a message, or a warning, or a signal, or all of them together. But they were in the girl's handwriting. A shiver ran up his spine. A different set of images floated into his consciousness. The sick fuck that put those words under Amanda something's body made her write them before he set her on fire. He sat there, breathing in the smell of blistering flesh, and watched her burn. Then, he waited until she was cool so that he could turn her over and put that slip of paper under her body. _Angel of the nig..._ Gulliver knew those words were meant for him, as certainly as he knew his name. And, he knew who put them there. Gulliver took a left into the parking lot of WXKO. It was ten to midnight. He knew who killed poor Amanda something, and he could hear the killer's voice in his mind. He remembered the conversation from two weeks earlier. Should he have put that caller, the tenth caller, on the air? Would poor Amanda something still be alive if he had? _Whatever happens will be on your head._ The words rang so loud inside his head that he could hear nothing else. That tenth caller was the killer. No one else knew it, not even Manny, who'd listened to the conversation that night, but Manny had never mentioned it again. Maybe Manny didn't read the paper. Maybe Manny didn't know about the words found under Amanda something's body. Maybe Manny was just a fucking idiot, but he, Gulliver McKnight, the midnight cowboy, the prince of darkness, was no idiot. It would only be a matter of time before the police made the connection between the words and his radio show. It would only be a matter of time before he heard the knock on the door.

"Mister McKnight? I'm Detective So-and-so."

"Powers. My real name is Gordon Powers."

The tenth caller knew his real name. Gulliver hurried into the studio and blew into the broadcast booth feeling the weight of Manny's glare. Fuck you, Manny. He yanked a CD from the rack and cued it up, then looked at the bank of phone lines on his console. The tenth caller would call again.

Tuesday, November 20th ... 2:31 a.m. She even looked sexy in her sleep. Her dark hair was spread all over the pillow like another pillow, and her breath came out as if it had been dragged over roses. Julie pushed a button on the clock radio, adjusting the volume so that it barely leaked from the speaker.

"Why can't you sleep?"

"Sorry. I thought you were asleep."

"I'm trying to, but tonight it's like I'm trying to sleep with an elephant in the bed." She snuggled closer.

He took her hand, guiding it between his legs as he made jungle noises. "Here's your elephant."

She smiled sleepily, squeezing him under the covers. "This must be the trunk."

He made more jungle noises and cupped her breast.

Her smile lingered and she pressed her body against his. "Do you still like them?" she asked.

It was odd question, but he understood. Dianne DeMarco was a woman who'd been well endowed since she was sixteen, and the fact that seemingly half of the twenty-five pounds she'd just lost came from her chest was a little unnerving to her. "Of course I like them..." he said, and he did. She'd dropped down to a mere 34C, but now she was a size six instead of a size twelve. "...Titsy."

She slapped him. "Now you sound like the stock boys down at the department store."

"I thought you liked that name."

"Right. Maybe I'll put it on my master's thesis instead of Dianne." She laid her arm across his chest. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He knew exactly what she meant. It was driving him crazy, a bug crawling under his skin, stuck there. "You know when something is so obvious you can't see it?"

Dianne propped herself on one elbow. Gulliver McKnight's voice filtered from the clock radio into the warm air of the apartment. Another minute clicked off on the time display. "What's obvious?" she prodded.

He made a face. "It's right there. I can smell it." Frustration talking.

She kissed his neck. "Have you talked to Bergmann about it?"

"Bergmann's a goddamn waste. He says there's nothing connecting the two crimes, and on paper I guess I'd have to agree with him, but evidence or no evidence, I know both those girls were killed by the same man."

Gulliver's voice was lilting softly in the background. He was talking to his listeners, as he often did, almost poetically, calling for them to express their innermost and often bizarre secrets to the world.

"What makes you so convinced?" Dianne continued.

"It's more a feeling than anything else, but it has to be. There hasn't been a murder in the county in years, and no one can remember the last one in Andersonville itself. Now, we've got two in two months, both of them teenaged girls, and I'm supposed to believe that's a coincidence? I don't think so."

"I don't think anyone wants you to believe that, Bergmann included, but you've got to have evidence. He's just looking at this from a cop's point of view. It's what he's supposed to do, Julie. Do you have anything at all?"

Julie shook his head in the darkness. Gulliver was taking phone calls in the background. "Nothing. The first girl—it was like her body had been picked clean. Not a thing on it. We've got no fibers, no foreign blood, no fingerprints, no weapon...."

"Semen?"

"Yeah, someone tried to rape her and we got a DNA sample. That's something, I guess, but we got no matches from the various DNA databanks. So far, we've come up dry."

Dianne touched his cheek. "You're hot," she said. "Your blood pressure must me sky high." She gave it a beat. "I guess it would be too much to expect that you got a matching DNA sample from the burn victim."

"Yeah, it would." He shuddered in the bed. "Jesus, can you imagine? Sitting there while someone is pouring gasoline all over you and then watching him light it? It must have been something awful."

One of Gulliver's callers was whining about the fact that his "old lady" made more money than he did, and "wouldn't give him none" to buy that new Harley he wanted.

"Do you think Bergmann's going to get the county involved?"

"He already has," Julie snapped quickly. With that, he got up and rubbed the tendons in his neck as he walked to the bathroom. His skin was sticky, ooze forced out by some inner flame. He choked down a glass of water and came back. "I would too, I guess. We don't have the technical support. We're gonna be meeting with them tomorrow to go over whatever details we've got so far. It's not much to go over."

A song came on, the notes sounding tinny and weak from the small clock radio. Old group. Chicago, Julie thought briefly. He remembered them from when he was a kid. No. Blood, Sweat, and Tears maybe. He could smell the aroma of pumpkin pie as it came through the ventilation system—a little early Thanksgiving test recipe their neighbors from across the hall had tried that night. It was warm in the apartment. Dianne got up and came to him as he looked out the apartment window. From behind, she wrapped her arms around him. He was aware of what she was trying to do. He stood there, as much for the sake of not wanting to break her mood as anything else. He let his eyes drift into the night, wondering where the murderer was right now, if he was looking out onto the same landscape, breathing the same air as he was. It could be anybody, but it was somebody, somebody with specific habits, specific likes and dislikes, somebody with a pattern to his life: work, trips to the grocery store, going to the gym, killing young women. He conjured the image of a pair of hollow eyes looking back at him, as familiar with him as he was trying to become in reverse. Suddenly, he saw them distended in panic, for surely the feeling of killing someone, even someone as prone and helpless as those girls had probably been, was similar to panic: a rush of newly released adrenaline sending waves of stimulation to the brain, letting it sort out whether they were waves of alarm or excitement, pleasure or pain. Just as suddenly, he could hear the screams, one set of them blocked by a nylon rope crushing into the girl's windpipe, the second set loud and disturbingly piercing, accompanied by an eye-stinging cloud of greasy smoke and the nauseating smell of cooking flesh. He felt the killer's vibes as if the killer was there in the same room with him and Dianne, and suddenly it felt very ominous there in the warm darkness of his apartment.

He felt the press of Dianne's body and he turned, taking her by the shoulders.

She reached up and took his hands. Comically, or trying to be, she guided his hands and said, "Come to bed and let Titsy take care of you."

He smiled, pulling her to him and hugging her. "Titsy is no name for a psychologist," he said into the air behind her. She pulled him to the bed but he wasn't in the mood, and he hoped she'd be content to just be near him while he sorted through his feelings. He needed to formulate his strategy on how he was going to handle the investigation, and Bergmann, and the county police. This was his case, and he wasn't about to give it away. Dianne nibbled at his neck. She was doing her darndest to get him to think about something else, if only temporarily.

The song ended, and Gulliver came back on. "This is your midnight cowboy and that was Blood, Sweat, and Tears," he said, "playing one for all the angels of the night out there. C'mon folks, the lines are open. Why don't you call and tell old Gulliver what's on your mind: 800-555-WXKO."

Julie softly broke Dianne's embrace and sat up in the bed. _Angels of the night_. There had to be a connection.

Thursday, December 6th ... 3:07 a.m. "Thanksgiving was a week ago and you're still eating that nasty bird? That thing probably has hair growing on it by now." Gulliver shot down a gulp of vodka and orange juice and did the cut sign. "That's too disgusting even for me." He ended the call and punched up the next one. "You're on the air."

"Is this Gulliver?"

"The one and only. What's on your mind?"

"I can't figure out what my boyfriend wants for Christmas."

"If he's like me, he wants what every man wants."

"What's that?"

Gulliver shifted into shock-jock mode. "You know those slurpees they sell down at 7-Eleven?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm not talkin' about that kind of slurpee." Gulliver smiled as Manny chuckled on the other side of the glass.

The caller didn't chuckle. "I can't do that," she responded heavily. She sounded young.

"Can't and won't are two different concepts, honey. I have no doubt that you _can_ do it. It's a question of whether you _will_ do it."

Dead air. "I... ... can't."

Gulliver let the dead air mount, loading it with suspense. "Have you ever done it?" he asked.

A rustling sound came through the phone, as if the caller were cradling it. "Yes, I've done it."

"When?"

"Last year... this year; what difference does it make?" Her breathing was strained, a series of rasping exhales that strangers a thousand miles away were listening to.

Gulliver leaned into the microphone. "How old are you, honey?"

"Fifteen," she choked into the airwaves over America.

Gulliver leaned back and looked at the clock. It was just after three in the morning. He visualized her calling from inside a closet somewhere, hunkered in the darkness of her own solitude. "What are you doing up this time of night, sweetheart?"

"I told you. I'm trying to figure out what to give my boyfriend for Christmas."

"And how old is your boyfriend?"

Her breath shortened. "Older," she said.

"I figured that, honey. How much older?"

"I don't know... older. A lot older, I guess."

"Like in ten years older? Twenty years older? Is he as old as your daddy?"

"Yeah."

"Older maybe?"

"Yeah, a little maybe?"

Gulliver poured a splash of vodka into his cup. "And you did it... with him? Last year?"

"Yeah, this year too. Him and his friends."

The words hit him like a left hook. Gulliver hung his head, ashamed for having gone down this road. The image of a frail, innocent fifteen-year-old on her knees performing the unspeakable formed quickly in his head. "How many friends, sweetheart?"

A sob broke through the studio speakers, followed immediately by another, deeper and more urgent. "I don't know, five, six of 'em I guess."

Gulliver shot down the vodka, wondering if he could get out of this without causing more emotional damage than he may have already caused. "I don't suppose you told your daddy about it."

"No. I ain't seen my daddy in a while." Another sob.

Gulliver nodded. "How 'bout your mom, sweetheart? Have you told your mom?"

Her voice became more distant, as if she'd shoved herself deeper into the closet in Gulliver's mind's eye. "My mom was there."

Gulliver's features twisted in anguish. Another citizen of the underbelly of America. He detected a whiff of his own breath and he sipped some juice, trying to clean away the sour taste worsening in his mouth. "Were you forced to do it, sweetheart?" No response, just the heavy sound of silent fear. "Honey, are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here." Barely audible now.

She was drawing away, Gulliver surmised, spiraling into the nightmare that must have been her life. "Were you forced to do it?" he asked again.

"I don't think anybody forced me. We was all pretty drunk."

Gulliver rubbed a knot on the back of his neck. "Your mom was drunk too, wasn't she sweetheart?"

"Yeah, real drunk, I think."

"And she was doing what you were doing, wasn't she?"

"Yeah." A pause, then, "She said we needed the money."

Gulliver took it in and said, "And your boyfriend... your boyfriend is her boyfriend too, isn't he sweetheart?"

"Yeah... and I gotta get him something nice for Christmas. He's been real nice to me and Mom."

Gulliver felt himself shiver as he shot a glazed look at Manny who was sitting perfectly still. Gulliver snapped his fingers, getting his attention. "Where are you calling from, honey?"

No answer.

"It's okay, baby. You can tell me. Just tell me what state you live in if you're afraid to tell me the town."

"Missouri."

He looked at Manny, who nodded. "Okay honey. I'm gonna let you talk to Manny now. You know Manny, don't you?"

"Yeah. You talk about Manny a lot."

"Okay then, sweetheart. Manny is your friend. He's gonna give you the phone numbers of a couple of places that can help you. Is that all right?"

"But what about my boyfriend? What about his Christmas present?"

Gulliver choked down a lump in his throat. "You talk to Manny for a while, and I'll come back and we'll figure it out together. I promise."

"You really promise?"

"I really promise. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you sweetheart." He punched a button and saw Manny's head swing the other way. Manny had the call. Barely able to urge the words from his throat, "I need some time for this one," he said to his audience, picturing half-a-million nocturnal creatures staring at their radios. He cued up a CD. "Meanwhile, maybe you can win something. This song was originally the b-side of what sixties hit? I'll take caller number fifteen." He fished a pack of Parliaments from his backpack and lit one before he was out of the studio. He walked into the control room as Manny calmly guided the caller through a series of questions.

"Have you ever talked to the police, or someone from like maybe a social services department?" Manny asked.

Gulliver just watched, puffing away while Manny dialed directory assistance for someplace in Missouri and asked for the numbers for the local police and rape crisis center. Back on the line, Manny's voice was soft and non-threatening, too soft to penetrate the hard images that had petrified in Gulliver's head. They were images of dead girls, one strangled, one burned beyond recognition, both raped, he guessed, wondering not if, but when, the poor young girl on the line would suffer the same fate. The stories of the two dead girls had all but vanished from the news, lives forgotten, their stories replaced in the media's daily scramble for sensationalism. He wondered if the murderer was out there, listening, and if he'd just picked another victim.

Manny handed him the phone as the song was ending. "I gotta cue up some spots," he said. "Her name is Sarah."

Gulliver took the phone. "Hi Sarah honey. You call those numbers Manny gave you, okay? And you tell them what happened... Yeah, I know you're scared, but you gotta try and get some help. Yeah, okay... about that Christmas present. If it were me, I'd like a picture of you in your favorite dress." Imagining some sick fuck masturbating in front of that picture, he regretted the words as soon as he said them. "You promise me you'll call those numbers, okay Sarah? C'mon, I wanna hear you promise... There that wasn't so hard, was it? You go to bed now. You probably gotta go to school tomorrow."

The line went dead and Gulliver hung up. Manny started clearing calls and Gulliver held up two fingers, indicating _two minutes_. Manny nodded and Gulliver pulled another cigarette from his pack and headed to the smoking area out back. What he and Manny had just done had been preconceived, rehearsed many times in the event that something bizarre or dangerous got called in to the radio station. They had a responsibility to the community, management said. Like he could give a shit, Gulliver thought normally, but now he wondered if he should have reacted the same way the night of the tenth caller even though there was no way of knowing if the caller was the murderer of two young girls. _Whatever happens will be on your head_. The words were no less chilling now.

He quickly stubbed out his smoke and made his way back to the studio. He grabbed the mike and positioned it for business, glancing at the console. Three buttons were blinking and Manny held up six fingers, letting him know that six calls had already been cleared. Collecting his thoughts, Gulliver looked off as if he were gazing at some infinite horizon. Not a sound came through the studio speakers save for the hiss of the electric current running through the wires. "You're out there," he said as if he were talking to that horizon. His eyes were still, black ball bearings on a road map of crooked capillaries. "I can smell you, sitting there in the stench of your own depravity and hoping I'll give you the satisfaction of acknowledging your presence. You spineless little worm."

Manny stopped what he was doing and stared.

"Did you actually think I would admire you? I'd be more apt to admire road kill. I know how you felt the electricity under your skin while you watched those girls die. Did that arouse you? You got off on the power of it, didn't you? Are you getting off now, sitting there in your grimy one-bedroom apartment with your hand between your legs and thinking about the last caller?" A quick pause, a sip of vodka and orange juice. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you? That there's no way to tie the murders of those two girls together, no way for the cops to make a connection. What are you after? Fame? Recognition? Do you get off feeling like a dirty little boy, doing things he's not supposed to be doing? Or does taking it out on helpless girls take away the humiliation you felt when your mother made you drop your pants so she could spank your bare little butt? Did torturing those two girls make you feel like a man? Did it make you feel like you were torturing your own mother? Well you're not a man. A man would face up to his problems, not hide from them the way a whimpering dog runs away from a rolled up newspaper."

On the phone console, two more lights came on and Gulliver leaned back, jaw muscles working beneath a hateful scowl.

"A man would be able to control his emotions. A man would have some fortitude. You? You can't control anything. You're mush, a slimy, disgusting blob worse than anything that gets stuck to the bottom of a shoe." He shifted again, moving closer to the microphone. "You're out there with this jack-off smirk plastered to your face, trying to act like what I'm saying isn't bothering you; but I know it's bothering you, deep down, a little tickle in the pit of your stomach that gets bigger, and bigger, and eventually gets to the point where you think you're gonna puke. Yeah, well, you're not gonna hold me responsible for what you do. I'm your worst nightmare, jerk-off, and the cops are gonna find a way to make you squeal so loud that they'll find you just be sticking their heads out the window."

The rest of the lights on the phone console came on, a steadily blinking bar of amber light. Manny formed a cradle with his hand, telling Gulliver he should answer some calls. Gulliver hesitated, trying to remember the reason his nimrod listeners were calling at—what time was it?—quarter-to-four now. Oh yeah, the b-side of the sixties hit thing. Who gives a fat flying fuck? Gulliver raised his finger, letting it hover over the button for line one. He went to say something, but stopped short and gave Manny a vacant gaze. His eyes dropped to the flashing phone console. The buttons were screaming for attention. He could almost hear the lights flashing. His eyes glazed, maybe from the vodka, maybe from the rage boiling within him, Gulliver touched the mike with his lips, ignoring the tiny static charge that popped into the perspiration on his upper lip. His finger roamed over the row of buttons.

"I know you're there, maggot. Call me!" he screamed into the mike. "Call me now!"

The steady bar of light flashed twice, and suddenly the light for line four went out, but only for a split second. Staring at it, Gulliver noticed that Manny had begun clearing the calls. Line one went dark, then line two. Line three followed quickly. Before Manny could pick up on line four, Gulliver smashed his finger into it. Manny had answered six calls before the commercials, and now three more. He leaned into the mike.

"Hello, this is Gulliver. You're the tenth caller. Talk to me maggot."

Manny immediately shot a glance at the caller ID and noted that the number shown belonged to the station.

Friday, December 7th ... 7:31 a.m. "I just knew it," Julie muttered to himself.

"Knew what?" Fellow detective Collin O'Brien came over and sat his fat Irish ass on the edge of the desk. "What are you listening to?" he persisted.

Julie held a finger to his lips.

O'Brien shrugged while Julie turned up the volume on the small clock radio/pen holder/oversized 8-ball on his desk.

"Talk to me maggot."

O'Brien folded his heavy forearms while Julie grabbed a notepad. "Is that...?"

Julie nodded and held up his hand.

" _None of it would have happened if you had put me on the air."_ The voice was a monotone and chillingly unhuman.

"So you killed two girls because I wouldn't let you talk on the radio?"

"No, the first one was dead before I made that call."

Julie and O'Brien locked eyes. They'd just heard what amounted to a confession, a confession that had been broadcast over America for the second time in the last few hours. The first time, it had been broadcast live on WXKO at 3:45 a.m., and most of America had been asleep. This time, it was part of the morning news by WIND FM out of Indianapolis. Julie quickly scribbled something on his notepad, while, from the 8-ball radio, Gulliver could be heard breathing heavily. No other sound came forth for some seconds.

" _So you're admitting to killing the second girl?"_ Gulliver questioned, his voice quavering nervously despite his Pavarotti-like ability to control it.

" _You killed that girl!"_ the caller screamed. _"You were warned! Whatever happens will be on your head! I told you that! Did you believe me? NO! But you believe me now, don't you, Gordon?"_

O'Brien tapped Julie on the shoulder and mouthed the word _warned_. Julie nodded and tapped his pencil on the pad. He'd already written it down along with a huge exclamation point, as well as the name _Gordon_. Sweat was beginning to glisten on Julie's neck.

" _How do you know me? How do you know my mother?"_ Gulliver asked, seemingly off the subject.

"Am I on the air, Gordon?"

" _Yes,"_ Gulliver said tentatively. _"Go on, maggot. Tell me how you plan to pin this on me and portray yourself as some helpless victim."_

Julie motioned for O'Brien to find Bergmann, but there was no need. Coffee cup in hand, Bergmann joined the gathering crowd around Julie's desk and the smell of all night body odor mingled with that of early morning after-shave.

"What station is this?" Bergmann blurted.

Julie signaled palms down, as if he was trying to hold down air, and Bergmann quickly muzzled it.

"Do you want me to tell you how you killed that girl?"

"Don't get cute, scumbag. I had nothing to do with killing that girl."

"Oh, but you did, Gordon. It's entirely and completely your doing, and I'm going to tell the world you what you did."

"Nobody wants to hear it. I think I've had enough."

" _Don't you dare cut me off!"_ the caller screamed. _"Unless you want to be having this same conversation about another unfortunate young lass."_

Grudgingly, _"Go on, maggot."_

"Do you remember how you found her?"

"Refresh my memory."

" _Her name was Amanda. Amanda Allison Aldrich. She has... excuse me, had... two younger brothers and a beagle puppy named Jack, she liked French fries, and her parents think your show is filth; they think you are filth, but Amanda liked listening to you. She'd fall asleep at night with her little Walkman radio underneath the covers, listening to your evil show. She was one of your angels of the night, Gordon, and you rewarded her by luring her into your degenerate little world, coming on her, and setting her on fire."_ There was no attempt to bleep the offensive dialogue.

Julie hung his head. The caller's personalization was turning an abstract victim into a person, a real human being who suffered horribly, ostensibly for no reason other than having listened to Gulliver's show. Julie kept listening.

" _How did I lure her?"_ Gulliver asked, walking his listeners vicariously through the murder.

" _She was one of your call-ins,"_ the caller answered quickly, _"and you started down your usual vile path of moral turpitude until you found out she was sixteen and a virgin."_ The caller paused. _"And that excited you, didn't it? That a sixteen-year-old virgin was enthralled by you? She wrote about you in her diary, did you know that?"_

" _How would I know that?"_ Gulliver asked promptly.

" _Because you've been in her room,"_ the caller answered just as promptly.

Julie shook his head in disgust. The caller's voice sounded distant, as if it was on a speakerphone, and his description sounded like more than just fantasy.

" _So I arranged a date with her and set her on fire,"_ Gulliver shot caustically.

" _To punish her,"_ the caller shot back. _"Just like your saint of a mother punished you when you were young for giving in to the evil in your life."_

Julie noted that the caller's voice was rising again, and it seemed clear that he was becoming annoyed with the conversation.

"Tell me how you felt watching her burn, you worthless wretch. Tell me how you felt hearing her scream in agony while you jerked yourself off in front of the flames."

"How would he know that?" Julie asked, but no one answered.

" _I know what you're doing,"_ the caller responded, _"but it's not going to work, Gordon. I'm not going to admit to anything. You've got to answer for the lives of these poor girls, for Cowell Beach, for everything you've ever done in your miserable life."_

The caller was gone. Julie looked at Bergmann and said, "Well?" but Bergmann motioned for silence while the WIND newscasters came on and began talking about what they'd just aired. A promo spot for a local car dealership came on and Julie was halfway across the room, flipping pages in his notepad as he went.

"Where the hell are you going?" Bergmann called out.

"Down to the radio station," Julie called back over his shoulder. "I have to find Gulliver."

"Hold it," Bergmann ordered. "I wanna talk about this."

Julie stopped dead in his tracks. He flexed his neck muscles, knowing that if he didn't take a breath he'd say something he'd regret. He turned and tried to put on his calm face, but something told him he wasn't doing a very good job. "What's to talk about?"

"It's 7:35 in the morning, Hernandez. We've got time."

"We're burning daylight, Chief. Something like this could cause a media frenzy."

"That's right, it could. That's why I want to map out some strategy, just in case."

"In case of what? You think I don't know how to conduct a proper interview?" That wasn't good.

Bergmann's face flushed. "In my office, Hernandez. Now!"

Inside, Julie sat, stewing in his own juices. That only lasted ten seconds before he got up and paced as he waited for Bergmann to make his entrance. And it would be an entrance too. Nothing was straightforward with Bergmann. Talk, talk, talk: that's all Bergmann did. Probably bullshitted his way all the way up to the top. Some accomplishment, given what the top was in Andersonville. Huh.

Bergmann came in and unexpectedly closed the door softly as opposed to slamming it off its hinges. "Sit down, Hernandez, and keep your mouth shut for five minutes, if you think you can manage that."

So, this was the way it was going to be. "I'm all ears, _Chief_."

"You know, most of the time I like you Hernandez, but you have a way of getting on my last nerve."

"Did you call me in here to talk about any more of my endearing traits, or do you want to talk about this case?"

"Ya' see. It's comments like that that make me think you've got your head shoved so far up your butt you're seeing the world through your asshole."

"Stop. You're making me blush."

"Did you ever hear the term _respect_ , Hernandez?"

"Gee, I was gonna ask you the same thing."

Bergmann folded his hands, and Julie guessed that was a good thing. The alternative was that they could somehow find themselves around his neck.

"I have a lot of respect for you," Bergmann went on. "I have respect for your work ethic, your street smarts, your willingness to put the job first...."

"So why are you busting my balls?"

"...and I have respect for your ability at deductive reasoning. Someday you're going to make one hell of a detective."

Julie's eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Someday?"

"Yeah, someday. Right now, you need someone to help you through this case so you don't step on your dick."

"Gee, _Chief_ , I don't know if I can take any more praise. My head's starting to get a little big from it all."

Again, Bergmann squeezed his hands together. "Listen Hernandez, you can fight this all the fucking way to fucking Kingdom Come if you like, but it isn't going to change my mind."

Suddenly panicked, Julie pointed a finger. "You're going to take me off this case, aren't you? I don't fucking believe it! A juicy one comes along and you're gonna take it for yourself. What, you gonna run for office or something, _Chief_?"

"You call me chief like that one more time and I'll take you off this case just so I don't have to listen to any more of your bellyaching. You don't have the experience to head up a case like this, Hernandez—and neither do I. I've been on this force nearly twenty years, but I've never had to deal with anything like this. And, we don't have the resources. I'm gonna ask county to come in on this."

Calmly, almost saddened, "County," Julie repeated. "I'm the first one in, and I get it yanked out from under me and handed over to county." He straightened his gaze and stabbed Bergmann with his eyes. "What if I don't agree with that?"

"Not your call, Hernandez. And I wouldn't advise that the word ultimatum come anywhere near this conversation, otherwise I may have to do something I don't want to do." Bergmann stopped there.

Knowing he could get himself so riled up that he wouldn't be able to think straight, Julie tried to stay calm. "Have you already talked to them?"

"Yeah. Actually, they've been talking to me. They're chomping at the bit to get into this one. You can imagine."

Julie nodded. "Yeah," he said through clenched teeth. "I can imagine. Which one 'a their boys they got in mind?"

Bergmann jagged his chin toward the window. "Just walked in."

Julie turned in his chair. "How convenient," he said smartly, not about to hand this over to someone else without getting his two cents in. Looking from one side of the squad room to the other, he turned back. "Where? All I see is the DWI arrest in front of Cutter's desk and the skinny blonde by the window." Julie did a double take and whirled back toward Bergmann. "You're fucking kidding me?"

"I don't kid. Look again. She ain't no boy."

Julie spun again. "Yeah, I see what you mean. And she ain't that skinny either."

8:22 a.m. Julie sat down and noticed that the air suddenly didn't smell like disinfectant, which was the usual bouquet around the squad room. He watched as Detective Samantha Olsen took a seat in front of Bergmann's desk and nodded curtly while she waited for Bergmann to speak.

Bergmann extended his hand. "George Bergmann," he said, actually smiling.

Julie shifted uncomfortably. Jesus. The last time he'd seen Bergmann smile was after a tour of the new addition at the state penitentiary. Did he actually just touch up his comb over?

"Olsen, Samantha," Olsen said, sounding like something out of Star Trek. "Everyone calls me Sam."

Olsen, Samantha? Who the fuck talked like that? Julie looked at his shoes, waiting for this chummy little social hour to run its course. Speaking of shoes, she was wearing heels. Not your typical police garb, he thought instantly, following that up by giving her a mental break. Like, she probably wasn't going to chase any perps over a fence inside the squad room. His eyes shifted and he checked out her nails.

"Right Hernandez?"

"Huh? What?" Bergmann was talking.

"The detective on the case?"

"What about it?"

"Hello? That's you, isn't it? Now hold out your hand and say your name."

Julie felt his face turn to about the same shade as a stop sign. "Hernandez, Julie," he said, feeling her hand in his. It felt calloused.

"Julie?"

"Hernandez. Julie's my first name."

"I gathered that," Olsen countered. "Like in the girls' name Julie?"

"It's short for Juliano," he shot sardonically. "Something wrong with that?"

"No. No problem. Nothing wrong with that."

Olsen's hand slithered out of his and her eyes—ice blue eyes, he noticed instantly—darted away, dropping him as if she were looking away from an accident.

"Hernandez."

"What?" Bergmann was talking again.

"Can you get your brain in the same room with us and go over what we've got so far?"

"Right." Julie flipped open his notepad and reviewed the facts, watching Olsen's reaction the whole time.

When he was finished, she reached into her bag and took out a manila folder. "These are the county forensics reports on both murders. I'd like to go over these one more time before I go down and talk with this Gulliver person."

"Before _you_ go down and talk with this Gulliver person?" Julie glanced at Bergmann, not really giving a fat flying fuck what Bergmann was about to say. This was war! Surprisingly, Bergmann had the same look on his face that Julie imagined he had on his own. "Listen...." Instinctively, he looked for a shield on Olsen's clothing, seeing none, but detecting some fullness beneath her blazer, which seemed to be straining against her body.

"I'm up here," Olsen said, moving her hands from the front of her chest up to her face. Bergmann chuckled. "My name is Samantha Emily Olsen, I graduated magna cum laude from Mount Holyoke, I have a graduate degree from in criminal psychology from John Jay, and I was second in my class at the police academy. The name on my shield, if that's what you were looking for, says _Detective_ , and not _Playmate of the Month_. The sooner you realize that, _Detective_ , the better we'll get along."

Undeterred, Julie said, "I'm sure your qualifications are beyond question, _Detective_ , but let's get something straight. This is _my_ case, and unless I'm reassigned by my superiors..." He glanced at Bergmann whose hands were still folded on the desk. "...I'm going to be the one who's calling the shots on who interviews whom."

"That's not the way I understood it." Julie and Olsen both looked expectantly at Bergmann. Olsen said, "I thought this was coming over to county."

Jaw muscles working beneath his skin, Bergmann looked directly at Julie and replied, "I'm afraid, Detective Olsen, that there's been some sort of misinterpretation here. While we need county's resources, and while we certainly appreciate any help we can get, our intention is to proceed with this case in-house unless circumstances dictate that it should be handed over. We're only asking for your assistance." Still looking straight at Julie, he added, "I'll have to call your office and clarify this with Sheriff Magnuson. I trust we still have your cooperation."

Olsen took a beat.

Smart, thought Julie. She knew that being part of this case in any capacity was better than not being part of it at all.

"I'll do anything Sheriff Magnuson wants me to do," Olsen continued. "Why don't we call him now? We need to get to Gulliver before the media does." She nodded toward the phone.

Julie smiled. She'd managed to corner them both. As Bergmann picked up the phone, Julie asked, "Criminal psychology, did you say?"

Olsen nodded.

"Huh. My girlfriend is majoring in criminal psychology."

"Huh. I guess you're the second thing we have in common."

"Huh," said Julie. Two of them: that's all he fucking needed.

11:30 p.m. He rolled down the window and flicked his cigarette into the falling snow. Three inches were on the ground and it had only been coming down for a couple of hours. A humdinger, it was predicted. The media had been babbling about it all day, warning everyone to stay home as if the snow were some sort of nuclear fallout. Now, approaching midnight, the streets were virtually deserted and everything was perfectly still as the ever-present wind took a hiatus, letting the heavy flakes fall like fluffy white pancakes. Gulliver exhaled the last drag of his smoke into the windshield as he wound carefully through the streets, hoping he wouldn't get stranded at the station at the end of his shift; nothing worse than being stuck with Manny at 6:00 a.m. trying to figure out which of them had worse b-o. He looked at the dashboard clock. He had time, but he gave the SUV a nudge and upped his speed to thirty. Hanging a right onto County Road 611, he rode the edges of several fields outside Andersonville, the cut off corn stalks that protruded from the fresh snow looking like military formations in his headlights. The broadcast studio for WXKO AM—a depressing forty-by-forty, single story cinderblock structure that housed the broadcast studio, a reception area, and a small conference room that the sales maggots used to try to impress the local yokels—was situated about three miles up the road toward Muncie. As Gulliver neared the station, a halo of light rose into the dark night sky, seemingly multiplying the falling snowflakes by the thousands. What the...? There were cars all over the place. And vans—fucking news vans.

"Goddamn it," he cursed. He knew instantly what was happening. A rush of bodies dashed into his headlights and he heard the thumping of gloved hands against his windows as he inched the car through the gauntlet of shouting reporters. A microphone came at him like a missile as he stepped out.

"Gulliver, do you know who the tenth caller is?"

He held up his hand, shielding his eyes from the glare of camera lights. "No, I don't, and I don't intend to find out."

Another voice. "It sounds like he knows you."

"Yes, he does. I mean, it does... sound like he knows me." He took two steps toward the studio, only to be blocked by a wall of bodies.

"Gulliver, where are you from originally? Could this be a clue for the police to start looking there?"

He brushed aside a group of outstretched arms, only to be blocked once again. "What good would that do?" he said impatiently. "The murders happened here."

"What about Amanda Aldrich?"

"What about her?"

"Did you know her?"

"No, I didn't."

"Are you going to try and discover the caller's identity the air?"

"And risk another murder? No way. You heard what he said. I don't know if I could live with myself if I did anything that would cause another killing. Besides, I'm no investigator. I'll let the police take care of it." He pushed his way through the wall of bodies. "Right now, I've got a show to do."

"Are you going to cooperate with their investigation?"

"As long as it doesn't cause this guy to go off again."

"What about the name Gordon? Why does he call you Gordon?"

"No comment."

"Could this be one of your cult followers?"

"No comment."

"Gulliver, do you think this could put you back on top as a radio personality?"

"This no way to get back on top." Gulliver pressed forward now, not caring if he knocked one or all of them on their asses.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"No comment." He burst through the studio door, stopping immediately as another second wall of reporters surrounded Manny, who was waving his arms and urging them all to leave. One of them turned.

"Gulliver!"

Once more, he was instantly surrounded by the smell of wet wool and chewing gum. The questions came rapid-fire.

"Gulliver, do you think the tenth caller will call tonight?"

"Gulliver, are you going to work with the police and set a trap for him?"

"Gulliver, where were you when the murders took place?"

He wheeled, nailing the young blonde who asked the last question with a menacing glare. Without taking his eyes off her, he said, "I want all of you out of here, now!" Thankfully, Manny came up and began shooing the reporters out the door. Gulliver took off his coat, feeling instantly colder despite the fact that he was now inside the studio. Fucking place. Manny coughed. Gulliver took a hanger from the coat rack. Manny coughed again. Gulliver looked over. Facing him, Manny hooked a thumb toward the conference room.

"What?" Gulliver snapped, still annoyed with the reporters.

Manny took two steps forward, whispered, "Station manager," and shuffled quickly into the control room to relieve Walt, the engineer who did the four-to-midnight shift. It was ten minutes to show time.

Station manager? The last time Gulliver had seen the station manager was at Clyde Wolfer's funeral four months earlier. The station manager was a fat, balding toad who still did voice-overs so the station wouldn't have to hire talent. He came out of the conference room, or, more accurately, his belly came out of the conference room; Bruce Willoughby himself came out a second later. A couple of people Gulliver didn't recognize came out behind him.

Willoughby zeroed in on Gulliver and waddled toward him. "Why if it isn't my old pal Gulliver."

"Always a pleasure, Bruce. Don't see you around much this time of night. What? Is it contract time already?"

Willoughby fired a two-finger gun at Gulliver and slapped him on the back. "Always the kidder," he shot jollily, turning Gulliver so that their backs were to the two people following him. His face collapsing into a serious façade, Willoughby growled lowly, "Don't get us into any trouble on this, you understand, or I'll bounce your sorry ass outta here faster than you can say John Henry." He then turned and smiled again, positioning Gulliver as if he were a prize steer at the county fair.

"Here he is," Willoughby announced. "We'll be happy to cooperate in any way we can."

Pausing, eyeing the tall, straight-backed guy on the left, then the blonde who looked as if she didn't have a straight line on her entire body, Gulliver said, "Who am I so happy to cooperate with?"

Samantha Olsen and Julie Hernandez both held out IDs. First to speak, "We'd like to ask you a few questions," Olsen said.

Gulliver just nodded as he lit up a cigarette. "I figured you'd be around sooner or later."

Saturday, December 8th ... 2:17 a.m. "Exactly what the hell did you think you were doing back there?" Julie shot sarcastically.

"What the hell did you think I was doing?"

"Beats the shit out of me."

Olsen was driving. Angrily, she drove the unmarked cruiser—one of two on the Andersonville force—off to the side of County Road 611, burying the right front wheel into the newly created snow bank formed by a recently passed plow. "You know, usually when men have a hard-on for me, I feel sort of flattered. Somehow it's different with you, Detective."

"Trust me, honey, a hard-on is the last thing I have for you."

"Honey?" Seething, Olsen reached back, a split second from letting fly with a gloved right fist.

Julie didn't budge an inch. "I take it you're upset about something."

"Gee, you figured that out already? You must be a fucking genius."

"Yeah, I am. Maybe you should take a breath and learn something."

"Why you...."

She let fly and Julie caught it in midair. The girl clearly had a temper. "You keep going for the bait Detective, and you'll get sucked in every time."

Olsen jerked her hand back. "What is this, some kind of fucking test?"

"If you keep looking at the obvious, after a while it's all you can see."

"Another pearl of wisdom. Quick, let me write these down and save them for posterity. Maybe we can get them into the training manual or something."

"You've got a million of 'em, don't you?"

Ignoring him, Olsen popped the car into drive. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you weren't so fucking arrogant."

"Fucking this, fucking that... you're a fucking trash mouth, you know that?"

"Let's stay on the subject."

"Which is?"

The tires were spinning, whirring away like a buzz saw. "Fuck!"

"Touché," said Julie.

Olsen slammed the car into reverse. No difference. "You."

"You, what?"

" _You_ are the subject." Olsen took off her gloves and gripped the steering wheel again as if doing so would enable the tires to get more traction. "I've never met anyone, anywhere, anytime, as conceited as you. Your reputation doesn't come anywhere near doing you justice, Detective." She slammed the car into drive and pounded the wheel when the tires didn't bite.

Expecting Olsen to like, maybe, explode any second, Julie corrected her by saying, " _I_ am not the subject, Detective. The subject is this case, and doing what you were doing back there wasn't the right way to go." He paused. "What reputation?" he asked as an afterthought.

Olsen turned and looked at him like he was from Mars. "It was the right way to go. The caller is displaying all the classic symptoms of psychotic schizophrenic paranoia. He'll call again."

"He will call again," Julie agreed, "and he'll know instantly that the call is being traced. You want another murder on your hands, have at it."

Olsen put her gloves back on and tried to button her coat. Fumbling and frustrated, she pulled them off yet again. "Okay, Sherlock, how will he know the call is being traced?"

"He will, all right? I feel it. And as soon as he finds out another girl will turn up dead... What reputation?" he asked again.

Throwing up her hands, "Oh, well, exfuckingscuse me," Olsen exclaimed. "You _feel_ it. Hell, that should be good enough for me. What was I thinking?" She bopped herself in the forehead and yanked up on the door handle.

Julie watched as she fought her way into the snow bank. Lip-reading, he saw her say, "Fuck," as she reached down and clamped onto something on the front of the car. Unexpectedly, he felt the car start to rock.

Realizing the car was still in park, Olsen yelled out, "Could you get behind the wheel if you're not too busy?"

Julie climbed over the console notched the car into reverse. He really didn't have anything more substantial than a gut feeling, which, he knew, wasn't enough to convince anyone that doing the obvious and sitting the phones inside the studio was the wrong way to go. Hell, it wasn't enough to convince himself. Despite what Olsen had said, the caller could stop calling if he detected a setup; or, he could start calling another radio station; or, he could do nothing—except continue to kill young girls. That was one thing of which both of them seemed certain.

He'd listened to the tape of Gulliver's last on-air chat with the caller until he'd memorized the words. The caller's voice chilled him and angered him at the same time. He blamed others, Gulliver primarily, portraying himself as some helpless pawn, controlled by the demons in his life. It was all bullshit, Julie thought. The guy got off on it, and the sick sexual tension was evident in the voice. There was no way he could stop. Knowing that, and knowing he was powerless to stop it, Julie felt his frustration mounting. He lowered the driver's side window and yelled, "I've got another plan."

"What?" Olsen grunted as she continued to heave her weight into the front of the car.

Damn, thought Julie; this girl was strong. He timed his jabs on the gas pedal. "I think we need to do some research on Gulliver's past," he yelled. "Either this guy knows Gulliver from way back, or he's the ultimate groupie."

Olsen straightened up and the car stopped rocking. "Get his high school yearbook," she hollered over the engine noise.

Julie made a note to do just that. And maybe sitting the phones wasn't such a bad idea after all—as long as they weren't obvious about it. For all they knew, the caller could be stalking the studio. He could even be inside. Maybe he was a coworker, or someone Gulliver knew from broadcast school. Maybe he was a groupie after all. Hell, it could be anyone. But the murders happened here. Did the caller live in Andersonville, or was he traveling here to kill people? If so, where was he traveling from? How did he pick his victims? Working the questions in his mind, Julie realized he was getting nowhere, and realized further why Bergmann thought they needed help. He looked at Olsen through the foggy windshield and knew she'd be out front on this, pulling the investigation along rather than pushing it from behind as if she were trying to push a rope.

The wind was starting to blow. Julie leaned out the window and the snow hit him in the face. "You need to push harder," he yelled, knowing that would drive her up the wall. He felt the car spring free and saw her straighten up. Covered with a thick layer of heavy flakes, Olsen waited until the car pulled away and shot him the finger. This was going to be interesting, Julie determined. He put on his best prick face as soon as she opened the door and plopped herself heavily into the passenger seat. Everything was instantly wet.

"No, that's okay. I've got it," she snapped as she shook her hands. "You stay here sweetheart, in the nice warm car while I climb all the way up to my rather cold ass in that snow bank at two o'clock in the fucking morning. I don't mind. Anything for you dear."

"Glad to oblige. Wasn't me who drove the car into it to begin with."

"I'll remember that in case you're ever cornered in a blind alley by some perp carrying an Uzi."

Julie looked over. He was getting used the smell of wet wool. "What reputation?" he asked for the third time.

8:44 a.m. Watching Dianne's reaction as she flipped another page and adjusted her glasses, Julie sipped his Saturday morning coffee in silence.

"Where did you get this?" she asked.

"I think Olsen slipped it under the door this morning. It was there when I got up."

"I thought she was on duty with you last night."

"She was."

"But you got in at 4:00 a.m."

"And I guess she did too."

Dianne looked back into the folder. "This is pretty good work. Where did she get it?"

"She says it was part of some thesis she did in grad school."

"This is incredible. Textbook case study material."

Julie flexed his eyebrows. "What, you really think that's her work?"

Dianne whipped off her glasses and tossed the file on the table. "Don't be an ass, Julie. Of course it is. Do you really think she got home at 4:00 a.m., plagiarized this, and slipped it under your door by eight? Where does she live?"

"Down county."

"And she had to travel... what? Forty-five minutes to do that? Really?"

Julie shrugged. "Naw, probably not."

Dianne got up and tightened her bathrobe as she walked across the apartment to get a cup of coffee. "Have you read all of it?" she asked as she grabbed a mug from the drain board.

"I skimmed it," Julie answered as he watched Dianne's body move beneath the robe. He wondered if she was wearing anything underneath. Sometimes she didn't.

"I think you need to do more than skim it."

"What for?"

"Because if this murderer is displaying all the classic symptoms she describes here, then he's sure to call again. Don't you see? He's predictable."

"Predictable, schmedictable. It's a shot in the dark. She's got nothing hard on the guy."

Her coffee mug halfway to her lips, Dianne lowered it and exhaled noisily. "It's a place to start, Julie—unless you've got something better."

"Maybe I do," Julie responded as a smarmy smirk curled the edges of his mouth. "Gordon Powers is from California—Santa Cruz," he announced as if it was some grand revelation.

"Gordon Powers is the disc jockey's real name, right?"

"Right."

"So?"

"So the caller referred to _Cowell Beach_ , and that's in Santa Cruz too."

"And you found that out on your own," Dianne concluded.

"Uh-huh."

"And you found it out, how?"

"I went on the internet," Julie said proudly.

"Uh-huh. And that's what? Some kind of, like, real crack in the case, or something?"

Getting up to get some more coffee, almost strutting across the floor, Julie said, "Don't you see? We now know that Gulliver, I mean, Powers, is from Santa Cruz. We've got a link. Obviously this guy knows him from there."

"And?"

"And, we find out where he went to high school, get the yearbook, and start checking everybody out."

"Checking everybody out."

"Right. Looking for guys who liked to drown kittens and shit. I'd bet a nickel someone pops up."

"You would?"

"Yeah, I would. Gee honey, something tells me you're not impressed."

Dianne arched her eyebrows. "You're very perceptive."

"And what's wrong with that plan of action?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, but it seems to me you took the long way there."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, really."

Dianne got up, tightened her robe, and Julie knew just from the way she did it that he'd never get a peek inside of it this morning. "And why is that?" he asked.

"Did you ask him?"

"Him, Powers?"

"Yeah. Did you ask him where he was from?"

"No."

"Chances are he'd tell you. There's no reason for him not to, is there?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well then, you might also ask him if he still has a copy of his yearbook. People tend to save things like that. Wouldn't that save you, like, days, maybe weeks?"

"Yeah," Julie said sheepishly. "It would."

"He'd probably also tell you who all the weirdoes were."

Julie paused. "I didn't think of that."

Dianne came over and unexpectedly popped him in the head.

"Damn! What the hell was that for?"

"It's not going to work, dum-dum. Read Samantha's paper. The guy who did these girls isn't going to be anyone who stands out. This guy is going to blend in, Julie, like a comma in a term paper. You're never going to find this killer by searching for him from a distance. You've got to get into his head, learn how he thinks, find out his likes and dislikes, what turns him on." She picked up Olsen's folder and held it up. "This is where to start."

Watching as she dropped the folder back on the coffee table and hauled off toward the shower, Julie thought: Goddamn it; he should have known she'd take Olsen's side.

Monday, December 10th ... 11:48 p.m. "You want some to warm you up?"

Julie looked at the pint of Smirnoff Gulliver was offering and was tempted. "How about turning up the damned heat instead?" he asked gruffly.

"This is as good as it gets," Gulliver responded. He dropped the bottle into his backpack and said, "More for me."

Julie rubbed his hands together and glanced at Olsen who was in the control room with Gorman. Gorman was the tech guy from county and he was fussing with the equipment.

Gulliver poured some orange juice and said, "I don't want to tell you how to run your business, but I don't think pissing Manny off is gonna improve your chances of tracing this guy."

Gulliver had a point, thought Julie, but he certainly wasn't about to admit it. Someone had to put up the pretense that they knew what they were doing. Besides, Manny had called out. Evidently Gulliver didn't know, seeing as he'd just arrived. "Manny called in sick," he responded. "We'll handle it."

"Look, Sam...." Gulliver began.

"I'm Julie," Julie corrected. "That's Sam." He pointed into the control room at Olsen.

"You've got the girl's name, and the girl's got the guy's name?"

"Right."

"Okay then, listen, _Julie_...."

Julie didn't like the way Gulliver said that, not one damned bit.

"This equipment isn't exactly state-of-the-art."

"We'll handle it," Julie repeated sternly. Ain't no washed up has-been gonna tell him how to do his job.

"Yeah," Gulliver muttered as he turned away. "You guys are fucking geniuses."

"What did you say?"
"Do you really think you're going to pull one over, just like that? You know what the consequences are. Are you willing to live with that?"

"Listen, nothing's gonna happen. Gorman is the best tech we've got. There's no way for anyone to detect the call is being traced."

"Says you," said Gulliver.

"Yeah," Julie shot back. "Says me. I thought we were on the same page on this."

Gulliver took the evening's first gulp of vodka and orange juice. "Where'd you get a fucked up idea like that?"

"Your station manager said...."

"I should have known," Gulliver interrupted. "Fucking Willoughby has got an ego as big as his gut. Can't help but be in the spotlight."

"You don't sound like a real team player here."

"This is like Ray Charles showing Stevie Wonder how to drive."

Julie took a breath. As much as he wanted to tell this pompous ass where to get off, getting into it now—ten minutes before the nightly radio freak parade—wouldn't do much to bolster their plan. Bergmann and Olsen would both drill him a new one if he blew this gig, and he didn't want to think about which of them would use the bigger drill. Brushing back a handful of wavy hair, he decided to take another approach. "This is nothing personal, you know. I just figured you were on board, what with your station manager giving us the okay and everything." He paused. "If the offer is still open...." He pointed to Gulliver's backpack. "I think a little sip might take the edge off more than the cold, if you know what I mean."

Eying him, Gulliver fished the vodka bottle from the backpack and tossed it.

"You wanna back out?" Julie pressed, raising the bottle.

Gulliver downed half of his drink and shrugged. "It's your show, cowboy. I've already given you my opinion, but you know what they say about opinions."

"Yeah, everybody's got one, and they all stink."

Station manager Willoughby waddled through the door. "Twice in one week," Gulliver muttered as he got up and headed for the bathroom. "I don't know if I can take it."

Willoughby looked at Julie, and said, "What's with him?"

"I don't think he's very excited about our plan."

Willoughby pointed at himself with both thumbs. "You let me know if you have any trouble with him."

Julie sneered and moved off. "I'll do that," he said, following Gulliver to the bathroom. It was five minutes to airtime and he needed to know where this was going. He stepped in behind Gulliver, who was standing at the urinal. "I need to know if you're gonna do this, or not."

Gulliver zipped up and turned around, catching Julie with an ominous glare. "You're not getting this, are you?"

Julie glared back, as being intimidated wasn't part of his nature. Sometimes that helped him, sometimes it didn't. He had no clue as to which way it would fall now. "What I'm getting is that there's a murderer out there who gets his rocks off talking to you. That, and I'm getting a lot of shit from my boss about what I'm doing with this case."

"That's not my problem."

"Well I'm making it your problem. We've got nothing, as in zip, and we need your help to make this guy surface. If you've got any other ideas on how to do that, now's the time to say something, otherwise it's our plan in lieu of no plan."

"What if I refuse to go along?"

Julie hesitated, not knowing how far to go with this game of seeing who had the bigger weenie. Was Gulliver feeling responsible for the murders in some way? Surely he understood the need to make the killer show himself. Then again, maybe he just wanted to wallow in the depths of his own self-pity and drink himself to death, and never admit that he was responsible for where he'd ended up in life. It occurred to Julie that it was a strange place indeed, a place where Gulliver was scorned and glorified at the same time, a place to which he'd fallen, or risen, a place from which he might want to escape, or protect. How to respond? Many great men, geniuses, were at the same time glorified and reviled. Was Gulliver a genius? Looking at him, in his ratty flannel shirt, with his ratty two-day growth, with his ever-present plastic cup of vodka and orange juice, Julie didn't think so. "Your station manager gave us his commitment that you'd cooperate. I'd guess your life around here could become pretty miserable if you didn't."

Gulliver burst out laughing. "Please. The media frenzy has just begun, Wonder Boy. The last few shows have put this armpit of a station on the map. Willoughby has doubled his spot rates. The only reason he wants _me_ to cooperate with _you_ and your goofy plan is so he can keep the numbers up and pull in some extra green."

Julie immediately felt supremely stupid. Gulliver brushed past him to the sink. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

Gulliver pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. "I won't know until I do it," he said, tossing it into the trashcan. "I guess you'll just have to listen to the show."

Gulliver yanked on the door handle and was gone. Julie moved to the urinal. Standing there, he admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was doing.

Tuesday, December 11th, 4:50 a.m. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from the Mister Coffee machine across the room. Julie got up and turned it off, wondering where Olsen had gone to. Inside the control room, Manny's replacement—a kid named Jimmy who worked at the local college station—had his head down, and Gorman was standing behind him looking like he was about to fall asleep on his feet. Gulliver's voice was coming through the speakers in the outer office. He was talking in low tones as he often did, his words somewhere between a growl and a slur.

"If there is no God, or no supreme being of any kind, where did life come from?"

Julie wondered how much vodka was left in the bottle. Probably none, he concluded quickly. He rubbed his eyes and tried to pay attention to what Gulliver way saying.

"Were we really protozoa once? And if we were, where did they come from? How did cats become cats? How did we learn to think? How did any of Earth's creatures become what they are now, so different, yet so specialized? Porcupines, salamanders, deer, plankton—how did it all happen? I think about such things," Gulliver rambled on. "About the never ending cycle of life and death, of whether we're part of the feeding cycle for the next generation we create, or whether it ends for us as soon the last breath is gone from our bodies. Talk to me, angels of the night. What are we? What were we? What will we become?"

Gulliver leaned back in his chair, swinging the mike away as if he just completed some exhausting exercise. The first light on his phone console lit up almost immediately, Julie noticed, and, with some effort, Gulliver pulled the mike back into place. His work never ended.

"Talk to me," Gulliver said liltingly as the studio clock clicked to 4:51 a.m. Julie looked through the window and noted that the pitch black of night had yet to give way to the oncoming dawn.

"I understand," the caller said simply. There was an accent. The guy sounded refined, not part of the normal trailer park demographic that made up the bulk of Gulliver's audience.

"Tell me what you think you understand," Gulliver prodded.

"I understand that there are uncountable spectral ions in the universe that are unique onto themselves, systems that regenerate life as it ends within them, and are as varied as the life forms they hold within them, and among them. As our universe is a system of planets circling a sun, so too is every atom a system of electrons circling a nucleus."

Gulliver put his lips to the mike. "Go on, professor."

"Could our solar system be but an atom, a system of electrons circling their own particular nucleus, and couldn't every atom be a system of life onto itself, and itself part of a larger being, which is in turn part of a yet larger system which functions in parallel?"

"So that every atom is a solar system, every electron a planet, every nucleus a sun?"

"Precisely. And that rather than being the center of the universe as we think we are, we are but a truly and incredibly insignificant spec in this concept, which makes our infinite universe infinitely more infinite than we ever dreamed it was."

"You're saying," Gulliver responded, "that our entire solar system could be but an atom, an atom that along with uncountable other atoms, makes up part of some other organism, which in turn is nothing but an organism on a planet that is part of yet another solar system, which might in turn be part of something else."

"It's the never ending continuum."

"So we could be nothing more than part of a hair riding around on a dog's ass somewhere."

"Precisely."

"That's certainly a humbling thought." Gulliver pushed down on the next button. "This is Gulliver. What do you think?"

Julie shook his head and stood, trying his best to keep awake despite the four cups of coffee he'd had since midnight. So far, Gulliver hadn't done any of what they'd asked him to do, hadn't worked single word about Santa Cruz into his conversations, hadn't even come close to putting the words _Cowell Beach_ out over the airwaves. Those were the clues, the bait, the invitations to call in that only the killer would interpret as such. So far, bupkiss. Olsen came in and parked herself next to Julie.

"He give us anything yet?"

"Not a damned thing," Julie answered, glancing up as Olsen took off her coat. He averted his eyes immediately, not allowing them to settle her. He'd been averting his eyes more and more lately as he didn't want to get anywhere near the concept that she was actually attractive, which she was, but he preferred to think that she was growing on him—the way mold grows on blue cheese. In that single glance he could see that even now, after being up for twenty-four hours straight, she looked fresh and strong, like she could run down a purse snatcher, no problem. He'd caught his own reflection in the bathroom mirror an hour earlier and concluded quite quickly that he looked like he'd be the purse snatcher in that scenario. On the air, Gulliver was debating the possibility that life was spawned on Earth by extraterrestrial sperm.

"Willoughby assured us that he'd cooperate," Olsen said.

Julie nodded. "Unfortunately, I don't think our celebrity DJ gives a rat's ass about Willoughby's assurances."

Olsen got up, said, "Asshole," and headed for the coffee pot, and Julie wondered if the term of endearment was meant for Willoughby, or Gulliver, or him. He didn't want to seem argumentative, and had been doing his best to show his support despite the fact that he'd been against sitting the phones from the very beginning. Olsen walked by with the coffee pot as Gulliver moved on to theory number seven of how life evolved on Earth, this one having to do with Martians who abandoned their planet because it had turned cold.

And speaking of cold, it was freezing inside the studio again. The heat seemed to come and go in spurts, and when it wasn't spurting, it seemed like there wasn't any at all. In the control room, Gorman had found a chair. His eyes were closed and his feet were propped on some boxes stacked in a corner. Jimmy had begun screening calls, looking for the weirdest, most far out theories to forward to Gulliver. It looked as if they were all going to cruise into the dawn without even so much as a reference to the murders getting onto the airwaves. Julie got up and stretched, wondering if the pot of coffee Olsen was making was ready yet. He didn't have to wonder long as she came up and brought him a cup.

"You look like you need some," she said.

"Thanks," he replied, not sure if that was yet another slam or she was reading his mind—again. That too was happening more and more lately, and he wasn't sure he liked it. Olsen sat down and sipped her coffee, fidgeting the whole time. The girl didn't do a very good job of hiding her emotions. He could have taken the opportunity to gloat over their lack of success, but that wouldn't have accomplished anything. Still, just one little jab... "Listen, Sam..." he began. "I'm not saying this to rub it in, but...."

"Not now," she said. "He's about to take the next call."

"So?"

"So haven't you been counting?"

The next images moved through Julie's eyes as if they were in slow motion. Gulliver pushed a flashing light on his console.

"Do your silly police friends really think they can find me by using your high school yearbook?"

Julie recognized the voice immediately. It had the same monotone tension that made it seem cold, like the studio, and devoid of any feeling. He jumped up, sloshing coffee onto the floor, but Olsen was already ahead of him. She pressed her nose to the control room window, her eyes glued to Gorman as he checked the station's caller ID. He shook his head, an indication that the call had come up anonymous, or, once again, similar to what Manny had said about the call five nights earlier, it inexplicably showed the station's number. For lack of a better explanation, it was concluded that the caller ID had gone on the fritz that night, but now... Julie had his doubts. Gorman moved quickly to a black box that looked like a stereo receiver, which was connected to a laptop. His hands moved quickly, and his eyes shifted from the black box to the computer. He nodded at Olsen. The trace was on; now it was just a question of time, and not long at that: one or two minutes at the most.

Gulliver didn't even look up, as if he didn't sense the sudden burst of activity around him. He leaned into the microphone and said calmly, "They're not very original. I guess it was all they could come up with."

Julie felt his face flush.

"Am I on the air?" the caller asked.

"Loud and clear," said Gulliver.

"Probably a ploy to get me to talk so they can trace the call," the caller said promptly. "Right, Gordon?"

Julie looked at Olsen and held her stare. He knew neither of them wanted to be responsible for another death, but it was too late to turn back now.

"Like I said," Gulliver responded, "I guess they can't think of anything else. What do you want, maggot?"

"Hostile again, are we?"

"I never stopped being hostile. You fucked up my life."

Hearing the curse word, Jimmy moved quickly to push the seven-second delay dump button, but Gorman stopped him. This was going where it was going.

"You call that meager existence of yours a life? You're fertilizer waiting to happen."

"What would you know about it?"

"Enough to know that you have to wait until your next check to pay off your tab at The Shamrock. That's pretty shabby, Gordon."

Gulliver was unfazed. " _The Shamrock_ ," Julie whispered as if the caller would be able to hear him. "I know the place."

Olsen nodded. "Do you think he's in town?" she asked, making a phone out of her right hand and holding it to her ear.

Julie picked up on her meaning. He pulled his cell phone and pushed the speed dial. "This is Hernandez," he blurted quickly. "Get a squad car down to The Shamrock bar on North County Line Road right away. Tell them to look for any cars in the vicinity with California plates, and to make sure the place is secure." As an afterthought, he added, "And if they see anyone talking on the pay phone outside, cuff 'em."

"Never mind me," Gulliver said into the mike. "Did you call me to get your rocks off again?"

"I told you last time, this is all about you, Gordon, and all the miserable things you've done in your life. You've got to answer for those sins, Gordon. I'm not going to let you get away with them."

Gorman tapped on the glass and held up a finger. They were almost there. Gulliver ignored him.

"Hey Gordon. I've got a riddle for you."

"I'm not interested in riddles, asshole."

"You'll like this one. What's black and white and cold as ice?"

"I told you, I'm not interested."

"C'mon Gordon, give it a try. You can get it if you think about it." The voice was still monotone, but happier now.

"I don't think so."

"I'll bet your police friends want you to try."

Gorman made a sign. Seeing this, Olsen banged on the glass and did a stretch sign, emphasizing the need to keep the caller on the line.

"Do you have something to say, or are you just going to use up someone else's oxygen?"

"Oh, Gordon. You're no fun, but then again, you've never been any fun. Oh well, it doesn't matter."

"That's right scumbag. It doesn't matter, because no matter how many answers I come up with, none would be right."

"That's right, Gordon. Having those cops there wasn't a good idea. This is on your soul now."

The line went dead and Gorman took his headphones off, throwing them down disgustedly. Jimmy jumped up and waited for a signal from Gulliver. Seeing none, he pushed a button and began rolling some commercials.

Olsen rushed into the studio, quivering with rage. "Why the fuck didn't you keep him on the air?"

Gulliver looked up and fished a cigarette from his pack. "It's not my job to catch him, Dickless Tracy. It's yours."

Olsen moved toward Gulliver and Julie caught her in mid-stride. "Hey!" he yelled. "There are other ways."

"We could have had him!" she yelled as Gulliver went outside to have a smoke.

"C'mon Sam. You know better than this."

"Fuck off!" she spat, stomping out of the studio.

Julie smiled. Dickless Tracy? He'd never heard that one before. His cell phone rang. "Yeah," he barked.

"Detective Hernandez?"

"Yeah," he barked again.

"This is Brundage, we played softball together at the department picnic in July...."

"Yeah, Brundage... How you doin'? What's up?"

"Yeah, I took the call; you know, The Shamrock?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Yeah, well, we've got a breaking and entering down here. I think you better get down here right away."

8:03 a.m. "You want half?"

Julie looked at Olsen's breakfast sandwich and waved off. Despite the fact that they'd both been up for almost thirty hours straight, he wasn't hungry.

Olsen shrugged, and, using the same words Gulliver had used the night before, said, "More for me."

The night before, thought Julie. It seemed like a million years ago.

Chewing loudly, Olsen locked some limp stands of hair behind her ear and turned the page on the newspaper she was reading. "Did you ever find your keys?"

"I must have left them at the radio station," Julie said absently, wondering where she'd picked up a copy of the _Chicago Tribune_. "I'll have to check on it later."

"Ah," she said. "Here it is."

"What... it is?" Julie was somewhat amazed that Olsen had an appetite after what they'd just seen.

"Bergmann told me we made the papers." She handed him the paper so she could concentrate on her sandwich. "What's it say?"

Julie scanned the article while Olsen slurped some coffee. She was wired, he determined quickly. She'd had enough caffeine over the last few hours that she could start vibrating any second. Surprisingly, she hadn't threatened to beat the crap out of anyone since they'd arrived on the scene after Brundage's call at 5:02 a.m. Now, they were parked outside The Shamrock waiting to reenter the building while the forensics guys were doing their thing.

"Are you gonna fucking read it, or what?" she snapped.

Ah, back to normal, thought Julie. "It's a profile. Looks like it goes into a lot of stuff about Gulliver's past, how he was a big shot in the business, his shock-jock days, how he crashed and burned, etcetera, etcetera."

"Anything we wouldn't expect?"

"Doesn't look like it, but there's a lot of material here. We'll have to go through it later." Julie went to put the paper down, and stopped.

Seeing him hesitate, Olsen said, "What is it?"

Julie brought the paper closer. "It says here that he went to a Catholic elementary school."

Olsen stopped chewing. "Really? Why would it say anything about his elementary school?"

"Don't know. It just does. Mentions his high school too. Looks like the reporter did a brain dump."

Olsen snatched the paper back. "What was the name of the school?"

"Mount Carmel," said Julie, pronouncing it Car- _mel_ , a natural assumption seeing as Car- _mel_ was near Santa Cruz in California. He'd heard of Car- _mel_. Car- _mel_ was where Clint Eastwood was elected mayor once. He liked Clint Eastwood. Clint Eastwood made good cop movies like _Dirty Harry_. It never entered Julie's head that it was anything other than Car- _mel_. He watched as Olsen's eyes darted over the page.

"No," she shot. "Not Car- _mel_. It's Carmel."

"So?"

"You're Catholic, aren't you?"

"So?"

"Isn't there something in the Catholic Church about Mount Carmel and the Carmelite nuns? I remember reading something back in college about it. I took a religion class once," she added, seeing his questioning look.

A little edgy after not having slept for two days, "What's the significance of that?" Julie asked.

"I don't know exactly, but I'd bet a nickel that this one is one of them. I'd bet another nickel she's from that school you just read about."

Julie watched as she got out of the car and strode purposefully back into The Shamrock. The smell of Olsen's food overpowering him, he took the half sandwich she'd left on the wrapper and took it with him. It didn't look like they were going anywhere anytime soon and he might as well have something to eat. Once inside, however, he lost his appetite again. He wrapped the sandwich and put it in his coat pocket.

There were a few people left there, most of them huddled in a corner while the forensics folks combed the place looking for any wayward pieces of anything that might not belong there. The ever-present smell of stale beer and cigarettes hung in the air, and all the lights were on, highlighting the grime of years. Julie started to make his way across the creaky old wood floor when, behind him, he heard Olsen say, "Hey, it's my case, not yours. You can go back in when I say so."

The forensics guy from county to whom Olsen was being so pleasant made some lame objection, to which she said, "Bite me." She whirled and headed for the walk-in beer cooler where ME Howard Morgan was completing his initial examination of the body. Seeing the forensic guy's crude gesture to Olsen's back, Julie was tempted to go over and slap him upside the head, but he let it slide as he'd discovered over the last two days that Olsen could be a tad bitchy at times. Just the same, Julie gave an evil eye as he walked by. Not her best choice of words, he thought.

Inside the cooler, Morgan was squatting over the body, which was laid out on the filthy floor. Olsen was hovering over him, her arms folded against the cold due to the fact that she'd left her coat in the car. Julie listened, figuring Olsen would do the talking for both of them. He wasn't wrong.

"What'd you find?" she blurted impatiently.

Morgan looked up, his forehead furrowed as if he were going to plant seeds in there. "Brundage's initial report said the body was stiff from rigor mortis. Brundage was wrong."

"Hernandez and I both did a cursory check of the body. Are you saying she hasn't been dead long enough for rigor to set in?"

Morgan got up and snapped off his rubber gloves. "Oh, she's been dead long enough, all right. Possibly weeks."

"Weeks? How can...."

"She's frozen. I've never seen anything like this, mind you, but from what I can tell from the facial tissue, it's been under some pretty severe cold—for a while," he added for emphasis. "Talk about your pre-meditated...." Morgan folded his arms and waited for the questions to start flying.

"How frozen is she?" Julie asked.

Morgan's eyes dropped for a split second and Julie noticed that in the cold air of the cooler Olsen looked like she was smuggling gumdrops underneath her thin wool sweater. He took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, but she seemed not to notice.

"This body is rock hard," Morgan replied. "My guess is that it'll take forty-eight to seventy-two hours, maybe longer, for it to get to the point where we can do a proper examination and autopsy. The way it is right now, forget it. I wouldn't want to be around when the fluids start leaking." He turned away disgustedly.

Sickened, Julie felt his stomach turning on itself.

"You can have the forensics guys come back and do another sweep, but I'd bet a nickel—as you say all the time..." Morgan cocked his head at Julie, "...that they won't find a thing."

"Why not?" Julie asked, forcing himself to look at the corpse.

"The habit," Morgan noted. "It's neat as a pin. It looks like it's even been pressed. There's not a mark, or a wrinkle, or, from what I can see, a hair or a fiber of any kind on it."

"Which means..." Olsen concluded, "...that this will be like the other ones: a dead end."

"Not exactly," Morgan countered. "There are no vestments beneath the habit." He looked away.

Thinking that MEs in any jurisdiction had pretty much seen enough blood, guts, and gore that nothing seemed to faze them after a while, Julie said, "What's up Morgan? Is there something even more special here than finding a frozen nun?"

Morgan squared up and said, "There's semen on the body."

"Jesus God," Olsen exclaimed lowly. "He raped a nun?"

Morgan wagged his head. "Don't think so."

"What are you saying?"

"I'll have to conduct a more thorough examination, but I don't think she's been raped. I think the sicko that did this dressed her after the fact, fulfilling some sort of sick fantasy or something."

Just like with the previous murders, the facts were already swirling inside Julie's head. "I thought you said there was semen on the body. What's up, Howard?" Julie suddenly felt Olsen's hand on his arm and he stepped back.

Morgan's eyes went glassy. "I've never seen anything like this in all my years," he said, "and that's cruising up toward thirty now. The semen isn't around the vaginal cavity, Hernandez. When I say it's on the body, I mean it's on the body, like on her stomach, her chest, hair, all over the place. I think there's more than one deposit. There may be several."

Trying to sort through it, Julie said, "You mean...." but Morgan waved his hands.

"In my opinion the semen was put there after the fact. The fact that it's all over the body and that there's so much of it, indicates that he... that he...." Morgan turned away, unable to get the words out.

"That he masturbated on the body," Julie concluded.

"Dear God," said Olsen.

"Probably several times," Morgan confirmed. "When that was, where that was, and how many times it happened, we won't know for a while, if it all. My guess?"

Julie nodded.

"Is that she was laid out in something large enough to accommodate her whole body, maybe one of those large lift-top freezers or something, and he did it on her and left it there." Morgan pointed down. "What's unclear is whether she was alive when it happened." He brushed past them toward the open door of the cooler.

"Are you finished?" Julie called after him.

"For a while," Morgan called back. "Right now, I need to pour me a number from the nearest Scotch bottle, even if it is only eight-fifteen in the morning."

Julie met Olsen's eyes. Seemingly noticing his jacket around her for the first time, she pulled it tighter and followed Morgan out of the cooler. "What are you thinking?" she asked.

"This bar is closed only three or four hours a day," Julie answered. "Whoever broke in here and put her in that cooler had to have done it during those hours."

"What else?"

"My guess is that we can close out a missing persons report for the Santa Cruz PD."

Olsen nodded and put her hands in the pockets of the jacket. "All of a sudden I'm not feeling too well," she said. "I shouldn't have eaten that sandwich." Julie didn't respond, and she looked up. "Talk to me, Hernandez."

Julie shrugged. "Nothing, just a wild hair," he said. His thought was way out of line, even for him. Still, he wondered if he should run it by someone. Maybe Bergmann would.... Who the hell was he kidding? The only faster way to get thrown out of Bergmann's office was to kiss him on the lips.

"When you're ready," Olsen said to him.

He was more than chilled now; a cold nausea gripped him from head to toe. "Can I have my jacket back?" he asked. This sick fuck was starting to get to him.

Feeling the lump in the pocket, Olsen pulled out the half sandwich Julie had stuffed in there earlier and she suddenly looked a little green. Quickly, she covered her mouth with the sleeve of Julie's jacket. A couple of serious seconds later, after determining the danger had passed, she took the jacket off and gave it back to Julie, the sleeve wet and slimy with saliva. "Here you go," she said.

"Gee, thanks." This was starting to get to her too.

Friday, December 14th ... 9:02 p.m. His hands moved swiftly as if detached from his body, leaving his mind free to wallow in the pillow of pleasure it was creating around itself. His nostrils flared, testing the air for the musty scent of his own sexual energy as he prepared for his next encounter. He'd never imagined such fulfillment, almost blinding in its intensity. It had driven him uncontrollably early on, and it continued to this day. Even now, after so many encounters, the simple task of preparation was enough to suspend him in state of prolonged arousal. Whether the cause of his urges was genetic, hormonal, biological, or cultural conditioning—the reasons had been dissected countless times by those who lived vicariously through deeds like his—it didn't matter; there was no way to keep his inner monsters locked up.

To the police, the encounters appeared to be random, but that was hardly the case. He'd selected each victim carefully, and when all was finally understood, he'd show the world that he was of superior intellect. No one would contest his cunning.

To this point, his techniques had varied. He liked the variety. He'd used two methods of strangulation over the years, and while looking into someone's eyes as he choked the life out of them gave him a rush, the method was imprecise. One had to be careful with strangulation. It required strength, and while providing it was not a problem for him, it was difficult to gauge that of his victim. The power that even a small body could generate could be surprising.

He'd used fire, and he'd used ice, and while both methods were quite thorough, it took a while to administer them. Water was another dependable method, but finding a suitable location and traveling to it required a good bit of time. He hadn't used blunt force in a while, and he was thinking about going back to it. It was quick, relatively quiet, and could be executed almost anywhere. Firearms he'd avoided specifically because the method was traceable. It was good for one-time use, where the executioner was not concerned with that aspect of the tool, and it was a splendid instrument for mass elimination, but mass murder was most often an explosion of violence, the result of rage or panic. That was hardly the case here.

The experimentation in technique had helped to make his encounters even more gratifying as time went on, but he was having trouble determining his motivation of late. He found himself becoming increasingly stimulated at the oddest times, and had trouble keeping his thoughts from gravitating toward the killing. He even questioned whether the killing itself was becoming the reason for doing it. Perhaps it was. So be it. Fully aroused now, he focused on the task at hand.

Things had to be planned and methodical, with a place for every detail, and every detail in its place. He surveyed the tools and observed that they were in their proper order, the smallest first and to the left, with the larger but not necessarily less sharp ones to the right, as they would be used last. He looked down his list, as he had three times already, to be sure they were all accounted for, and to determine, also for the third time, if there were any others he would need for the next phase of his plan. Scalpel: check; butcher's boning knife: check—he made a note to try and find one with a composite handle rather than the wooden handle on the one he had; hacksaw with spare blade: check; cleaver—he doubted he would need it, seeing as he had the hacksaw: check; plastic sheeting: check. He still needed to find a stainless steel table—he'd try a restaurant supply store for that one and look for one with tray sides so as to contain any liquid; Polaroid camera: check. Of the end result, he had no doubt; it was just a question of how to get there.

Satisfied, he reviewed the rest of his plan. It was sound, as far as he could see, but there were always things that got in the way, things being people or events that came along when they weren't supposed to. Anticipating these glitches were part of formulating the perfect plan, the subsequent perfect crime, and the subsequent perfect orgasm. Up to now, it hadn't been that difficult, but his latest deed had gathered significant attention. He wasn't sure if it was the method, or the fact that the victim had been a nun. Either way, the media was all over it. The investigators were under a lot of scrutiny now, and they'd work doubly hard to find him. That being said, it made the killing easier, in a way. With so much attention being paid to everything they did, it tended to slow them down. They had to justify their lack of progress to the media, and to the public. They had to make sure they didn't violate any legal technicalities in their investigation. He had no such burdens. He could stay one step ahead of them. He could play with them, and he was. And while the dead nun had been a challenge—getting her all the way from California had been complicated—his next encounter would cause even more of a stir. Talk about being put to the test.

The investigators, Olsen and Hernandez, were starting get the scent. Olsen was smart, and Hernandez was relentless, and they worried him at times, unlike the rest of the morons involved in the case who wouldn't be able to link any of the murders together unless he spelled it out for them. That was the idea behind making young Amanda Aldrich write _angels of the night_ in her diary so he could tear out the words and place them under her charred body. He'd never dreamed that it could be so entertaining, and his next encounter would prove the point. He'd be the tenth caller as he always was, for he was in control now, and he'd tell the world exactly what he was going to do. He'd reveal who the next victim was going to be, even how she was going to die, and no one would be able to stop him.

He'd spotted her at the mall, which was one of his favorite places for finding potential victims, and he analyzed her as one just as he did virtually every woman he saw. Then, when he got within range, he overheard her conversation with a coworker. They were in the food court, and she was talking about her classes, about getting her masters in criminal psychology; someday she wanted to work for the FBI. He sat at a nearby table, and listened.

The news of his deeds was fresh, and there was much talk about them at coffee shop counters and lunchrooms all around town. Most of the talk centered on what should be done to the killer when he was found, but her conversation was quite different. She thought she had all the answers, and it infuriated him. She spouted off about how the killer had probably had a childhood filled with abuse, about how the father had probably been an alcoholic who beat his wife and children, or, perhaps, how the mother could have been a prostitute. There was a common background among most serial killers, she'd said to the coworker; she thought the killer's on-air conversations with Gulliver were just like the rest of the trash Gulliver broadcast on a nightly basis. She had no idea about his mother, or why there were so many men in her life. She had no idea!

It was an extraordinary quirk of fate when he discovered who she was. It was like an added bonus, fitting that she should be the next victim. She had beautiful breasts, and he was going to cut them off her chest and send them to Detective Hernandez with a note explaining why she had to die. What irony.

One of the tools caught a glint of light. He looked down at it, nestled in its shiny tray, and imagined how easily it would slice through her body. He wondered if Detective Hernandez would recognize those breasts when they came, floating in amber brine tinged with blood. The Polaroid picture of her, sans breasts, before he dismembered the body would help. He felt his erection stiffen even more, and he undid his trousers. In a trance-like state, completely enraptured in his fantasy, he visualized the ritual mutilation to come. She was but a hapless pawn caught in his power. Looking down, he grabbed the butcher's knife with one hand, his cock with the other, and began to masturbate.

Saturday, December 15th... 9:14 a.m. "I thought you weren't coming in today."

Julie looked up from his desk and noticed that, like him, Olsen was wearing sweats. Clearly, she'd just come from a workout—a strenuous one it looked like. "I couldn't stay away, he said. "Did six miles by seven and was here by eight." It was meant to impress her. It didn't. "Are you still wearing your pajamas?" It was meant as a dig. She didn't get it.

"Tae Kwon Do," she said. "I needed to get some energy out."

"You do karate?"

"Tae Kwon Do. I'm a fourth degree black belt."

Julie wondered if she'd had broken any bones that morning—and he didn't mean hers. It was Saturday, and he noted that, again, like him, she'd come in on what they called "prime time" off. Police shift work was bad enough, but when it came to detectives' hours, the time clock went completely out the window. A case like this made it worse.

Her curiosity mounting, Olsen dropped a styro coffee container from some ritzy-shnitzy coffee shop on the desk, and asked, "What are you working on?"

Julie reached for his own styro container—his was from 7-Eleven—hiding the papers in front of him.

Olsen did a side step. "What?" she said. "Some big secret?"

He leaned back. "Just a couple of ideas," he said. "That wild hair of mine is starting to stick me in the ass. I wasn't going to go over this with you until I thought it was ready."

Olsen pulled up a chair and examined one of the pages from a legal pad. It was a grid chart, simple blocks drawn on the lined yellow paper, most of them empty, a few containing some quickly scrawled words in black ink. "What is it?" she asked.

"I've been going back through the evidence. Whenever something rings a bell, I write it down in one of these little blocks."

"Not much ringing going on here," she said sarcastically.

Julie pulled the page away. "I told you, it's not ready. Listen, if you're just gonna give me shit about this...."

Olsen touched him on the hand, stopping him. "Sorry," she said. "I guess I'm having my own troubles tying all this together." She scooted her chair closer and put on her best puppy-dog face. "Can we go over what you've got so far?"

Her touch lingered, and Julie couldn't remember her having touched him before. Her hand was warm, and her blonde hair, just a few inches away now, smelled great, different than Dianne's; he couldn't tell what it was: clean or something, not that Dianne's wasn't, but he couldn't remember paying attention to hers the way he was now with Olsen's. Olsen turned, capturing him in a blue gaze. Suddenly all business, Julie quickly pulled his hand away and positioned the papers between them. Then, he moved his chair two inches further toward the Saint Agnes Church confessional, which is where he felt he should be going for what he was thinking.

Olsen immediately zeroed in on the blocks. "Angels of the night _..._ that's it?"

"That's it."

She moved to the next block. "DNA."

"Right."

On to the next. "One-bedroom apartment?"

"Right."

"What the hell is that?"

"It's from the night of the first call—the one where we got Cowell Beach."

Olsen looked down, seeing that the words _Cowell Beach_ were written in one of the other blocks. "I don't remember anything about a one-bedroom apartment, and I've listened to that tape a hundred times if I've listened to it once."

"It's not, I mean they're not, the words, on that tape. _That_ tape came from WIND as part of its morning news broadcast; it didn't come directly from WXKO." Knowing that Olsen had a fuse about as long as his fingernail, Julie tried to be patient.

Pausing, Olsen said, "Okay, so?"

"So, I got to wondering how this tenth caller asshole always ends up being the tenth caller."

"We've talked about that."

"Yeah, we have, and that's written in this box over here." Julie's finger traced across the paper to where the words _How is he always tenth?_ were written. "So I figured I'd call the greasy engineer...."

"Manny?"

"Yeah, Manny, and ask him if he records the entire show."

"And?"

"He said yeah, he does. Seems they still use reel-to-reel tapes for that, and he keeps the tapes until he's had a chance to go through them to pick out the bits and pieces he uses to put together what he calls the ' _Best Of_...' clips.

"What are those?"

"He takes the best material for when they go on vacation and stuff. Once he's edited a tape, he records over it again."

Olsen sipped her coffee. "And Manny still had the tape of that show."

"Right."

"And you were gonna tell me this, like, when?"

"Don't get your undies in a bunch. It just came, and I just played it. It seems that WIND aired only part of Gulliver's conversation with the caller." Olsen's eyebrows shot up and she crossed her arms. Julie knew the pose. She'd just gone into listening mode. "It seems that Gulliver had been doing some talking of his own just before the call."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He was baiting the caller to call in, daring him almost. Here, let me play it for you." Julie punched a button on a large reel-to-reel tape machine sitting on his desk and Gulliver's voice came through.

_Did you actually think I would admire you? I'd be more apt to admire road kill. I know how you felt the electricity under your skin while you watched those girls die. Did that arouse you? You got off on the power of it, didn't you? Are you getting off now, sitting there in your grimy one-bedroom apartment with your hand between your legs and thinking about the last caller?_ Gulliver's seething rant went on for some time until he hit dead air, lots of it. Then, he came back on, his voice low and gravelly, with no sense of surprise to it. _Hello, this is Gulliver. You're the tenth caller. Talk to me maggot._

"The WIND tape picked up from the words 'Talk to me maggot'," Olsen observed.

"Right on, sister. And early on, in the second or third sentence, how did Gulliver know anything about the caller having a one-bedroom apartment?"

"I caught that," Olsen noted. "But it didn't come across like he actually _knew_ that the caller had a one-bedroom apartment. It came off like he was _imagining_ that was the case."

"Well, _that_ rang a bell with me."

"And so you wrote it down."

"Right, along with all this other shit." He waved a hand over the desk.

Olsen moved in and began studying the other blocks. "And what happens when you're done filling in the blocks? There's nothing else on these charts—no axis, no nomenclature, nothing. How do you know what you've got?"

"I don't. Once enough of the blocks are filled in, we cut them out."

"How many is enough?"

"Don't know yet."

"And what do you do with them once you've cut them out?"

"Arrange them somehow."

"Like how, somehow?"

Julie hunched his shoulders. "Haven't gotten that far yet. I just have a feeling that once we're done—"

"Once _we're_ done."

"All right, once _I'm_ done, and once I get to the arrange-the-blocks stage, something will develop: some pattern, some parallels, some consistencies, some inconsistencies. They'll start to paint a picture of some sort, and hopefully the killer will be in it." Julie leaned back self-satisfied, not really knowing—or caring, for that matter—whether Olsen thought his approach worthwhile. This was his case, always has been, always will be, end of story.

Olsen was staring at him. He looked away and took a sip of coffee, but his eyes came back up. She was still staring. "What?" he said.

Taking some time to respond, she pulled the papers to her and said, "Let's start filling in some more of these blocks."

11:24 a.m. Bergmann looked down at the little squares of yellow paper. "What the hell is all this crap?"

And a good fucking morning to you too, thought Julie. "Just following up some things that have been gnawing at me for a while, Chief."

Bergmann took a coffee from Olsen and gave her one of his patented x-ray gazes. "Is it _me_ or is it _us_?" he asked tersely, getting no response from her except an icy stare. Then, "Okay, let's get on with it."

Noting that Olsen was going to let him take the rope on this, probably so he could hang himself later, Julie carefully arranged the blocks and waited until Bergmann stopped giving her the evil eye. "We've gone back through everything we've got so far," he began. "First thing is still the question of how this guy always ends up being the tenth caller." Bergmann nodded and Julie lifted two squares of paper, each containing the words _How is he always tenth?_ and placed them on top of two full sheets from the legal pad on which he'd written the names _Gulliver_ and _Manny_. "From my—I mean _our_ —point of view, there are only two people inside that radio station who could possibly control when to take the tenth call." Julie shot a quick glance at Olsen, thinking she gave an all but imperceptible nod. Bergmann sipped his coffee and waited. Next, Julie took the square on which he'd written the words _one-bedroom apartment_ , and he placed it on _Gulliver_.

"What the hell is that?" Bergmann questioned.

Julie explained it, going so far as to play back Gulliver's taunting rampage again.

Bergmann sipped some more coffee. "I don't know," he said. "To me, from the way those words were spoken, it didn't come across that he actually knew the killer had a one-bedroom apartment."

"That's not the way I heard it," Julie offered, but it was the same point Olsen had made earlier.

Bergmann sipped more coffee and waved on.

Julie glanced at Olsen again. She was tits on a bull, as in useless. He picked up the next square of yellow paper, _Cowell Beach_ , and dropped it on _Gulliver_.

"Explain," Bergmann ordered.

"You've listened to the tape. The caller said Gulliver has to answer for what happened at Cowell Beach. Cowell Beach is in Santa Cruz. Gulliver is from Santa Cruz. We're checking with the Santa Cruz PD. We have a feeling that the last victim was from there was well."
"I see where this is going," Bergmann said, "and it's weak." He took all the yellow squares off _Gulliver_ and placed them all on _Manny_. "If you're trying to suggest that Gulliver knows who the killer is, you've got a ways to go. Any rookie public defender could explain all this away as being some perv who knew Gulliver during his early years, someone who's fixated on him and his career, perhaps. Remember that John Hinckley/Jodi Foster thing?" Then Bergmann said, "Never mind. You guys were just kids when that happened, but the point is that maybe you should concentrate on that angle. Hell," he added, pointing to the shock-jock profile from the _Chicago Tribune_ sitting on Julie's desk, "it doesn't seem that finding out about his past is any big deal. Someone's bound to pop up. Have you gotten a copy of his high school yearbook yet?"

"It's on the way," Julie answered curtly.

"Then stay on that. What about Manny?"

"What about Manny?"

"Have you done any research on him? Know where he's from, how long he's been working with Gulliver, know whether he's ever wanted to be a jock himself? Maybe there's a love/hate thing going on there. Have you thought about that?"

"But...." Julie began.

Bergmann got up quickly. "No buts," he said. "I might listen to this if you'd done your homework, but you haven't. Do you know where Manny was when the murders took place?"

"How could we?" Julie defended. "We don't have a firm time of death on any of them."

"Precisely," said Bergmann, holding up one finger. Another finger shot into the air. "And where was Manny when the caller called in?"

"On the previous calls, he was at the radio station doing the show. Last time, he was out sick. We haven't checked on his whereabouts yet."

Bergmann put the two fingers in front of Julie's face. "Those are two pretty interesting circumstances, if you ask me. I'd suggest that before you screw around with any of this other stuff, you concentrate on the obvious. A lawyer would." Bergmann shook his head and turned back toward his office. He took two steps and turned to Olsen. "Where are you in all this?" he asked, motioning toward the paper squares on Julie's desk.

Bergmann left, and Julie wadded it all up and threw it across the room.

4:10 p.m. Julie rearranged the squares of yellow paper—wrinkled now from having been air-mailed into the trash can—and analyzed the questions yet one more time. _How did the caller know about The Shamrock?_ A second related question, one more focused, reverberated inside his head: _How did the caller know about Gulliver's tab at The Shamrock?_ Neither he, nor Olsen knew that Gulliver even had a tab, or how much it was, or whether he paid it regularly. There was no reason to know that, until now. Continuing to review the transcript of the show they'd titled _The Riddle Show_ , Julie danced with the questions. _What's black and white and cold as ice?_ The caller had set them all up, knowing they were trying to trace his call and taunting them with an ultimate act of defiance. All their stealth at getting into the studio unseen had been a joke. The caller knew they were there that night as if he himself was in the studio with them. Certainly he'd been in Andersonville, only a couple of miles away if he'd placed the nun's body inside The Shamrock. Hell, he could have been across the street when he called, watching them the whole time. The caller knew everything. How did he know they were trying to get hold of Gulliver's high school yearbook? How many people in the entire world knew that? Besides Olsen and himself, there were Bergmann and O'Brien on their end, and then there was Gulliver himself—who'd protested vehemently at the idea for some reason, telling them they were wasting their time—and Manny, who they'd questioned about Gulliver's background after looking into the Cowell Beach thing.

Manny. Bergmann's money was on him. Did Bergmann think Manny was an accomplice, that Manny had the caller on hold each time and took him as the tenth caller? But Manny wasn't at the station last time. Did Manny know anything about Gulliver's tab at The Shamrock? Maybe Bergmann had a point. Julie bopped himself in the head. He was digging like a dog with his head down, ignoring what was going on around him. He looked at his watch, wondering what Olsen would think about all this. She was long gone. It was almost 4:15 and he'd pissed away the best part of what was a needed day off. Still, he couldn't push himself away from his desk. The last murder wasn't even forty-eight hours old; the trail was fresh; there'd be other days off. Then, he bopped himself in the head again. What the hell was he talking about? The nun was frozen, shit-for-brains. She could have been dead for weeks, according to Morgan. And the evidence they'd gathered on the murders of the other two girls he could have written on the inside of a matchbook cover. Three people were dead and he—no, they, he'd been training himself to think—had no more to go on than they did the first day. Gulliver's tab? Who was he kidding? Besides the bartender, and assuming the bartender wasn't the killer, there were only two people who knew anything about Gulliver's tab at The Shamrock: the caller, and Gulliver. And about the one-bedroom apartment? Were Gulliver's words really conjecture as Olsen and Bergmann had maintained, or was there more behind them? Looking at the blocks of yellow paper, Julie almost willed them to be drawn magnetically to one of the sheets titled Gulliver or Manny. Just to satisfy himself that he wasn't on a witch-hunt, he quickly scrawled Other on another full sheet and placed it with the others. He took the small yellow squares and started dealing them out. How is he always tenth? went on Manny. But, once again, Julie thought: Manny wasn't at the station last time. Slowly, Julie picked up How is he always tenth? and held it, debating whether to put it on Gulliver or Other as it could have gone on either one. He put it on Other. He felt his pulse quicken as he picked up the next slip of paper: Cowell Beach. Once again he debated whether to put it on Gulliver or Other. He put it on Other. On to the next square: Angels of the night—the words that came from Amanda Aldrich's diary. Again, he put it on Other, but it could have gone on Gulliver just as easily. One bedroom apartment was the same way, as was High school yearbook. Julie picked up the next slip of paper and the phone rang. Almost dizzy from the way his mind was zigging and zagging around each thought, he didn't really absorb the fact that it was his phone. It rang again and he heard O'Brien call from across the room, "Hey, Hernandez... you want me to get that?" Snapping from his funk, Julie said, "Naw, I got it," and he picked up. "Hernandez, this is Morgan." Instantly alert now, "Yeah, Morgan, what's up? How'd you know I was here?" "I called your place and your wife—" "She's my girlfriend." "Whatever... said to try you at the station. Anyway, I got the DNA results from... you know, the nun?" Julie bolted upright, the wild hair that had been sticking him the entire day digging in even deeper now. "No shit... what'dya got?" "It matches with the DNA found on Meagan Phillips. We've got a definite two-time murderer on our hands." "Not a surprise," said Julie. No, it's not, but now that we've got conclusive evidence that this might be a serial case, I took the liberty and ran the results through the state and FBI files. Got a match." Julie nearly flew out of his chair. "And?" "Ties this sicko to three others. I got the case files coming to you as we speak—FedEx." Julie sat back down. His hands were shaking. Three more murders. "Have you spoken with anyone else about this?" "Nope. You're the first. I figured I'd give you and Olsen the courtesy of deciding how to bring in the Feds." "Feds?" "Yeah. This crosses state lines now. You'll see when you get the files. You got anything on the nun's ID yet?" "Nothing yet. We're still waiting on a response from the Santa Cruz PD. Probably hear something tomorrow or Monday." "Yeah, well, when you do, let me know." "Yeah, will do. Thanks Morgan. I gotta call Olsen on her cell phone." Hanging up, Julie found himself holding the yellow square with DNA written on it. Reluctantly, he put it on Other and tried to find that goddamned wild hair on the back of his neck and pull the fucking thing out.

6:34 p.m. "Hi."

"Hi." "You're still there." "Yeah, I'm still here." "Are you coming home for dinner?" "I guess I should." "It would be nice." Julie shifted the phone and tried to gauge any annoyance in Dianne's voice. So far, she hadn't said anything to clue him in. "Has Olsen called yet?" "I haven't heard from her, honey. When are you leaving?" Julie didn't respond, hoping his silence was communication enough. Hid neck muscles tensing, he waited for the avalanche of preaching that always came when she wanted him to do something. Instead, she said, "It's okay if you don't want to. I understand. I know this case is tearing you up." Great. Now she was laying the old guilt trip on him, which she wasn't, but he was trying to find something to be mad at. Maybe he'd just go out and down about twenty beers and smash someone in the teeth for, like, maybe sneezing on him or something. As if that would accomplish something. He'd probably end up getting himself arrested by one of his fellow officers. Worse yet, they'd take him home in his drunken stupor and deposit him at his door where Dianne, at that point, would really have something to preach about. "Honey, are you there?" "Yeah, I'm here." He ran his fingers through his hair. It felt greasy, and he figured he wasn't exactly looking handsome right now. "Do you want me to come down to the station and bring you something to eat? I'll do that if you want me to." Julie held the phone out and looked into it. Dianne hated coming to the station, mainly because of the way some of the other officers looked at her, she always said. "Well, do you?" She was talking again, this time with just a hint of annoyance. Hmm. Wonder why. "No, it's okay. I'll be home as soon as I get the phone call I'm waiting for." "What call is that?" Great. She wanted to talk. "We're waiting for Santa Cruz PD to verify on a missing persons report. Been waiting on them all day. How difficult could it be, for Christ's sake?" There was a pause, and Dianne said, "You stay there as long as you need to. I'll have something warm for you in the oven when you get home—and I'm not necessarily talking about food." A smile actually found its way to Julie's face. "Thanks," he said softly. "I appreciate you letting me act like a jerk." "As long as you don't do it too often," she said lightly. "I miss you." "I miss you too," he responded as McGreavey came in from the front desk and laid a fax across his desk. Julie scanned it quickly, and it verified his worst fears. There was indeed a nun absent from the order of Mount Carmel, although no missing persons report had been filed with the Santa Cruz PD. No reason was given for the lack of a report. A real nun. The killer was flaunting his impudence. "Honey?" Julie had all but forgotten he was on the phone. "Yeah, I'm here." "Is something wrong? I can feel it right through the phone line." Julie slowly laid the fax down on his desk and said, "It looks like the body inside the cooler was a real nun." "Oh, God." He waited for her analysis on what kind of pervert would kill an actual nun, and was surprised when it didn't come. "Honey, are you all right?" he asked, wondering if he should tell her about the DNA being linked to three other murders. That would really throw her for a loop. Sharing information with someone outside the department was not something he did, but it would be nice to go to Olsen with some psychological insights of his own for a change, even if they came from Dianne. The line was quiet. He felt the phone go sticky in his hand. "Dianne?" "Yeah, I'm here." "What do you think?" "Hmm? He's one sick puppy all right." Julie hesitated. "He's a sick puppy? That's it? I figured you'd be ready to spout off an entire psychological profile on nun killers." "Hmm? Yeah. I'll do that when you get home." Something wasn't right. "Honey, have you or Chief Bergmann been sending a car around to check on me, you know, because of the case or something?" "A car? No, not that I'm aware of." Julie felt that wild hair stick him again. "Dianne, what's the matter?" "Oh, nothing," Dianne said casually, but he could tell it was anything but. "It's just that I've seen the same car around a few times, and it's not one I recognize." "Around where?" "Around here. You know, in the lot outside the building, down at Samuel's Market. Maybe one of our neighbors bought a new one." Their building only had eight apartments, as all the buildings in their complex did, and they were fairly well acquainted with everyone in it. "Maybe they finally rented the empty apartment upstairs," Julie said. "People generally tend to buy food right after they move in, you know." "That's probably it." "What kind of car is it?" "I don't know; an SUV of some sort. They all look the same to me." "Is it there now?" "No, I don't see it. When are you coming home?" "I'll be home soon. There's just one more thing I want to do. Okay?" "Okay. I'll have dinner ready for you. I love you." "Love you too, sweetheart." Julie hung up and saw Bergmann standing there. "Uh, you heard about the fax?" "Yeah; lemme see it." Julie handed it over. "You gonna let me do the surveillance, or not?" Perusing the fax, Bergmann said, "Not until you've got more to go on than what you've got so far." Seeing Julie's scowl, he added, "You got something to add, Hernandez?" Seeing that Bergmann had his dick face on, Julie punched up the tape machine and huffed, "No, fine," basically dismissing Bergmann, who took the hint. He waited for the tape of the last on-air conversation between Gulliver and the caller to rewind so he could listen to it one more time before going home. Someone nearby was eating something and the smell wafted past his nose. His stomach growled and he realized he'd hardly eaten anything all day. Dianne was waiting for him with hot food and warm buns, he thought comically. Still, "Just one more time," he said aloud. There had to be something on that tape that would point him in the right direction. He listened carefully until the very end, and then he stopped and rewound the last two exchanges.

"That's right scumbag. It doesn't matter, because no matter how many answers I come up with, none would be right."

"That's right, Gordon. Having those cops there wasn't a good idea. This is on your soul now."

He'd listened to it at least a dozen times and he'd never picked up on it. He rewound the tape listened to it yet again. _None would be right._ Was it _none_ , or was it _nun_? Julie punched the machine off, sat back in his chair, and said, "Fuck."

Sunday, December 16th... 4:06 p.m. It would only be a question of time. The police wouldn't be able to explain how he was always tenth, but they'd come to the conclusion, if they hadn't already, that someone at the radio station was the gatekeeper to the calls, and that person had to know the killer's identity. The people at the station were in for a bad time. He put the paper down and carried his plate to the sink before retrieving his glasses from inside the single bedroom of his apartment. It was Sunday afternoon and he'd just had breakfast. He came back to his rickety dinette and resumed reading the article in the Sunday Madison County Herald Bulletin. Clearly, it looked as if someone in one of the two police jurisdictions investigating the murders had leaky lips.

The story sent him off into a dream world. He saw himself taping the mouth of the next poor soul to die another horrible death. But the horror was such only to those on the outside. To him it was a procedure, as clinical as any surgery. His nostrils flaring, he could already detect the smell of warm blood that would permeate the air. Caught between fantasy and reality, he found himself aroused. The urge was strong tonight, driving him outside where he fired up his SUV. His destination was burned into his memory. He'd be careful this time and park away from the building. Last time, she'd peeked through the blinds and he had the feeling that he'd been spotted. The day was bright and it annoyed him. People were out putting up Christmas lights and that annoyed him too. He blew past them as images formed in his mind's eye of what would happen when the moment arrived. Each image melted away as he drove, replaced with one even more wonderfully gruesome. He lit a cigarette and pushed down on the accelerator, fearing that if he didn't get there soon he'd turn back. It only took twelve minutes before he spotted the green and white street sign for Glenn View Circle. He took a pair of sunglasses from the dashboard and put them on, hoping they'd hide him. He turned into the Glenn View Manor apartments and rolled stealthily to the back of the building number two, torturing himself as he debated whether or not to turn back, but he knew he wouldn't. He noticed her car immediately and looked for a place to park, but none of the open spaces were suitable as they were in direct view of her apartment—apartment 2-D, he knew, for he'd been here before, watching, planning, leaving no detail unobserved. He found a more suitable location, one from which he could observe yet not be in direct view if she happened to look out her window. It was if she had radar, and he knew that getting her to go along with him would be no easy feat. That's why he had to know her routine, which he knew she had, but up to now hadn't been able to ascertain. Her hours at the department store were random, so she must work part time, he figured, and if she worked part time, then she must be involved in something else. He had to know what that was, otherwise there would be no way to make his appearance in her world seem normal. Anything else would alarm her, as being engaged to a cop had to make her a suspicious person. He adjusted the erection he'd been sporting for the last half hour, and flicked his cigarette out the window.

Lights were beginning to come on as the brightness of the day was quickly giving way to the oncoming dusk. It came early this time of year. Suddenly, another car came around the corner. It was him, Hernandez, rocking his unmarked car to a stop and jumping out quickly. Dressed in exercise clothes, Hernandez tossed a football in the air as he jogged up the walk toward his building. Seconds later, a light came on in apartment 2-D, and the shadows of two bodies came together behind the translucent beige shades that covered the windows in all the buildings. Goodbye erection. Frustrated, he lit another cigarette. There was no way she'd be coming out alone now. He'd have to come back another time.

Monday, December 17th... 8:11 a.m. "Listen to it again."

"I've already listened to it a hundred times. I can't tell." Undeterred, Julie played it back. "Is it none, or is it nun?"

Olsen leaned back in her chair and went palms up. "Make it whatever you want it to be."

"But he _knew_! He knew that nun was going to be killed—or he knew that she was already dead. That at minimum."

Watching him pace back and forth, Olsen got up, rewound the tape, and waited for the words to come around again. "I don't know," she reiterated. "And I don't think Bergmann would be convinced either."

"Screw Bergmann."

"You tell him that. I'm not getting in the middle it."

Julie put on his _I don't believe this shit_ look. "You're taking his side? I thought we were in this together."

"I'm not taking sides, Hernandez. I don't think there's enough meat here to make a sandwich, let alone allocate resources for surveillance on Gulliver."

"Don't you see? He can lead us to the killer!"

"Maybe not," Olsen countered. "Putting the squeeze on Gulliver might send him completely the other way. He's not in love with us as it is."

"You _are_ siding with Bergmann. I don't believe it." Julie got up and snatched his coat off the back of his chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Out!" Julie called, blowing past Bergmann who was just reporting in.

Carrying his coffee, Bergmann ambled over to Julie's desk where Olsen was now displaying her version of the _I don't believe this shit_ look. "What's with him?"

"I guess he didn't get any over the weekend," she said as she grabbed her coat.

"Yeah, there's a lot of that going around," Bergmann cracked as he stepped out of Olsen's way. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Out," Olsen hollered over her shoulder. "You owe me for this one."

Standing there, feeling the vibrations as Olsen slammed the door, Bergmann said to himself, "Hell of a way to start a Monday."

10:31 a.m. Checking the time, Olsen parked her car two streets away from where she figured Julie had gone. The neighborhood kids were off to school and everything was quiet. Felt like snow was on the way. She donned her sunglasses and noted a couple of stay-at-home moms who happened to haul their trash to the curb at the same time. The moms were chatting, arms crossed against the chill. A black cat squirted from between two trashcans and crossed the street right in front of her.

"Great," she said to herself. She turned off the engine and decided to wait until the two gossiping neighbors got enough of the wind and headed back to their daytime kingdoms. It didn't take long. Slipping a knit beret over her head, she stepped out and quickly cinched the belt on her coat, hoping the rest of the homebodies in the neighborhood were occupied with the day's episode of _Hollywood Squares_ and wouldn't notice her as she made her way to the end of the block. There, she'd take a left on Mason Street and come up behind the drab, squat apartment house where Gordon Powers, a.k.a. Gulliver McKnight, maintained his existence. Hernandez wouldn't be far away, she figured.

She was three steps from the corner when she spotted Hernandez's car parked up behind a battered white van. She walked up and hopped in. Julie didn't look pleased.

"It's a small town," she said. "Everyone knows the unmarked car, and scrunching down in your seat isn't going to make you invisible."

"You got a better idea?"

"Use someone from county to do the surveillance. The word is bound to get out if we don't. We can't take the chance."

"We?"

Feeling his gaze, trying to be nonchalant, Olsen pulled off her glasses. "Bergmann would have an absolute shit-fit if he knew we were doing this."

"Yeah, well, life's a bitch." Julie's eyes bored into her.

"What are you staring at?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"It kills you to know I'm right, doesn't it?"

"Listen Hernandez, I don't know what _the fuck_ you're talking about now, but you're pushing it. It just so happens that 'none would be right' or 'nun would be right' are a little too coincidental for comfort, and, yes, as much as I hate to admit it, I think there's a chance that Gulliver could lead us to the killer. I don't know how, but I think you may have come up with something, so pay attention and stop trying to be chummy. I don't feel like being chummy." The glasses went back on.

"Yeeee...ah," Julie sighed. "It just kills you."

A mailman stepped up onto the porch of the apartment house and filled some mailboxes there. Olsen said, "He's probably asleep. Did you think of that?"

"I did, but today is Monday. I figured he wasn't on the air last night, so maybe he's got a different routine on Monday; maybe he gets up earlier, takes a nap later, something like that."

Olsen digested the thought and resumed staring through the windshield into the back of the van. "If he spots us, we're toast."

Julie said, "I know that," just as his cell phone rang. "It's Bergmann," he said, looking at the display.

Pulling on her seatbelt, Olsen said, "We don't have time for him right now. Check it out."

Julie did, noticing that the only car in the parking area for 32 Mason Street was already moving. Gulliver's SUV, once black but now almost gray with grime and oxidized paint, was almost in the roadway. "And we're off," he sang out, turning the ignition key. Julie waited for the SUV pull out and make its way down Mason Street before slinging his unmarked Ford into the street. He let off the gas when the SUV pulled up to the stop sign at the corner of Mason Street and Girard Avenue. There, it took a quick right.

"Punch it," Olsen ordered, noting that the SUV was already some distance up the road by the time Julie got to the intersection. The familiar scenery went unnoticed as they followed Gulliver through the old residential street. The SUV headed for County Line Road and Olsen thought they were headed for the radio station, but it stopped at the first light and took a left on Pleasant Street, heading to the west side of town aptly called Pleasantville. Julie lived near Pleasantville, she remembered, glancing at him. His face was stone. The SUV came to a light and Julie quickly took an evasive right. The light changed and the SUV zipped through the intersection. Julie peeled back onto Pleasant Street, clearing the cross street just as Gulliver made another left onto Glenn Drive.

"Don't you live off Glenn Drive?" Olsen asked.

"Yeah, about two miles up. What the hell?" said Julie, his tone taking on weight.

The SUV's brake lights came on and it slowed. For a second, Olsen thought they'd been spotted. "What's he doing?" she asked.

"He's checking out the street signs," Julie responded as he guided the Ford to the curb. Suddenly, it took a right. "What the fuck," Julie exclaimed. "That's my street."

"Take it easy," Olsen said as Julie hit the gas and sent the Ford lurching. "There might be an explanation." The Ford nose-dived to a stop just before the right onto Glenn View Circle and Julie slammed it into park. Olsen grabbed a handful of coat.

"Slow down, Hernandez."

"Slow down, my ass. What's he doing at my place?"

Olsen didn't let go. "Julie, let's think rationally about this."

The use of "Julie" rather than "Hernandez" stopped him, and he took a second to see what was in Olsen's eyes. "Okay, I'm rational," he said.

"Maybe he knows somebody in the building," she said coolly.

"Yeah, maybe. And maybe he's here to meet the President of the United States."

"You're not helping."

"I don't feel like helping. I feel like finding out what he's doing here." Julie's hand moved toward the door handle.

"Wait. What if he sees you?"

"What if he does? I _live_ here. He's gonna have to be the one to explain what he's doing here. Any other objections?"

Seeing that there was no stopping him, Olsen said, "No."

They both jumped from the car. Julie hiked his collar against the thirty-degree day, while Olsen tightened the belt on her long coat. They hustled to the sidewalk in the front of the first apartment building on the right. Julie pointed to the apartment building catty-corner across from them. "That's my building over there... number two," he said. "The parking area is around back. If he were coming to see me, he'd be there."

Olsen took in the layout of the buildings. They were perhaps fifty yards apart on an undulating patch of land. Lawns that would look quite nice in the summer completely surrounded each building, except for a strip of landscaped bushes at each entrance. Small trees dotted the lawns, with wire reindeer and Santa sleds propped between them and looking forlorn against the constant breeze coming in from the northwest.

Julie took a second, plumes of vapor blowing back past his ear as he exhaled. "Let's stop screwing around," he said, and he took off across the brown lawn. Olsen ran to keep up with him as they reached the entrance to his building, and Julie stopped.

"What?" Olsen asked, her breath coming faster.

"Around this side," Julie instructed. "He won't see us if we stay close to the building."

"What if your neighbors see us?" Julie just gave her a look. "Right. You live here."

"And everyone knows I'm a cop."

"Okay, fine. Besides, everyone's probably working, right?"

"Probably so," Julie answered. "Except for Dianne. She doesn't go in 'til later."

"Is she here?" Olsen asked.

"As far as I know. She usually uses the mornings when she's not working for study time. Unless she's at the gym or something, she's probably hunched over a book. Her car should be parked about halfway down this side of the parking area."

"What does she drive?"

"Like, what does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't know. Just asking."

"A Miata. An eight-year-old Mazda Miata. Blue. Convertible. License plate number XGV-3824. Anything else?"

"No."

"Good. Can we get going now?" Julie sidestepped to the edge of the building, his back scraping against the brick. Olsen was right behind, but was careful not to scrape the brick. The coat was wearing had cost her half a week's pay. Julie popped his head around the corner, pulling it back immediately. "He's there!" he whispered coarsely.

"He's there, where?"

"Standing by Dianne's car, just staring at it. Wait. He's going inside." Julie leapt out from behind the building.

"Wait!" Olsen called after him. "Give him a minute."

"What for?"

"To give him a chance to get where he's going, dipshit! You jump up ugly on him now and you'll never know what he's up to." Inside, she bounded up to the landing on the second level behind Julie. Gulliver was standing down the corridor, in front of apartment 2-D, Julie's apartment, when the door swung open and Dianne appeared in the doorway and propped herself against the door jamb while she pulled on a sling-back dress shoe.

"Yes?" she said as if she were greeting a door-to-door salesman.

"I'm Gulliver McKnight," Gulliver announced clearly. "I'm here to see Detective Hernandez."

Dianne blinked, taking a couple of moments before she realized who the guy with two-day growth and the scruffy jeans was.

Julie stopped short when he heard Gulliver's voice, taking cover behind the wall at the head of the landing.

Dianne said, "Oh, you're the disc jockey, right? The one who's getting those awful phone calls?"

"Yes. Is Detective Hernandez at home? Are you his wife?"

"I'm his fiancé," Dianne said, "and, no, he's not home. He's at the station. Did you try there?"

"I called this morning and they said he wasn't in yet. I figured maybe it was his day off so I thought I'd try him here. I have to see him about something important."

"How did you get the address?" Dianne asked.

"He's in the book."

Straining to hear what Gulliver was saying, Olsen sidled up behind Julie. He turned and whispered, "We were at the station all morning and I didn't get a single call. Did you get a call?"

Olsen shook her head. "Maybe he called when we were checking him out."

Julie said, "I think something stinks," and he lurched into the corridor.

Detecting motion, Gulliver turned. His face suddenly drained of all color as he spotted Julie striding toward him.

"You wanted to see me?" Julie called.

The look of surprise was plastered all over Gulliver's face, Olsen observed. Julie was right, something wasn't right with this picture. If Gulliver was looking for Julie, shouldn't his expression have been one of relief? Julie walked up and gave Dianne a peck on the cheek while Gulliver tried to gather himself. Olsen perched in the hallway.

"What are you doing here?" Dianne asked as Julie's arm encircled her waist.

"I forgot my shield," Julie said, patting his pocket.

Olsen thought: that was quick. She couldn't help but notice that Dianne looked as if she'd just stepped from the pages of Vogue. She was wearing a cream-colored wool skirt that hugged her at the waist, with a matching filmy blouse over a lacy camisole. Her perfume floated into the corridor, and Julie didn't do much to hide his displeasure with the fact that she'd picked this moment in the day to look her best.

"I don't have all day," he shot at Gulliver.

Gulliver pulled out an envelope, plain white, regular business size. "This came today," he said, handing it to Julie.

"Came how?"

"In the mail."

Julie checked the postmark. "Santa Cruz," he said, looking up and catching Gulliver's eyes on Dianne.

"I figured you'd want your lab guys to go over it."

"Why is that?"

"You'll see." Turning and giving a nod to Dianne, Gulliver said, "Ms. DeMarco," and he moved off down the corridor.

Olsen said, "Careful Hernandez. We're gonna need to have whatever's inside checked for prints."

"Take a chill pill," Julie said sarcastically.

Olsen turned. "Obviously you're Dianne," she said, extending her hand.

"Obviously you're Sam," said Dianne, taking it.

Olsen jagged her head at Julie. "Is he always this charming?"
"You caught him on a good day," said Dianne.

Ignoring them, Julie peeled open the envelope and lifted the single sheet of paper from inside, handling it carefully from the corners. The words jumped off the page, black and bold, and could have come off any desktop printer in North America:

Black and white and cold as ice...

You didn't get that one, did you?

How about this one, Gordon?

How are a woman's breasts and martinis alike?

**Don't I have a** _cutting_ **sense of humor?**

Better luck this time.

Julie looked up. "Another goddamned riddle."

Olsen looked over Julie's shoulder and asked, "Why is the word 'cutting' italicized?"

Dianne came around and looked over Julie's other shoulder. "He's paranoid," she said. "He wants us to get this one."

"I see what you mean," Olsen concurred. "He's putting it right under our nose."

"Yeah," said Julie. "I'm beginning to smell it now."

11:08 a.m. Passing the Walmart on their way back to the station, Olsen said, "We should stop."

"What for?" Julie asked. "For a platter." "A platter?" "Yeah, one that Bergmann can use to hand our heads back to us after he chops them off." "Listen, it's not like we had it planned or anything." Cutting him a cross-eyed look, Olsen said, "Doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that we violated a direct order. He didn't want us staking out Gulliver, and we did it anyway. Higher ups tend to get a little torqued off at things like that." "You know what I think?" "I don't want know what you think ever again." "I think he's sandbagging the case." Olsen gave him the same cross-eyed look, but held it longer. "Just think about it," Julie went on. "He's been on this force for twenty years and the most exciting thing he's ever done is change the location of the speed traps in town. Now, here comes a real case, a high profile case, and he's got to stand on the sidelines and watch someone else work it." Olsen wagged her head. "I think you've been watching too many movies." "I think..." Julie began again, "that he's sending us on squirrel chases while he's working the case behind our backs." Olsen took it in. "You can't prove that," she said, "and besides, why would he do that? He's got a department to run." "I just told you why he'd do that, and any moron can see the connection to Gulliver here. How is the caller always tenth, huh? How does the caller know so much about Gulliver's background? About Gulliver's mother? Cowell Beach? How about none would be right? Is it none, or is it nun? If we stay on Gulliver, don't you think he'll eventually lead us to the killer? Hell, even you see the logic here, and if you see it, anyone can see it." Ignoring the last comment, Olsen said, "According to Bergmann, we haven't checked out Manny well enough." "That's old ground. Gulliver was the one who pushed the button on that last call; we watched him. Manny wasn't even there." "Then we need to rule Manny out, even if it's only to get Bergmann off our backs. I think we go in there and suggest our asses off that we have a chat with the man." His jaw muscles working, Julie said, "What about this letter?" "You keep that in your pocket and he'll take you off the case in a heartbeat." "He can't do that. This is...." Julie hesitated before he said the next word. "...our case, and I don't want it compromised by some loose cannon, no matter who it is." He had spoken. He was proud. Olsen checked herself in the visor mirror. "You're the loose cannon, Hernandez. Bergmann is the boss here. As for covering for our little indiscretion, I'll take care of that," she said, spreading some gloss on her lips. "I don't think you can handle it."

12:22 p.m. "You forgot your shield?"

Olsen was making a rolling motion, telling him to go with it. Julie said, "Sorry Chief. It won't happen again." "How could you forget your shield? Twenty years on the job and I've never once forgotten my shield. It's the first thing I grab in the morning." Julie didn't want to say what the first thing was that he grabbed in the morning. "I was polishing it and I left it on the dining room table. Are we done talking about that now?" Bergmann gave his usual scowl. "Don't you want to tell me something—something about a certain disc jockey who just happened to be outside your apartment when you went to retrieve said shield?" Julie fired a look at Olsen. The blabbermouth. "I was getting to that. He said he came over to give me this." He gave Bergmann a plastic pouch containing what was already being referred to as the "riddle letter." "This bastard thinks he's cute." Bergmann took the pouch. "Has this been checked for prints?" "We were on our way now." "Get to it," Bergmann ordered. "And see if you can't get back here without making another stop in between." Julie knew he'd dodged a bullet. On their way out the door, he turned to Olsen. "Boy, you really handled that one. I don't know what I would have done without you." The Madison County sheriff's office was twenty minutes away. "I called ahead," Olsen said as they made their way through the new county municipal building. Inside, it was obvious that she was quite the celebrity. "You called ahead for what?" "Relax, Hernandez. I just wanted to make sure that Murphy was available in the forensics lab. He's the best we got." "Oh. Okay," Julie said sheepishly, but he still didn't feel good knowing that more people were getting involved in the case. It was necessary, but a case like this could become one monumental cluster-fuck. Everyone would want a piece of it, and he'd be able to wrap the planet with the amount of red tape it would generate. Not only that, he had the feeling they were wasting their time. The only prints they'd find would be Gulliver's. Violating procedure would get him nowhere, however, and besides, stranger things had happened. Every serial killer eventually drops a clue that leads to his capture. Trouble was, it could come after twenty or thirty people disappear. But this guy wasn't into plucking people off the face of the Earth. This one was into notoriety. The bodies themselves were his calling cards. He thrived on flaunting his deeds with warnings and riddles. He was right under their noses, watching every move. Julie felt himself entering a zone, almost outside himself, where he was starting to understand the killer's thought processes, but he needed to get a lot further into that zone in order to predict what would happen next. Thing was, more people could be dead by that time. Coming back to reality, he found himself staring at a set of double glass doors the words Forensics Lab painted on them. Olsen said, "Let me handle this." "Yeah, you're on a roll," Julie responded. It was just a simple print check. What was there to handle? Olsen blew through the doors. "Murphy's desk is this way," she said, zagging left and striding down the hall as if she were trying to catch a waiting bus. Before long they were in front of a nondescript gray cubicle where a thin, soon-to-be middle aged man in a blue lab smock and matching hair net looked up and did a double take at Olsen. "Hiya Sam," he said cheerfully. "Almost didn't recognize you with your clothes on." He turned to Julie. "We love it around here when titty bar detail comes around. Sam's the only one who can work under cover." "Cut the crap, Murph." Julie was happy to see that Olsen was just as cheery with everyone else as she was with him. Murphy was being very politically incorrect, however. "Can you do it now?" Olsen asked. "And that line," Murphy declared, "she learned on john patrol working the truck stop down on I90. I especially liked the outfit with the satin hot pants and leather boots. I'm Dave Murphy," he added, holding his hand out to Julie. Julie took it while looking at Olsen the whole time. "Working vice, or just a hobby?" he asked sarcastically. "You two are just so funny," Olsen snapped as she reached into her bag and extracted the plastic Ziploc containing the riddle letter. "Well?" "Anything for you dear," Murphy said. He took the pouch. "Any idea how old this is?" Julie and Olsen both shrugged. "O...o...o...kay. This way folks." They followed Murphy to a door that said LAB in big white letters. Inside were four perfectly smooth lab tables. Murphy pulled up to the closest one and went through the exercise of putting on plastic gloves and unfolding the letter, using a pair of tweezers like they were a third hand. When the letter was as flat as he was going to get it, he carefully examined it under a microscope. "Hmm," he said. He moved to another table where he mounted it on a light box and went over it with a jeweler's glass. "There's all kinds of crap on here. Where'd this come from?" They told him. "Then I suggest you do a sweep of this Gulliver's place as well. With regards to the prints, I'll get back to you after lunch. That part is gonna take a while." Julie looked at Olsen. "You hungry?" "You don't have time for that," Murphy said quickly. "You know those FedEx packages you've been waiting for?" "You know about those?" Julie asked.

"Everyone knows about them. Go down to the ME's office and find Morgan. All three packages came in this morning."

Tuesday, December 18th ... 7:54 a.m. Dropping the three identical FedEx packages on his desk, Julie said, "Why is Bergmann giving us the eye?"

Bergmann was on his phone, but the conversation didn't take long. He was at Julie's desk in no time, his wispy dome beading with perspiration despite the early hour. "Morgan called for you yesterday. Looks like he found you." His eyes darted to the FedEx envelopes. Bergmann stood about six-four, and was hulking over the envelopes like a grizzly waiting for a salmon to come by. "Yeah, Chief. Everyone found us. The place was a circus." Just like at the county offices the previous afternoon, everyone was beginning to gravitate toward them. "We decided to bring the packages back here so we could have some privacy," Julie added, knowing the attraction wasn't his magnetic personality. "We can take the conference room," said Bergmann. The conference room was down the hall, and was more like a storage room that happened to have a table and some chairs in it. Old file boxes lined one wall, and the furniture was ancient, scarred oak schoolhouse furniture that weighed a ton. They occasionally used the room for interrogations, what few there were on the Andersonville force, but mostly it was used as a lunch room, and it smelled like one. Someone's crumbs still littered the table. Julie no sooner dropped the packages on it that Bergmann came in with a pot of coffee. There was little doubt that he was making himself part of anything that was going to happen, and Julie shot a telling glance at Olsen as if to say I told you so. Ignoring him—a part of their relationship at which she'd become quite proficient—Olsen flicked what could have been a dried sliver of someone's baloney sandwich off the table. "Charming," she said. Bergmann dealt out the packages and turned to Olsen. "You pour the coffee, I'll get some legal pads and get us some breakfast. Donuts okay? Good," he said, giving neither of them time to respond.

4:29 p.m. "Didn't we come across something like this earlier?" Bergmann pointed at Olsen's legal pad and slurped what could have been his fortieth cup of coffee of the day.

Olsen yawned. They'd been cooped up in this stinky room all day, and she didn't exactly feel daisy fresh. The inside of her mouth tasted as stale as the leftover pizza crusts that had been sitting on the table since lunch, and she wouldn't have minded if both Bergmann and Hernandez went off somewhere and took a shower. Nerves, she figured, tight as piano strings. Looking out at the cold charcoal sky, she hadn't done any of her Christmas shopping, she thought, and Christmas was only a few days away. "Olsen?" Bergmann's voice was a lightning crack in the room. "Yeah, we did," she responded. He was becoming impatient, but there was nothing she could do to change the way the facts were accumulating. The methodology and the physical evidence from the three additional cases paralleled that of the three Andersonville murders in that the killing method was different in each case, and the only traceable bit of evidence was the killer's DNA. Now, in tying them together, it was reasonable to conclude that the DNA was left intentionally, for nothing else—not a fiber, not a hair, not a speck of matter that didn't belong there—was found on any of the bodies. The DNA was the killer's signature, and he wanted to make sure it was found. "You feel like going over it?" Bergmann asked. "Or did I catch you at a bad time?" Olsen gave off some attitude as she flipped through her notes. They'd looked at this particular point from at least four different angles now, and it was still as if Bergmann was discovering it for the first time. The less-than-effusive Hernandez, she'd found, had a mind like a steel trap. No wonder they drove each other crazy. She found what she was looking for but didn't get a chance to read it. "Chicago victim, blunt trauma to the head, suspected necrophilia," Julie recited from memory. Bergmann simply wagged his head. "Sick bastard." "But it doesn't make any sense," Julie offered. "What doesn't? The coroner indicated that she wasn't penetrated while she was still alive—pretty good work, if you ask me. Yet they found sperm on the girl's...." Bergmann stopped and wagged his head. "The word is vagina, Chief, and unless this guy's got a four-foot penis, I don't understand how he could have had sex with a corpse without leaving some sort of residue behind—besides the obvious, that is. I mean, think about it. With all that friction, wouldn't there be a hair, a fiber, drool residue...." "Oh, God," said Olsen. "...something, left behind?... Well?" Bergmann said, "I guess." "Well there wasn't. If he had sex with the body—" "Her name was Kathleen," Olsen interjected. "She was a person." Julie held up a hand. "I know," he said softly. Olsen looked away, understanding that putting a name to the victim would make her more human, more real, than she would otherwise have been. Whether by design or by instinct, Hernandez was trying to keep the victims at a distance. He was doing better than Bergmann was doing, but Bergmann had two daughters. Still, Hernandez was surprising her in this light. "If he had sex with her," Julie continued, "he had to have done it at a distance in order for the body to have been as clean as it was. That's what I mean about the four-foot wanger. It couldn't have been." "No one has a four-foot wanger," Bergmann said. Julie gave him a sideways look. "No Chief, I mean he couldn't have had sex with her—period. Does the report say anything about whether there was semen inside the vaginal cavity?" Olsen said, "No, not specifically." "Then I submit that the guy didn't have sex with her. I think he put it there, after the fact." "You mean...." Olsen couldn't help but make a motion. "Right. Just like with the poor Sister. I think this creep is into leaving protein calling cards. I'd bet we'd find the same thing if we went back and examined the bodies of Amanda Aldrich and Meagan Phillips." "Are you suggesting that we have the bodies exhumed?" Bergmann asked. "No, but I think we need to talk to Howard Morgan again. Amanda Aldrich's body was burned beyond recognition. We may not get anywhere there. But with regards to Meagan Phillips, I'd like to know if Morgan found semen inside the vaginal cavity, or if he's assuming rape because he found semen around the vaginal cavity. This certainly puts a fresh perspective on it." "It's even sicker, if it's what you're suggesting." "I think the word is depraved. Most often rape is a situation where the guy can't control himself. That's bad enough, but these killings were partially for sport. This guy has been challenging the police from the beginning. To him, these girls were nothing, less than nothing." Bergmann made a note. "Let's talk to Morgan in the morning. What about the other two cases?" Olsen slid the Chicago file aside and picked up another, it being from the 110th Precinct in New York City, Queens to be exact. She scanned a copy of an old typewritten report, picking out the pertinent details. "Filled out by an Officer Herbert Hernandez...." "Really?" said Julie. "I didn't catch that. Talk about kismet." "July 18th, 1989...." Interrupting again, "What was the date on the Chicago report?" Bergmann asked. "September of '94," Julie answered. "So we've got a traveler," Bergmann surmised. "Businessman maybe? Never mind. Could be anything. Go on Sam." Olsen hesitated, wondering: how many murders did this freak commit between '89 and '94 that were never linked together? The development of DNA profiling was relatively new in the early nineties, and even now DNA databanks were nowhere near as extensive as one would be led to believe. They'd just established that the murders went back at least a dozen years. This scumbag could have committed any number of murders that no one would ever know about. "Officer Hernandez was on regular foot patrol at the LeFrak City towers—whatever those are..." Olsen interjected, "...finding the body of one Lorena Espino, age nineteen, in a service lane between towers two and four. No discerning marks on the body, originally classified as a possible overdose, but the coroner's report came back indicating the girl had been raped and suffocated. The case is still open." "Raped," Julie muttered under his breath. "I wonder if there was semen inside the vaginal cavity." Olsen flipped the page. "Doesn't say. Only that there was semen present, and the case was subsequently classified as a rape." The room fell silent and someone's stomach growled. Olsen moved to the window, the fully darkened sky a cold black canvass behind the glass. Bergmann said, "Hernandez." "What?" "Open the file on the third case and tell me who investigated." Julie said, "King County Major Crimes Squad." "King County, where?" Bergmann asked. "Washington state." Bergmann took a moment. "That's where all those murders took place, wasn't it? The Green River murders?" From the window, Olsen said, "Forty-nine women, prostitutes mostly, all murdered in the early to mid-eighties. After that, the speculation is that the killings moved to San Diego where another forty women were murdered up through 1991, and no one wants to speculate how many more there were that haven't been linked to anything. In December of 2001, police arrested one Gary Ridgeway based on a DNA hit from a saliva sample taken back in 1988 before DNA testing even existed. The sample was supposed to have been used to determine blood type in the original Green River Task Force investigation, which was going on five years old. Ridgeway had been considered a person of interest. He'd even been polygraphed in '84, which he passed. The DNA evidence from the saliva sample linked him to only four of the murders, and they never did find any physical evidence linking him to any of them—not a hair, not a fiber, nothing—and they searched his house more than once." Interjecting her own opinion, Olsen added, "I'll bet this murder was part of that investigation until DNA evidence ruled it off the list." Impressed, Bergmann said, "Is there a way of finding where Gulliver was working when these murders took place?" Julie jumped up and slapped his hands together. "Right. Now we're getting somewhere." "Then find out; and then I want you to find out if that sleazeball Manny was working with him as well." Julie sat down as fast as he'd jumped up. "Is that where you're going with this?" "Maybe we've got a wheel stuck in the sand," Olsen said, putting the emphasis on we. "Maybe we need to follow the chief's lead for a while." No more shooting from the hip, she wanted to add for Julie's benefit, but didn't. "Do you want us to interview Gulliver and Manny again, or do you want to try and get their tax records?" Julie asked half-heartedly. "You won't have to worry about that," someone said. Everyone turned as the door, which had been slightly ajar, swung open and two guys with good hair and sharp suits swaggered in like they owned the place. Knowing instantly who they were, Bergmann said, "Oh, look, it's Skippy and Jon-Jon. Is it time for milk and cookies?" Julie and Olsen sat there with their mouths open while the one who'd just been referred to as Skippy flashed his ID. "Special Agent Fordrow, FBI. This is Special Agent Gilkey." "Fordrow and Gilkey," Bergmann went on. "Sounds like a comedy team." Skippy's eyes drifted over to Olsen with what could have been a Hey, check out the babe scan until he said, "Hiya Sam. Long time no see." Olsen said, "Hello Matt. What are you and Jon-Jon doing here?" Julie's jaw dropped open. Jon-Jon said, "Still as funny as ever, eh Sam?" and Julie's jaw dropped even further. "What's this all about?" Bergmann demanded. Skippy pocketed his ID and said, "We had a report come into our field office that one of your men..." Skippy reached into his jacket and flipped open a notebook. "Howard Morgan...." "County Medical Examiner," Bergmann clarified. "...requested a DNA databank check three days ago." "Yeah, so?" Bergmann asked, real snotty-like. "So we got some hits," Skippy answered, taking Bergmann's attitude in stride; looked like he was used to it. Bergmann pointed to the table. "Yeah, we know. Three of 'em. Well thanks so much for coming by, Mister Ness." "Not so fast, ah... You're Chief Bergmann, I take it." "Nothing gets by you, does it?" "There were seven hits on that DNA check." That was enough to stop Bergmann in his tracks. "Seven?" "Seven," Skippy confirmed. "We have the rest of the files outside. Is Sam your investigating officer?" "I'm assisting," Olsen responded. "Detective Hernandez is in charge." Skippy said, "You got a first name, Hernandez?" "Julie," said Julie. "Julie?" "Yeah, Julie. You got a problem with that?" Skippy said, "No, of course not. I got no problem with that. You got a problem with that, Gilkey?" "Me? No. I got no problem with that." "See," said Skippy. "No problem." His smirk faded instantly, and he burned a gaze into Bergmann. "We got seven hits on the DNA, Chief, and this is our case now." Bergmann held out his hand. "Olsen." "Yeah."

"Gimme the goddamned phone."

Saturday, December 22nd ... 2:27 p.m. Sidestepping, Julie dodged a wall of kids coming at him from the opposite direction. Some were toting trendy shopping bags, some weren't, but all of them were carrying on the way kids do when they don't have a care in the world. The mall was full of them, along with lots of grim-faced, single men like him who were doing their last minute Christmas shopping. Luckily, the only name on his last minute list was Dianne, as she'd done the shopping for his relatives, her relatives, and the hamster's relatives weeks ago. She was like that, Julie reflected: timely and precise about everything, while he couldn't plan what he was going to have for lunch. Everything for him was spur-of-the-moment, gut feeling, and so far it had gotten him through in life—until now. Now, as far as his professional life was concerned, it was going to take something different. Now, he was going to have to think on an entirely different level, and he was wondering if he had what it took to get there.

He paused at the Victoria's Secret store and stared at the poster of the long-legged supermodel wearing skimpy nothings in periwinkle, the poster said, and he visualized Dianne in the same skimpy nothings. She'd look as good as the supermodel, he determined quite quickly, and then he moved on just as quickly. Reflecting back to the previous Christmas, and back to her last birthday, when did he buy her anything except lingerie? Sure she liked it, and certainly he liked it, but he was in a rut. His whole thought process was in a rut. He passed the store entrance and looked in, wondering how many times those men had stood in that same line, buying basically the same items over and over again. He wondered further if they expected something different to happen when the boxes were opened. Their wives or girlfriends would proclaim, "Oh honey, I love it!" when in reality they were thinking, "Oh, God, now I have to parade around for him in this?" But the women were victims of their own thinking as well, weren't they? They'd say, "I love it!" and even go further and give the old boy a courtesy tumble, which is all the old boy was after to begin with. So what would they get the next time around? They'd get whatever got him that tumble, is what. If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten. It seemed to be true in romance, he figured. He wondered if it was just as true in murder investigations. His thoughts shifted to Skippy and Jon-Jon, and he speculated about whether they were capable of advanced thinking. He doubted it. Fordrow and Gilkey seemed rather ordinary by any stretch, and he hadn't seen anything superior in their thought processes when they'd gone through the seven case files four days earlier. Indeed, everything about the investigation seemed to stall as they took time to get up to speed. If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten. They were no threat, Julie determined, despite the fact that this was now officially "their case." Big fucking deal. His case, their case, the fucking man-on-the-moon's case, it didn't fucking matter. They would never solve this case because they were too predictable—just as he had been up to now. The killer would be way ahead of them, leading them around by their noses, leading the entire task force—for that's what they were calling it now—to dead end and after dead end, until the only way they'd catch him was if he turned himself in. The murders went back to at least 1989, and possibly before. Undoubtedly before, thought Julie. If the killer had gotten his jollies only once a year during that time—a scenario that seemed highly unlikely—that meant a dozen lives had been snuffed out, and only seven had been linked through DNA. No way. This guy was too into it. And about the protein calling cards: surely the killer knew that leaving them would link him to other murders, but he didn't care. He wanted there to be no mistake about it! The same group of kids that passed him earlier came back around. For one of them, Julie thought morosely, there might be no tomorrow, for now the killer had stepped up the pace. He'd committed at least two murders in two months in Andersonville—Meagan Phillips and Amanda Aldrich—and they still didn't have an angle on the dead nun, Sister Imana Salazar, except that she'd been missing from her convent in Santa Cruz for almost three months. The other sisters figured she'd run away and left the sisterhood—an occurrence that was not all that uncommon with young nuns, Olsen had found out—and while Howard Morgan couldn't pinpoint an exact time of death, he did say that Sister Salazar had probably been dead for weeks. Still, that could have meant three murders in three months, Julie speculated as he walked squarely into the smell of fresh popcorn, which meant that the killer's itch cycle was pretty short. In fact, it meant that another murder was imminent, and if he and the rest of the newly formed task force continued to think and act the same way they were thinking and acting now, there would be no way to prevent not only the upcoming murder, but probably the next several. He had to elevate his thought processes. He needed to think differently. He had to stop sulking, and use the fact that he was no longer the lead investigator to his advantage. He needed to get into the killer's head and think with him, alongside him, so that he could get one step ahead of him. It would be the only way to catch this creep, and he had to figure out a way to get Skippy and Jon-Jon to do his legwork so he could concentrate on figuring out the killer's next thought. If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten. He had to think like a serial killer, and the only way to think like a serial killer was to become one.

Tuesday, December 25th ... 8:52 a.m. "Is this for me?"

He watched Dianne's eyes sparkle. "It's something you've always wanted," Julie replied. Dianne picked up the box and shook it. It wasn't very heavy. "What is it this time? Crotchless panties?" Julie smiled. "No," he said as she pulled back on her mane of tousled chocolate hair. "I would never buy you something like that for Christmas." She grinned slyly and came to him in the bed. "Right," she said, climbing on top of him and digging her hands into his chest. "You'd buy the entire Frederick's of Hollywood catalog if you could get me to wear all that stuff." "Would I do such a thing?" Julie asked mockingly. "Yes, you would, you hot-blooded devil, with spiked heels to boot." She laughed as she continued to knead his chest, his arms, his chest again. "You've been lifting weights again, haven't you?" "You can tell?" "Of course I can tell. Are you seeing another woman?" Julie held up his hands. "You caught me. It's Olsen. We've been getting it on for a couple of weeks now." Dianne bent down and nibbled his ear. "Well, I guess if you're gonna get it on with someone else, it might as well be her." Her tone was a little too serious for comfort. Julie pushed her back. "Honey, it was a joke. I was kidding." "I know you were kidding," said Dianne, but her eyes stopped dancing. "You could do a lot worse, though. I mean, the woman is smart, and she's built like a house. She's probably got guys lined up all the way to Indianapolis." All that from having met her once? Julie took Dianne's hands and said, "You're right. She is built like a house—" "So you've noticed." "Of course I've noticed. I'm not blind, you know, but I'm not into the muscular type—and I'm not her type. She thinks I'm a macho shithead." "You are a macho shithead." "See? We'd never get along. You're my type, and I would never do anything to hurt you." He kissed her fingertips. "You know that, don't you?" Her eyes started dancing again. "Of course I do." She pulled her hands from his, undoing her robe so that it fell open. "Besides, I've got some muscles of my own." "You sure do," he said, kissing her neck. Half an hour later, she was back to shaking the box. "What's in here?" she asked again. "You'll never know until you open it." Giggling, she tore into the box only to encounter another one inside. "Now you're really making me crazy." When she came up against the third box, Julie said, "Open it. It's the last box." Shredding paper, she finally got down to the envelope he'd also wrapped securely, from which she extracted a travel brochure and a pair of airline tickets. "See, no crotchless panties." Beaming, she said, "Just the two of us?" "Unless you plan on going with someone else." "What, and leave you alone in peace and quiet? No way." She threw her arms around his neck. "I've always wanted to go to San Francisco." "I know," said Julie, hugging her back. "Can we go now, right away, while I'm on semester break?" "Right away?" He was hoping she'd say that, but he played out his hand. "Well," he drawled slowly, "I do have some vacation time built up." "It would be so wonderful.... But I'd understand if you couldn't arrange it with it being so last minute and all. And then there's the case—" "The case is in good hands," Julie responded, fighting for instant damage control. "The FBI boys need to get up to speed, and Bergmann and Olsen are more than capable of getting them there. I'm sure they can spare me for a few days." Dianne threw her arms around him again. "I'll bet San Francisco is beautiful this time of year. We can go to the wine country." "Anywhere you want," Julie said. "It's your trip. Maybe we can even take that scenic drive along the Pacific Coast Highway down toward.... What's that city where Clint Eastwood was mayor?" "You mean Carmel? Sure, we can go there. And Monterey too." "Sure, Monterey too. Anywhere you want." Perhaps they could grab a bite in Santa Cruz on the way. They'd be passing right through it.

Wednesday, December 26th ... 8:08 a.m. "How was your Christmas?"

Julie looked up. Olsen looked to be wearing a new sweater, fire engine red, which hugged her all over, and her hair, which seemed shinier than usual, cascaded over her shoulders in liquid waves. Dianne was right: the woman was built, all right. Already he could see the guys behind her checking her out. "Good," he replied cheerfully. "Quiet, for the most part, visiting relatives, that sort of thing, but good. You?" "Shitty," she said. "I couldn't stop thinking about the case." Julie nodded. "I know what you mean. Luckily for me, Dianne managed to take my mind off it for a while." He winked, as if he was talking to one of the guys. Olsen couldn't help but smile. He was warming up to her, he thought. About time. Pointing to the desk, she asked, "What are you up to?" Julie slid a legal pad across the desk. "Angel of the night. Cowell Beach. How is the caller always tenth? Santa Cruz.... We've gone over this a million times." "I'm just playing, trying to put myself inside the killer's head," he said, not knowing how much to get into it. Olsen sat on the edge of the desk, and even in that position he noticed how the rise of her black flannel pants was perfectly flat against her abdomen. Was she getting to him, or what? he thought for a second. "Black and white and cold as ice. Breasts and martinis. 'Nun' would be right. Cutting sense of humor...." She looked at Julie. "These clues link to Gulliver, and the others are clues from the killer." She looked at the list again. "They don't necessarily match up," she observed. "Go on," Julie instructed. Olsen flipped the page on which Julie had written out the names of the ten victims they knew about—the two Andersonville murders, Sister Imana Salazar, and seven more names from various places around the country. "The places where the seven additional murders took place are all fairly close to where Gulliver has worked in the past." "How close?" "I'd say within a day's drive at the most. There's definitely a link." Olsen took a moment. "You think this is some kind of sick groupie or something, that someone's been following Gulliver around all these years?" Julie shrugged. "Could be. That, or—I hate to say it—maybe someone he's worked with along the way." "Manny," Olsen blurted instantly. "We're back to him again." "Seems like his name keeps coming back around, doesn't it?" Olsen looked like she was holding in a big I-told-you-so, and Julie decided to change the subject. "I have something to ask you. Would you have a problem with me taking a few vacation days?" "You mean, like, now?" "Yeah, now." "I suppose not," Olsen responded. "Kind of sudden, isn't it?" "I need the time." "Taking a vacation isn't going to get you away from all this. It'll make it worse." "It might, but nothing links up easily for me right now. Something on these pages is telling us who the killer is, but I can't see it. It's almost like he's there, lurking just below the surface, watching us. I need some time to figure it out." "I don't know where you're going with this," Olsen offered as she dropped the legal pad on the desk. "Seems to me that the easiest thing would be to simply test everyone's DNA." She walked off and said, "I need some coffee."

Julie put his elbows on the desk and wondered if this was a good time to go in and talk to Bergmann about that vacation.

Saturday, December 29th... 9:32 a.m. Julie tilted the seat and closed his eyes, but a nap was out of the question. Dianne was going a mile a minute.

"Was it difficult arranging the time off?" she asked. Julie took her hand. "It was no problem, sweetheart. Now lie back and get some rest. We have a lot to do after we land." Maybe she'd take the hint. The truth of the matter was that Bergmann had almost burst an artery. "You want to take a fucking vacation now?" he boomed as he read the time-off request. "I hadn't thought about it that way, Chief. I've heard of fishing vacations, and golf vacations, but I've never heard of a fucking vacation. Come to think of it, it sounds pretty good." Bergmann wasn't amused. "We've got to bring this task force up to speed," he snapped sourly. "We don't want Skippy and Jon-Jon screwing everything up." Julie put on his defeated face, the one he'd practiced in the mirror before coming to work that morning. "C'mon Chief. I appreciate you backing us up with the FBI guys, but the truth of the matter is that there isn't much to screw up. I was hoping they'd bring something to the party, but they don't know any more than we do. They're gonna have to start sifting. We're talking ten murders here, Chief, old murders. It's gonna take a while for them to dig in and absorb all the facts." "What about you? Don't you need time to dig in?" Julie's face stiffened. "Ask me something, Chief. Anything, about any of the ten cases, from the middle names of the victims, to what color ink was used to write up the reports. Just fucking ask me." Bergmann met Julie's stare. "How long will you be gone?" "Be back a week from tomorrow. I'll only miss five actual work days when you look at the calendar, and New Year's Eve isn't worth shit as far as getting work done—" "I get the picture," Bergmann interrupted. "I'll work with Olsen and cover for you. You owe me." Bergmann turned his broad back and lumbered back to his desk. Now, on the plane, Julie thought: if only Dianne would put a cork in it. It was a four-hour flight and he'd already wasted an hour of it talking. He needed to map out a course of action and get a head start on what he figured the FBI guys would do, which went back to what he and Olsen had planned to begin with. First, he needed to check out this Cowell Beach place. Something happened there that stuck with the killer, something that made him angry, or resentful, or jealous, or all three, of Gulliver. Was it a girl? Did Gulliver humiliate him in some way? What happened? Contemplating, Julie knew he had to feel it, touch it, smell it. The same molecules that infected the killer's being had to infect his being. He had to see this guy's thoughts from the inside out, and there was no way he could capture those vibes without walking where the killer had walked, no matter how long ago that may have been. The same was true for Gulliver's, a.k.a., Gordon Power's, high school. The vibes would be there, odd, unbalanced messages that would come to him and pull him toward the killer as if he were being tugged by a magnet. Teachers would remember Gordon Powers and his odd friends, or his odd enemies, and maybe they'd recall that one of them was fond of pulling the wings off butterflies. Perhaps they'd know if there'd been any abuse in Gordon's past. And then there was the convent. Could any of the other sisters pick out a face if they had the opportunity to do so? It was a long shot, Julie figured, but he had to cover every angle. He had to see things the way the killer saw them. He had to infect himself with the same sickness, and suffer with it until he vomited. "Julie, are you all right?" Dianne's voice was a tinny buzz in the background, barely audible over the engine noise. His mind was melding with the killer's mind; he was becoming one with him, sharing a soul that would be outcast in the depths of hell itself. He could feel Dianne's eyes on him, bugs crawling on the side of his face. "I'm fine," he said curtly. "You don't look fine." She wrinkled her nose. "You're not going to puke, are you?" She reached for an airsick bag. Julie clamped down on her hand. "I'm okay. Just a little indigestion from the airplane food." He smiled weakly. "We've got about two hours 'til we land; how about you let me close my eyes for one of them?" He leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Just don't barf on me," she said sarcastically. With that, she pushed her seat back and whipped herself into an arms-folded cocoon. "Wake me in an hour." Finally. Julie closed his eyes and leaned back. The low vibration of the engines, the rise and fall of the plane as it swam the waves of air, the gentle thuds as it made its way through some mild turbulence, all of it lulled him into a dreamy state. The constant drone was an insular blanket against the cabin noise. The lingering plastic smell of recently removed airplane food was replaced by a puff of Dianne's perfume, a sweet puff he thought fondly, just a few stray molecules that managed to make their way into his senses. It was a bouquet he'd sampled countless times before, as Dianne was a perfumy kind of woman. She put it everywhere, on her neck, between her breasts, between her legs, just little dabs of barely detectable sweetness that dissolved any otherwise latent sourness. He'd come across it many times as he roamed her body with his lips, and he'd smiled during those times, for they were times of ultimate pleasure. He thought of the next time he'd get to inhale that sweetness, and then he was off on a sensual mental journey, watching himself with Dianne, hidden in the tall grasses of a cool meadow. He was no longer on the plane, but engulfed in that scent, kissing her, making love to her, basking in the aftermath of sexual fulfillment and glowing with the anticipation of it happening again. But there was an intruder in that vision. Suddenly, he was no longer next to Dianne in that cool meadow, and he wasn't watching her anymore—the intruder was. The sweet aroma of Dianne's perfume was gone, replaced by the stench of stale body odor, rank and foul. The meadow grew dark and cold, and instead of lying there undulating in the afterglow of love, Dianne was writhing as if she were struggling against the putrid air itself. The dark presence hovered over her, its face a mask of evil, lust curling its features into an awful grimace of sexual anticipation. Moving closer, the intruder began masturbate, one hand holding the obvious, the other a knife whose huge blade flashed so blindingly that it was actually painful. In his dream turned nightmare, Julie focused on Dianne's eyes. She was not a hysterical woman, but he could see the terror there, the frenzied darting back and forth, the constriction in her throat as she tried to push out a scream that wouldn't come. She looked from the huge, flashing knife to the killer's eyes, and back again as the knife came closer, and closer yet as the killer inched toward her, masturbating the entire time. With the blade, he urged her legs apart, drawing blood as the point cut into her soft white thighs. He took the knife away and dragged the blade along her body, leaving a bloodstained trail as it moved. Across her stomach, between her breasts, the blade inched along as if it had a life of its own, seemingly sniffing for a spot to impale itself. Stroking his cock furiously, the intruder was between her legs now, yet he didn't enter her. Instead, he continued to drag the razor sharp blade back and forth across her skin, nicking it in places until rivulets of blood flowed into each other and her entire body was smeared with it. Chest heaving, she watched as the blade dragged across her nipples, and she steeled herself for the inevitable thrust toward her throat, but it didn't come. Instead the intruder moved away, his rock hard cock wrapped in a meaty fist and pointed at her as if it too were a weapon and ready to go off. Pumping fiercely, he prepared to let fly with streams of his vile semen. He would drop it all over her: in her hair, on her breasts, in her mouth; it would gush until her body was covered with it, and then he would kill her. Another woman might have kicked out at the blade, or his balls, or would have tried to scoot away, but being the person that she was, Dianne said, "Your mother would be very ashamed of you now." Suddenly, the killer eyes widened with rage and his penis softened instantly. Trembling, he fisted the knife and raised it over his head with both hands, aiming for a spot in the middle of Dianne's chest. Expelling air the way a fighter does to maximize power, the killer brought the knife down with a bone-chilling scream. "Aaiiiyaaahhh!" Jumping in her seat, Dianne grabbed Julie's arm. "My God! Julie, wake up. Are you all right?" Julie bolted upright from his reclined position, beads of sweat dripping down his face. He clutched his head with both hands and looked around, his eyes huge and terror-stricken. Two flight attendants raced from each end of the plane, arriving simultaneously. "Is everything all right?" one of them asked. Julie looked at the attendant as Dianne pressed a tissue to his forehead. "Julie?" she said softly. He took a moment. Realizing that he was back in reality, he looked at Dianne, dazed and discomforted. "You're all right," he said, a sense of relief washing over him. He took her hand. Dianne smiled uneasily. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Are you?" Seeing the flight attendants staring at him, "Sorry," he said shakily. "It was just a bad dream." The attendants smiled their practiced artificial smiles and made their way back to where they'd come from. With his heart pounding, Julie looked at Dianne and said, "That strange car you told me about before Christmas? Have you seen it again since then?" "Your hand is still trembling." "The car, Dianne." "Not that I can recall. Is that what you were dreaming about?" "I want you to promise me something." "What is it darling?" "I want you to promise that you'll tell me if you so much as see a strange cat following you around."

1:49 p.m. Pacific Time. The mist was heavy, a cold, wet blanket that weighed everything down. At the most, the temperature would hit fifty, the type of raw day that chilled everyone and everything from the inside out. There were still a fair number of people out, determined, like they were, to get their money's worth of San Francisco, regardless of the weather. Julie ate some of his watery clam chowder and motioned toward Dianne's plate. "How's the crab?" he asked, eyeing the huge red Dungeness crab that covered it completely.

She smiled and sipped her tea. "At twenty bucks a crab, it's the best damned crab I ever ate." She dropped a big cracked claw on his bread plate. She was happy, the weather was bad, and everything was falling right into place. Julie broke the claw open and pulled out a chunk of meat. "It's better than the chowder," he said, surprised at its sweetness. He'd never had Dungeness crab, as not a lot of places served it for lunch in central Indiana. He finished the claw and took a pull on his beer, thinking about how he was going to steer them down the coast. His plan was to squeeze in a visit to Santa Cruz on one of the days after New Year's, presumably after they'd done the wine country tour. That would give him enough time to feel the vibes on Cowell Beach by the time their flight left late Saturday night. The rest of the time he figured he'd devote to doing whatever Dianne wanted to do. This was her Christmas present, after all. If only the weather would cooperate. The tiny restaurant was only moderately busy, mostly tourists like themselves, taking in the Fisherman's Wharf experience just so they could say they'd been there. In the distance, he could barely make out Alcatraz Island as he sipped his beer. "I think this rain is supposed to clear up by tomorrow," he lied. "Maybe we should head into the wine country sooner rather than later in case it turns bad again later in the week. You know how the weather is around here." The last comment was overkill, but he had to make sure she got the message: wine country on Wednesday or Thursday, bad; wine country on Sunday or Monday, good. "Monday is New Year's Eve. That might be fun there." He shot a glance, but she revealed nothing. Continuing, "Maybe we could do the Highway 1 drive down the coast after that. I'll bet we could get some great pictures." Her face was stone. She ate some more crab. "Maybe we'll find a place that sells those table lamps made out of driftwood." She cracked a smile; he was getting somewhere. "What time is the appointment?" "What appointment?" "The appointment with Mister Lester." Oh-oh. Daniel Lester was Gordon Power's former history teacher, now vice principal at Harbor High School in Santa Cruz. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said woodenly, trying to keep the guilt from his voice. Dianne was like a shark: one vulnerable moment, and bam! She'd clamp down and catch him in his deception. She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded up sheet of paper. "I found this on the floor in the hotel room. It must have fallen out of your pocket." She ate some more crab. "Good thing you're not cheating on me. You're a terrible liar." Julie picked it up and put in his shirt pocket. The paper contained some notes he'd transcribed before leaving the office, including Daniel Lester's home phone number, directions to his house, as well as a note to find out where Cowell Beach was. "Santa Cruz is about an hour-and-a-half down that Highway 1 you just mentioned, isn't it?" Taken by surprise, he looked up. She was grinning. "Maybe two hours," he said, grinning back. "You don't mind?" "I mind," she said slyly. "But you're going to pay me back."

Thursday, January 3rd ... 4:27 p.m. Pacific Time. Daniel Lester was tall and rugged, in his late forties or early fifties, it seemed, and even in the dead of winter—such as it was in California—his skin held a deep, dry tan that nowadays people paid to get from a lamp. He greeted them at the door of his square, two-bedroom bungalow, the back yard of which had been eaten away by beach erosion and looked as if it could be gobbled up by a wave at any moment. Stepping into what looked to be the living room, seeing as there were chairs and a TV in there, Julie noted the three surfboards jammed into the sand just outside the sliding glass doors at the far end of the room. A fourth was propped on two sawhorses just inside the door, and the smell of varnish was strong in the room. Two wet suits hung from a cheap coat rack in the corner. Barefoot, Lester indicated a couple of chairs and pulled up one for himself. On the plank floor, Julie could feel the sandy grit beneath his shoes and guessed it was easier to simply live with it rather than try and sweep it up every day.

"I hope we're not intruding," he began, figuring some polite small talk would be appropriate. Dragging his eyes away from Dianne, Lester said, "Not at all. School is on break and I had no plans except my usual. I'm all yours." His eyes drifted back to Dianne. The man was a hound, Julie determined immediately, an AARP surfer boy hound, and the thought entered his head as to how many surfer chicks Daniel Lester had banged inside this bungalow over the years. "Your usual?" Julie probed. Lester pointed through the sliding glass door, and said, "The waves, dude. I've been riding 'em every day for almost fifty years." Fifty years? Looking at Lester's full head of hair, a good bit of it was still blonde, Julie observed, and what had turned white was still wispy and vibrant. He quickly did the math. Unless this guy started riding the waves in his diapers, that would put him at close to retirement age. "I'm sixty-four," Lester said, answering Julie's unasked question. "It's what keeps me young." Right, Julie thought to himself—as opposed to cutting a slice with the local barmaid... dude. "Can I get you something?" Lester asked, not even looking at Julie. Julie noticed that Dianne's shoes were off, as was her jacket. When the hell did that happen? And she was smiling the kind of smile that someone smiles when they don't even know they're smiling. Jesus, she was starting to get the wetties right there in the guy's living room. That could be dangerous with a guy like this, Julie determined quickly. A guy like this had radar and could zero in on a molecule of estrogen from across the street. "Yeah, I'll have something," he said loudly. "What do you have?" He had a guess as to what Daniel Lester might have for Dianne. "Let's see," Lester answered as he got up and made his way to the galley kitchen. "Got some soy milk, a little carrot juice, some mango nectar, and a little avocado hash if you're hungry." Mango nectar, avocado hash... what the....? "Just water is fine," said Julie, noting Lester's confused look. Lester shrugged. "Dianne?" he said, his eyes washing over her again. Hee-hee-hee. Dianne was giggling like a teenager who'd just met a famous boy band. "Some mango nectar sounds yummy," she said thickly. Hee-hee-hee. Julie thought: gag me. Lester was back in a minute with their drinks, and some green shit for himself, Julie noted. He sat languidly in his battered rattan chair, crossing his legs so that his baggy surfer shorts draped away from his thigh and you could see almost all the way up. It didn't look like there were any underwear in there, Julie noted further, and it looked tan in there too, a fact that didn't escape Dianne's attention, he determined by looking at her face. "As I mentioned on the phone, Mister Lester...." "Everyone calls me Dan," said Lester. Probably Surfer Dan, Julie theorized. "...Dan... we're investigating a serial murder case." Lester nodded. "You said something about a former student." "Right. Class of '68. According to the superintendent's office, you're the only teacher at the school who goes back that far." "Harbor High was new that year. I was a brand new teacher in a brand new school. I remember those days as if it were yesterday." Lester paused, and Julie let him think. "I taught history that year. Who was the student, and how is he or she involved? Not one of the victims, I hope." Julie shook his head. "No, not one of the victims. The student's name was Gordon Powers. Do you remember him?" Lester didn't move a muscle, and the tan seemed to drain from his face. He looked into his glass and took a moment, seemingly weighing his thoughts. "I remember him," was all he said. Interesting reaction, thought Julie. He glanced at Dianne. "That's all? You remember him? Nothing else?" "No, no. I remember him... well, okay? Let's say well." "Okay. You remember him well. And why is that? 1968 was a long time ago." Lester looked up and appeared to be annoyed at Julie's sudden probing manner. "For one thing, he's become famous, or at least he was. I haven't heard anything about him in quite a while, but teachers tend to remember the kids who become standouts in some way; you know, athletes, writers, CEOs, that kind of thing. Is he still on the radio?" Julie nodded. "Yeah, WXKO AM in Andersonville, Indiana, between midnight and six in the morning. The show is partly musical requests, part philosophy, part therapy—and definitely weird. People call in from all over the country. I've heard it described as a cult following." Lester seemed interested. "Like a religious cult?" "Religious, no. Spiritual, I guess you could call it that in a warped sort of way. His listeners certainly regard him as some sort of guru." A funny smell was coming from Lester's glass. Deflecting the conversation, Julie pointed and said, "What is that?" Lester smiled weakly. "It's a tonic made from cilantro, garlic, ginger, and some powdered yucca, all whizzed around in a blender with some defatted consommé. You want some?" Trying to be funny and put Lester at ease, "Is that some kind of aphrodisiac?" Julie asked as he wrinkled his nose. Lester's features seemed to soften. "Actually, yes," he said, glancing at Dianne who was squirming in her seat. She must have a freakin' puddle in her undies by now, Julie figured. "Anyway, getting back to why we're here...." Julie went on to relate as much information as he calculated Lester needed to know about the case. Lester's face remained somber as the descriptions went on, and he visibly shuddered at the part about Sister Salazar. "So, from the way the caller is talking to Gordon—" "To Gulliver. Gordon's on-air name is Gulliver McKnight." "Interesting," Lester noted. "So you believe the caller is someone Gordon knew well." "Not necessarily, but it could be someone who knew Gordon well, if you follow my drift; maybe someone who was jealous of him, or had something against him for some reason. From what the caller has already said, he's definitely someone who knew Gulliver's, I mean Gordon's, mother somehow. He seemed to worship her, as a matter of fact." Lester took a healthy swallow of his tonic and appeared uneasy once again. Weighing how much he could push, Julie decided to come at it from another direction. "Interesting, you said." Lester looked up. "What?" Noticing that Lester's fingertips were white with pressure against his glass, Julie went on, "You said 'interesting' when I mentioned Gordon's on-air name. Why is that interesting?" Lester sighed forcibly. His cop instinct taking over, "Is there something you want to tell me?" Julie shot quickly. "You wouldn't understand," Lester shot back just as quickly. Knowing he might come away with nothing—he was here unofficially, after all, and he'd mentioned that to Lester on the phone—Julie decided to plow forward. Clearly there was something sticking in Lester's craw. Maybe it was guilt. "Try me, Mister Lester. It'll be a lot easier than talking to the FBI, and I can get them here tomorrow if you don't tell me what's got you all twisted around for some reason." Lester took that exactly the way Julie thought he would: indignantly. "What's up... Dan?" Turning his glass in his hand, "I've been the king of these waters for almost fifty years," Lester began, motioning toward the pounding surf less than a hundred yards away. "Fifty years, do you hear me? It's the only place I've ever lived. There wasn't a serious surfer within five hundred miles who'd come onto this turf without paying me homage. There still isn't, and I can still bury most of the irreverent punks that come out here in my wake, if I choose to, but I'm mellower now. I'm content to ride it out every day, waiting for my time to come when I won't come back from a monster blue crush that decides to take me under for good. It's my life, Detective, and it's been my life ever since I learned to paddle out past the break line. It's why I became a teacher." Not quite following the logic, "How's that?" Julie asked. "Name another job that would give me the freedom to do what I was born to do. I leave work at three o'clock every day; I'm in the surf by four; I have summers off. The only reason I became vice principal is because I'd been at the school so many years that they had to do something with me in order to justify my salary." Lester gestured to their surroundings. "I don't live like a king, Detective, but I am one. I'm the giant of these waters, and they called me Gulliver back in the day, and all the rest of little twerps who challenged my turf were the Lilliputians." Julie took a fleeting look at Dianne whose jaw had just dropped open. "Are you saying that Gordon Powers took his current on-air personality name from you?" Lester just shrugged and took a healthy swallow of his tonic mixture, grimacing as if he'd just downed a glass of whiskey. But there was more bothering Daniel Lester than he was letting on. Having a former student take his surfer handle could actually be construed as a compliment, and even if Lester didn't consider it as such, it was hardly something to be as upset about as he was coming off. "What else is there about Gordon Powers that you're not telling me, Mister Lester?" Lester heaved a heavy sigh and leaned back. His permanently tan complexion had taken on a more sallow color over the last few minutes, and he looked up at the ceiling, indicating clearly that he wished he weren't having this conversation. "It's me, or the FBI," Julie warned again. Lester's eyes flashed angrily, and he fixed them on Julie. "I'm only saying that to help you. Trust me, they'll be right behind me once they make all the connections—and they will. We're talking at least ten murders here, Mister Lester, probably more. This guy's been out there for years. Who knows how many bodies have his signature on them? Do you think the FBI is gonna be any easier to deal with than me?" Daniel Lester took a deep breath and put his glass down. "It was 1968, Detective, before you were born, I'd guess, and things were different back then. The summer of free love, they called it. Between the pot, and the acid, and the hippies rolling up and down the coast from LA to Haight-Ashbury, this place was a literal smorgasbord. Drugs, sex: you could get either, day or night, anytime, anyplace. We didn't have AIDS to worry about, and everybody was always stoned out of their heads. Believe me, I didn't have any trouble satisfying my needs, if you catch my meaning." Sneaking a peek at Dianne who seemed to have stopped melting in her seat, "I think I can figure it out," Julie responded. "You might think negatively of me," Lester continued, "but between the culture at that time, my looks, and my notoriety on the circuit—" "The surfer circuit?" Julie clarified. "Right... it was a different girl every night. There were dozens of them, I'm ashamed to say." He paused. "Maybe more. I thought she was just another one of them." Lester took a beat, and Julie looked at Dianne again. She seemed to have come forward in her seat. "Who was just another one of them?" Julie asked. "Gordon Powers' mother," Dianne spat out, speaking for the first time. "You're saying you had an affair with Gulliver's mother?" "It was no affair," Lester defended. "It was just one time, that one single time, and I thought she was just another one-night stand. It was simple back then, uncomplicated; everyone did it. Getting into bed with a girl was like shaking hands, for God's sake." "But this wasn't like that," Dianne concluded. Julie followed along. "No, not at all. I remember waking up; I don't know where it was, some surfer shack somewhere. I don't even remember getting there, now." "Wasn't she a little old to be a beach bunny? I mean, she had a son who was... what? Eighteen?" "Probably so, but it didn't matter back then. I was probably stoned—I was a lot when I wasn't teaching—and it wasn't about age, or beauty. It was about getting it. Most of the time, nothing else mattered as long as you scored. I really don't remember what happened the night before, but I do remember the waking up part, clear as day." Jumping back in, "Why is that?" Julie pressed. "Because when I woke up, she was right next to me in the bed, still asleep, and Gordon was there." "In the same room?" "Staring at us. Just sitting there, like he was waiting for us to wake up. He had this odd look on his face...." Breaking away, Lester looked at Dianne. "Go figure, huh? Like it's every day that a kid wakes up and finds his history teacher doing it to his mother." Dianne looked away. "You can imagine what went through my head." "Everything from, 'Where are my pants?' to 'I hope he doesn't put a bullet in me'," Julie speculated. "Pretty much," Lester confirmed. "So I get out of the bed, naked, and start to put my pants on. I mean, I don't know what to say. The kid's staring me down like he wants to kill me. I figure the best thing is to simply get the hell out of there. I guess I figured we could sort it out later somehow. Anyway, I get my pants on, and he says, 'Leave the money on the table. The last guy skipped out and I had to go after him to get it.'" "Gordon said that," Dianne clarified, although it was abundantly clear what Lester meant. Lester nodded, folding and unfolding his hands nervously. "Gordon's mother was a prostitute?" Dianne asked/concluded. "And young Gordon was her pimp." Not the same man they'd met ten minutes earlier, Lester's face was lined and craggy, his devil-may-care surfer attitude gone the way a wave sucks debris off the beach. Looking at Julie, "That seems like another lifetime," he said feebly. "Tell us what happened next," Julie said coldly. Lester looked down and started talking into the floor again. "I reached into my pocket and pulled out whatever I had. I mean, the kid was staring me down. I put the money down, and before I take another step, he asks, 'How much is it?' I looked at him. I couldn't believe what I was hearing." "And?" Julie urged. "And I counted it. The bills were all crumpled up, and I uncrumpled them as I counted. It was thirty-something dollars, I think." Julie waited patiently for him to continue. "I gave Gordon one last look and turned to leave, when he says, 'It's supposed to be fifty. Where's the rest of it?' I told him that's all I had; that I didn't know. Like I said, I thought she was just another beach bunny." "Did she ask for money at the beginning?" Julie asked sharply. "I don't remember," Lester said, shaking his head. "Maybe I did some acid; I don't know." No one said anything for several seconds as Lester wallowed in the moment. Continuing, he said, "When I told him that's all I had, he got out of his chair and came up to me." Lester put his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "He had his nose this far away from mine, and he says, 'I'll pick up the rest tomorrow, at school, and you better have it.' I mean, I don't know if I was scared that I could lose my job, or if I was scared of him, but I was definitely scared. I gave him the rest of the money the next day, and after that it was like nothing had ever happened. I mean, it was like he was two different people. I never said another word about it, and neither did he, and neither did anyone else. I figured I dodged a bullet." Lester looked up pleadingly. "Until now." Julie took some time to let Lester off the hook. The guy had been carrying a load of heavy guilt around for half his life, and there was no need to inflict any more pain now. He'd leave that to the FBI. "I have one final question," he said as he and Dianne got up to leave. "What's that?" "Where is Cowell Beach?" Lester gave him an odd look, and pointed outside.

7:59 p.m. Pacific Time. Cowell Beach was a mile-long ribbon of sand that curved along Monterey Bay, hammered for millions of years by the massive multi-story waves of the constantly churning Pacific. Turned trendy at its center, a main wharf loaded with chic restaurants extended bravely into the turbulent waters, while at its edges it was lined with surfer bungalows much like Daniel Lester's. Darkness had come quickly and the sand was hard and cold, the dampness penetrating right through Julie's shoes. After they'd left Lester's place, the conversation centered on the fact that they'd never really gotten around to asking about Gordon's classmates.

"Do you think any of Gordon's friends knew about his mom?" Julie asked. Dianne shrugged. "Could be. It would explain one thing." "What's that?" And that was it. Dianne turned into an avalanche of analysis. The killer was into macho dominance, she'd said over dinner at one of the trendy restaurants, and the crimes indicated he could be someone with a history of relationship problems. "So?" "More than likely, he's had relationships where he's experienced a high level of shame, or humiliation." "So, you think, what? That the killer had a relationship with Gordon's mom? That he was one of her johns, or something?" "Could be. Maybe he took some comfort there. Maybe he loved her. Who knows? It would explain what you said about the caller regarding her as a paragon of womanhood. What with her being what she was, I doubt that any deep-felt love was given to him in return. It would explain the humiliation angle." Julie nodded. "Yeah, it would. So you think maybe he loved her?" "If he did, she might be the only woman he ever loved, and the relationship didn't last long. A person who fit this killer's profile would normally be incapable of loving anyone. And, as a result of this and whatever other relationships he's had, it's most likely that he would be into killing women rather than men." "The guy is an emotional drifter," she'd gone on to say, "if not one in the truer sense of the word. My guess is that he's had many jobs, in many different places. He moves around." "Hence, the fact that the DNA matches came back the way they did, scattered all over the country." Dianne sipped her wine. "Scattered is a good description for this guy. Everything about him is scattered, except the way he feels about himself." "How's that?" "My guess?" Julie smiled. Her eyes were twinkling and she was on a role. "Sure. Your guess." "The one thing he's really zeroed in on is himself. I'd speculate that he's so egocentric that he considers himself the center of the universe." "In other words, he thinks he's God." "In a way. He wants respect. He wants to have followers." "Is he married?" Dianne waved away the question. "If he is, it's a pretty impersonal marriage. It has no bearing on anything that's important to him." "What about his sex life? Is he getting it at home?" "Same thing. If he is, it's very impersonal, probably just another chore on the schedule; you know: wash the car, take out the trash, have sex. Not much more than that." "So we need to look for someone who fits those parameters, and that someone needs to have had some relationship with Gordon during his formative years... right?" "That's how I see it," Dianne had answered, secure in her analysis. "I think we need to have one more chat with Mister Lester. I'll call him tomorrow and see if he can remember who Gordon used to hang out with. With any luck, we'll be able to locate a few of these 'friends' and see if they fit the profile." Getting up, "Let's go," Julie said. "Where?" "Out there." Julie thumbed toward the beach. "I'd like to walk around for a while and get a sense of the place." Dianne shook her head. "You go. It's too cold for me. I'll have some coffee and wait here. You don't mind, do you?" In a sense, Julie was relieved. "I don't mind," he'd said, leaning over and brushing her lips with his. "I'll be back in a while." Now, walking along the compacted sand near the water line, he took in the aroma of the salt air. He let the spray from the huge breaking waves hit him, making no attempt to cover himself from that or the constant breeze that surged in and out with the surf. A half-mile down the beach, he stopped and gazed up at the charcoal sky, tracing the clouds down to where they met the black water on the horizon. All the while, the never-ending noise of the churning surf covered everything else, its rhythm powerful and constant. Something happened on Cowell Beach some thirty-five years ago, something that the killer carried with him to this day. What was it? Julie's thoughts floated back to the time Daniel Lester had described: a time of hallucinogenic drugs and noncommittal sex; young men were dying in Vietnam; pass me the joint. What would life have been like in Santa Cruz, California, in 1968? Standing on the sand, inhaling the mist along with the air, Julie waited for the answer to come to him. He could feel it out there, an energy riding above the waves, circling like a lost gull looking for a place to land. Circling, circling, touching the tops of the foamy waves, it came close, and then moved away. Eventually, he made his way back to the restaurant, feeling the answer's presence in the distance. Entering, he saw Dianne on his cell phone, which he'd purposely left on the table. As he took his seat, she said into the phone, "Yes, I'll tell him," and she put the phone down. She looked at Julie. "That was Bergmann." Oh-oh. "What the hell did he want?" "He just got a call from Daniel Lester." Julie looked at his watch. Oh-oh. Back in Indiana it was probably past Bergmann's bedtime. "And?" "Lester called to verify that there was indeed a case and that you were who you said you were." Oh. That wasn't so bad. "Okay, so what did he want you to tell me?" Dianne looked into her wine glass. "Maybe you should call him back," she said, sliding the phone across the table. "C'mon Dianne. What's the big deal?" "The big deal is that he was still at the office when he got the call, and a couple of the FBI boys were there with him. They hit the roof. Something about they didn't authorize any interview with Daniel Lester, you're a loose cannon, blah, blah, blah. Maybe you should call him back," she urged again. He slid the phone back across the table. "Why do I need to call him back?" "'Cause he said you might as well take a couple of extra days of vacation. You're off the case." Julie sat back in his chair. "He said that?" "In triplicate." "That's bullshit. He can't take me off this case. He's just pissed and he's playing with me." Dianne shrugged. "It didn't sound like he was playing." Downing the rest of his now warm beer, Julie picked up the phone. "Are you gonna call him back?"

"Screw him. I'm calling Olsen. I need to know if there were any murders on Cowell Beach in 1968."

Friday, January 4th... 11:46 p.m. There were only two of them tonight, the same two who'd been camped out on the station's doorstep since the riddle show more than three weeks earlier. Gulliver parked his SUV, noting that besides the reporters' vehicle the only other one there was Manny's. He took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked it into the bushes as he walked from the parking lot. The reporters positioned themselves as soon as they saw him.

"Gulliver, is it true that you received another riddle from the caller, a letter this time?" The microphone was in his face before he could react, and a light from a shoulder cam cut into the night. About to blow past the reporters and spit out a terse, "No comment," as he'd been instructed to do by the FBI goons who'd now become part of the case, Gulliver stopped. So it had finally come out. The goons had been adamant, saying there was no way the riddle letter would be made public. The killer was begging for notoriety, they'd said. He'd feed off the frenzy he'd create if the letter were publicized, and they weren't about to give him that kind of satisfaction. Gulliver looked at the young blonde reporter whose eyes were twinkling in the camera's light. She had an exclusive, and she knew it, and if he didn't respond she'd lay something out there anyway. Who knew what kind of twist she'd put on it if that happened? "Where'd you get that information?" he asked curtly. "So it's true," she said, almost shoving the microphone in his eye. "Have you discussed this with the FBI task force now investigating the case?" Knowing he'd just been trapped, Gulliver angrily put his hand to the camera lens and said, "No comment." Quickly, he stepped onto the frozen grass and squirted around the reporters. Behind him, he could hear the reporter talking to the camera. Someone at the FBI had loose lips, he figured, or she'd used hers, he figured further. Up to now the receipt of the riddle letter had been out of the media, and he wondered which of the two FBI dicks she'd pumped, figuratively or otherwise, to get the information. Not his problem, he would have liked to think, but he knew that if she aired what she was recording now, he wouldn't be able to take a shit without a microphone and a camera following him into the bathroom. Fucking FBI morons. What happened to the local investigators? He banged into the studio and waved at Manny. Behind the glass, Manny held up ten fingers and pointed to the play list. Gulliver nodded as he dropped his backpack on the end of the console. Ten minutes was plenty of time. He poured himself some orange juice and set it off to the side, then he pulled his usual bottle of Smirnoff along with a cell phone out of his backpack, and set those off to the side as well. He made notes on a legal pad until Manny's voice came through the studio speakers. "Ten seconds, Tarzan. And five, and four, three, two...." "Gulliver here, angels of the night, rescuing you from another day of trial and tribulation. The first topic for tonight's discussion: capital punishment. Are you for it, or against it? Here's some Crosby, Stills, and Nash to formulate your thoughts by." He shot a finger at Manny and the opening licks of Wooden Ships shot through the studio speakers. As usual, the studio was freezing. He made notes while the song played, fuel for the firestorm that was sure to come. Most of his listeners would be in favor of the death penalty, but he prepared to take the opposite viewpoint if only for the sake of lively discussion. The song began to wind down and Gulliver pulled the microphone towards him. "Capital punishment: I want to know if you're in favor of it, or not." He looked at the prompt screen next to the control console. The first caller was on. "Hello, Bobby from Baton Rouge. Tell me why you favor the death penalty, especially in light of the fact that we kill the wrong person about one percent of the time." "Well, uuh, I don't favor killin' nobody that ain't done the crime, but if they did, well then, why should my hard earned tax money be goin' toward supportin' these mother(bleep)s in jail? Hell, they got TVs, three squares a day, exercise equipment, libraries. I know plenty of hard-workin' folks who ain't got it that good." "Easy on the curse words, okay Bobby? I don't wanna have to bleep you again." "Uuh, sorry. It's just that I git kinda a riled when I think about it." "Where are you right now, Bobby?" "Me? I'm rollin' a big rig across Interstate 10, haulin' a load 'a lettuce toward Atlanta." "You married?" "Yeah." "Kids?" "Yeah. Three." "You away from home a lot?" "Uuh, yeah, I guess so. I try not to be, but you know how it is." Gulliver said, "I know what you mean, brother." Then, he let fly with what was sure to ring Bobby's chimes. "And I'm sure you're happily married and all, aren't you Bobby?" "Married my high school sweetheart." "Sweet. You got a best friend? I don't need to know his name." "Uuh, yeah. Got a couple of guys I known all my life." "Well, what if right now, while you're on the cell phone with me, behind your back, one of those guys you've known all your life was puttin' the wood to the girl you've known and loved since high school? How would you feel about that?" "Well, uuh, I feel pretty damned pissed, I guess." "C'mon Bobby. We're talking about two people you've known forever, one of which is the mother of your children. What if they were playing you for the sucker that you are, believing that while you're bustin' your hump on that big rig, everything at home is hunky-dory? Think about it, Bobby. They could be sitting there laughing at you with the taste of each other's private parts still in their mouths. I think you'd be more than just pissed if that happened. I'd say you'd be ready to take the deer rifle outta the case, if you know what I mean." A pause. "Well, uuh, maybe. I dunno." "Suppose you find out that one of your kids really isn't your kid. Suppose one of 'em is his." "Ain't no way." "No, I know, Bobby. But just suppose. Go with me here. What if, huh?" "Well, uuh, I suppose I'd be pretty damned pissed at that too." "Pissed enough to kill him? What if you caught them in the act, in your house, doing it right there in your bed while the kids were watching TV? What if they laughed when you found them because they couldn't believe you'd been such a chump for so long? What if your bank account was cleaned out, and he was drivin' a shiny new truck? Huh? What about that, Bobby? Would you be pissed enough to blow him away?" "Uuh, I dunno. I'd be pretty damned close to it, I guess." "Well say you were, Bobby. Say the next time he was out in the woods he just happened to become the victim of an unfortunate hunting accident. Could you do that, Bobby? Long distance like that? You could just walk the other way and nobody would ever know. You could do that, couldn't you Bobby?" Another pause. "Yeah, I think in the right circumstances, I think I probably could." "And if you did, it would be premeditated murder. You could get the death penalty, Bobby. Would that be right? You getting the death penalty for going through that kind of agony and humiliation? For being deceived like that?" "It would never happen." "Well, I think it could." He clicked off on Bobby and so it went, Gulliver weaving his way through the songs and the calls, taking the unpopular side of a controversial subject simply for the sake of raising a radio ruckus. At 1:37 a.m., having heard everything from "hang 'em high," to "an execution has yet to bring back a single victim," Gulliver pushed the button for line three. "I find your discussion rather fascinating this evening, Gordon, especially the fact that you don't believe a word you're saying." Gulliver looked at Manny who stood wide-eyed at the glass. The prompt screen read Noreen from Debuke. Dead air hung over half of North America. Manny tapped on the glass and held up two spread hands, verifying that this was the tenth call. While Manny's features froze in confusion, Gulliver smiled, his demeanor not the same as when he'd been talking to the caller on previous shows. "Are you there, Gordon?" Gulliver pulled the microphone close. His voice low and gravelly, he growled, "I'm here, scumbag. What do you want?" "That was a pretty good trick, wasn't it? Making Manny think I was Noreen from Debuke?" "You never cease to amaze me." "Being cute, I see. I was getting used to you being arrogant and antagonistic." Gulliver poured some vodka into his orange juice. "I can go back to that if you like, asshole. I'm only gonna ask you one more time: what do you want?" "Ah, there's the Gordon I know and love. I called to find out if you got my letter. You haven't said anything about it on the air yet." Taking a sip of his drink, Gulliver noted that Manny's eyes were riveted on him. So much for the riddle letter not getting into the media. "Why would I?" "The idea is for you to figure out who the next victim is going to be." The caller's voice tightened with the last comment. The last thing Gulliver had wanted was for him to use the show to get on center stage, but that was already done. Now, he could either cut him off, or let him talk. He remembered the last line of the riddle: Better luck this time. Someone else was already slated to die. Only by letting him talk would there be a chance that the caller would say something that would lead the authorities to his doorstep. Still, letting him show his superiority would only feed his psychotic egocentricity. Gulliver recalled the essence of the riddle: How are martinis and a woman's breasts alike? Don't I have a cutting sense of humor? "It's an old drinking man's joke," he said, answering the caller's riddle question. "One's not enough, and three are too many. As far as a sense of humor is concerned, I didn't know slime had one." "Aren't you clever?" the caller remarked. As with the previous calls, the voice sounded distant and machine-like, revealing no emotion except for the anger that threaded each word. "But you've only gotten part of the answer." "What's the other part?" "I'd like to cut you some slack, Gordon, but you're going to have to read the riddle. The answer is right there in front of you, and I know that with your cutting insight you'll be able to come up with it. Then you can tell it to the idiots who are trying to catch me." The words sifted out immediately: cut, cutting, cutting sense of humor. "You're going to dismember someone, aren't you?" The vision of bloody body parts flashed in Gulliver's head, and it was enough to send tingles up his spine. He poured some more vodka and downed a healthy swallow. "Cut it out," the caller teased. "You're killing me." The voice was playful now, as if this were part of some high school prank. Gulliver leaned into the microphone, feeling as if the air itself was tightening around him, trapping him. The caller was basking in the distorted limelight he'd created for himself. With the FBI on the case, Gulliver knew that from this night forward the station would be crawling with agents carting sophisticated electronic equipment, equipment that would turn out to be useless. He knew with certainty that they'd never trace the calls, and they'd throw more agents and more equipment at the case because that's all they knew how to do. The caller knew that too. It would all serve as a source of entertainment to him, and as a source of fascination for the listeners who'd have an ear glued to their radio in the middle of the night, yearning to hear the gory details of how he snuffed out another life. Soon, if not already, the caller would get his rocks off on the adulation as well as the killing. Gulliver put his lips to the mike. "We were talking about the death penalty. Are you going to voice an opinion, or are you going to just blither away and waste my time?" The question seemed to take the caller by surprise. "I don't consider death a penalty," he responded. "I regard it as a reward." Gulliver considered the argument. "How so?" "You should know how so, Gordon. We are one in this. You know how I think, and I know how you think." Glancing at Manny who nodded and made a rolling motion with his finger, Gulliver said, "Why don't you explain it to me?" "Maybe someday I will, Gordon, but this isn't the time or the place. You see, I know what you're trying to do. I'd like to stay and chat, but I've got to cut out of here. Get it? Cut out of here? Ha! Until next time, Gordon, ta-tas."

Manny made the cut sign. The caller was gone. Gulliver looked at the clock. It was 1:45 a.m., and the night was just beginning.

Monday, January 7th ... 7:16 a.m. "This is a hell of a way to start the New Year, Hernandez." Bergmann slapped down a copy of the National Enquirer with Gulliver's picture plastered all over it. The headline read: Tenth Caller Killer Talking Trash. "I don't need this shit."

"I had nothing to do with that," Julie defended. "The article says 'sources close to the investigation'." "What are you trying to say?" "Well it wasn't me, and it wasn't Fordrow or Gilkey, so that narrows it down to you or Olsen. I figure it's fifty-fifty." Bergmann's face looked like a tomato. Waving his arms, "I don't fucking believe it," Julie protested. "First of all, everyone knows you can't believe anything this rag prints. Second of all, I resent the fact that you think I'm actually talking to someone about the case." Bergmann wheeled, and now his face looked like a tomato ready to explode. "You resent? I'm the one catching it head-on from the FBI boys, and you resent? Well tough shit, Hernandez." "I thought we were—" Julie was going to say "friends," but realized they'd never even been close to being friends. "I thought you'd be on my side on this." He figured if there was anything he could count on with Bergmann, it would be loyalty. Wrong thing to have said. Bergmann stepped out from behind his desk and towered over Julie, who was seated. His face still looked like a tomato ready to explode, but now it had veins in it, big pulsing ones. "And I would be," he blasted. "But I can't very well defend anyone who goes off conducting his own investigation like some kind of fucking Sherlock Holmes, can I? You should have let someone know about Daniel Lester, Hernandez, and not have sprung it on us like you did. That has a tendency to piss people off." "I didn't mean to have it come down like that. And besides, if I had told someone, those FBI assholes would have stolen it for themselves. This is still my case, Chief, FBI or no FBI." Bergmann stood there. "You just don't get it, do you? This isn't about you." Julie got up and closed the door—like no one knew what they were talking about. Right. He turned, eyes blazing. He was almost as tall as Bergmann, but nowhere near as thick, and he felt himself tensing as if they were going to butt heads or something. "You're goddamn right this isn't about me. People are dying... people are dead, at least ten of them, dating back to 1989." "I'm well aware of the facts, Hernandez." "And you know goddamn well there are probably just as many we'll never know about." Bergmann's jaw was set, and looked like it could have belonged on Mount Rushmore. "I'm the guy who's going to catch this prick," Julie went on wildly, "regardless of how many college boys you guys pile on to this thing." "Yeah, well, you haven't shown anyone anything yet." "Oh really?" "Yeah, really. You got a hell of a reputation in a short period of time, Hernandez, and I'd like to see you pull your weight on this one—hell, I've been waiting for you to pull something out of your ass—but so far you've been running in circles. I think if it weren't for Olsen, you be chasing your own tail." That hurt. Pointing a finger at Bergmann's nose, Julie said, "That's bullshit. I take up more time writing reports and reading reports and listening to reports than I do investigating. You'd have no idea about anything unless you read it in a report. You have no idea about anything now." Bergmann's eyes narrowed. The last comment was still hanging as Bergmann said, "If you've got something in your pocket from your trip to California, now's the time to spill it." "I was on vacation," Julie shot smartly, "and just happened to bump into a guy who used to teach at Gulliver's high school. That's it. It was purely coincidence." Bergmann sighed heavily. "Your call, Hernandez. It could go a long way to getting you back on this case." Julie's shoulders sagged. "You're serious about that? You're really gonna leave me off this case?" "Until such time that I can get you to contribute to this task force in a positive manner. In the meantime, you can pick up your new assignment at the front desk." Bergmann turned away and moved some paper from one side of his desk to the other. There would be no more discussion about the situation this morning. Taking Bergmann's back, Julie got up and opened the door. His desk looked a mile away, and he headed for it slowly, afraid that any sudden movement would cause his churning stomach to heave the jelly donut that sat inside it like a shot put. Olsen popped through the squad room door and she zeroed in on him immediately. He hadn't seen her in a week, and she was wearing some new clothes he hadn't seen before. She looked slim, trim, and fresh, a far cry from what he felt like. "Hey," she said. "Hey back," he said glumly. "How was California?" "Just freakin' peachy." "Geez, what's up with you? Find a roach in your corn flakes this morning?" "I'm off the case." Olsen's jaw dropped. "He was serious about that?" "Evidently so." "I don't know who's the bigger asshole," she said, pointing her jaw at Bergmann's office. "Fordrow, or him. You want me to go talk to him?" Julie couldn't tell if she said it just for show, or not. For all he knew, she was jumping for joy on the inside, ready to wave that tight ass of hers and cozy up to Fordrow in order to snag the plum assignments for herself. "Not right now," he responded. "I need some time to sort this out. Besides, he's pretty hot. You go in there now and you might go down with me. Someone leaked some shit to the newspapers and he's on a warpath trying to figure out who it is." She seemed thankful for the warning. "What's next?" Julie thumbed over his shoulder. "I have to go to the front desk and pick up my new assignment. I'm probably doing traffic control down at the VFW this afternoon. I think they got bingo." "You don't have time for that," she blurted as she picked up her coat. Julie looked up. She was grinning, her teeth as white as the fancy white turtleneck she was sporting. He'd just had the rug pulled out from under him, and wasn't she just so fucking sparkly? "Why not?" he asked. Olsen handed him a business card, one of her own. "What's this?" "Flip it over." A name and a date were written on the back. "So?" "You remember last Thursday when you left me that message?" "About whether there'd been any murders on Cowell Beach in '68?" She nodded at the card. "You were close... 1967." "You're kidding." "Barbara Anne Holden. Age seventeen. The case is unsolved." "Any connections?" "To what?" Julie suddenly realized that he'd not filled Olsen in on his conversation with Daniel Lester. "I probably got some time on my hands," he said slyly. "Bingo isn't 'til three. You wanna get some coffee at the diner up the street?" She looked at her watch. It was 7:28 a.m., and the FBI boys wouldn't roll in until eight or so. "Love some," she said.

8:10 a.m. Julie ordered two and carried them back to the booth, thinking: Olsen looked pretty good this morning. Her boobs looked bigger, or something. Maybe it was the new clothes. He set the coffees down, giving her a once over.

"What?" she asked, feeling his eyes. "Are you all right? I mean, is there something wrong with you?" Olsen pushed herself into the back of the booth. "No, I'm fine. Stop looking at me like that." She put her hand on her cheek. "Do I have a zit?" "No, there's something else happening here. You've got, like... what is it?" Julie snapped his fingers. "Wait a minute. No way... did you actually get lucky while I was gone?" Olsen just blew on her coffee. Seeing the corners of her mouth curl ever so slightly, Julie said in a voice too loud for comfort, "I'll be damned. You see Olsen, miracles do happen." "Why don't you just put an ad in the paper?" "I'd prefer to just announce it." "And you're doing a damned good job of it. Could you keep your stupid voice down please?" Julie couldn't help but grin. "Anyone I know?" "None of your damned business. Besides, what would it matter?" "Just curious is all. Then again, if it was a friend of mine, I might wanna tell him to get himself checked out before something started growing on him." "Up yours, Hernandez." "Eee-yeah," Julie went on, enjoying himself too much to stop now. "Once a year, whether you need it or not, eh Olsen?" "Tell me when you're done." "It's a dirty job, but I guess someone's gotta do it." Olsen made a rolling motion. "That's it, get it all out." "Hell, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and then." His belly shaking with laughter, he noticed the other patrons were starting to look. "Okay, I think I'm done now." "You sure? I wouldn't want you to stop on my account." "No, I'm definitely done. Just let me wipe these tears off my face." "Feeling better?" Julie nodded. "Good. You wanna hear about the case now... jerk face?" Still chuckling, Julie waved her on. Suddenly all business, Olsen rolled into the facts. "Barbara Anne Holden, age seventeen, at the time was living with her parents in San Francisco in the North Beach section of the city." "San Francisco?" "Right. 227 Stockton Street to be exact." "How did she die?" "Officially? Heart attack." Already the questions were swimming inside Julie's head. "Heart attack? At seventeen? What's up with that? And how did she end up on Cowell Beach all the way from San Francisco?" Olsen flipped open a small spiral notepad. "There aren't a lot of details. The body was discovered in the early morning hours of June 19, 1967. At first it was thought to be an apparent drowning, but that was eventually ruled out." "How come?" "She was jacked up on all kinds of shit: hashish, hallucinogenics, heroin." Olsen wrinkled her nose. "But something didn't smell right." "Right. According to her parents—I managed to find them—there's no way their daughter was into drugs of any kind. I thought to myself: right. San Francisco, in the sixties?" "What about it?" "Hippies, the counterculture, Haight-Ashbury: it was far out, man. There were drugs all over the place, and lots of them. I asked Barbara Anne's parents if, looking back on it, did they think perhaps they were a bit naïve about their daughter's drug use, but they were adamant. The most radical thing Barbara Anne did was put flower patches on her jeans, they said. Their daughter was a serious young lady, studied the cello, would never have done anything like that. You get the picture. She was getting ready to apply to Berkeley to study music. That's why she was down there." "You mean Santa Cruz? What does that have to do with applying to Berkeley?" "Nothing directly, but the days before the body was discovered were the dates of the Monterey Pop Festival." "Which was?" "It was like the first Woodstock, only smaller. The Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, the first major appearance for Jimi Hendrix; you can imagine what it was like." "I guess. So?" "So... young Barbara Anne, being into music and all, went to this shindig, ends up smack in the middle of this gathering of pot-smoking, heroin-shooting, LSD-popping acid-heads, and winds up dead on a beach in Santa Cruz, which isn't far from Monterey. The death was classified as an overdose, and the heart attack was attributed to that. Evidently, there were a couple of other ODs during and around the festival." Pondering, Julie asked, "What about the friends?" "I haven't been able to contact them yet, but according to the parents, the story was that one minute the kids were watching The Jefferson Airplane, the next minute Barbara Anne was gone, as in, poof!" "Snatched? In the middle of all that?" Olsen shrugged. "Supposedly, she went to find a bathroom and never came back." Julie looked into his coffee. "Wait a minute. Back at the station, didn't you say that the case is still unsolved?" Olsen leaned back in the booth. "Part of it, yeah. The parents pressed the issue, telling the cops there was no way their daughter did drugs. The friends corroborated the story and revealed the details about how she vanished. Evidently it was strong enough to convince the ME that there may have been some foul play, and he reexamined the body." "And?" "They found semen on the body, but she hadn't been penetrated." Julie paused. "So they classified it as a possible attempted rape, although officially the cause of death had to remain what it was." Olsen nodded. "Right, but it certainly throws a shadow over the whole thing. The chances of a girl like her taking that big a drug hit on her own were slim to none." "The implication being that she was forced?" Olsen did a palms up. "It's anyone's guess. Either way the girl is dead, but there's no way to determine whether it was a homicide, or not."

Julie flopped back in his booth. "Semen on the body," he said. "Jesus, Olsen, it's our man."

Tuesday, January 8th ... 9:40 a.m. Julie squeezed over as Special Agent Bill Gilkey, the last to arrive, pulled up a chair and yanked a notepad from his inside pocket. Julie thought: Bergmann's office wasn't that big; Fordrow and Gilkey were going to suck up all the oxygen.

Gilkey shot a look at Julie. "What's he doing here?" Bergmann shot a glare back. "I asked him to sit in. You got a problem with that?" Julie waited for the shit to start flying. It didn't take a genius to figure out where the idea of him being taken off the case had come from. He waited as Bergmann replayed the tape they'd already listened to three times. That was a pretty good trick, wasn't it? Making Manny think I was Noreen from Debuke? Fordrow pointed at the machine and said, "Play that again." Bergmann let fly with another of his patented looks and punched the rewind button. "How'd he do that?" Fordrow went on. "And how is he always the tenth caller, no matter what?" Julie said, "Jesus," under his breath, but it was still loud enough for others to hear. Fordrow's turn. "You always got an opinion, don't you, Hernandez? You got something to say, say it." Julie felt Olsen kick him under the desk, and Bergmann was drilling into him. "With all due respect," he began, trying to keep the sarcastic edge out of his voice, "we've been asking that question for weeks." "So?" "So maybe we should be looking at this from another angle. Even if we knew how, we wouldn't know when he'd be calling. Maybe we should think about that." Fordrow choked down whatever he was going to say next. Smirking, Gilkey said, "You got any theories, Hernandez?" Julie felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rankle. "We thought for a while that someone on the inside was manipulating the calls, but we haven't been able to come up with anything. We do think the guy is using a speakerphone, however." Fordrow pointed at the machine again. "Chief?" "You've got fingers," Bergmann snapped. Fordrow wisely held his tongue and punched the play button. Well, this was going well so far, thought Julie. He shot a glance at Bergmann who nodded back as if to say: let me handle this and shut the fuck up. Julie did, thinking he heard Olsen sigh with relief. Fordrow let the tape roll, stopping it several times as he made notes. "I don't get it," he said, shaking his head. "You don't get what?" Bergmann asked. "What's the old drinking man's joke?" Bergmann almost did an eye roll. "It's the answer to the riddle," he answered tersely. "How are martinis and a woman's breasts alike?" Fordrow punched the play button, and Gulliver's voice came over: One's not enough, and three are too many. Fordrow said, "I still don't get it." Julie saw Fordrow shoot a vacuous look at Olsen, expecting, perhaps, that because she had breasts, she'd know the answer. It was getting close in the office. Fordrow's expression stayed blank. "I don't drink," he said as everyone stared. Bergmann said, "Let me spell it out for you. It means you should stop at two if you're drinking martinis. Three will make you very drunk." Fordrow said, "Oh." "But I don't get the second part either," Bergmann went on. "What second part?" Olsen said, "I see you guys aren't any smarter than the last time we worked together." She got up and separated herself from all the bad breath and testosterone around the desk. Even Gilkey glared from across the table. "Damn Rob, open up your mind, man. Three martinis are too many because they'll make you drunk. And three breasts are too many... but for what?" Unnerved, Gilkey hitched his belt and looked around to make sure he'd gotten it right. "You guys mind if we listen to it again?" No one objected and Fordrow rewound the tape. Julie listened patiently, reading each word, each inflection, as if there were hidden meaning in all of it. He listened as if the caller were speaking only to him: the tone, the bend of each word, the timbre of each syllable. He looked at the other faces around the room, and even though they seemed to be concentrating as hard as he was, he could almost see the words slide past them and melt into the walls. They didn't get it, not even Olsen, and she was by far the sharpest knife in the drawer. We are one in this. The caller's words, to Gulliver. They repeated inside Julie's head. You know how I think, and I know how you think. The killer was trying to connect. But with whom? The obvious answer was with Gulliver. But was it so? Julie listened as the tape rolled on. I'd like to stay and chat, but I've got to cut out of here. Get it? Cut out of here? Ha! The caller was trying to be funny. He felt good. He was getting off on it, and suddenly Julie was with him, in the same room, watching him talk to Gulliver with the phone in one hand, a long sharp knife in the other. The hints were so obvious; how could Fordrow not see them? Gulliver was right. The next victim would be found in pieces. The caller was telling the world what he was going to do, challenging those who would stop him. Or maybe he was being so blatant because he wanted it all to end, Julie thought further. The caller wasn't seeking adulation as Gulliver had maintained, as all the profilers and psycho-babblers would maintain. No, he was telling the world, telling him, Julie Hernandez, that he wanted to be taken away from a life no longer worth living, a life that perhaps had never been worth living. And then the caller's sign off came around again. Until next time, Gordon, ta-tas." Not ta-ta, as in a slang term for goodbye, but ta-tas, as in a slang term for breasts. First the drinking man's joke, now this. The play on words was twofold: cutting and breasts, and it came to him. Julie got up and moved to another corner of the room opposite Olsen while Fordrow and Gilkey continued to bounce theories off Bergmann. He turned, interrupting a stream of meaningless theory that Fordrow was dribbling out. "Chief?" Bergmann turned. "What?" "Am I on this case, or not?" Bergmann shot a thumb at Fordrow and Gilkey. "That's up to them," he said, but neither Fordrow nor Gilkey felt compelled to address the question. "I think you two could use the help," Bergmann said for added measure. Fordrow and Gilkey looked at each other, their eyes simultaneously drifting toward Olsen. Julie took the hint. "Thanks Chief," he snarled, grabbing his coat. "But I've got better things to do." "Where are you going?" Olsen called after him. "I'm going back to work," Julie called back as he flipped a middle finger into the ceiling. Olsen turned to Fordrow and Gilkey and said, "You guys can be a couple of grade-A assholes, you know that?" Bergmann didn't say a word.

7:24 p.m. "You want to talk about it, maybe go out someplace and have a couple of beers? I don't have to work tonight."

Julie stopped pushing his food around and looked at Dianne. "That would be good." She came over and kissed his cheek. "You get the dishes. I'll start changing." He scraped the plates and cracked open his third beer of the night. Waiting for Dianne could take a while. The facts about the case whirled like a carnival ride inside his head, but he was unable to concentrate. Grabbing the remote, he stumbled across Wheel Of Fortune and watched Vanna White as she turned letters on the big board. She was dressed in an outfit that accentuated her breasts, and his thoughts centered on what had happened that morning. Cutting and breasts were the key words that sifted out of the caller's last on-air conversation, and, putting two and two together, Julie had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen to the next victim. Okay, he knew what, and how, but he didn't know who, where, or when. Why didn't matter anymore. There was a close-up of Vanna and he watched her as she moved. The only way to think like a serial killer was to become one, and suddenly he knew what he'd do to Vanna if he were a serial killer with a knife. A commercial interrupted his thoughts and the whirling carnival ride started up again. It settled on California, and the facts of Barbara Anne Holden's death jumped onto the ride. After his discussion with Olsen at the diner the previous morning, she'd managed to make contact with two of Barbara Anne's friends—friends with whom she'd attended the Monterey Music Festival almost thirty-six years earlier. Both indicated that, as far as they had ever known, Barbara Anne wasn't into pot, or LSD, or anything of the kind, and that none of them had partaken of such at the festival. Their story corroborated what Barbara Anne's parents had maintained. But what about the semen? Was there a chance that it matched with that found on Sister Salazar and Meagan Phillips? He wondered if it was possible to get Barbara Anne's body exhumed. The life cycle of DNA was almost forever, and he weighed the chances that it hadn't deteriorated or otherwise been erased from her body. All they needed was a molecule of the stuff. But getting bodies exhumed required a court order, and he was officially off the case. There wasn't a chance in hell of him convincing Fordrow and Gilkey that a DNA match could be made back to 1967. Hell, unless Olsen had told them, Fordrow and Gilkey didn't even know about Barbara Anne Holden. He'd have to call Olsen and find out. Julie chugged his beer and went to push the remote just as one of the contestants spun the wheel. It clicked and clicked, landing on bankrupt. Just like him and this case. "Fuck," he said, and the next image might as well have been a test pattern. He never even saw it. His thoughts were already centered on his conversation with Daniel Lester. Fordrow and Gilkey had been so bent out of shape about him doing an unauthorized interview that the substance of the interview hadn't come into question—yet. They'd get around to investigating any California connections sooner or later, but so far: bupkiss. They were still too busy establishing their turf. The lingering question of whether the caller/killer could be one of Gulliver's high school classmates had also never been completely addressed. Lester had come unglued when the conversation branched off into a discussion about Gulliver's mother, and he, Julie, and Dianne had never gotten back to it. Julie heard the shower running, and he looked at his watch. It was 7:30 Indiana time, and that made it 5:30 California time. By now the Santa Cruz schools were back to their regular schedule, and there was a chance that Daniel Lester could be home if he wasn't out riding the waves... dude. Julie finished his beer and got another—he was on beer autopilot now—picking up his case folder on the way. He knew right where Lester's phone number was written. He paused for a moment. Given his status on the task force—which was none—he debated the judiciousness of making contact with Lester again. The shower was still running. He had time. He said, "Screw it," and dialed the number. Daniel Lester picked up on the first ring. "Mister Lester?" "Yes." "This is Detective Hernandez. We spoke last Thursday regarding Gulliver... I mean, Gordon Powers." "How could I forget?" Lester was clearly agitated. "Did I catch you at a bad time, or can you talk?" "I've already gotten three messages from the FBI. What could you possibly ask me that they're not?" "I take it you haven't spoken with them yet." "No, not yet. I picked up the messages when I got home from school this afternoon. What is it you want, Detective?" "Who were the messages from?" Getting more agitated, Lester asked, "Is that why you called?" It didn't sound as if Lester knew he was off the case. "It's important, Mister Lester. Humor me." Julie detected a rush of air into the phone. "Two of the messages were from an Agent Fordrow, and one was from an Agent Olsen, a woman. Do you know them?" Agent Olsen? Lester was not only annoyed, but confused. "I know them," Julie responded, but Lester said nothing. "I only want to ask you one question, Mister Lester, and then I'll stop bothering you. With regards to the FBI, I'm afraid this is now their case, and they're going to do whatever they're going to do. I can't help that." He paused again. After some seconds, Lester said, "What is it?" "When we were speaking last week, we never got around to Gordon's classmates. As I mentioned, we believe the killer was someone who knew Gordon well. Can you remember if Gordon was particularly close with any of his classmates, anyone in particular? Did any of them exhibit any behaviors that would lead you to believe now that they could be capable of being the man we're looking for?" "Gordon was a loner. I very seldom saw him with any classmates, and when I did, they seemed to make fun of him." Ding. "Make fun of him?" "That's what I said." "Please, bear with me, Mister Lester. About this teasing, did it ever reach the point of humiliation?" Lester took a breath and Julie knew the conversation wouldn't last much longer. "For the most part, no. It was pretty harmless most of the time, but you know how kids are. There was one student who was always the instigator, seemed to have it in for Gordon for some reason." Julie knew he was pressing his luck. "Can you tell me about him?" "I thought you said this wouldn't take long." "Please, I need your help. If you'd rather have those two FBI agents ask you these same questions—" "I don't think this other student fits your profile, Detective. Not the serial killer type." "Let me determine that, Mister Lester. Tell me about him." "Her. This student, the instigator, was a girl." Ding, ding. Julie swigged his beer, and said, "I'm listening." "There's not much to tell. She seemed normal enough in every other way, except that she made fun of Gordon constantly. I don't know what the story was. Maybe he was sweet on her and she was trying to discourage him, or maybe she was sweet on him and it was just her way of showering him with attention. Like I said, you know how kids are." Julie nodded as if Lester was in the room with him. "Would you, or could you, classify it as humiliation?" Julie asked again. "I don't know what you're driving at, Detective, but with kids that age, just pointing at a pimple could be classified as a life-altering experience. Why are you so focused on this humiliation angle?" Lester paused. "Male or female, teasing Gordon in high school hardly makes anyone a possible serial killer." "Whatever happened to this other student?" "She moved away, I think. I know she got married shortly after graduating, and I don't recall ever having seen her after that. It was right around the time Gordon's mother died." Suddenly, it was like a fire alarm in Julie's head. "You never mentioned that Gordon's mother died." "It never came up. She died that summer. I'm ashamed to say that if it weren't for the circumstances of her death, it would have been a relief for me. As it is, it makes me feel all the more guilty for what I did back then, and you're not doing much to make me feel better. Do you have any more questions, Detective, or are we through?" "What were the circumstances?" Julie asked numbly. "She was murdered," Lester shot back angrily. "I'm going to hang up this phone now, Detective. I'm sure you can obtain the facts about the case from the local police. And seeing as this is now an FBI investigation, please don't call me anymore." The line went dead.

8:15 p.m. Dianne handed him his boots.

"What are these for?" "I figured we'd go down to Roy's and listen to some country music, maybe do a little line dancing. C'mon, it'll be fun." Julie took the boots in one hand, his beer in the other, and said, "Okay." He kissed Dianne on the cheek. Her eyes twinkled and she looked at the bottle. "How many of those have you had?" "Too many," he replied, trying to play down the fact that he'd put away almost the whole six-pack. "I guess I'm driving," she said lightly. "No more for a while, okay?" Julie crossed his heart. "Promise," he said, knowing there was no way he was going to live up to it. The conversation with Daniel Lester replayed in his head, and if it were possible, he'd have dumped Dianne and a couple of her friends at Roy's in a heartbeat so he could hightail it to... where? He was off the case. There was nowhere to hightail it to. Besides, that would have been selfish, and compulsive, and neurotic, and he wouldn't have given one fat shit if it helped him solve the case. But he wasn't about to solve anything. He was about to go to Roy's in a pair of Dingo boots he'd only worn twice since he'd gotten them from Dianne on his last birthday, and do some line dancing. That's what he was going to do, and try to forget about this case and his professional predicament for a while. Dianne hugged him tightly and said, "I've got some clothes laid out for you on the bed. You change while I finish up in the bathroom. I'll only be a minute." Right. It was never a minute with Dianne, but it was part of her charm. He felt the excess energy drain out of him as he mentally accepted—for the time being—that the case would take its own pace and that he was on the verge of driving himself, Dianne, and everyone else around him crazy. He kissed her and said, "Hurry up," spanking her on the butt as she turned toward the bathroom. She pranced off; he trudged to the bedroom. Laid out on the bed was a pair of black Levis, a black leather vest that he couldn't remember where it came from, and the brand new black Resistol hat she'd gotten him for Christmas from some fancy hat shop in New Mexico. Feeling like some kind of grown up Ken doll, he quickly downed the rest of his beer and said, "What the hell." It would do him good—and he did like line dancing. He put the bottle on the dresser and put on a fresh shirt, followed by the black vest. He paused before putting on the Levis, noting that the leather label showed them to be a size thirty-two waist. Thirty-two? Shit. When was the last time he'd worn a thirty-two? He squeezed into the Levis, noting that they'd be a tad more comfortable if it weren't for the bucket of beer sloshing around in his belly, but he could live with it for one night—as long as he didn't bend over too often. Outfit complete, he donned the Resistol hat and checked himself out in the mirror: a little stubble, square jaw. Not bad, if he did say so himself. He still had it. He heard Dianne make her way from the bathroom. He turned, ready to declare himself the sexiest man alive, but he never got the words out. Dianne stood there in pair of skinny jeans and a filmy silk blouse, looking like she'd just stepped from a magazine ad. "Damn," he said. "I take it you approve?" She turned in place, her boots clicking on the wood floor. Julie walked up and put his arms around her. "I approve," he said, cradling her at the small of her back. "You've dropped some more weight, haven't you?" She beamed. "I was at one-eighteen this morning." He'd never seen her so trim, but there was no mistaking the fact that even at a hundred and eighteen pounds Dianne DeMarco was a very voluptuous woman. "You wanna forget about the line dancing?" he asked slyly. She pushed him away. "No way, José," she said. "But if you're a good boy maybe we can play ride 'em cowboy later." That was good enough for him. He straightened his hat and said, "Vamanos!" Dianne went for the keys and he snagged the last beer in the refrigerator. She gave it the evil eye, but said nothing. "Mind if we take your car?" she asked. "I hardly have any gas." Scrunching up inside a Miata with a belly full of beer in tight jeans didn't sound comfortable anyway. "No problemo," he said, shrugging into his jacket. They walked arm in arm to his car, the hard heels of their cowboy boots clicking as they walked. A normal January night in the central plains, the air was a cold slap in the face, the subsequent sting perpetuated by the never-ending Indiana wind. They made it to his car quickly, a four-year-old Jeep Wrangler he'd just finished paying off the month before. Julie sipped his beer and waited patiently while Dianne played with all the buttons, making sure she adjusted every last thing that could be adjusted inside and outside the vehicle. She was like that. First was the seat, three times. Then the rearview mirror, then the side mirror, then the steering wheel, the heater, the radio, then the seat again, just to make sure she'd gotten it right. "I think Roy's closes at two," he said. She smiled and said, "Shut up," as she finally shifted into drive. As she started backing out of the parking spot, Julie knocked on his window, and said, "You forgot this one," referring to the passenger side mirror. Dianne adjusted the motor-assisted side mirror—also three times—shifting in her seat to make sure it was at just the right angle. Julie smiled and quietly sipped his beer. She was like that. He glanced into the mirror as they moved forward, noticing some headlights come to life as the Wrangler reached the edge of the parking area behind their building. She took a right onto Glenn View Circle and passed the Glenn View Manor Luxury Apartments sign. The sign blocked the headlights momentarily, but they were visible again as soon as Dianne pushed the Wrangler off of Glenn View Circle onto Glenn Drive. She started bouncing in her seat as Shania Twain came on. "I've always loved this song," she said, snapping her fingers. She pointed at the radio. "Would you turn it up?" Julie did, smiling and sipping some more beer, feeling the effects of what he'd already consumed over the last two hours. She was in a good mood, he was about three-quarters buzzed, they were going to do some line dancing and play ride 'em cowboy later: life was good. He leaned back in his seat, feeling the warmth that was just beginning to come from the heater. He leaned over to turn it up a notch, noticing in his passenger side mirror that the headlights had followed them onto Glenn Drive and were maintaining a safe distance. It was too far to tell what kind of vehicle they belonged to, but they were high off the ground, not a car's headlights; a pickup truck's maybe, or an SUV. Julie scooched forward in his seat, trying to get a better angle on the mirror. No big deal. Just habit. Noticing him, Dianne glanced into the rearview and the driver's side mirror—twice. "See something?" she asked, her tone just a little too edgy to be completely normal. Julie looked at her, and she was no longer Shania Twain. "No, nothing," he said as casually as he could. "Why?" "Oh, nothing," she said, but her eyes darted quickly from the rearview to the side mirror, and back again, nervous glances. Julie said nothing. They continued onto Route 36, heading east toward Muncie. He glanced into his side mirror and spotted the headlights well back, as if they were trying to hide, but hiding was impossible on Route 36 unless they turned themselves off. Route 36 was two lanes, an old county road that the local kids called the strip. It stabbed into the old farmland of Madison County with not so much as a bend until it reached Losantville: a twenty-mile drag strip. During the day, the road disappeared into the horizon. At night, a pair of headlights looked like a pin dot on the night sky until they came closer and you discovered they belonged to an eighteen-wheeler steaming toward you at close to eighty. Julie pointed at the blaring radio and said, "Mind if I turn that down?" He caught Dianne glancing nervously into the rearview again as he said it. "Huh? No. I mean, it's okay. Turn it down if you want." He turned the knob, giving no clue that he was aware of her uneasiness. He took a short pull on the beer and glanced into his side mirror. The headlights stayed back, with another car in between and coming on at a rapid pace. The second car passed them with a whoosh, a low-slung pointy nosed thing doing about seventy. Julie said, "I have to pee." Dianne shot him a look. "Can't you hold it until we get to Roy's?" "No, I can't," he said, waving his empty bottle in the air. "It's these super-tight jeans you made me wear. There's a side road about a quarter mile up on the right." Dianne said, "Men," and shook her head as they came up to the side road, an old gravel tractor lane that cut through the acres of cornfields on either side of Route 36.

Julie jumped from the Wrangler as soon as she stopped and said, "Cut the lights, would you, unless you want to watch." She made a face, falling for his charade. He stepped behind the Wrangler and turned so that he wouldn't be peeing into the wind. If it were summer, he'd be hidden by a wall of eight-foot corn. As it was, the corn stalks were like beard stubble on the cold earth, and Route 36 was a black ribbon that barely contrasted with its surroundings. A half-moon glowed high in the night sky. He looked up and spotted the headlights, alone and well back on the highway now, traveling at exactly fifty-one miles an hour. Determining speed was a skill he'd developed over the years by aiming radar guns at stretches of road exactly like this one. At that speed, he figured it would take approximately six more seconds for the headlights to either follow them into the mouth of the tractor lane, or veer off and roar down Route 36 as soon as he and the Wrangler were spotted. Either way, he had to get a look at that vehicle. He counted down. "Six, five, four..." The headlights slowed as they neared the turn off. "Three, two...." He turned and faced Route 36 and suddenly, _whoosh,_ the vehicle blew past: an SUV, just as he thought, about the size of his Wrangler, not one of those monster jobs or one of those little toy things. Could have been a Honda, or a Toyota, maybe a Pathfinder. It was too dark to determine the color, but it wasn't a light color; had to be brown, or black, something like that. He did his business and hopped into the Wrangler. "Okay now," he declared. "Let's do some line dancing."

Wednesday, January 9th ... 11:12 a.m. He wanted to be sure, for nothing could be left to chance. One mistake, a single lapse in judgment, and he'd be discovered. All his hard work would be over if that happened, and he didn't want to think about the subsequent consequences. Sunglasses covered his cold eyes despite the fact that a thick blanket of charcoal clouds hovered low in the sky. It felt like snow was on the way. He pulled his hat lower, shielding his face, which was well known around town. He should have considered a disguise. Next time—if there was to be a next time. He lifted his binoculars and peered through the windshield, keeping a close check on the comings and goings of her fellow tenants. So far, they hadn't given him or his SUV a second glance. He'd taken care to park off the grounds and monitor the environment from the back seat, keeping low and making sure he was aware of everything that was happening around him.

It wasn't much at this time of the morning. Most people had left for work hours ago. Her? She was probably wrapping up her studies and getting ready for a light snack, after which she'd head down to the department store where she'd work the one-to-nine shift. This was her Wednesday shift, the only long shift of her approximately twenty-hour weekly schedule. He knew it by heart. He wondered what she'd wear today. She was self-conscious about her looks, but she had a splendid figure and she showed it off occasionally, albeit unintentionally. Her physicality was something that couldn't constantly be hidden or otherwise played down. It would be interesting to see which woman appeared today. Would she wear something tight and sexy, or would it be something that hid that superb body of hers? Just thinking about was starting to make him tingle. The light in the second-floor apartment went off and he stiffened in his seat. Could it be she was ahead of schedule? Quickly, he squeezed between the front seats and wiggled into position. He turned the key and sat there, debating his next move. He knew her routine. Instead of trailing her, he could cross paths with her at a predetermined point, at a time of his choosing, not hers, and one that would catch her completely off guard. He reviewed the possible intercept locations in his head. She'd have to be alone and that narrowed it down, but there were several locations that fit that parameter too. The most reliable were those where she was obligated to go: work, home, or school, and he mentally reviewed each scenario. He knew she'd never go with him willingly, so forcing her into his vehicle would be the only option. Would he simply drive up behind her and snatch her? A woman like her would fight, and that was risky. He could pretend to be a mugger, but again, she was too feisty. Wait. He could do a fender-bender thing. She'd come upon him just as he was putting a note under her windshield due to the fact that he'd just dinged her car in the parking lot. That would work: two strangers sharing a moment over an unfortunate little accident; it would take time to exchange the insurance information; certainly he could find a way to get her close to his vehicle. It could happen, but the question was where? There was the school parking lot, but more than likely she emerged from class with other students. That ruined the scenario. In order for it to work, it would have to happen before class, but staging the accident would be too difficult. What if it happened out in the middle of the lot? Then what? An unattended car in the middle of a driving lane would be obvious, an instant signal that something was wrong. No, intercepting her at the university was out. Doing it at her residence would not work either. While she'd be most likely to be alone there, staging a fender bender in her own parking lot would be risky. Too many people knew her there and might come to her assistance. Plus, it was the least scheduled scenario. She had to be at class at a certain time. She had to be at work at a certain time. But she could show up at home anytime. There were always errands to run, groceries to buy, things to do after work and after class. That narrowed it down even more. It would have to happen at her work place. Her shift would be over at nine, and she'd come rushing out shortly thereafter only to find his SUV backed into her little blue Miata. He'd even have time in the hours before to stalk a parking spot across from hers so that it could happen in the most natural way. She wouldn't suspect a thing. And even if she came out with someone else, the second person would most likely go merrily on his or her way while the insurance information was being exchanged. Okay then, the parking lot at work it was. It would be clean, neat, unsuspicious, and her car would remain parked there for hours. By the time anyone suspected something was amiss, the smell of warm blood could be in the air. He looked at his watch and wondered if there was reason to hang around any longer. There wasn't. He could check the parking lot at the department store in the afternoon to make sure she'd made it to work. He took one last look through his binoculars and made a sweep. All looked normal enough, but he got a sudden tickle on the back of his neck, a sixth-sense feeling that he wasn't the only one watching her. It was as if his vision lines were fencing with someone else's, an unseen and unheard clashing of sabers, as it were. He slipped his SUV into drive and eased it from its parking spot. He decided to make a left onto Glenn View Circle and come around the apartment complex from the other side. The tickle on the back of his neck was turning into a throbbing itch. He stopped, making sure his vehicle was all but hidden by one of the buildings. From this vantage point he could still see the tail end of the Miata, a blue dot a quarter of a mile away. His attention turned to the other vehicles within his purview. Idiot, he said to himself. He should have scouted out the area before having set up his surveillance. He should have known which cars belonged there, and which did not. For all he knew, one or more could belong to the FBI. His thoughts shifted. Enough self-chastisement. If the FBI dolts came upon him, so be it, but the reality was that they hadn't figured it out yet. No, someone else was out there, close by, focused on the same thing he was. It was a game now, and she was the prize. A scene formed in his mind's eye and he saw her in that scene because he knew what was coming. Lying naked and shivering with fear, her hands and feet were tied, legs splayed so that the pinkness there showed. Don't I have a cutting sense of humor? A blade roamed her body and her eyes were riveted on it. She'd be searching for the right words to say, hoping that if she found them, they'd stop the blade from cutting into her flesh. But the ploy wouldn't work. Despite all her knowledge of how the criminal mind worked, the blade continued to roam, eventually slicing into her skin and desecrating her body. She'd feel her blood trickle warm on her own flesh, the knowledge that she hadn't been able to psychoanalyze her way out of the situation frustrating her despite her fear. Only when that happened would she realize her time had come, and it would be anyone's guess as to whether she'd still be conscious when the blade sliced into her perfect breasts and cut them completely off her body. One's not enough, and three are too many. The world would know soon enough why that was the case, and when her mutilated torso was found there would be no doubt as to who was responsible for revealing the answer to that riddle. The DNA analysis on the semen splattered there would confirm it for all to know. He lifted his binoculars and made another sweep. The presence hovered over the land the way stink hovered over road kill. Who was out there? He moved his binoculars from vehicle to vehicle, half expecting to find someone looking back at him each time the glasses settled. His heart throbbed deeply in his chest, its pace increasing with the realization that he was getting closer to achieving his objective. Using her was incredibly arrogant, but there was nothing he or anyone else could do to change the situation, and he had to believe in himself. He had to believe that he was too smart to let her fall into the trap that was being set. If she did, life as he knew it would be over at that point, and living another day would be hard to fathom. What other choice was there? No one else had figured it out yet. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He recognized the incoming number immediately. "Hi honey. Just getting ready for work?" "Yeah. I'm heading out the door now. I'll be home about 9:30. Do you want to have a late dinner?" "Sure. I'll bring home some Chinese." "That sounds great. What time will you be home?" "About the same time you will. I'll be right behind you." She wouldn't know how close. "Okay. See you then. Love you." "Love you too sweetheart. Bye."

Julie pushed the end button on his cell phone and watched Dianne get into her Miata.

Thursday, January 10th ...7:22 a.m. "Where were you yesterday?"

"I didn't feel well." "You didn't feel well." "That's what I said." "I know that's what you said." "So you're not hard of hearing." "I'm not, but evidently you are." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" "Didn't you hear your phone ringing the whole freakin' day?" "No." "Oh. Evidently you went to the doctor—seeing as you didn't feel well and all." "Yeah, that's it. I went to the freakin' doctor. Did you call?" "Yeah, I called. All freakin' day. What about your cell phone?" "What about it?" "You didn't answer that either." "I didn't have it with me." "I see. And what did the doctor say?" "About what?" "Your illness, pinhead!" "It was just a twenty-four hour thing. He said I'd feel better today." "And do you?" "Yeah, I feel fine. Did you want something?" Her weight on one foot, Olsen crossed her arms. Julie glared back. "What?" "I've been sticking up for you all week, and now you go and pull this crap on me." "What crap? I was sick." "Don't screw with me, Hernandez. I'm not in the mood." Olsen's voice was carrying, but she obviously wasn't concerned about it. Looking around, there were only two other officers in the squad room, Julie noted, and they were tending to their own affairs. Probably out of fear, he guessed. Olsen was still in her pose, tapping a black-booted foot expectantly. His eyes traveled up to the tight black cargo pants that were tucked into the boots, to the bulky black turtleneck tucked into the cargo pants. She was more than a little peeved. "Are you trying out for the swat team?" he asked, but she didn't see the humor there. "You've got something," she spat back. "And I want it." She pointed. "Inside." They took Bergmann's office and closed the door. Olsen wheeled. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" "About what? Surely you're not talking about the case. I'm off it, remember?" "Hey, that was your own stupid fault, and now you're trying to take me with you." "I'm doing no such thing." "You're not?" "No, I'm not." "Then explain yesterday; explain the day before yesterday when you talked to Daniel Lester again, knowing full well that you were officially off the case. Someone else should have contacted him, Hernandez, not you." "Someone else—as in you." "It was me, shit-for-brains, after you called him. It could just as easily have been Fordrow, or Gilkey, and then it would've really hit the fan. As it is, it's our little secret, but sooner or later we're gonna catch this guy—" "We?" "Right, we—and something important will be inadmissible as evidence because you'll have compromised this case." Olsen shook her head. "This isn't about credit, Hernandez. This is about stopping a psychopath. Serial killers kill until they're caught, and this one is going to kill again, and soon. He's already told us that. If you're holding information, or if you know anything from your conversations with Daniel Lester, this would be a good time to share." "Didn't he tell you what we talked about?" "He was pissed, Hernandez. He told me to talk to you, that he'd already said everything he was going to say." Olsen took a breath. "Would you really want it on your soul if someone else died while we argued over whose case this is?" She had a point. Damn her; she always had a point. "I'm not going to let that happen." Her eyes narrowed. "I can't cover for you much longer. If you go down, you're going down alone." Well, that was pretty easy to understand. He had no choice, or did he? "Are Fordrow and Gilkey any good?" Olsen considered the question. "What you see is what you get with them." "You've worked with them before, right?" "Once." "When?" "What's it matter?" "Answer the question." Olsen eyed him closely. "You remember those three bank robberies out in the county last year?" "Yeah, up around Pipe Creek and Elwood." "Right. Those were part of a string they'd been chasing down for weeks. Outside of the fact that Gilkey hit on me every chance he got, they pretty much did everything by the book. Capable, yeah. Original, no. They're never going to get ahead of this guy, if that's what you're asking." That was it exactly. He needed Olsen. Without her the case would go nowhere, and he'd more than likely get himself suspended—or worse. "What are you doing tonight?" "Why?" "Would you like to have dinner?" "What, now you're hitting on me?" "Hardly," he said, although he could think of worse things to do.

7:31 p.m. Margarita's was quiet, and they took a booth in the back. Julie took the side facing the entrance. Olsen took off her coat and her knit beret and slid in opposite him. They took a menu from the skinny teenaged hostess who didn't give them so much as a smile before she hustled back to the front where another skinny teenaged admirer was waiting for her. A chunky waitress appeared and they ordered beers, which she brought immediately. Both of them studied the menu until she disappeared.

"Isn't this the mall where your girlfriend works?" Olsen asked from behind the menu. Looking at his watch, Julie said, "Yeah. She's closing tonight, working six-to-ten, but that still gives us couple of hours." Olsen sipped her beer. "Are you driving her home?" she asked casually. "That's nice." "Not exactly," Julie said seriously. "I'm following her." Olsen's eyes popped up to meet his and she put her beer down. "Got another stud moving into the stable, Hernandez?" "It's not that. I've been tailing her since yesterday." "Before and after your visit to the doctor, no doubt." "I wasn't really sick yesterday." "Naw, no kidding? Geez, had me fooled." The chunky waitress was back and they ordered nachos. "I figure there's a reason why you're telling me all this," Olsen said when she left. "Yeah, there is." Julie left it there, debating how much to say. "Well?" "I think I know who the next victim is." Olsen signaled for the waitress to bring two more beers. "Okay Hernandez, you got my attention."

8:33 p.m. "How long has this been going on?"

"As best I can tell, two, maybe three weeks." "And she doesn't suspect a thing." "I'm not sure." "Well, has she said anything?" "Yeah, once, but it wasn't like 'someone is following me.' She said she'd seen a strange car around a few times, but we wrote it off to new tenants in the building, or something. Didn't think anything of it." "And was it?" "New tenants? No. Some new people moved in but they don't drive an SUV. I've already checked them out." Olsen dipped a nacho chip and pondered Julie's story. "You never actually saw... I mean, you aren't exactly sure about the other night, are you? Do you think someone was actually stalking her?" Normally, Julie would have blown her off and followed his instincts—he had up to now—but he was out on a limb here. There was no hard proof that anyone was stalking Dianne, and he knew it. He also knew that he needed someone to believe him, and Olsen was his only chance. If he lost her now, not only would he have a snowball's chance of ever getting back on the case, he'd be risking a hell of a lot more than that. Olsen's eyes were loaded with skepticism, and he knew he was coming closer and closer to completely losing whatever regard she'd ever had for him. That was a thin lifeline to begin with, and it was getting thinner with each passing minute. He looked at his watch. It was 8:35, and he had about an hour to recapture Olsen's confidence, as well as his own. The questions inside him were stacked a mile high. Was he protecting Dianne's life, or was he gambling with it? He tried to rationalize. His fault, the killer's fault, nobody's fault, she was tangled up in this, and the only two people who knew what was coming were him, and the killer. He had to believe that, and as such, he had no choice but to continue his current course of action. Then, he stopped dead in his mental tracks. Who was he kidding: his fault, the killer's fault, nobody's fault? Dianne wouldn't be in this predicament if he'd been a schoolteacher, would she? It was because of him that she was in danger, and the weight of that realization increased as the seconds ticked by. The half plate of nachos in front of him was making him sick. His beer smelled like rat poison. His skin felt like it was being eaten away by maggots, and suddenly he knew what life would be like without Dianne. Laying his neck on a railroad track would be a more appealing alternative. "Yes, I think someone was actually stalking her," he said, answering Olsen's question. She looked away, avoiding eye contact. "And I can prove it, but I need your help." "Listen Hernandez, I don't know about all this...." He was losing her. Damn it all! He was losing her fast! "Stand up." "What?" "Humor me. Stand up. Please." Olsen did an eye-roll and slid out of the booth. "Here you go," she said, flapping her arms awkwardly. "I hope you're driving at something." "I am," he said. "Now turn around." She did, and he carefully examined her backside. The combat boots and cargo pants were throwing him off. "What do you weigh, one-thirty, one-forty?" "One-twenty-five, Hernandez, and a solid one-twenty-five at that. What the hell are you up to?" One-twenty-five. That would be close enough underneath a long overcoat. "How tall are you?" "What is this?" "I'll tell you in a minute. Now, how tall are you?" Olsen huffed and said, "Five-eight in stocking feet." Dianne was five-six, but in the right shoes.... It would have to do. "Okay, here's all you have to do...." "What do you mean, all I have to do? C'mon Hernandez." "Just listen. The first thing you have to do is tuck up that blonde hair of yours...."

9:30 p.m. The plan was set. Julie dropped a twenty on the table, and said, "Remember, straight to the apartment, no detours."

Olsen shook her head. "She'll never go for it." "Yes she will. Tell her where I'm parked and I'll explain it to her." He looked at his watch. They didn't have much time. "It should be pretty easy to find her. Just remember to hide your face as much as possible. Maybe you should put a bag over your head." "Funny." "I thought so. Let's go." They made their way to the front of the restaurant and paused. Olsen was wearing her long black coat, the one she wore often with the cinch belt and high collar. She donned her knit beret, which she also wore often, and tucked her blonde hair up into it. Finally, she wrapped her scarf so that most of her face was hidden. Just another victim of the cold Indiana winter. "How's this?" Julie said, "Perfect. What about your hardware?" "In here," she said, patting her handbag. "Pepper spray is in my pocket." "Good." He gave a cursory nod and was gone. Olsen pushed through the door and made a sweep of the surroundings. Margarita's was just inside the mall entrance, and both sides of the wide walkway were lined with food places. The smell from the Cheapie Chinese Palace wafted past her nose as she spotted a mall directory halfway to the main walkway. England's Department Store was up and to the right, she thought, and she proceeded to the directory to verify that she was correct. She pushed the scarf higher. Weaving her way between the few people left inside the mall at this hour, she paused at the entrance to England's and checked the area to see if anything looked out of place. Clerks gossiping at the cosmetic counter, security guard half asleep over to the right, fat lady shopper rummaging through a pile of winter gloves on a bargain table over to the left—all looked normal. She moved past the guard and the lingering aroma from Cheapie Chinese was replaced by the overly sweet bouquet from the cosmetic counter. The gossiping clerks gave her not so much as a glance. The ready-to-wear department was on the first floor, towards the back. Olsen wound her way through the displays and took a stand beside a rack of expensive-looking silk blouses. Dianne was nowhere to be seen. Olsen fingered one of the blouses and looked at the price tag, surprised to find that it was only thirty-five dollars. Hmm. She'd have to come back for one of these. Enough distraction. She moved to another rack as her eyes darted about, and decided to move closer to the wall where the racks were higher. They'd hide her. This killer would be into it, involved in it to the point where he'd know everyone associated with the case. If he was indeed stalking Dianne, and if indeed there was a chance that he was in the store doing just that, there was more than an off chance that she, Olsen, would be recognized if she didn't take precautions. Dwelling on his thought processes, she thought: what would he be thinking if he were in the store right now? He'd be pretty ballsy, she speculated, right out there in the open doing his thing coolly and deliberately. And why not? He had nothing to fear. There was no indication that the FBI or the local investigators were any further along than what had been reported in the various media, and most of that revolved around the on-air conversations with Gulliver. He'd be very rational too—except for the fact that he was a psychopath—and he'd be intelligent. Most of his kind were. In the long run, however, he'd make a mistake, but that wasn't his concern now. Now, he was planning his next party and he was putting together the guest list. Olsen propped up her scarf and turned, startled by the fact that Dianne was right behind her. "Sorry," Dianne said pleasantly. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. Can I help you find something?" Getting no reaction, she turned to leave. "Wait, please." Dianne turned. "What can I help you with?" "You're Dianne aren't you?" Olsen moved out from behind the rack and dropped the scarf. "Olsen? I mean, Detective Olsen? Is that you?" "Is there somewhere we can talk?" There wasn't another soul in sight. "We can talk right here." Olsen shook her head. "No, not here." "I'm getting the feeling you're not here to buy a blouse." Grabbing the first garment she saw, Olsen asked, "Where's the fitting room?" "This way." When they reached the fitting room, Olsen said, "Come inside." Dianne took a stand. "What's this all about?" Olsen gave her a quick up and down. One's not enough, and three are too many. Could it be that Hernandez had really put it all together? If so, it meant the killer could be in the vicinity, possibly no more than a few feet away. Then again, this could be the wildest concoction she'd ever heard. How the hell had Hernandez gotten her this far? Embarrassed, she was about to gather up what was left of her dignity when she thought: could she take the chance that he was wrong? Damn it! She looked at Dianne and noted the quizzical look on her face. Then, she visualized Dianne's body the way Hernandez had described with incredible surety what was going to happen to the next victim. She'd never be able to live with herself if there was the slightest chance that it could ever happen. That shit Hernandez: he'd maneuvered her so that there was only one thing she could do. "Julie thinks you're being followed." Dianne's quizzical look melted away and she broke into smile. "Julie is paranoid. It's that macho protective Italian-Latino thing going on again. He thinks men are after me all the time. Tell him I've got my pepper spray and I'll be careful—" Olsen put a hand on her arm. "Not that kind of being followed." "I don't understand. What other kind of—" Dianne stopped. "What's wrong?" Olsen took a moment, and her voice quavered. "I'm talking about the tenth caller." "This is a joke, right? Did Julie put you up to this?" "I never thought I'd be saying this," Olsen said, keeping her voice down, "but a lot of what he says makes sense." Dianne's face lost some of its color. "You can't be serious." Feeling trapped between the possible and the irrational, Olsen said, "Even if he's wrong—and I hope he is—I won't be able to let you leave here alone tonight." Dianne wrapped her arms around herself. "What did Julie say? I mean, how does he know?" Olsen looked at her watch. "There's no time now. Julie will explain all that." "He's here?" "Outside. You know the exit by the photo shop?" "It's all the way on the other side of the mall." "Right. He's parked next to the loading docks. He'll fill you in while I take your place." "But—" "No buts. Can you leave now?" Dianne looked at her watch. "I think so," she said nervously. "I just have to make sure someone else can close out the register." "How long will that take?" "Just a few seconds. It's just around the corner." "Do it," Olsen ordered. "I'll wait for you here. Bring your coat when you come back." Dianne was back in less than a minute. "Any problems?" "No." "Good. Give me your coat." Dianne handed it over. It was long, like Olsen's, but styled differently, and camel colored. Olsen shrugged into it, noting that the style hid the fact that a different person was wearing it. She yanked her knit beret off her head and her shoulder-length blonde hair tumbled out from underneath. "Did you wear a hat tonight?" Dianne said, "No. I was only going from the car and back." Olsen put the beret back. "This'll have to do then." She shoved her hair back up into place. At least the beret was dark, like Dianne's hair. "Scarf?" "Yeah. Here." "This'll help," said Olsen, wrapping it around her face as she'd done earlier with her own. "Now, where's your car parked? Blue Miata, right?" "It's right in front of exit number two, about halfway to the end of the row." "You sure?" "I'm sure. I always try to park in the same row so I don't go searching when I leave." "Another safety tip drilled into you by Detective Hernandez," said Olsen. Dianne nodded. "He looks out for me." Her eyes were glistening. "Are you sure about this?" "I'm not sure about anything. All I know is that, somehow, your head-as-hard-as-a-rock boyfriend seems to have gotten on the same wavelength with this killer, and I wouldn't want to be the one to contradict him on this. If he's wrong, we'll just feel kinda silly. If he's not...." She stopped and simply added, "I don't want to think about the consequences." Dianne handed over her keys. "Be careful." Olsen smiled. "I really hate it when he's right." Dianne smiled back. "So do I."

10:08 p.m. The dark shape moved slowly, making its way along the outside wall. Julie looked at the dashboard clock as a gust of wind rocked the Wrangler. It had to be her. The engine was idling, as was the heater, pushing out a stream of dry, plastic smelling air. Lights off, he rolled slowly from under the dark shadows of the six frozen cargo trailers in front of the loading dock, and she ran from the edge of the building. How easy it was to lure somebody into danger. She, or anyone else, could fall into the hands of a serial killer as easily as opening a car door. He popped the accelerator. The passenger side door swung open before he came to a full stop and Dianne literally jumped into the front seat. He hugged her, and then pushed her off and held her at arm's length.

Cold tears were welled in both her eyes. "Are you sure?" she asked. Julie just nodded. "What if... I mean, what if he mistakes Olsen for me and—" "That's the idea," he said. "Olsen can take care of herself." He let go of her hands and one of them landed on the handle of the .40-caliber Glock he had wedged between her seat and the center console. Dianne hated guns, and he waited for her to say something. She didn't. His cell phone rang. "I have her," he said abruptly. "Two minutes. Got it." He turned to Dianne. "That was Olsen. I have to get into position. Can you handle this?" Dianne's eyes dropped to the Glock and she smiled lamely. "You don't have another one of those, do you?" She was trying to be funny, trying to disperse her fear. "It just so happens that I do," he said, reaching across and dropping the lid on the glove box. "I have my ankle gun in here." He pulled out a short barreled, nickel plated .38 revolver and put it in her lap. Despite all her objections during their time together, he'd forced her to the shooting range with him a few times and had actually convinced her to fire off a few rounds from that very gun. She looked at it for some moments and put it back. "These are Olsen's car keys," Julie offered. "I'll call you on your cell phone when all is clear. It's parked in row—" "I don't want to be alone right now." He looked at her sternly. "Then we have to go." She barely nodded. He U-turned and skidded on some slush as he gunned the Wrangler around the back of the mall. He had to think like a serial killer, and the only way to think like a serial killer was to become one. The thought had occupied a corner of his brain for the last two weeks and he'd managed to transform himself at times, imagining himself in the killer's shoes. But it was more than imagination. He'd been able to alter his sense of reality. He'd extracted himself from normalcy and immersed himself in a world seldom seen by sane people. Fear was pleasure; pain was enjoyable; death was amusement, all of it arousing to the point where it was the ultimate aphrodisiac. The pursuit of this sick pleasure was all-encompassing and uncontrollable, overshadowing anything and everything to the point where nothing else mattered. He reverted to a past fantasy, visualizing what he would do if he were the one stalking Dianne. The killer's appearance in her world would seem perfectly natural, but it would be anything but random. It would be carefully planned and executed, as would be the ritual murder itself. His challenge now was to get ahead of the killer's thoughts. The appearance of that SUV two nights ago was no accident. It was him, all right, the tenth caller, and now all Julie needed was a license plate number. It would be the obvious mistake he was waiting for, and in hindsight it would seem as if it were made on purpose. Perhaps it was. Dianne coiled in her seat. She was a beautiful person, Julie thought suddenly, inside and out, and for some reason she had picked him to be the one with whom she shared that beauty. He was a lucky man indeed, and, looking at her, he knew he couldn't risk leaving the situation in someone else's hands. For him, like the killer, the pursuit would be uncontrollable, and nothing would stand in his way. Not tonight. He turned the corner and found himself on the west side of the mall. England's Department Store was on the north side. The parking areas were large, holding several hundred cars each, but most were gone now, and others were leaving in a steady stream. Julie braked and decided to get a lay of the surroundings in the seconds he had left. He looked at his watch, noting that Olsen was scheduled to make her appearance in about a minute. The mall entrance was off to the left, a huge numeral "2" high on the outside wall and washed by floodlights from below. Beneath it, dark shapes ambled through the doors and dispersed into the parking area. Dianne's car was parked somewhere in front of that "2", about a hundred yards from his current position. Julie scanned the area, thinking that the killer could be in any of the vehicles there, calmly sipping a soda as he watched Dianne's blue Miata. Would he be parked close to it, waiting to crash into it, and if so, would he be in front of it, or behind it? That would depend on whether the Miata was blocked in, wouldn't it? If the Miata could go forward, he might be in front of it, waiting to back up. If the Miata had to back up in order to exit the parking space, he'd be behind it. Julie inched the Wrangler across the lot. "Can you see your car?" he asked. "It's in front of the '2,' about halfway to the end of the row. I can see it now." She pointed through the windshield. Julie spotted it immediately, a lonely little figure sitting in the middle of the lot, its bright blue finish caked with winter road salt and looking almost black in the muted light. No other cars were near it, not in front or in back, or across from it in any of the other rows. There would be no fender bender tonight, not unless it was going to be a full-scale collision in the middle of the lot. The killer had to be positioned somewhere else, but he was out there. Every sense in Julie's being told him so. But where? He'd be vigilant, Julie knew, and it wouldn't take much for him to somehow be alerted to someone else's presence. Any of the headlights that were now coming to life could belong to the same SUV that had trailed them on their way to Roy's, and the killer could already be on the move, spooked by nothing more than intuition. Julie looked at his watch: thirty seconds. His eyes searched for SUVs and he said, "Shit." It looked like every other car in the lot was an SUV. His cell phone rang. "Where are you?" "In front. When are you coming out?" "Just watch the door, cupcake. And five, and four, three, two...." Boom. Olsen was through the exit, her right hand cupping the cell phone on which she'd just been speaking. She dropped the cell phone into the right front pocket of Dianne's coat and kept the hand there, now, Julie imagined, firmly encircling the Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter she carried. Her handbag dangled off her left shoulder, and her left hand held her scarf high up on her face. The wind was coming at her, blowing the tail of the scarf into the air behind her; the disguise looked normal enough. Thirty feet into the parking lot, she spotted the Miata and veered toward it. The car's lights flashed as she unlocked the doors with Dianne's remote entry key. Moments later, the Miata's headlights came on, and it rolled slowly from its parking space toward the exit lane at the edge of the lot. Suddenly, another set of lights came to life, these being taillights, two rows away from where the Miata had been parked, but no one had approached the vehicle. It was an SUV, medium sized, dark color, which looked to be black. A cigarette butt sparked on the asphalt below the driver's window, and it pulled out right behind the Miata. Dianne gasped. "I can't believe it." Gripping the gearshift, Julie said, "What is it?" "You remember before Christmas, when I asked if—" "We were sending a car around? Don't tell me." Dianne's look was answer enough. Julie said, "Shit," and he dropped the Wrangler into drive. Lights out, he waited until the Miata and the SUV were some distance off before he took his foot off the brake. He pulled up to where the SUV had been parked. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, and pangs of alarm shot through his body. Clearly, someone had been waiting there for something. He said, "Damn!" and jumped from the Wrangler, picking two of the butts off the ground and putting them in his pocket. Climbing back in, he said, "Buckle your seatbelt." He handed his cell phone to Dianne and said, "Dial Olsen for me."

10:17 p.m. "Yeah."

"He's behind you." Olsen looked into her rearview mirror. "And where are you?" "About six cars behind him." "You got a plate number?" "Not yet. I'm working on it." They inched along as the opposing exit lanes from the north and south sides of the mall met each other, forcing cars to turn toward the single traffic light that controlled egress to the highway. Olsen let the car coming from the opposite direction cut in front of her as they were courteously alternating toward the light. The Miata had a five-speed, and she tried to remember the last time she'd driven a stick. She was rusty with the clutch, and the Miata bucked a little as she merged with the other cars. With one eye glued to the rearview, she noticed that the SUV behind her didn't alternate with the other cars as it merged into the exit lane, but stayed right with her. Its headlights were annoyingly bright, seemingly inches off her tail. Her heart skipped a beat. Clearly, whoever was behind her wasn't into driver courtesy. The exit light turned green and she popped the clutch a little too quickly, stalling the Miata dead in its tracks. She saw the headlights behind her dive and she felt a thud. Suddenly her whole body tensed. Son-of-a-bitch! It was happening! Exactly as Hernandez had said it would. Other cars hit their horns as she sat stalled in the middle of the exit lane, blocking it. The cell phone was in her left hand. Her right hand gravitated toward the nine-millimeter in her pocket. What should she do? She heard a voice. "What's happening? Why are you sitting there?" It was Hernandez, she realized, still on the cell phone. "He hit me. What do I do now?" More honking, all over the place. If she got out, their whole plan, not to mention the investigation, could be shot to hell. The normal thing would have been to get out and assess the damage. Anything else would spook him, but she was in a no-win situation. If he realized she wasn't Dianne, he'd bolt. If she stayed in the car, he'd know something was up, and he'd bolt anyway. Either way, she knew they were already screwed. In the mini-seconds that ticked by, she tried to think of the best thing to do, and determined there was no best thing. She looked in her rearview mirror and thought she saw his door opening. She reacted on instinct. "I'm getting out," she said into the cell phone, and she dropped it on the passenger seat. Hernandez would have to improvise. She yanked up on the emergency brake and pushed her door open, twanging it on its hinges. Her right hand immediately dropped into her right front pocket. She wrapped the scarf around her face, knowing it would only buy her a moment. In one motion, she pushed herself out of the car and spun in the direction of the SUV, aiming her Smith & Wesson at a spot where the killer's forehead should be. "Freeze! Police!" The roar from the SUV's engine drowned out anything else as it shot forward, literally climbing the back of the much lower Miata. Its left front wheel clawed over the right rear quarter panel, crushing the metal and shoving the little car forward despite the emergency brake's grip on the wheels. Olsen dove to the ground, dodging the twisting, turning Miata. She focused on the SUV's license plate as it shot past. Got it! LTR-1611. The rest was a blur. Hernandez's Wrangler squealed from its position a few car lengths back, and after the briefest slow down to determine if she was dead, Olsen speculated, he fishtailed through the intersection after the SUV. "I love you too," she spat caustically as she picked herself up off the ground.

10:25 p.m. His hands were white with pressure on the steering wheel. How the hell had they figured it out? While he'd underestimated them on that count, he hadn't failed to do his homework. He reviewed his escape route in his head as he floored his SUV toward Route 36. Part of his plan always included an escape route in the event that he was caught in the act. So far, he'd never had to capitalize on this investment in time, but now he was glad he'd made the effort. He checked his rearview mirror and noticed that someone was definitely after him, and it wasn't the little Miata. It was Joe Citizen, perhaps, trying to emulate his favorite reality cop show, but more than likely it was Detective Hernandez. He'd discovered over the last few weeks that where Hernandez went, Olsen went, and vice versa, and that had certainly been her in the Miata. So, the game was on. He glanced at his speedometer as he approached the turnoff onto Route 36. He was doing seventy and knew he couldn't get much more out of his vehicle if he wanted to keep it upright through the upcoming turns. He smiled. This was going to be fun. He punched up a number on his dash-mounted cell phone. He knew it by heart even though he'd never dialed it before.

10:26 p.m. Dianne was still holding the cell phone when it rang in her hand.

"Answer it!" Julie ordered as he wrestled the wheel. "It has to be Olsen." His eyes darted back and forth, trying to absorb everything at the same time as he ran the light at the corner of Fair Oaks Boulevard and Indianapolis Highway. Horns honked angrily behind him, but he didn't bother to look to see what kind of havoc he'd created. "Hold on!" he yelled as he prepared to blast through the next intersection where luckily the light burned green. The cell phone continued to ring, but Dianne was frozen in her seat, hanging on for dear life. Julie took the phone from her and put it to his ear. "Where are you?" he hollered, expecting Olsen's voice. "About a quarter mile up the road, Detective. Wish we could have met under better circumstances. You stalking me: interesting juxtaposition, don't you think?" The words were like a cold slap. "It's only a matter of time," said Julie as he wrestled the wheel, but there was no reply. He glanced at Dianne who sat there like a statue, her pallor the color of cold ash. He looked back to the road and suddenly the taillights on which he'd been concentrating so hard were gone, as in poof! The anxiety that had coated his skin like an itchy syrup vanished as well, replaced by an empty hole in the pit of his stomach. With the Wrangler threatening to outrun its own headlights, Julie slowed as he approached the intersection to Route 36, noting that there didn't seem to be any chaos there; cars were moseying along at a mere crawl. It was over. He pulled over and pushed the recall button on the phone's caller ID function. A number came up and it was one he recognized. It belonged to the radio station.

11:16 p.m. He closed his eyes and the smell of her perfume came to him. It lingered, a delicate, teasing scent. He wondered where she put it: on her wrists, on her neck, other places more private. He remembered how close he was to her, so close he could have touched her, and she never even knew he was there. He smelled the sleeve of his jacket, thinking that perhaps a glimmer of that arousing fragrance had gone astray and clung there like a dandelion seed, soft and wispy and beautiful, but all that was there was the smell of cigarettes. He wondered if she knew she had the start of a pimple on her cheek. Probably so. Things like that didn't go undetected with a woman like her. It would've been so easy while he was there next to her, so easy to just put his arms around her and take her away, but it wasn't the right time. Be patient, he'd told himself. The right time would come, just like it had with all the others, but now it was complicated. That son-of-a-bitch boyfriend of hers had figured it out somehow, and the fact that he'd eluded the industrious Detectives Hernandez and Olsen only meant that they'd be more determined than ever. Now, it would take extra planning, more time, and more study of the situation. On the one hand, it would make his conquest more difficult. On the other hand, it would make it more rewarding. He smiled. Up to now, most of his victims had come with him willingly—at least until they discovered what awaited them—but there would be no such circumstance with Dianne DeMarco. She'd be swinging and kicking and clawing the entire time. If she was going down, she was taking as much skin with her as she could. God, she'd smelled good.

He touched his cock with the side of his cold knife and it sent a shiver up his spine. He dragged the flat side of the knife along the length of his erection, careful not to nick the skin with the razor sharp edge. How easily this knife could slice into flesh, her flesh, her soft, creamy, flawless flesh, flesh so delicious that you could eat it. Perhaps he would. He'd never done that, but eating hers sounded good. Perhaps he'd put some in his refrigerator so that he could sample a morsel and bring back the pleasure of her body after she was gone. He looked at his cock and it looked huge, as long as the knife, and about as hard. He continued to stroke it with the side of the knife, back and forth, up and down, feeling his orgasm gather as he thought about Dianne DeMarco's flesh. First, he'd touch it. He'd feel it quiver beneath his fingertips, for more than likely she'd be shivering. They all did. He thought about the inside of her thighs and how wonderfully soft they would be. He'd touch her there, and kiss her there, and smell the musky odor of her vagina as he lingered there. He'd cover her in kisses and worship her body, bringing her pleasure beyond any she'd ever known. She'd like it. Yes, she would. She'd want more, and more again, until he couldn't give any more. She'd beg him for it, and she'd be grateful for the few fleeting moments of gratification he'd be able to give her. She wouldn't be like the others. Not at all. She wouldn't humiliate him the way they had, the way all the women in his life had, the bitches. Dianne DeMarco was a loving, caring woman, and she'd love him for who he was. She just had to get to know him, that's all. He'd explain it all to her, and she'd understand why it was impossible for him to love just any woman. But he loved her. Yes, he did. And she'd love him back when she understood how it was for him. There was no reason why all those other women shouldn't have loved him. He'd worshipped them too, until they did what they did. They did what his mother had done to him, and he didn't like that. He'd loved his mother. Yes, he had. She did what she did because she had to. She had no choice, and just as he'd loved many women, so had she loved many men. But they didn't love her, the bastards. They only said they loved her so that she'd do what they wanted, and then they'd leave, and she'd be heartbroken. His mother was a very heartbroken woman. Yes, she was, and she suffered for it. He suffered for it, and it was because she was heartbroken that she did what she did to him. He remembered the day he relieved her of that misery, how her eyes stayed on him even in death. She was watching him now.

He looked at the clock and noted the time. It was almost time to go. He set the knife down and took his hardness in his hand. This would be for her.

Monday, January 14th...10:00 a.m. Bergmann read the report. "Where'd you get this?"

He was looking at Julie but Olsen responded. "I asked Morgan to do me a favor." Bergmann's eyes swung to her like guns on a tank turret. "I don't mean this report, Olsen." Slouched against the doorjamb, Julie asked, "Does it matter?" Bergmann gave him a long scowl and his eyes drifted back to the report. Finally, "Close the door and sit your ass down, both of you." Julie took the liberty of pulling the shade on Bergmann's door before it hit the fan. It wasn't a long wait. "You're supposed to be off the case, Hernandez. You keep screwing with me on this and I'm gonna do what I have to do." Julie said nothing, withering under the heat of Bergmann's glare. "I'm the one who brought the cigarette butt to Morgan," Olsen offered. "You ever heard of probable cause, Detective?" "There are no search and seizure issues here. I found the cigarette butt. It was out in the open and abandoned, not in anyone's possession." Bergmann eyes turned to slits. "And tell me, Detective, how you came to stumble upon this telling little tidbit." "It was hardly a stumble," said Julie. "And how would you know? Surely you wouldn't have violated a direct order." Julie bit his lip, knowing that in his own sarcastic, annoying way, Bergmann was trying to protect him. Bergmann turned back to Olsen. "Well?" Olsen ran a hand through her hair. "The DNA profile described in the report you're holding for that cigarette butt?" Bergmann nodded. "It matches the DNA taken from Sister Salazar and Meagan Phillips, which means that it matches with killings going back to at least 1989." She paused, glancing at Julie. "We think well before that." Bergmann noted her constant use of the word we. "I'm gonna ask you again, where'd you get the cigarette butt?" "Off the parking lot outside England's Department Store at the Madison County Mall. The guy was there, Chief." Bergmann started putting it together. "The Madison County Mall; England's Department Store; Hernandez, isn't that where your girlfriend works?" Julie return stare was answer enough. Bergmann said, "You're shitting me." He searched Julie's eyes, then Olsen's. "You're not shitting me." Olsen said, "The guy is in town, Chief, right under our nose. He's going to strike again, and soon, and we think Dianne is his next victim." "Olsen, tell me you're yanking my chain here." "I don't think so, Chief." Bergmann caught Julie's glare head on. "This is starting to get personal." "You fucking-A got that right," said Julie.

11:06 a.m. "Probable cause," Bergmann shouted. "You gotta have probable cause, and a warrant. You can't go around just randomly testing everyone's DNA. You ever heard of the Fourth Amendment, Hernandez?"

"Fuck the Fourth Amendment!" Julie shouted back. "This is my fiancé we're talking about." "Yeah, I know, and I'd be just as upset—" "Upset? Is that what you think? I'm light years past upset, Chief. If you think you can keep me off this case now, you can take my badge right this second. I'd have no problems turning into a private citizen and not be hogtied by all this legal bullshit, none at all." Bergmann put himself in Julie's shoes. Thinking further, he knew exactly what would happen if Julie somehow managed to find out who'd been in that SUV three nights ago. It would certainly be a faster way to solve the case. Problem was, he'd have to uphold the law at that point, and he wouldn't look forward to seeing Julie prosecuted for murder. Sometimes the law could be such a pain in the ass. He took a beat and turned to Olsen. "Have you informed Fordrow and Gilkey of all this?" "Not yet. We figured we'd cover it with you first." There was a knock on the door. "Yeah." Fordrow and Gilkey stepped in. "Speak of the devil," said Bergmann. Fordrow took one look around and said, "Okay, what's up?" Bergmann hesitated, his eyes swinging back and forth between the nervy Olsen and the itchy Hernandez. "Hernandez is back on the case," he announced, getting the reaction he expected. "On whose authority?" Fordrow questioned. Bergmann took a couple of steps toward Gilkey. "Mine," he said into Gilkey's face. "You got any problem with that?" Only then did he swing his eyes back toward Fordrow. Fordrow glanced at Olsen, then Julie, and back to Bergmann. "You guys got something?" Bergmann nodded toward Julie, who took the cue and said to Olsen, "You wanna take Jon-Jon and I'll take Skippy?" She shrugged, and Julie figured that was close enough to a yes for him. "Let's go," he said, blowing past Fordrow. "Where are we going?" "To the radio station." Olsen grabbed her coat. "Come on, Sherlock. You're coming with me." "Always a pleasure," said Gilkey. "And where may we be headed?" "To where you just came from," Olsen answered. "To your field office." Bergmann went back to his desk and called his wife to make sure she was okay.

12:33 p.m. Gilkey held the door, his eyes lingering on Olsen's butt as she stepped past.

"Pull your tongue back into your head," she said as she approached another six-foot-three FBI Ken doll, this one the head of the Indianapolis field office. What, did they make them out of a mold or something? "Samantha Olsen," she said, shaking his hand. "Special Agent Wenger. Have a seat. What can I do for you?" Olsen waited until Wenger's eyes got around to connecting with hers. "We think we've got probable cause." "Who's we?" He glanced at Gilkey. "The team," Olsen replied, choosing her words. Gilkey shrugged, and Wenger leaned back and made a steeple with his fingers. "Fill me in." Olsen went through the story, ending with, "The phone call at the end?" Wenger said, "Yeah?" "According to the caller ID on Hernandez's cell phone, it came from the radio station." Wenger lit up. "No shit." "No shit. But it couldn't have come from the station, of course. We figure it had to be a cell phone." "What was the name on the caller ID?" "There wasn't a specific name tied to the number. It just came up as WXKO Radio." Wenger remained perfectly still in his chair. "Okay, so the phone call ties in with the station, and the DNA taken from the cigarette butt matches with the DNA found on several previous victims. I don't see probable cause here. No judge would give you a warrant based on what you've got. Were there any eyewitnesses?" Olsen put on her give-me-a-break look. "How about me?" Numb-nuts. "Then give me a physical description of the guy driving that SUV," Wenger shot back, unperturbed. "I don't have one," she said honestly, although she could have given Manny's from memory. "Then how about a plate number." "LTR-1611. Stolen. Belongs to a '93 Civic." "Okay. Then what make was the SUV?" "Not sure. A Honda, we think." "You think." "Yeah, we think. Things happened pretty fast. Look, Agent Wenger—" "You can call me Steve." "All right then, look, Steve, if we can match that DNA with anyone at the radio station, we've got our man. Don't you see? It's that easy." Wenger smiled at Gilkey, who smiled patronizingly in return. "It is that easy, but no judge is gonna give you a warrant based on what you've got. Your probable cause isn't that probable, Detective. You've got to get a little closer. Talk to someone at the station and see if that phone was assigned to someone in particular. See if anyone there drives a Honda SUV. Then, if said person had access to said cell phone, then, and only then, might we be able to convince a judge to issue that DNA warrant—unless, of course, the person has an alibi. In that case, this whole thing might fly out the window anyway. I'm not about to jeopardize this case by strong-arming a warrant based on what you've got. Anything else?" Olsen sat there fuming. "I'll take that as a negative. Maybe you should listen to Agents Fordrow and Gilkey a little more. You wouldn't have wasted your time, and my time, if you had." Wenger's smarmy fraternal grin was just about enough to make her sick. Olsen grabbed her coat and whirled. "Buttheads!" she said, stomping toward the door. Wenger looked at Gilkey. "Was it something I said?"

1:07 p.m. "Yeah, got it." Julie slipped the cell phone back into its dashboard cradle. "That was Olsen. She didn't make out too well with your boss on that warrant."

Fordrow wagged his head. "I could've told you that if you'd asked. Wenger's a stickler for procedure." He gave Julie a sideways look. "What?" "You know, you'd be a lot better off if you got your ass off your shoulders and took a little advice now and then." "Oh yeah? Like what?" "See, there you go again, thinking you know it all." Fordrow paused. "You're one hell of a good cop, Hernandez. Everyone can see that." "But?" "It's a question of experience. You simply haven't seen all the bullcrap come around for the second time yet. I've been doing this sixteen years now. Gilkey's going on fifteen. Between the two of us, there isn't much we haven't seen before. Can you say that?" "No," Julie answered reluctantly. Sixteen years? Geez, Fordrow didn't look it. "Listen, almost coming face to face with the killer was a stroke of genius, Hernandez. I don't know how you did it, but getting one step ahead of him and figuring out your girlfriend was a target...." Fordrow shook his head. "Well, I don't think I could have done it." This wasn't a conversation Julie had expected. "Uh, okay." "But now you need to stay ahead of him, and that won't be easy. These guys are sharp, Hernandez. They thrive on the challenge of doing their thing while everyone is watching. Sure, sooner or later they go down, but more often than not I think they get caught on purpose. I think it gets to the point where even they can't stand themselves." Julie swung the wheel to the left and pulled into the radio station parking lot. Giving Fordrow a once over as he turned off the engine, he thought: maybe he'd been wrong about Fordrow. "Have you been on any serial murder cases before this one?" Fordrow nodded and held up three fingers. "Why do you think I'm here? You ever heard of the Florio murders?" Julie shook his head. "The guy was a traveling salesman, manufacturer's rep for a tool company. Four gay guys turned up dead in southern and central Ohio over about a fifteen-month period, then all of a sudden the murders stopped cold. Then, about six months later, we got a notice from a local jurisdiction. The murders started up again, and this time they crossed state lines across the river in Kentucky. Seems that the killing zone changed every time the company changed the guy's territory. The pattern went back for years." "And you brought the guy in?" "Eventually." "How'd you do it?" "The guy made a dumb mistake—just like they all do. He left one of his gay lovers for dead, but the guy didn't die. He gave us a description of the salesman's car." "What about the other two cases?" "One was in the Detroit area. Had a white supremacist asshole killing black hookers. The other one you may have heard about. You remember the internet killings?" "Was that the case where that rich kid would find women on the internet and then travel all over the country to meet them?" "And kill them," Fordrow added. "The little shit strangled six women before we figured out that it was all linked through an internet dating service. We arrested the guy while he was on the computer." "Were you the lead investigator on all these cases?" Fordrow suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "Maybe on paper, but it was always somebody on the team that made a connection with the killer. In this case, that somebody is you." He came forward in his seat and pointed at his eyes, his fingers shaped like a V. "You're seeing through the killer's eyes, and that's good, but don't be fooled into thinking that you think the way he does. He's sick; his thought processes aren't normal. As soon as you think you're ahead of him, he'll take you for a ride—just like he did last Thursday. Next time, your girlfriend won't be so lucky." Julie's blood turned to ice water. Fordrow was right. "It's a game now," Fordrow went on, "and his calling card on her is his victory sign." "Any advice?" Julie asked. "Yeah. First, don't operate on hunches. They've gotten you this far, but you've been lucky. Most of the time, they're wrong. Second, it wouldn't be a bad time for your girlfriend to take a little vacation." "How about what to do inside there." Julie nodded toward the radio station. "Yeah. Find out how the son of a bitch is always tenth."

1:23 p.m. Station manager Bruce Willoughby toddled into the small conference room of WXKO radio. He made a vain attempt at buttoning his blazer, but the button never got within six inches of the buttonhole. "How y'all doin'?" he drawled as he shook everyone's hand.

Fordrow gave the go ahead. "We have several questions," Julie said, taking the lead. "Shoot," said Willoughby, his huge gut resting against the edge of the conference table. Julie put down a piece of paper. "Do you recognize this phone number?" Willoughby registered neither acknowledgement nor confusion. "Looks familiar," he said, "but I can't place it." "It belongs to the radio station." Willoughby's eyes came up. "It does?" He looked at the number again. "Is it a cell phone number?" Julie nodded. Willoughby didn't look like he was hiding anything. "Must be one of our news phones then." "News phones?" "We've got a couple of cell phones that we give out to our news crews when they go out on location." Julie looked at Fordrow. "We aren't big enough to have, like, regular reporters," Willoughby explained, "but sometimes we have to go outside the studio. You know: cover tornados, or do special events, grand openings.... You get the idea. We call them news phones, but really they're just a couple of extras we use now and then." Willoughby met their eyes. "It's cheaper than giving cell phones to everyone so they can pile on the minutes for personal calls," he went on. "Only the advertising people get phones as part of their regular equipment." It made sense. That would explain why the number came up the way it did on the caller ID. "Who has access to these phones?" Julie asked. Willoughby shrugged. "Just about everyone. We're pretty informal about who takes them, but we do make sure everyone signs them out." "Where do you keep them?" Willoughby shrugged again. "Used to be with the receptionist up front, but she only works during the day and they got locked up when she went home. Last I knew, it was the engineer on duty who keeps track of them." Knowing the obvious question, "You wanna go back and see if they're there?" Julie was out of his seat before Willoughby could move. They made their way from the conference room, attracting glances from the cute receptionist and a couple of hounds from the sales staff hanging over her. "How many employees do you currently have on staff?" Fordrow asked along the way. Willoughby stopped and ticked off several fingers. "All told, we're about twenty, plus we got a handful more that are strictly on-call." "On-call?" "We're a twenty-four/seven business," Willoughby explained. "Three hundred sixty-five days a year. You get an on-air personality or an engineer that calls in sick, you gotta have people you can call on to keep the ball rolling." Julie's thoughts sped back to the previous Thursday night. That meant that possibly twenty-five people could have been in that SUV and made that phone call. "How many of these employees are men?" Willoughby thought again. "About half of 'em, I'd say. We've got women staff members in every department, and the admin office is all women." Okay, that meant a dozen, more or less, who could be mass murderers. They went through a door over which a red light burned next to the words On Air. Inside, they faced two other doors, both closed, one of which belonged to the glass-walled broadcast studio itself, the other to the control room. Willoughby waved to the two people inside the studio, both of whom ignored him completely. They all stepped into the control room, crowded by Willoughby's gut. Inside, the engineer stood and politely shook Willoughby's hand. "Hi boss," he said, keeping an eye on what was happening inside the studio. Julie and Fordrow held up IDs and the engineer's eyes squirted back to Willoughby. "What's up?" "Where do you keep the news phones?" Willoughby asked. The engineer held up a finger and cued a commercial as one of the broadcasters finished reading a news report. "In there," he said, pointing to a cabinet. Willoughby pulled open a drawer and sure enough two phones lay there, along with a gnarled spiral notebook on which the words Sign Out were written in faded black magic marker. "Here you go," Willoughby said proudly. Fordrow said, "Do you know the phone numbers to those phones?" "On the back," the engineer said. Julie compared the slip of paper he'd shown Willougby to the numbers Scotch-taped to the backs of the phones. One matched. "Did anyone sign out this phone last Thursday?" Willoughby opened the notebook and flipped to the most current page. "Let's see. That would be Thursday the tenth, if I'm calculating correctly." He looked at Fordrow, then Julie. "Manny Allocca," he said.

3:09 p.m. "Yeah, I signed it out. So what?"

"Do you smoke?" "Smoke what?" Cute. "Cigarettes, asshole." Julie felt Fordrow nudge him in the arm. Manny ran a hand through his stringy hair. It was just after three in the afternoon, and it was the middle of the night on his schedule. "Yeah, I smoke cigarettes," he said, smelling like one. "Big fucking deal. You guys gonna tell me what this is all about?" "What kind of cigarettes?" Manny's eyes came up to meet Julie's. One was bloodshot, as if it had been poked. "Just regular cigarettes. C'mon guys. What the fuck?" "What about Gulliver? Does he smoke?" "Why don't you ask him? "I'm asking you." "Yeah, he smokes. What about it?" "What kind?" It was a simple question, but it seemed to catch Manny off guard. "French cigarettes," he blurted uncomfortably. "Ugly brown stinky ones." Julie didn't recall there being any ugly brown French cigarettes in the ashtray behind the radio station. He pulled a plastic bag from his desk drawer. It contained the second of the two cigarette butts he'd lifted from the parking lot at the Madison County Mall. "Is this your brand?" Manny barely looked at it. "Naw. Mine have white filter paper, not brown." He tossed the bag back on the desk and looked Julie in the eye. "Where's the blonde Amazon cop with the nice ass? I'd rather talk to her." "Where were you last Thursday night?" "Home smoking cigarettes. Check my ashtray." Little did he know that Olsen and Gilkey were probably doing that as they spoke. "Why did you sign out a phone last Thursday?" "I needed it." Manny dropped his head into his hands and looked at the miniature tape recorder on the table. "This has something to do with that tenth caller shit, doesn't it?" "Hey, you're quick. Why did you need the phone?" "I just needed it, okay?" Julie sprang from his chair, tipping it over backwards. "No, it's not okay." Fordrow got up and moved to the far wall, but said nothing. The inside of the conference room smelled like old cheese, and an empty pizza box laid atop the stack of file boxes that lined one wall. Manny lifted his head and his eye seemed to be getting worse. "Tell me why you needed that phone," Julie growled. "Or we're gonna be here all fucking day." "I needed to make some calls." "So why couldn't you have made the calls from your regular phone?" Manny looked up, his good eye watery. "My service is off, all right? I ain't paid the bill." Fordrow turned away, Julie noticed. Something was wrong. "What kind of car do you drive?" "That why you rousted me from my sleep and brought me down here, to find out what kind of car I drive?" "Answer the question." "'96 Ford Taurus, blue. Anything else?" "Yeah. What's wrong with your eye?" "I don't know. I think I got pinkeye again. You better stay away; it's contagious." Pinkeye? Ugh. Julie took a step back. "Who'd you call?" "You mean when I took the phone?" Julie took a deep breath and hoped he wouldn't inhale some pinkeye germs. "Yeah, when you took the phone." "What's it matter?" "Just answer the question." Julie noted that Fordrow shook his head and started cleaning his fingernails with his car keys. "I'd rather not say." "And I'd rather not be here until I need another shave. Now, I'm gonna ask you again. Who'd you call?" "Why don't you just check the records? You guys can do that, right?" They could, of course, and they were already on it. "I'd rather hear it from you." "So you could, like, see my body language and shit, right?" The guy had seen a few TV cop shows. "Who'd you call?" Manny took a moment and shrugged. "It'll probably come out anyway." That got Fordrow's interest. "Then you might as well say it and save everyone a shitload of time," he called from the corner. "I called the newspaper, all right? And some TV stations too." Manny averted his gaze and looked at the ceiling before meeting Fordrow's stare. "They were paying me, okay? They were paying me good money to keep them filled in on what was happening with the case. You want names, I'll give you names. I don't give a fuck anymore." He looked away again. "I needed the cash. This radio station don't pay shit." Julie just watched as Fordrow put his car keys back in his pocket and stepped to the table, yanking Manny's chair out from under him. "Get out," he commanded as Julie shot him an eyeful. "And stay close to town until we tell you otherwise." Manny put on a shit-eating grin and headed for the door. "One more thing," Fordrow called after him. Manny let off some attitude and turned. "What time did you make your calls—and don't give me no shit about checking the records." Manny shrugged and said, "I dunno, about nine, I guess. I had to wait until they got in." "Got in... where?" Fordrow asked, not sure what Manny meant. "To the office, Kojak. I always had to wait until they got to their offices in the morning. I always called then, after I got off work." "So you signed the phone out in the morning." "Hey, you're sharp, but actually I was bringing it back." "Care to explain?" Fordrow responded. "The short version is that I took the phone, but I never signed it out to begin with. I'd been warned about taking the phones for personal use before, and when the day engineer came in I guess a couple of the newsees came in to sign them out. Well, obviously, one was missing. Knowing that I was in hot water over the fucking phones already, he called and told me to bring it back before that fat prick Willoughby found out and fired my sorry ass. The guy was doing me a favor." "So you brought the phone back that morning?" "Right away, and I signed my name into the book just so nobody could say I'd done something wrong. Just covering my ass, you know?" Fordrow waved Manny out of the room and turned to Julie. "What d'ya think?" "I think he's lying," Julie answered quickly. "The question is: why?" "I don't think he's lying about the phone. It's too verifiable with the daytime engineer." Just then, Julie's cell phone vibrated on hip. He looked at the incoming number. It was Olsen. "Yeah," he said sharply. "Ixnay on the warrant again," she said quickly. "Doesn't look like it would have done us any good anyway," he said, trying to diffuse her frustration. He looked at Fordrow. "Special Agent Fordrow doesn't think Manny's our guy." Olsen paused. "Yeah, well, I'd like to contradict him, but frankly none of us really knows shit at this point."

Tuesday, January 15th ...9:13 a.m. Julie checked his notes. "Manny doesn't smoke the same brand. That, and he's got a verifiable story with regards to the cell phone."

"Did we verify it?" Bergmann asked. Fordrow said, "We will today, but let's not get hung up on it. Unless we get a different story from the daytime engineer, Manny didn't make that call Thursday night." Olsen looked annoyed but didn't say anything. "Did anyone else have access to that phone?" "Just everyone at the station," Fordrow went on. "So we're back to square one," Bergmann concluded. Julie paced from one side of Bergmann's office to the other, taking a stand in front of the double windows on the far side. On the opposite wall, an old stand-up radiator clanked as it tried vainly to take away a damp chill in that hung in the air. Outside, a freezing rain was threatening to turn to ice. Julie still had his coat on, and his shoulder ached from an old college football injury. The sky was but a gray blur in his eyes, and his thoughts drifted, settling on Daniel Lester. Something he'd said had to be the key to it all, but finding it was like picking fly shit out of a peppershaker. He heard the rustling of paper as everyone flipped through their notebooks and file folders as they tried to regroup, but the answers wouldn't be found there. The killer was too smart, too practiced. He knew their thought processes, and he'd be one step ahead of them, now and forever. That's how he'd escaped the parking lot five days earlier. His escape route had been planned; his actions calculated. For all they knew, the cigarette butts on the asphalt were put there as an insult to their supposed intelligence. "DNA lasts pretty much forever, right?" Julie called from the window. "Why?" Fordrow asked. "What would it do for us if we could prove that the killings went back to 1967?" "You're talking about the Barbara Anne Holden case." Everyone fixed their eyes on Fordrow. "You know about that?" Olsen asked. Now it was Fordrow who got up and took a stand at the window. "I've been doing some research," he said. Everyone waited. "Well?" said Bergmann. Fordrow glanced at Julie. "I revisited the notion that the caller is someone who's known Gulliver for a long time. By the time I got around to examining his high school yearbook and talking to any former teachers who were still around, you'd already plowed that field." Everyone looked at Julie, who shrugged. "So?" "So I figured I wasn't about to get anything new out of Daniel Lester." Julie knew that was a nice way of Fordrow telling him that he'd already badgered Daniel Lester to death. "So how'd you find out about Barbara Anne Holden?" "At one time, Santa Cruz, California, was dubbed the 'Murder Capital of the World.'" "It was?" said Julie. "Yeah. Seems there were at least two serial killers on the loose in the county around that time and into the early seventies. One of them killed thirteen people to save massive earthquakes from happening on the San Andreas Fault. The other slept with the bodies of his victims and rode around with their heads in his trunk. Those two took care of twenty-one victims. There was another situation where a guy took out five people in an afternoon because he thought they were too materialistic, but mass murderers are different than serial killers. Still, it was wacky stuff. Must have been something in the water. The Barbara Anne Holden murder could easily have been attributed to one of the serial guys, but the timetables didn't line up. Only one of the killers did any of his deeds in the sixties, but he was in mental hospital at the time of Barbara Anne's demise." Fordrow took a moment in order to get everyone on the same page. "My theory is that there was yet another killer on the loose in Santa Cruz County at the time, one of which is our man, still plying his trade. The reason for the semen on the bodies?" Everyone nodded. "He didn't want to be confused with any other killers, then or now. He wants everyone to know it's him." Julie thought: it was exactly the same theory he'd come up with, only Fordrow had done some homework to back it up. "What now?" he asked. "If we could find someone who knew Gulliver back then, and also fit the profile, that would be a pretty good place to start." Christ, thought Julie. He and Olsen had covered that ground ages ago. They were indeed back to square one. "Why can't we simply test everyone's DNA?" "How many times do I have to spell this out for you?" Bergmann warned. "C'mon Chief, everything points to the killer being in that radio station. What, is everybody here blind as a bat?" "For the hundredth time, Hernandez, there are certain civil liberties that exist with regards to DNA testing. You can't just run around and pick up people's spit and test it, even if it's sitting right there in front of you. Even if you stumble across the killer, the case will get thrown out, and the chances of retrying the same individual on the same charges get down between slim and none because the evidence that got you there in the first place is no longer admissible." Julie waited. He knew there was more to come. "I don't want hear things like 'Hey Chief, I think I know who it is,' or 'Hey Chief, I know what we need to do to find our man.' Open your clogged up ears and listen to the language, Hernandez: to establish probable cause, you have to be able to point to objective factual circumstances that lead you to believe that a specific suspect committed a crime. Do you have that, Hernandez?" "No." "Then get out of my office, all of you. I'm tired of talking about this."

10:32 p.m. They noticed the rent-a-cops immediately. Gilkey was driving. "Willoughby must have sprung for some security," he said.

Two of the security people blocked the van but motioned it forward as soon as Gilkey showed his ID and said, "FBI," through the open window. No reporters or autograph junkies were present, but it was early. Gilkey parked next to one of four cars in the lot and he and Fordrow stepped out. The air was uncharacteristically still, the vapor from their nostrils reflecting in the parking lot lights and floating off in little clouds. Behind them, Julie and Olsen stepped out of their unmarked Crown Victoria. The remaining member of the team stayed in the van. This night, it was Special Agent Vic Massimiano, who been brought in all the way from Chicago. Vic had been to Desert Storm and Kosovo as an intelligence communication specialist, and on his last assignment with the FBI he'd been able to triangulate the location of a six-time child molester off of cell phone signals. The perp was across the street from an elementary school, watching kids play while he was talking to some other sick fuck in Phoenix about his last child rape and how soft little bare bottoms were. Julie eyeballed the cars in the lot, noting that none of them was a dark colored, medium sized SUV. One was a Lincoln Town Car with the license plate WXKO, which had to belong to Willoughby, he figured, and he wasn't wrong. Inside, Willoughby greeted the entourage as if they were at a cocktail party. "It's all set up," Willoughby drawled in his thick Kentucky accent. "I've already talked to Gulliver." Julie went off like a grenade. "Who the hell told you to talk to anyone?" Willoughby shrank away. "I was just tryin' to help." "You can help by staying the hell out of our way." Olsen yanked him back. "You're not helping here, Hernandez." Julie whirled. "This is Dianne we're talking about!" Fordrow stepped in and grabbed Julie by the arm. "You're lucky you're back on this case, Hernandez. One more outburst like that and you'll be out in the van with Vic for the rest of the night... or worse," he added, looking Julie straight in the eye. Julie managed to hold his tongue. Fordrow let go of Julie's arm and motioned everyone to the conference room. Willoughby heaved deep breath and led the way. Inside, Julie dropped heavily into a corner chair. His own words came back to him as he tried to keep his emotions in check: This is Dianne we're talking about! He still hadn't come to grips with the fact that he'd used her as bait, and it was Olsen who'd made that clear to him. She'd just gotten back from the FBI field office the day before and was in no mood to mince words—as if she ever was. "Okay, so you figured out that he was after Dianne. Congratulations. Now that you know that, you're seriously considering letting her continue to stay with you? What are you, fucking nuts?" He'd never convinced Dianne to leave town. "You've really lost it if you think you can protect her. This isn't some cop movie, Hernandez. This guy's as smart as you are." "You think so." Olsen shifted her weight and crossed her arms, a classic defiance pose. "You know, I keep trying to talk myself out of going with my first impression on things, and the more I do it, the more I ask myself why I do that." It took Julie a second to realize she was talking about him. "And your first impression was?" "That you were arrogant and self-centered. Now why would I want to talk myself out of that?" "Up yours." "Get your ego out of the way, Hernandez, and look at this logically. We're talking at least thirteen murders here, which you admit may only be the tip of the iceberg. How many do you think this guy's really done?" The question caught him off guard, and he took a moment to try and figure out where Olsen was going. He took her in. Sure, she was volatile—like he was—but unlike him, she was able to see beyond the confines of her own thinking. Maybe it was the education, which he didn't have, but whatever it was, she was making an impressive case. She was an impressive cop. She was smart and quick-witted, physically fit and strong as an ox, trained and skillful in all aspects of the job. Him? He was strictly a local yokel, he realized in comparison; a good one maybe, but he suddenly visualized himself twenty years from now and realized he could still be rolling back and forth in the same desk chair he had now, wearing grooves in the floor. "Are you going to answer me?" He suddenly felt dwarfed by her logic. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe twice that many." "And if that's the case, this killer has been eluding how many investigators? And for how long? If you don't think this guy is capable of using you, think again. You wanna risk Dianne's life on that?" Finally convinced that he had his head up his ass on this point, it was Dianne who'd put the kibosh on anything other than her normal routine. "I have work. I have school. I'm not going anywhere." "Will you carry a gun?" Julie had asked. She looked him straight in the eye. "Yes." That was a good answer. He gave her his ankle gun to carry along with her pepper spray, and he arranged for O'Brien to keep an eye on her when he himself couldn't. Fordrow brought him back to the present. He turned to Willoughby. "What did you say to Gulliver?" "Nothin' much," Willoughby answered, trying to minimize his bravado now. "Just that we was gonna try to lure the killer to call in again." What was done was done. Fordrow said, "That's fine. Let's go over the rest of the plan." He and Olsen had to be ready to rush to the cruiser if the need presented itself. Gilkey was to stay in the van with Vic. O'Brien and Bergmann and all the cars on the Andersonville and county squads would be on alert in the event that any call that came in could be traced to a specific location. Julie was to stay in the studio. If the killer called in, there was a chance that he'd talk to him. "He'll call," Julie said as he checked his watch. It was 10:45. He looked at Willoughby. "Let's get some coffee going. We're gonna need it."

11:15 p.m. Manny rolled in and gave Julie an undisguised look of disdain. Vic had already been inside the control room to chat with Manny's counterpart, Walt, who did the four-to-midnight stretch Monday through Friday. Walt was bubbling with all the attention, and Manny looked like he couldn't give two shits. Julie decided there was nothing he could do there and figured he'd find Olsen, who seemed to have pulled a disappearing act. Maybe she was with the FBI guys. Grabbing his coat, he decided to take a stroll out to the van and see if anything was cooking out there. The smell of stale cigarettes hit him as soon as he pushed through the back door, heightened by the fact that the air was at a dead calm. His eyes settled on the wide sand-filled ashtray there. He stopped, noting that the ashtray was overflowing. There had to be a hundred butts sticking up out of the sand like little nicotine trees. He figured it was several days' worth of accumulation, and about half the butts had brown filter paper, the other half white. Something made him look closer, and he took a step to the side so as to not block the light from the single floodlight that lit the area. He stooped, getting close to the sand. The smell was disgusting but he hung there, his eyes dancing over the yellowed filters. He was able to make out some of the brand names on the butts: _Winston, Newport, Marlboro,_ plus a couple of other brown-filtered ones. His eyes hopped to the ones with the white filter paper: _Salem,_ other different _Marlboro_ s, _Virginia_ _Slims_. He did the math: a hundred butts, divided by four cigarettes per shift, divided by three or four days' worth of accumulation; that meant seven or eight people used the area regularly. That could be important. Suddenly, there it was: _Parliament,_ the same brand he'd found on the asphalt at the Madison County Mall. His eyes zoomed in like a camera lens and he stared at the butt, hoping perhaps he'd be able to see DNA caked to the filter paper. Probable cause; he had to have probable cause. What were the odds? If the DNA from that cigarette butt matched the DNA from those found at the Madison County Mall, at minimum it would mean that the killer had visited the radio station; at best it would mean that he worked there. Would it fly? It could be the break he'd been looking for. Still stooped over the ashtray, Julie began pulling butts from the sand, searching for more with the _Parliament_ brand. Barely touching the brown filters only, he let them rest on the filthy sand. Only one was a _Parliament_ , smoked about halfway down as if the smoker only had a minute or two to edge closer to cancer before returning to his duties. Probable cause: if the DNA from the butt could be linked to the DNA from the murder scenes, and if it could be discovered that someone at the radio station smoked _Parliaments_ , there wouldn't be a judge in the world who wouldn't issue a DNA warrant based on that linkage. Julie put the butt in his coat pocket. Hopefully there'd be enough material left on it to lift a DNA profile.

His heart fluttered with anticipation as he tried to remember where he was going. Right. He was trying to find Olsen. What would she think? He made his way to the parking lot, noting that the moon, which had been hidden behind a blanket of low-hanging clouds, was suddenly visible, and what had been dark, formless shapes in the night were now gilded in a thin layer of blue-gray light. He turned the corner and spotted the van. He heard voices and realized that Gilkey was giving instructions to the rent-a-cops. Good. He'd be able to get Olsen away from Skippy and Jon-Jon and bounce his theory off her. He needed her more than ever, he realized now, if only to push his ideas on the rest of the team. And she would, if she thought they were valid. Maybe putting the cigarette butt in his pocket hadn't been such a good idea. Maybe he should put it back and point it out, let her discover it so that testing it for a DNA match was her idea. Certainly, the hypothesis would carry more weight coming from her. He turned to head back to the ashtray when a pair of headlights swung into the parking lot. The rent-a-cops intercepted the vehicle quickly and motioned it to a parking spot as soon as they realized who was driving. It was an SUV, Julie observed immediately, a dark color—black, it seemed—and medium sized. He paused and watched it closely. It pulled into a parking space and Gulliver stepped out just as Julie got close enough to detect the make and model. It wasn't a Honda, but a several years old Isuzu Rodeo. A Honda Passport and an Isuzu Rodeo were virtually the same vehicle in some older editions, the Honda made for Isuzu, or vice versa. He looked at the license plate. It wasn't LTR-1611, but they already knew those plates were stolen. Gulliver slammed the car door and said to them all, "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I understand we're going fishing again." He turned and met Julie's eyes. They held there. He smiled. "Detective Hernandez," he said politely. "What a pleasant surprise. How was California?" Instinctively, Julie thought: fuck you, asshole.

Wednesday, January 16th ... 12:17 a.m. Olsen said, "It's not possible."

Julie looked over his shoulder. "Why isn't it possible?" "What, you think he's calling himself? Don't be stupid." Julie took her by the elbow and dragged her to a far corner away from Fordrow and Willoughby, both of whom were pouring over possible cues for Gulliver to put out over the airwaves. Inside the broadcast studio itself, Gulliver had his head down and he was concentrating on his notes. He had a show to do. His flock was waiting for guidance. A guitar solo was streaming through the studio speakers, the high-pitched licks of Eric Clapton bouncing off the walls. Manny was shuffling through a stack of CDs, trying to line up the play list. "Listen—" "No, you listen," Olsen spat back. "Give me something more, Hernandez. I'm not going to go in there with just that." She flashed him an angry grimace. "What?" she said, yanking away when he didn't let go of her elbow. "Remember what the killer said last time? We are one in this. You know how I think, and I know how you think. What do you think it means?" "I have no idea what it means. I have no idea what you mean. Are you trying to say that Gulliver knows the killer's identity—I mean, specifically, that it's not just someone who happened to grow up in the same town?" Julie hadn't thought about it from that angle; but it fit. "Yeah," he said, trying to get Olsen to buy in. "That would make him an accessory to murder." Julie said, "Okay." What the hell. "And you think he's known it all the way back to 1967?" Julie hadn't thought about that either, and it didn't fit—or did it? "Maybe," he said. "We've already established that the seven murders we found out about after Sister Salazar's all occurred in places within a day's drive of where Gulliver has worked over the years." "That proves nothing about Gulliver knowing the killer's identity. Not only that, it makes the idea that this is some sick groupie seem that much stronger." "What about Barbara Anne Holden?" "What about it? We've got nothing there. She could have been killed by anybody. Probably was." "What about the semen on the body?" "Let me think: a perfectly healthy, eighteen-year-old girl turns up dead, and there's semen on the body. How unusual it that? Hello." He was making zero progress, and Julie tried to think. His thoughts were scattered, but they hit on elements of the case that lay unexplained, elements that still bothered him no matter how many times he reviewed them. The first one was Gulliver's mention of the one-bedroom apartment. No one agreed with him, but when Gulliver said it back in December, when he was taunting the killer to call in, Gulliver knew that the killer lived in a one-bedroom, and no one was going to convince him, Julie, otherwise. Just the way the words were spoken, just the way Gulliver described the killer's feelings: it was as if Gulliver were seeing through the killer's eyes, talking through the killer's mouth. It was too real. And after that, the first time they were trying to trace the caller? How did the caller know about the high school yearbook? The only civilian who knew about using Gulliver's high school yearbook was Gulliver himself. If the information didn't come from Gulliver, who could it have come from? And what about Gulliver's tab at The Shamrock? Who knew about that besides Gulliver? And what about "none" or "nun" would be right? Coincidental? Too coincidental is more like it. In his mind's eye, Julie saw himself surrounded by clues winging to and fro on birds' wings, eluding him. But they wouldn't elude him for long. Sooner or later, he'd catch one of those fucking clues and get a better look at it.

4:15 a.m. It was the wee hours. Sandwiched by Jethro Tull and the Moody Blues, the demented and the depraved had been calling all night. His eyes feeling full of sand with eyelids stiff as sheet metal, Julie glanced at his watch. He hadn't been able to escape his own logic since he'd walked into the station almost eight hours earlier.

It was textbook. Gordon Powers' mother had been a prostitute. Add to that the fact that he'd been belittled and humiliated by at least one girl in high school: could it have been more? Possibly so. Gordon had been two people, his pain and anger invisible to the outside world. But what bubbled inside him? What demons lurked there, gnawing at the young man's psyche? There was no way that didn't eat away at him, Julie figured, a prickle under his skin that grew and grew to the point where, at first, he retreated and stayed away from the wicked women that caused him so much pain in his life, but he could never get away from them. No. They were all around him, and one of them was his mother. He had to face their sarcasm, their cynicism, their derision, and for what? What had he done to them? Nothing more than be born a male, young Gordon had probably concluded somewhere along the way. It wasn't fair, and so he hid even more. It was easier than going out and facing them every day, but there was a price to pay for that withdrawal, and he resented that too. Not only did they disrespect him, and scorn him, they prevented him from being anything more than the object of their fun. It was torture, and it made him lash out. Gordon transformed himself, Julie theorized. He grew another personality, one that made fun of others by criticizing and demeaning them the way he'd been criticized and demeaned his whole life. Gordon became a shock jock, a metamorphosis that evolved through several on-air personalities into what was now an entity onto itself, a presence as real to those who listened to him on a nightly basis as any in their pitiful lives. Gordon Powers was Gulliver McKnight, savior of the damned, redeemer of their desecrated souls. What really happened to Gordon's mother? Julie suddenly wanted to know. The killing had been chalked up to one of her johns, but was it so? Julie forced his eyes open and checked out the studio. There was so much DNA material lying around: an empty Sprite can, the ever-present plastic cup of orange juice. If he could take just one of those items, have it tested; what were the odds that it would match the DNA from the murder scenes, from the seven additional DNA matches from around the country, areas near where Gulliver had worked over the years? Just one test; that's all he'd need. But what if it did match? He wouldn't be able to use it, and he'd risk being able to use it as evidence in any of the cases because it would be obtained illegally. Oddly, Gulliver hadn't taken a smoke break all night. When he and Olsen had been there with Gorman back in December, Gulliver had taken several breaks. Had he stopped smoking, or did he consciously decide not to smoke because his cigarettes were the same as the ones found on the asphalt at the Madison County Mall? The questions and coincidences stacked up in Julie's head. He'd been over the facts a thousand times, and no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that he was reading them incorrectly, he couldn't do it. But how could it be? Like Olsen had said: Gulliver couldn't be calling himself... could he? Was it possible? And how about the part about Gulliver knowing the killer's identity? Olsen had just thrown it out there, but who was to say that the caller was actually the killer? Who was to say who was an accomplice to whom? Julie looked at Gulliver through the studio glass and tried to imagine what he was thinking. A song he'd never heard before gurgled through the studio speakers, a soft acoustic number as opposed to Gulliver's signature kick-ass rock. The expression on Gulliver's face was indicative of nothing, his head nodding to and fro in rhythm to the music. His eyes were closed, his head back as if he was looking at the inside of his own skull. Suddenly, his eyes opened, his gaze darted, and Julie felt the heat of Gulliver's stare as if he'd been pierced by lasers. Gulliver's serene expression transformed itself into a wicked mask, his facial creases deepening, his mouth twisting into something only a devil could display. Julie felt their eyes lock, and something went through him like a cold lightning bolt, leaving an icy cramp in his spine. Gulliver's snarl widened, revealing a set of cigarette-stained teeth that seemed to actually grow in place. Julie was locked in that gaze, unable to move his eyes away to see if anyone else was observing the transformation that was happening before him. Gulliver's face reddened, his eyes bulged, veins pulsed in his neck and on his forehead. Julie felt himself cower, shrinking back as if he was about to be attacked by some deadly beast. He imagined the growing teeth dripping with blood, shards of ripped flesh hanging between them. Gulliver licked his lips; his arm came up to wipe away some drool there. He touched himself on his chest with both hands, the motion quick and visible to no one else. Gulliver's laugh reverberated through the studio speakers and Julie felt the trance-like hold break as Gulliver punched open his mike and the song came to an end. "Hello angels of the night. This is your midnight cowboy. The sun won't be up for another couple of hours. Do you know where your teenager is?" Julie suddenly felt weak, as if all the energy had been sucked out of him. Finally, he was able to look away, to see once again if anyone had observed what he'd just observed. Behind the glass, Manny had his back turned and was rummaging through some bookshelves. He hadn't seen any of what just happened, if anything at all did happen. He looked around for Olsen, or Fordrow. Neither of them were anywhere to be seen. Willoughby had disappeared hours ago. It had only been him and Gulliver, and no one else would be able to verify what had just happened. What had just happened? Gulliver had touched his chest. No. Gulliver had touched his breasts! The riddle letter! How are a woman's breasts and martinis alike? Julie's thoughts jumped back to that Monday weeks earlier when Gulliver had handed him that letter. It was postmarked from Santa Cruz. The scene played out in his mind, and he couldn't help but wonder if there were any charges on Gulliver's credit card for plane tickets to California the previous weekend. Olsen's theory that Gulliver knew the killer's identity came back, and suddenly it seemed more plausible. Gulliver could know the killer's identity, all right, more intimately than anyone could imagine. He was talking to his listeners, and Julie listened. "To all of you angels of the night, may the lord have mercy on our souls." On your soul, thought Julie. Gulliver's expression was contrite, no longer fiendish. "The day before he died, Jesus Christ humbled himself by washing the feet of his apostles, knowing full well that one of them was about to betray him." Where the hell was he going with this? Julie wondered. "And even in that humbled state, there were those who hated him, and they killed him the day after, thinking they had killed the king of the Jews. All of this was done at the hand of God, who watched as his son was nailed to a tree, forgiving those who killed his son as they did it. For him, the righteous ones were the same as the sinners, and this is what has been calamitous since that day. There is one eventuality to all, and it does not matter what happens before that day comes, when all who live do so no more." Julie followed the words closely, observing Gulliver the whole time. There was no sign of the man who'd frightened him only moments earlier. "For those who live with madness in their heart...." Madness in their heart, thought Julie. "...they will die like the ones with righteousness there. There is no difference. The living are conscious that they will die, and they will not rise from that death the way Jesus did. Once dead, they are conscious of nothing. Their love, and their hate, and their jealousy will perish with them, and they will have nothing to do with what is left behind." Gulliver turned and looked directly at Julie. "The dead know nothing." Julie's blood turned cold. The dead know nothing. Was that some kind of message? He felt Gulliver's eyes upon him once more. They were sunken now, deep in shadowy sockets. The face of psychosis was back. It was as if Gulliver was two different people. "Call me!" Gulliver barked into the mike. "And tell me if the dead know nothing." The phone lines lit up and Gulliver punched one after the other, disconnecting each caller until he came to the tenth call. On that call, he punched the button and waited until the voice came through. "Interesting hypothesis, Gordon, or should I call you the midnight cowboy. You're much like Joe Buck actually—in that you're no stud. You never were, and you never will be—Gordon." In the control booth, Manny froze, as did Julie. From the left, Olsen and Fordrow blasted through the door. As their eyes met Julie's eyes, they turned and watched Gulliver through the glass, not knowing what to expect. Slowly, Gulliver leaned forward in his chair. "They're getting closer," he said unabashedly. "I know they are. That's part of my plan." Automatically, Julie looked at his watch, knowing it would be important later. "You have a plan?" "Of course I have a plan. I want to make this interesting. Don't you, Gordon?" Julie took in the inflection, his entire being focused on what was coming out of the studio speakers. Once again, the voice sounded distant and tinny, as if it were separated from the calling device itself. Gulliver said, "Make what interesting, scumbag?" "Oh, stop pretending," the caller responded immediately. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Gordon. It's a race now, a race to solve the riddle." Gulliver looked through the studio glass, spearing Julie with another strange look. Half smiling, Gulliver said, "What riddle?" "Gordon, Gordon, Gordon. What am I ever going to do with you? You know you can't escape from this. Why do you keep trying?" "Forget about me, scumbag. What riddle are you talking about?" Gulliver was staring directly at Julie now, his salacious half-smile spreading. Julie watched as Gulliver hunkered low in his chair, the whites of his eyes netted in flaming capillaries. He pulled the microphone close so that it touched his lips. Julie glanced at Olsen and Fordrow, both of whom were behind him, heads almost touching as they whispered back and forth. He saw Fordrow jag his head. Nodding, Olsen turned and headed for the door, probably to group up with Gilkey in the event that Vic was able to pinpoint the caller's location. Julie visualized them screaming up to that location, but he knew instinctively that there would be no one there. They were being played. It was a game now, just like it had always been a game. At first, the victim had been the prize—poor Mary Anne Holden; poor all the others—but it had become routine for the killer, harder for him to get excited. Now, it was more. He needed more challenge, more thrill, a little more spice to get his rocks off. How many investigators had fallen for this guy's tricks? How many women had been lured to their deaths as his fantasies got sicker and sicker? Julie reflected on what Gulliver had said earlier: the dead know nothing. What did it mean? "You remember the letter, don't you Gordon? Have you figured out the answer yet? How are a woman's breasts and martinis alike?" "I hate you," Gulliver growled into the microphone, his features gruesome and distorted. "I hate you with every molecule in my body." Who was he talking to? Julie wondered. "You don't hate me, Gordon. I'm the only one who puts some excitement in that disgusting life of yours. You love me, and you love the way I make you feel when it's over." Gulliver's face was twisted; tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "Leave me alone, leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE!" Dead air. Julie looked at his watch. The conversation had been going on at least a minute, maybe more. He speculated on whether it had been long enough for Vic to pinpoint a location. "I'm never going to leave you alone, Gordon, not until it's over." Gulliver took his ever-present cup of orange juice and took a swallow. "And when it's over?" he questioned, grimacing into the mike. "Like I said, Gordon: the dead know nothing, and I won't bother you anymore." So that was it. The convoluted images, the disconnected phrases, the disjointed thoughts: they all came down to this. Julie wondered if anyone else had interpreted what he'd just heard the same way he did. He turned and glanced at Fordrow, but it was like trying to read a tree trunk. Was that a death threat, or was it a death wish? A tear broke loose and tracked down Gulliver's cheek. Barely above a whisper, "When is it going to end?" he croaked into the mike. "It depends on who gets there first, Gordon. You see, it's a race now. Ready, set, on d-mark-go!" And the caller was gone. Julie felt the rush move through his body, so powerful that it almost caused him to collapse. Had he heard the words correctly? Ready, set, on d-mark-go! Not on-the-mark... go, but on d-mark-go, with a "d", like DeMarco! She was still the prize, and it came to him like a lightning bolt. The episode at the Madison County Mall had all been part of the game, a test to flush out the prey, to see who, or what, was hidden in the bushes. He and Olsen had been set up! He wasn't inside the killer's head. The killer was inside his head! Where was Dianne right now? Wait. He felt his face flush with heat. She was safe as long as Gulliver was in front of him, he thought suddenly, but what if he was wrong? He looked around for Fordrow, seeing that Fordrow was already gone. To the van, for sure. He whipped out his cell phone and punched up the number. One ring, two rings, five rings. Dianne answered, a sleepy voice. "Hello." "Hi honey. It's me." "Is everything all right?" she asked groggily. "Everything is fine," said Julie, lying through his teeth. "I didn't mean to wake you; I just dialed the wrong number by mistake. Go back to sleep, okay? I'm sorry I woke you up." He clicked off. He didn't need a response. All he needed to know was that she was still alive. He knew now that he had to keep Gulliver in his sights at all costs. He knew further that if he was wrong about what he was thinking, well, none of it would matter anymore, least of all this so-called career of his. Olsen, Gilkey, Fordrow, and Vic all exploded through the door. "Were you able to get a location on the call?" Julie asked more calmly than even he expected of himself. Something by the Allman Brothers suddenly filled the air. "Yeah," said Vic, his breath coming in short bursts. "Well?" Vic just shook his head. "I might be wrong," he said uncertainly. Julie looked at Olsen, and said, "Spill." Olsen looked him square in the eye. "It came from here." "What do you mean, here?" "Here, as inside the radio station."

Julie looked through the glass and noticed that Gulliver was smiling at him.

1:55 p.m. "We tore that place apart. There was no way that call came from inside that radio station. Are you sure about this, Vic?"

Vic felt the several sets of eyes on him. His worry lines deepened, his face a blueprint of what he'd look like in forty years. "Hey, if you think you can do better, then be my fucking guest." "All right, let's cool it everyone," said Bergmann. "We're not going to accomplish anything by jumping in each other's shit." Turning his back on Vic, Bergmann gave Julie an uncharacteristic pleading look. "Let's go over this one more time—from the top." Olsen let out an exasperated blow and sank into Bergmann's chair. Fordrow and Gilkey were sticking close to each other. Vic was on his own and may as well have had leprosy. "Now, what time did the call come in?" Julie remembered the time exactly: 4:18 a.m., right after he'd seen Gulliver's strange—no, not strange, bizarre—transformation. It came back to him now, and it was all he could do to concentrate. He glanced at Olsen who looked small and withdrawn in Bergmann's chair. She too seemed distracted, her eyes far away seemingly in a world of their own. Gilkey's voice was in the background as he reviewed the information again. Nothing further would come of that. It was too wide a gap for Bergmann to jump, the information too fragmented for him to infer, theorize, deduce, or otherwise extrapolate the known information—which were the facts, simply what happened and what had been discovered—into the unknown information, which was the killer's identity. Looking around, Julie knew that despite all the years of experience in the room and all the knowledge that was stacked up around him like volumes of an encyclopedia, ultimately it was going to be up to him to break this case. He'd have to, because of all the other people present, he couldn't afford not to. Where to start? His thoughts centered on what happened ten hours earlier when Olsen revealed that the call had come from inside the station. The morning broadcast crew had started to make its way in by that time, and even though everyone insisted that the last hour of Gulliver's show be cancelled, or, at minimum, that it consist only of music, Gulliver wouldn't hear of it. He took calls that last hour between five and six a.m., and to this moment Julie was astounded at the nocturnal creatures that lit up the phone lines just before dawn. Where the hell did these people come from? Four of them claimed to know the tenth caller's identity. One of them claimed to be him. All their numbers appeared on the station's caller ID, and none of the area codes were within two hundred miles of the station. Gulliver took the calls in stride, and Julie's head was swimming. It was as if Gulliver were two different people, the agony he'd suffered at the hands of the tenth caller only minutes earlier seemingly gone. Two different people: the phrase reverberated in Julie's head, and he recalled yet again Gulliver's metamorphosis in the minutes before the tenth call. Julie's thoughts shifted again, and he recalled the night early on in the investigation when Olsen slid those pages from her grad school thesis under his front door. At the time, he'd brushed it off as an attempt on her part to make an impression, to establish herself as some sort of expert on serial murderers. But now, over a month later, he realized that wasn't the case at all. It was her way of telling him what he'd just surmised. How could he have been so stubborn? Then, trying to cut himself some slack, Julie thought: stop killing yourself. The case went where it went, and now you've got to bring it all together and stop this motherfucker. Interesting word, Julie observed, and he wondered if it was so with young Gordon. Two different people. What was it that Olsen had written? Julie went to his desk in the squad room and tried to remember where he'd put those pages. Here, there, there! Gripping the paper tightly, he read part of the first page, which was actually page four of the thesis. Olsen had highlighted an entire block in the middle of the page: Despite the futility, the violent schizophrenic believes that attacking others offers him protection, that by seeking the death of everything he perceives is seeking his death, he will finally be free. To the patient it is simple: destroy or be destroyed. Do what it takes to halt the fires of hell descending upon him. It is in attacking that the patient becomes that which he is seeking to escape. He becomes violent, full of rage, then sinks into despair. All his attempts but draw his imaginary nightmares closer, and make what is not real seem even more likely. This is the mind of insanity, a mind that knows no peace, that remembers no joy, that thinks death will be forced upon him unless he moves to mercilessly stamp it out. Kill or be killed: it was the essence of what he'd just read. Never mind that it was helpless young women who were tormenting him; to the killer they were evil, threats to his very existence. Julie made his way back into Bergmann's office where Gilkey was still talking. Gilkey said, "We then proceeded to obtain permission to search the station. I'm telling you, Chief, we opened every drawer, every door on every cabinet, every locker; we got squat. The records for all the cell phones we found—including our own—were checked, and none of them showed a call to the station at that time." Gilkey then had the pleasure of suffering through one of Bergmann's withering glares. "What about the caller ID?" "It came up anonymous. We were hoping Vic would come up with something." All eyes turned to Vic, who looked at his shoes and said, "This wasn't a trace in the traditional sense, Chief. This method triangulates caller locations based on how the frequency signals are transmitted to, and retransmitted from, a stationary satellite. That's what was so confusing. I locked on to the call that was coming into the station, and the retransmission showed it going back to the same location." "Is there a fucking answer in there somewhere?" Vic looked up. "Yeah. The fucking answer is that we can only get locations, not phone numbers." Bergmann was thinking so hard that it looked like his skin was about to crack; Vic was sorry he'd ever gotten the assignment; Olsen was still ponderous; Fordrow was staring at Olsen. "What were you trying to tell me when you put those thesis pages under my door?" Julie called out. Olsen finally turned from the window, her eyes as heavy and gray as the cold mist falling outside. "Now you're asking?" she said woodenly. "It's a little late, isn't it?" "What's that supposed to mean?" "You thought you had this figured out, and now you're grabbing at straws trying to figure out where this guy's head is at. You should have taken the help when you needed it." "It seems to me that I'm the only one who's come up with anything," Julie shot back. "And what exactly have you come up with? C'mon Hernandez, shower us all with some of that infallible instinct." Fordrow stood and looked at his watch. "Okay people, it's two-thirty in the afternoon and we all need some sleep. Why don't we all go home and take a nap and meet back here at six. I think we've got some plans to make." Good decision, thought Julie. Dianne was still very much in danger.

7:05 p.m. "What about my show?"

Julie made a quick sweep of the apartment. It was sloppy and everything in it was cheap, but outside of the fact that the place smelled like old shoes, everything looked normal enough on the surface. He looked at his watch. "It's early. You should be able to get to the station in plenty of time." "What do you mean, should be? How long is this going to take?" "That depends on you." Julie couldn't help but notice the sharp edge in his own voice and he half expected Gulliver to jump ugly on him. He thought back to the night before, and he wondered which of Gulliver's personalities would surface this evening. Would it be his professorial on-air persona, the one he used when dispensing advice to his following of freaks? Would it be the one draped in psychosis that accompanied his prolific philosophical pontifications on the natural and supernatural order of things human, subhuman, posthuman, and otherwise? Or, would it be Gordon Powers, a man with virtually no self-esteem and a grudging hatred for women because the one that humiliated him the most in his life happened to be his mother. None of them would be pleasant, Julie determined, and he prepared himself to deal with whatever came his way. Olsen had moved back behind Gulliver's field of vision, and was examining the piles of unopened mail carelessly strewn on top of the dinette table. She glanced at Julie and shook her head. Nothing unusual there, Julie guessed. "Do you have a search warrant?" Gulliver asked blatantly. His thoughts shifting back to the task at hand, Julie said, "No. We simply want to ask you a few questions." "Then let go of my fucking mail." Olsen dropped the envelope she was examining and came around, taking a stand next to Julie who was seated on Gulliver's couch. Gulliver was sprawled lazily in a rattan chair across from them, one leg propped crosswise atop the other, a pose similar to the one displayed by Daniel Lester in his beachside bungalow a couple of weeks earlier. Must be a California thing, Julie figured. Gulliver stuffed a cigarette between his lips and dropped the pack on the coffee table. "Mind if I smoke?" "It's your house and your lungs." "Yeah, it is, so I guess your opinion doesn't matter, does it?" Julie held his tongue. "So what do you two want now?" Gulliver continued smartly. "Haven't I answered enough questions from you and your FBI pals over the last six weeks?" Julie glanced at the cigarettes. "Those aren't French." "Are they supposed to be?" "According to Manny." "You'd believe anything Manny said? Good fucking luck, Detective." Intrigued by Gulliver's reaction, Julie went fishing. "Why would he lie about the brand of cigarettes you smoke?" "How the fuck would I know? The guy's a pathological liar, especially when there's something in it for him." Julie looked at the pack. Despite the fact that the cigarettes weren't French, they weren't the same brand as the ones he'd found in the parking lot at the Madison County Mall, or the one he'd found in the ashtray behind the radio station. He still had that cigarette. He'd put it in his coat pocket, the very coat he was wearing right now. Its discovery had never come up, specifically because he'd never mentioned it. No one knew about it except him. Up to now, he'd never tried to do a DNA check on it, the reason being that if he did, and if it matched the ones he'd found in the parking lot at the Madison County Mall, it would be inadmissible as evidence because he'd collected it without probable cause and without a search warrant. He also hadn't executed his idea of putting it back into the ashtray and leading Olsen to its discovery, but he could still do that if it became necessary. And the issue of whether he'd tampered with evidence? His conscience wouldn't bother him a bit, especially if he managed to somehow verify the killer's identity. The killer's identity: he looked at the man in the rattan chair and wondered once again who was sitting there, the words from Olsen's thesis echoing in his head. Violent schizophrenic: was he looking at one now? Julie fingered the cigarette in his pocket. Even if it could be proven that the man in front of him had put that cigarette between his lips, even a DNA test wouldn't prove which personality had smoked it. Still, he figured it would probably be a good idea to protect it. "Do you have any baggies?" "What kind of baggies?" The question caught Gulliver off guard, but he recovered quickly, maintaining his indignant attitude. Julie noticed Olsen was looking at him like he was from another planet. "Plastic baggies. You know, those Ziploc things, the kind you put sandwiches in?" "I don't make sandwiches, Detective." Julie shrugged and stood up, giving Gulliver his back. He needed to keep Gulliver guessing. The minute he or Olsen initiated the notion that Gulliver knew the killer's identity, Gulliver would shut down tighter than a clamshell. "Mind if I take off my coat?" Gulliver swung a look at Olsen, whose eyes were trained on him. "Knock yourself out." Julie made a show of walking over to the rickety dinette where Olsen had stood moments earlier. He hung his coat over one of the chairs and made a quick scan of the rest of the apartment. "Nice place," he said. "Betcha the rent is pretty good too. How many bedrooms?" "Bedrooms?" "Yeah, bedrooms. Is this a one or a two-bedroom?" "One." "Uh-huh," Julie noted. His eyes came to rest inside the messy galley kitchen off the dining area where stood a trashcan overflowing with Styrofoam food containers. Oddly, a complete set of obviously expensive gourmet cutlery hung from specially designed magnetic rack over the stove. The guy just said he didn't even make sandwiches. It didn't mesh. Out of Gulliver's view, Julie walked over and picked up one of the knives. It was incredibly sharp. "Do you cook much?" he asked, coming out of the kitchen. Again, Olsen displayed her What the hell? look. Gulliver shot him a glare. "What next? My favorite color? Why don't you get to the point? You didn't come all the way out here to make small talk." "Nothing gets by you, does it?" Olsen cut in. Giving Julie a sharp glance, she said, "We want to know how the tenth caller is always tenth." She sat. Gulliver stood. "I don't have any fucking idea." "Bullshit. You know that tenth caller is there, and you know who he is." Olsen stood again and got into Gulliver's space. "Don't screw with us on this, or I'll have you strapped to a polygraph faster than you could imagine possible." Gulliver dragged on his cigarette and blew a plume of smoke into her face. "Why you...." Julie jumped between them before Olsen decked the jackass. "Thanks for the help," he said, forcing her away. He turned to Gulliver as he pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt. "You're coming with us," he said, knocking the cigarette from Gulliver's hand and spinning him roughly. "You can't do this," Gulliver spat defiantly. "Yeah, well, sue me," Julie spat back as he clicked the cuffs on Gulliver's wrists. "Are you charging me?" "We might." "With what?" "Let's see... you got your withholding evidence, you got your obstruction of justice, you got your accessory before and after the fact. We'll try a few things and see if they stick. You got a lawyer?" "No." "Good. We can get even better acquainted while we wait for a PD to show up." "What about my show?" "Call Manny and tell him to play a Best Of... tape." "Fuck you." "Fuck you too. You have the right to remain silent...."

7:50 p.m. "On what charges?" Bergmann shouted.

"I don't know. Let's cook something up." "We can't do that." "Of course we can. We'll get creative." Bergmann wheeled, catching Olsen in his sights. "And you're going along with this?" "He assaulted me," Olsen said dryly. Starting to get the drift of what was going on, Bergmann said. "Okay, I'll play. He assaulted you, how?" Olsen's eyes darted over to Julie. "I want to hear it from you," Bergmann demanded. "He blew smoke in my face." "He did what?" "He blew smoke in my face. I thought he was going to attack me and I was fearing for my life." She turned away. Bergmann's pate was starting to turn pink. Not bothering with Julie who was examining the logo on his coffee cup, he appealed to Fordrow and Gilkey, both of whom were off to one side trying to blend into the woodwork. "How long can we keep him before the shit hits the fan?" "I'm not so sure it's going to," Fordrow replied. "If the guy is legitimately withholding evidence, or, from our observations, if we think he's aware of the caller's identity, I say we let a judge decide. We may get a poly out of it. The fact that he knows when the caller is on the line may be an indication of either circumstance. It's thin, but any way you slice it, we've got a few hours with him. I say we make them count." Olsen's expression said: I owe you one. Bergmann got up and grabbed his coat. "I'm going home for dinner," he said. "Someone, meaning me, needs to not be here if this goes south on us. We never had this conversation." Fordrow closed the door behind Bergmann. Outside, Gulliver was seated at O'Brien's desk, jawing about something and waving his hands aggressively. Seeing Bergmann leave, O'Brien got up and came into the office, saying to Fordrow in a low voice, "He's getting pretty hot. He wants to know if we're going to charge him with something, or not. If it's not, he said he's walking out of here." Fordrow looked at his watch. "Put him in the interrogation room and tell him to shut the fuck up. We'll be with him in a minute." O'Brien shrugged and turned away. Fordrow turned to Olsen. "Can you honestly say the incident was life threatening?" "No," Julie answered before she had a chance to respond. He felt like he was putting a knife in Olsen's ribs. "I can't let you go down this road," he said to her. "I went out on a limb for you here, Hernandez. I say we put him away until he coughs up a name or until hell freezes over, whichever comes first." "We could be jeopardizing the whole case." Olsen shook her head. "Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Hernandez?" Julie said, "I've thought about this, and I think maybe we overreacted. He's the connection, Detective. If Gulliver is off the air, so is the killer." A radiator clanked and Fordrow walked to the window. A cold front was moving into the area, replacing the cold front that was moving out, and the temperature outside was hovering at about four below cold-as-shit. "Hernandez has a point," Fordrow said at his own reflection. "Let's get what we can out of him, but I think you're right in saying that we have to keep him on the air. It's the only thing that gives us any link to the killer at all. I just wish we had a better plan than that." "We do," said Julie, noting that Olsen looked as if she were about to choke him. "When is the next flight to Santa Cruz?"

Friday, January 18th ...9:16 a.m. Pacific Time. "How much further?"

"About another hour, I'd guess. Do you want to go over the questions?" Olsen unfastened her seat belt and wiggled out of her winter coat. It was balmy compared to where they'd come from, and the sun was beaming off the gray-blue Pacific making the rental car a warm, cozy envelope. The flight from Indianapolis had been routine except for the fact that the temperature, which had been diving all night, was hovering around zero when they'd boarded their plane at twenty-after-six that morning, Indiana time. Olsen closed her eyes despite the incredible beauty of Highway 1 along the California coast. Taking his time, Julie guided the car carefully, sneaking peeks at the sea cliffs that careened into the Pacific. It wasn't two minutes later that he heard Olsen snoring softly and he felt himself giving in to the same hypnotic drowsiness that had taken her over. Not wanting to risk a nosedive into one of the rocky cliffs below, Julie turned into one of the many scenic pull-offs along the highway. He looked out, the sun hitting him flush in the chest, and he shrugged out of his own coat, trying not to wake Olsen who had a wistful smile on her face and seemed to be in a dreamland far, far away. He closed his eyes, only for a minute, and woke up an hour later feeling as if he'd slept for a decade. He turned to find Olsen in the same position as before, curled up and sideways in her seat, but her eyes were open and she was looking at him. Rubbing a bucket of sand from his eyes, Julie said, "What?" "You were snoring." "You were snoring." "I don't snore." "Yes you do. You sound like a freight train." Olsen didn't respond; not like her. Julie looked over. "What's the matter?" "You were talking in your sleep." Her tone wasn't playful. "Did I say something interesting?" "You said, 'I can't get out. It's too tight.' You said it over and over again." It was a dream he'd had many times, in many variations. "Sometimes I'm in a cave," he began. "And I go in deeper and deeper until the floor and the ceiling come together and I can't go any further. Then, when I turn around, I find that somehow the walls have come together and I'm caught trying to squeeze through these tiny spaces in order to get out." "Why are you in there to begin with?" "I don't know, but the dream always ends with me stuck between the walls and I never know if I made it out or not until I wake up. If it's not a cave, it's something else. Sometimes I'm caught in an elevator, with, like, twenty other people. The thing is always stuck and I'm packed in like a sardine, suffocating almost." "Sounds awful." "It gets worse. Sometimes I'm caught up in a surging crowd and I can't break free, or I'm wedged in between things, like on a mountain. I can't go up and I can't go back either." "Between the proverbial rock and the hard place." "Exactly." "Do you always wake up?" Julie rubbed his temples. "Not always. Sometimes I break free and I try to run away from whatever it is that's binding me, or holding me back, but no matter how hard I try to run, I can't seem to get anywhere. It's like I'm running in slow motion, and my legs feel incredibly heavy like they're made of cement. The harder I run, the slower I go. I keep churning until I wake up and find that it was all just a stupid dream." Olsen brushed some loose strands of hair from her face. "It means something, you know." Julie closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. The sun felt incredible. "Which one? All the stuff about the tight places, or part about not being able to get away?" "All of it." "It don't mean squat," he said, not believing his own words. Not pressing, Olsen said, "If you say so," and she changed the subject. "We need to think about what we're going to say to Daniel Lester."

2:06 p.m. Pacific Time. Daniel Lester was less than ecstatic. He was in a wet suit, skin tight so that his nuts were bulging out, and Julie wondered what time the man left work on Fridays. It was some life Daniel Lester led. Fordrow had set up the whole thing under the pretext of it being an FBI interview.

"Are you with the FBI?" Lester asked curtly, directing the question at Olsen. His eyes lingered on her. Julie thought: the guy has really got an obsession. "I'm part of the task force along with Detective Hernandez," Olsen answered, presenting her badge, "but to answer your question, no, I'm not with the FBI. I'm with the Madison County, Indiana, Sheriff's office." Lester stood there, stone-faced. "May we come in?" "If I have to talk to anyone, I'm only going to talk to the FBI." "Consider it done," Olsen said smartly as she helped herself to a tour of Lester's living room. Wordlessly, Julie stepped behind her in and planted himself near the sliding glass doors at the back of the bungalow, noting that the same three surf boards he'd seen stuck in the sand on his first visit were there again. "It wasn't mine," Lester called from the front door. "The board on the sawhorses you saw last time. That's what you're thinking about, isn't it? I pick up extra money doing repair work. Welcome to my world, Detective." His world. Julie wanted to go over and smack him. For Daniel Lester, the world revolved around him, the self-centered prick. He had no interest in helping to catch a serial killer. He was more worried that his routine would be upset. Lester's world had been tied up in two activities over the years: surfing and sex, or vice-versa, and in his mind, he was better than everyone else at both; each made him feel invincible. He was seeing the world through a filter, Julie determined. No one cared about Daniel Lester's life, and despite his fame as a surfer legend and his popularity with the opposite sex, he was a very lonely man seeking to protect the aspects of his life that leant meaning to his existence, regardless of how shallow that may have been. How un-noble, Julie felt. Amazingly, Olsen said, "If you want to do something really important for once, you'll help us capture this killer." Olsen had only met the man a minute ago, and she already had him pegged. Maybe this would be a good time to let her take the lead. Lester eyed her sharply. "How do you know anything about me, Detective?" "I know that you like people to appreciate you," Olsen responded. Unexpectedly, a demure smile eased its way across her lips and Julie thought: when did she put on lip gloss? Her eyes glinted, blue stars that captured Lester's attention. "Not everything is as it appears on the surface," she said. What the hell? thought Julie. Again? It was just like that with Dianne. Where did this take a left turn? He looked at Lester, whose stone-like features changed abruptly. The corners of his mouth softened instantly, and his attention stayed with Olsen. She was wearing a pair of well-tailored, black gabardine trousers, and, putting her hands in her pockets, she drew the fabric tight to her backside as she walked to the far side of the room. She stood there and looked out at the Pacific while Lester's eyes were glued to her butt. Lester said, "What can I do to help you?" Julie thought: this was something else, all right. Figuring there was no way he was going to compete with either of them, they could always come back and do it his way later, but hey, who was he kidding? Daniel Lester only understood one thing, and Julie decided to see how far Olsen would get with him. Ah, the many challenges of police work. Keeping her ass aimed at Lester, Olsen did a head turn and suddenly her hair, which had been tied back in a neat ponytail since Indianapolis, was loose and free flowing, cascading over her shoulder as if she were doing a freakin' shampoo commercial. Julie decided to back into a corner and try to evaporate. Olsen said, "I'm here for a reason." "And what might that be?" Lester asked. Here she comes, thought Julie, perhaps literally. What was it about this guy? "We have a strong suspicion that Gulliver is withholding evidence." The girl was good, Julie concluded. She'd managed to capture Lester's attention by playing his game, and now she was back to business. She came toward Lester, keeping her eyes on his the whole time. "We think he knows the killer's identity," she went on. "Or at least he knows the caller's identity. Whether the caller and the killer are the same person will remain to be seen, but so far we think it is." "What you think Gordon, I mean Gulliver, is doing, is that a crime?" Lester asked. "We could bring him up on accessory charges, maybe worse." "I know what you're up to," Lester said, breaking eye contact with Olsen, "and it isn't going to work. This has nothing to do with me." He tried to slither past Olsen, but she parked herself right in front of him, in his space, and reestablished eye contact. "What this has to do with you is that Gulliver is reluctant to talk about his life as Gordon Powers. We don't know why, but you were part of that life, whether you wanted to be or not." "I already told you what happened with his mother. I didn't know." "It was more than that. You were his teacher, and teachers have influence. My guess is that you had a pretty big influence on young Gordon." Lester shot Julie a disdainful look as if to say, "See what you did?" He gave Olsen his back and walked to another part of the room. "We want you to call Gulliver on the air," Olsen went on. "We think the caller and young Gordon knew each other, and we think you can get it out of him." Lester considered the plan. "On the air?" Olsen said, "Right. You'd have him trapped." "He could always hang up on me." "He won't, for two reasons." "And those are?" Olsen held up a finger. "Reason number one... his listeners. They're hooked, waiting every night for more calls from the tenth caller. The number of people who listen to his show is at an all-time high—not that Gulliver gives a damn about that—but we don't think he would turn his back on his audience." "Reason two?" Olsen looked at Lester squarely and said, "He needs your approval." Lester shook his head. "You're the father he never had, Mister Lester. He won't hang up on you." Lester was suddenly agitated, an emotional yo-yo again. A lifetime of trying to avoid responsibility had suddenly backfired, and it was as if a great burden had suddenly been thrust upon him. He turned in place, looking for an escape. Olsen didn't let him off the hook. "Tonight," she said sharply, all signs of girlish infatuation gone now. "Start out with, 'Someone we both know is killing people, Gordon.'"

9:00 p.m. Pacific Time; 11:00 p.m. Central Time. In Indiana, it was only an hour until Gulliver's nightly conversation with the maggotry. Julie grabbed his cell phone and stepped outside. His first call was to Bill Gilkey. "How's Dianne?"

"She hates me," Gilkey answered. Julie smiled. "Don't let it get you down. It's only a natural reaction to you." "Real funny." Julie looked at his watch. "Did she work her regular shift?" "Yeah, got home about an hour ago. She said she was going to take a shower and do some reading before bed. I offered to dry her off, but she said she could handle it on her own." "You wish." "Tell me, Hernandez, how'd you ever convince a hot number like that to hang out with a zero like you?" "She drinks heavily." "That explains it. I didn't think it was your incredible intellect." "It's not so incredible," said Julie. "I'd say my intellect is no more than seven inches long, eight at the most." Gilkey chuckled. "Seriously man, she's just fine. I've been with her all day." "Where are you now?" "Parked outside your building. The lights just went dark so she must have just hopped into bed. You might want to give her a call." "Thanks Jon-Jon." "Anytime sport. O'Brien should be here to relieve me in about an hour. What's happening at your end?" "I'm just standing around pulling my pud while Olsen is working on our man Lester." "How's she doing?" "Hot and cold. He's pretty tough, but she's pretty good at giving him some rope and yanking it back." "I've seen her in action," Gilkey responded. "It's like dangling a steak in front of a starving man. You think she'll get him on the air?" Julie looked through the window. Olsen and Lester were sitting on his couch, thighs touching, looking through some old Harbor High School yearbooks. "You'll know in a couple of hours," he answered. "Hope I can make it that long," said Gilkey. "I may need to take a power nap when O'Brien shows up. I'll give you a buzz when he checks in." "Do that," Julie said as he ended the call. He immediately called Dianne. "I'm fine," she said curtly, knowing it was him. "Are those two gorillas going to follow me around forever?" Cutting her no slack, "There is an alternative," Julie shot back. "I've said a dozen times that this might be a good time for you to take a little vacation." "That vacation could be forever, the way you guys are going." Her voice was shaking. "I'm scared, Julie, really scared. Do you really think you're going to catch this monster?" He had no answer to that, and she was right: taking a little vacation was tantamount to changing her life. He heard some noise in the background. "Do you have the radio on?" he asked, avoiding her question. "Yes." "Are you going to listen to the show?" "I wanted to see if you got Lester to call in." Feeling the guilt overtake him, "We're still working on it," Julie responded. He should have been the one protecting her, not Gilkey and O'Brien. "Get some sleep," he said. "I love you." "I love you too." "Okay," said Julie, and she hung up. His mind was whirling. His next call was to Fordrow. Although they'd made neither heads nor tails of it, the killer's last call had supposedly come from inside the station. Someone had to have made that call, and if it happened again, no one was leaving that station until they figured it out. Fordrow was at the station, or would be soon. Today, he was Gulliver's shadow. "This is Hernandez," he said quickly when Fordrow answered. "Where are you?" "In the car, freezing my rocks off. It must be ten below by now. How's it going on your end?" Julie peeked through the window again. "Olsen's doing her damndest. You got anything on your surveillance so far?" "Not a thing. If anyone has made contact with Gulliver today, it hasn't been in person. He hasn't been out all day. Then again, who would be in this weather? If he were to take a piss off his porch, it would freeze before it hit the ground." He'd really caught Fordrow in a mood. Not wanting to dwell on that last image, Julie asked, "Has Gilkey been checking in?" "Every hour on the hour, but wouldn't he and O'Brien be better off inside your apartment? Better yet, shouldn't your old lady be visiting some relatives in New Jersey or something?" "The answer to both those questions is yes, but she's adamant about not altering her normal routine." "She's as hard-headed as you are." Julie started to say something, but Fordrow cut him off, saying, "Listen, I'd love to stay and chat, but my man just came out of his splendid abode." "Headed for the station, I'd assume." "I wouldn't assume anything on this case, Hernandez. The trail to this killer is as cold as my hairy white ass." Julie thought: ugh.

9:50 p.m. Pacific Time. Lester pushed his half-eaten container of lo mein aside. Fidgeting, he got up and walked into the kitchen, coming back with nothing. Clearly, Daniel Lester had trouble making decisions. Sensing his ongoing reluctance, Olsen said, "Let's finish this."

Julie was leafing through the stack of yearbooks that sat on the coffee table, amused at the hairstyles and fashion trends of the time. The one he was holding was from 1970, a year before he was born, and two years after Gordon Powers had graduated from Harbor High School. "Lots of political crap going on back then," he commented. "It was Vietnam," Lester declared in a voice louder than necessary. "We were losing a hundred men a day in a war that wasn't worth fighting. How could there not have been a lot of political crap going on?" Julie had just touched a nerve. "I didn't mean anything by it." Olsen came over and sat on the couch. "Let's get back to what we were doing." She picked up the yearbook for the class of '68, Harbor High School's first graduating class. "We were talking about Gordon's friends, anyone that may have stood out." "Shouldn't you be talking about anyone who didn't stand out?" Julie interrupted. "Doesn't the profile describe someone who blended in, someone who harbored his resentment inside himself, to the point where he literally explodes into violence? Someone who feels the whole world has shit on him for some reason? Huh? Isn't that it?" Olsen stabbed him with a look. "We were getting there, Doctor Hernandez." "Well let's move it along and figure out who fit the damn profile. It's almost show time in Indiana." Olsen indicated the spot next to her. "Just make believe he's not here," she said to Lester. Lester took a seat, not without casting an annoyed look at Julie. Olsen spread the yearbook between them, her knee touching Daniel Lester's knee... to prop up the book... of course. Not knowing how much more of Olsen's charade he could take, Julie walked to the sliding glass doors and stared out at the smoke-colored ocean. Thundering unseen in the darkness, it roared rhythmically as each wave beat the sand into submission. He could only concentrate on the task at hand with half a mind; the other half was back home with Dianne. He hoped she sensed it. With Olsen and Lester talking in the background, their voices like the annoying buzz of summer locusts, Julie decided to take a walk and let Olsen do her job. Stepping out onto the short deck, he walked into the ankle-deep dune that had accumulated there and made his way toward the roiling Pacific. As he walked, he tried to link together the various aspects of the case. It was something he'd done a hundred times before, but no matter how hard he tried to look at each element from a different angle, he couldn't reach a different conclusion. The problem was that his conclusion didn't make sense, according to Olsen, who'd already dismissed it as not plausible. A cold, salty mist hit him in the face as if to say, "Wake up!" but wake up to what? To him, the idea that his hypothesis seemed impossible didn't necessarily make it wrong; it simply meant the analysis was incomplete. Many of the facts were missing, and those that weren't missing didn't line up straight enough for Olsen. Her problem was that she couldn't overcome her own limitations and figure out how to make what was seemingly implausible, plausible. To her, it was plausible only that Gulliver knew the caller's identity—something she was right about. She simply didn't know how right she was. A quarter of a mile down the beach, the cold mist turned into more of a drizzle, and Julie turned back toward the bungalow. As he made his way back, he tried to focus on what they didn't know: the missing answers that would tie this case up with a neat little bow. A lot of those missing answers revolved around the Santa Cruz connection. Howard Morgan had never been able to determine a time of death for Sister Salazar. She could have been dead a week, or a month, he'd said. The freezing process had prevented all deterioration, and while he was fairly certain that she'd died of asphyxiation, he couldn't determine if it happened before she was frozen, or as a result of having suffocated from lack of air as would happen if she were put into a small space like a freezer. He was pretty sure that the murder didn't happen in California, however. Sister Salazar had been hit with nitrous oxide, heavily and repeatedly, based on the amount that was still in her system. Hence came the theory that she'd not left Santa Cruz of her own accord. Then there was the riddle letter. It had been postmarked Monday, December 10th. If the killer had mailed it himself, it would place him in Santa Cruz on that day. If he didn't, it meant there was an accomplice. As he considered the possibilities, Julie replayed the scene of the delivery of that riddle letter in his head, and as he did so, he stopped. With the cold drizzle hitting him in the face, he replayed it again... and again... and again. He looked at his watch once more, barely able to make out the numbers. Friday, January 18th was almost over in Indiana, and he realized that he needed to leave California that very second. Their luck was about to change.

10:47 Pacific Time; 12:47 p.m. Central Time. "What the hell are you talking about, he left? Left for where?"

Olsen held the phone almost at arm's length; Bergmann's voice was that loud. "I don't know. He stepped out to take a walk on the beach and came back just after ten." "Then what?" "I don't know. I was busy with Lester and I didn't pay much attention." Bergmann said, "Shit." He mulled for a few seconds. "Any ideas?" "I think he's on his way back there. I remember him saying something about 'none of this shit matters anymore,' but like I said, I wasn't paying much attention." "Did you try calling him on his cell phone?" "Yeah. No answer." She could almost hear Bergmann's thick neck cracking on the other end of the line. "All I know is he was with the game plan one minute, and gone the next. He mumbled something about being set up from the very beginning and that we were wasting our time with Lester, and then he was gone." As punctuation, she added, "He took the rental car and left my ass here." "What about Lester?" Olsen turned and lowered her head, trying to keep her voice down. "I'm still working on him." "All the man's got to do is make a stinking phone call, for Christ's sake." "The man has issues, Chief. Let me handle it." "We've got to get him on the air tonight, Olsen. Do what you need to do to make that happen. Be charming for a change." Olsen looked at the phone and gave it the finger. "Assuming you're right and Hernandez is on his way back, where's the nearest airport?" Olsen cupped the phone and called to Daniel Lester, "Where's the nearest large airport to here?" Lester looked up, and, as if he'd heard the whole conversation, said, "San Fran is too far. He'd probably try San Jose first." So much for keeping Daniel Lester clueless. "Check San Jose." "Got it," said Bergmann. "Hurry up and get Lester on the air and get your butt back here. Who the hell knows where this is going now?" "Will do," Olsen responded. "Ah, Chief?" "What now?" "Are you in the office?" "You called me here." "Right. Remember the yearbook? Is it nearby?" "Probably on Hernandez's desk. Why?" "Get it, would you? And hurry." "Hold your shorts." Olsen waited until he was back on the line. "Got it. What's so hot-to-trot?" Olsen had the page memorized, its image clear in her head despite the fact that her copy of the yearbook was twenty feet away. "Flip to page fifty-eight. Do you see the group picture on the right, the one with the caption that says Talent Show?" "Yeah, so?" "See the kid on the far right, sitting down? "Yeah, so?" "Take a good look at the face." "Is that who I think it is?" "I think it is." "What's that sitting on his leg?" "I was hoping you could tell me." "It looks like a Howdy Doody puppet. I remember it from when I was a kid." "Hmm. I guess I was right. Take a guess as to where I'm going with this, Chief." Bergmann said, "I'll talk to you when you get back."

Saturday, January 19th...4:03 a.m. Central Time. After seven hours of surveillance glued to a car seat that was beginning to become part of his body, Fordrow nearly jumped out of his clothes when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. "Yeah," he said sleepily. He looked at the gas gauge, noting that he'd burned through half a tank since midnight, idling outside the studio with the heater running. The call wasn't what he expected.

"This is Hernandez. How you doin' out there?" "It's four o'clock in the morning and I'm still freezing my butt off, is how I'm doing. When are you gonna get your man Lester to call in?" Julie looked at his watch, which was still set on California time. "If Olsen hasn't gotten him to call by now, he probably won't." "Well go on in there and beat him into it," Fordrow said, semi-jokingly. "I would... if I could." Fordrow stiffened in his seat. Turning the radio down, he looked into the darkness and said, "You're not in California, are you Hernandez?" "Never mind that." "Never mind that 'never mind that' shit. Goddamn it, Hernandez. What are you up to?" "Gulliver's still at the station, right?" Fordrow glanced at the WXKO studio building, an inky blotch against a black background. Only the windows were distinct, two squares of light burning a sickly sallow color. "His voice is still on the radio, so I guess he's inside." "He'll be out of there when it's over. Don't let him out of your sight, Fordrow. You lose him, you call me. You got that?" Who was giving orders to whom here? Sensing that Hernandez really didn't care about harmonious working relationships right now, Fordrow said, "No problem," but that was hardly the case. Hernandez was off the game plan. The question was, why? Right now, he needed to keep track of Hernandez, possibly so he could send Gilkey after him and physically get him away from this case—that is if Hernandez was on his way back to Andersonville. It was anyone's guess. Fordrow said, "This is a team effort. I need to know where you are at all times, Hernandez." "As long as you have an eye on Gulliver, we're okay," Julie replied in a tone as cold as the air outside. "Listen, I don't know what you're trying to pull, but you could blow a hole in this case a mile wide." "We've already got one," Julie responded. Suddenly, Fordrow's attention shifted from his conversation with Hernandez back to the radio. Gulliver was talking to Daniel Lester. "Sounds like Olsen did it," he said quickly. "Are you near a radio?" "No. What's happening?" Fordrow turned up the volume and took the cell phone away from his ear. Gulliver's voice filled the car. "Of course I remember you. How could I ever forget?" "Am I someone you want to forget?" Lester asked. "That depends on why you're calling." "I'm calling to talk to Gordon." There was a long, tentative silence, but Gulliver's voice came back. Lester had him for now, but the whole thing could blow away with the Indiana wind. "Gordon's not here," said Gulliver. "Yes he is," Lester countered. "Tell him there's someone who wants to talk to him." Fordrow put the phone to his ear and said, "Are you there, Hernandez?" "I'm here," Julie responded. "She's brilliant." "Are you talking about Olsen?" "Of course I'm talking about Olsen. Treating Gulliver and Gordon the same way the tenth caller does: absolutely brilliant." "Okay, it's brilliant. Now put a sock in it." "No one wants to talk to Gordon," Gulliver spat disdainfully. "No one ever wanted to talk to Gordon." "I have someone here who does," said Lester. "Will Gordon talk to her?" "Her?" "Yes, her. Is Gordon there?" "NO!" Gulliver screamed. "Gordon is not here! No one wants to talk to Gordon. Gordon is dead!" "Gordon is not dead," said Daniel Lester, his voice amazingly controlled. "Tell him Miranda Harrison wants to talk to him." "Who the hell is Miranda Harrison?" Fordrow asked. Julie said, "Shut the fuck up and find out."

2:05 a.m. Pacific Time. Gulliver said, "I don't know any Miranda Harrison."

Olsen was sitting on Lester's sofa, close to him, her ear to the same handset he was using. The last phrase struck her and she grabbed his arm. Lester covered the mouthpiece. "Is that Gulliver talking, or is that Gordon talking?" she whispered. Lester nodded. "Sure you do. I remember how you wanted to take her to your senior prom, how you thought the other kids she was hanging out with were bad for her." "I never told you that." Olsen grabbed Lester's arm again and mouthed the word, "Gordon." "Yes you did... Gordon. We talked about it, about how she used to tease you to make herself look cool in front of the other kids. You said you weren't fooled, that you knew she liked you. Don't you remember how you were going to ask her to the prom before that other boy did? What was his name?" There was a pause on the line, and a quarter of a million citizens of Gulliver's nocturnal world were deathly still in their place. Some seconds later, Gulliver said into the phone and into the airwaves, "His name was Ben Adams, and he was on the football team, but you're mistaken Mister Lester. We talked about a lot of things, but we never talked about Miranda." Did the voice just change? Olsen asked herself, noting the words 'Mister Lester.' Who was talking, Gulliver or Gordon? "Then how would I know about all that?" Lester went on. "You must have found out when you were fucking my mother." Lester dropped the phone and the tan drained from his face. Quickly, Olsen picked it up, knowing that in the blink of an eye the secret he'd been keeping for thirty-five years had been revealed to thousands of total strangers and the life he was so intent on protecting could be over as he knew it. He'd be neck deep in the sensationalism of the case within hours. She listened as Gordon—and it was Gordon, she knew now—went on. "Mother was the one who told me not to give up on her, that she would eventually see what a nice boy I was. I should never have listened to Mother." Lester sank away on the sofa, his hands covering his face as if cameras were already trained on him. It had taken her hours to get him to the point where he could even make the call, and now the man had turned into emotional mush. Going on instinct, Olsen decided to move forward without him. "Your mother was right, Gordon. I made a mistake listening to all those other kids. I should have realized what a smart, caring person you were, and I should never have made fun of you the way I did. Can you ever forgive me?" "Who is this?" "This is Miranda, and I've come back to talk to you." "This isn't Miranda." "Yes it is." "No it isn't. Miranda is dead." Olsen felt her heart skip a beat. "I know who this is," Gulliver continued. "It's the lady cop, isn't it? I recognize your voice. Where's your friend Detective Hernandez?" The voice had changed again, a subtlety very few others would have picked up on. Having no other choice, Olsen continued with the bizarre exchange. "He's here with me and Mister Lester," she answered, not knowing what else to say. She looked around, hoping Julie would suddenly materialize from behind the couch or something. She realized that she'd gotten too wrapped up in it all, that she should have been more aware of what her partner was doing. It all went through her head in a millisecond. "Good. Keep him there." The line went dead and Olsen wondered who'd just hung up the phone.

7:25 a.m. Central Time; 5:25 a.m. Pacific Time. "Where did he go when he left the studio?" Bergmann asked.

It was three below zero outside, and Fordrow was still wearing his winter jacket. Yawning, he said, "He went straight home, no deviations, didn't stop at GO to collect his two hundred dollars." "And he's still there now?" "As far as I know. I've got Gilkey on him while O'Brien is with Ms. DeMarco." "Have you talked to him?" "Gilkey? Yeah, just a few minutes ago. He says it's all quiet; he figures Gulliver's asleep." It sounded like all the bases were covered. "He's acting like nothing ever happened," said Bergmann. Fordrow yawned again. It was his forty-first hour without sleep. An officer from the outer office came in and said, "We faxed your request only twenty minutes ago. Looks like they're on it." He handed Fordrow a three page return fax. Fordrow looked at it and froze. Bergmann said, "What is it?" "It's a missing person's report from 1969. Miranda Harrison." "Goddamn," Bergmann exclaimed as he started mentally connecting the dots. The places where Gulliver had lived and worked were matching up with an ever-growing list of dead people. The phone rang. It was Olsen, and Bergmann didn't bother with any niceties. "Where the hell are you?" He put the phone on speaker. "San Fran airport. I should be in Indianapolis somewhere around three if everything runs on time and I don't fall asleep on my feet. What's up there?" "We just got a fax from the Santa Cruz PD. We're getting to be real good friends with them." "And?" "It's a missing person's report." "Let me guess: Miranda Harrison. Can we talk about what's wrong with this picture?" Dressed in a bulky winter sweater, Bergmann pulled it off and threw it across the room. With the phone in his ear, he sank into his chair as beads of perspiration blossomed on his forehead. Olsen hung on in silence while he mentally churned through the facts. "You know what's really bothering me?" he said. "If this string of murders goes back to the sixties, and if Gulliver and the killer know each other, do you think these on-air calls are the first time Gulliver's heard from him?" "Not a chance. This guy wouldn't be able to resist making Gulliver—or, more accurately, Gordon—part of his play group." "That's what I think too." Bergmann gave Fordrow a smug little grin, but then took on a confused look. "But it doesn't make any sense." "What doesn't?" "There were two murders in Chicago off the DNA check, right?" Olsen said, "Right." "And three in New York...." "Two in D.C., and the three here... I mean there. Where are you going with this, Chief?" "Our premise is that the killer is someone who's known Gulliver from back in the day. How plausible is it that this someone has been following him around for well over thirty years? I mean, even if Gulliver were protecting someone, would he do it for that long? Could he do it for that long?" "If so, he's as guilty as the killer. More than likely, the killer can't help himself. What's Gulliver's excuse?" Bergmann bought a moment by digging in his ear with a pen cap. "I think our premise is on shaky ground." Olsen didn't say anything. "You there?" "I'm here, but not for long. They're starting to board the plane." "In your conversation with Daniel Lester, did you go through the profiling thing on Gulliver's classmates?" "I did." "How many of them did you discuss?" "We went through a couple of yearbooks, picture by picture." "And if you were to paint anyone as fitting the profile—you know, someone who felt persecuted, withdrawn, the loner type—who would it be?" "Honestly?" "No, Olsen, I want you to lie to me." "Oddly enough, the person who matched up best with the profile would be young Gordon himself." Bergmann and Fordrow looked at each other and Olsen added, "Of course, that's only my opinion." Bergmann took a beat. "Get your butt on that plane. We'll talk about this again when you get back this afternoon." "Chief, there's one more thing." "I thought you had to go." "I do, so listen up. That missing person's report on Miranda Harrison?" "What about it?" "That's just it: it's a missing person's report, not a homicide report." Fordrow's eyes got all twinkly, and he suddenly seemed very awake despite his fatigue. Speaking for the first time, he said, "Didn't Gulliver say Miranda Harrison was dead?" "That's what's wrong with the picture. How would he know that?" Bergmann said, "That's a good question." Olsen said, "Listen, I really gotta go. I'll talk to you guys later." "That's a damned good question," said Fordrow. "And one that we need the answer to," Bergmann concluded. "Do you think we've got enough to get a search warrant on Gulliver's place?" Fordrow was right with him. "How about a DNA check?" They locked eyes. "How do you think he's pulling it off?" Bergmann asked. "I don't know. Maybe there's an accomplice." Bergmann got up and retrieved his sweater. "We need to regroup. Olsen should be here this afternoon. You find Gilkey. I'll find a judge." Fordrow said, "Right. You heard from Hernandez?" "No. You?" Fordrow shook his head. "Not since four o'clock this morning. He pulled his cell phone and looked up the number. "Hernandez, this is Fordrow. We need you to check in. Call me, or call the Chief... now!" "Voicemail?" Fordrow nodded. Bergmann said, "Shit."

7:53 a.m. The investigators had an itch, and they were scratching it nonstop now. They still had nothing hard on him, but the chain of circumstantial evidence was building. They knew another body would be found soon, and they knew who it was going to be, but they'd be powerless to stop him. That wasn't to say that he didn't need to be careful. Never before had he telegraphed his intent so blatantly. Looking back, he wondered now if the episode at the mall was his fatal mistake, the fatal mistake that took down all serial killers. He wondered further if it was intentional, as many psycho-analyzers maintained. He didn't think so, if only because the sexual rush that came with the killing hadn't gone away. On the contrary, he'd found that playing with people's minds heightened it. This next one would be supreme ecstasy, and he was looking forward to it as much as he'd looked forward to any he'd had over the years.

Normally, getting the victim into the right circumstances was fairly easy. He could see that there'd be no such maneuvering with Ms. DeMarco, however. While he'd predicted that she'd try and maintain her normal routine, he doubted seriously that he'd get a chance to be alone with her now. The element of surprise had been taken away, and she'd be wary of any new presences in her life—her police protectors included. There was no way she'd put herself in a position where she'd be alone with someone she didn't know. In this sense, the challenge was formidable, but the investigators were making it even more so. Individually, he could outwit any of them, but their combined efforts were proving to be troublesome. On top of that, Gulliver was proving to be the fool he'd always been. He knew the investigators would be digging into his background. How could he not have anticipated Daniel Lester's call? Falling apart on the air the way he did was inexcusable, and he'd pay dearly for that mistake. But the Gulliver issue could wait. Right now, the moment had come to put all issues to the side and concentrate on the task at hand, which was Ms. Dianne DeMarco. What an incredible stroke of luck it was that both Olsen and Hernandez had gone to California when certainly Olsen could have handled the job alone. He picked up an encrypted cell phone whose number was unlisted and registered to one of his many aliases. It was virtually untraceable. He dialed the station and waited through the phone prompts until someone picked up. "Andersonville police, Officer Nutley speaking." "Yes, I need to talk to Detective Hernandez. I went through to his extension a couple of minutes ago and got his voice mail. Is he there?" Officer Nutley was quite helpful. "He's in California. Can someone else help you?" "Who's there?" "I dunno. Lemme look." A moment passed. "Detective O'Brien's on duty, but I ain't seen him either, and Detective Wegman is off today." "Is Chief Bergman there?" "Yeah, but he's on the phone. Who is this?" "This is Councilman Harris, of the township committee." "Oh, good morning Councilman. You're up early on a Saturday. I didn't recognize your voice." And none of them ever would. "Is there anything I can help you with?" "I don't think so. I got a call from some newspaper, you know, calling about that murder investigation?" "Got you too, huh? They call here all the time." "Well, I didn't want to say anything unless I talked to Detective Hernandez first." "I understand, but neither Detectives Hernandez or Olsen are here. They're both still in California." "When will they be back?" "I'm not sure exactly, but I know Detective Olsen called in from the San Francisco airport about half an hour ago. I guess that means it'll be a while. You wanna hold for Chief Bergmann?" He needed to cut this short. "That's okay. Just shoot me through to Hernandez's voicemail again and I'll leave him a message. This can wait until he gets back." So, both Hernandez and Olsen were still gone. He went online and checked the flight schedules, which he almost knew by memory. There were several flights on various airlines from San Francisco to Indianapolis, none direct, that departed before one a.m., at which time the airport closed down until six the next morning. If Olsen had called in from there half an hour ago as the polite Officer Nutley had said, obviously she and Hernandez hadn't made any of the earlier flights. He checked the arrival times, and they all arrived sometime in the afternoon, depending on the connection. Hernandez and Olsen were gone. The window of opportunity had arrived, or Ms. DeMarco's time had come, depending on how one wanted to look at it.

9:31 a.m. What would she normally be doing on a Saturday morning? Would she rise early, pour herself into some black spandex and jog around the neighborhood? Or, would she languish lazily in bed until her partner woke her with an anticipatory morning erection? Neither would take place today, he surmised. The only morning erection would be his own, and no one in their right mind would be jogging in this weather. Indeed, there was hardly a soul on the streets. He squeezed himself through his trousers and turned the heater down. He didn't need it. He was wide-awake and warm from his own blood flow.

The weather was proving to be to his advantage. Anyone indoors would tend to stay there. Anyone outdoors was conspicuous, and tended to move quickly through the numbing cold. Indeed, he would never have noticed the car parked down the street from his apartment if it hadn't been for the constant stream of vapor oozing from its tailpipe, especially since it changed locations a couple of times. Good surveillance work; one of the FBI boys undoubtedly. The locals wouldn't have bothered with the repositioning. He noticed the car parked outside building number two—her building—also with a steady exhaust flow misting into the freezing air. He didn't recognize the car's occupant, but he was clearly a cop, more than likely a local from the looks of his double chin. The car looked to be a standard issue unmarked Ford. Ms. DeMarco was costing the town money, no doubt at the insistence of Detective Hernandez. Dropping his binoculars on the seat, he turned off his engine and stepped into the freezing air. Barely above zero, it was like a stinging body slap, needles of cold that penetrated the thickest clothing. His erection faded instantly. He hiked his collar and pulled his hat low on his forehead, wrapping his thick scarf so that he was a walking mummy. His disguise would actually look normal. His ears froze in seconds despite their coverings. No one would be out in this weather unless they had to be. He wondered about her work schedule at the department store. She normally worked a weekend shift, but the hours varied. He'd know shortly if it was an early Saturday shift. There'd be no other reason to leave the apartment. He was careful to take a wide arc around the complex, keeping to the public sidewalk at the edge of Glenn View Circle. He'd raise no suspicion at that distance in the event that Mister Double Chin spotted him. It took about five minutes to reach the other side of the complex so that he could get a view of the building from the opposite side. He noticed that a light was on, a bedroom light he speculated from the double windows. The balcony nearby was accessed by a sliding door, which undoubtedly was off the living room. She was inside, he concluded, and Mister Double Chin wasn't a ruse. There was a back entrance to the building, or, more precisely, a back exit, for there were no handles on the outside of the doors there. It had to be a fire exit, the doors controlled by panic bars from the inside. Hence, there was only one entrance, and he'd have to get past Mister Double Chin if this was going to happen today. He retraced his steps, noticing that the day was becoming even more overcast. Pausing behind one of the huge, leafless oaks slapping itself in the breeze, he determined that all looked as it had ten minutes earlier. He'd never been careless when the moment came, and he was becoming quite sure by the resurging bulge in his pants that it was coming closer. As he thought about it, the idea came to him that taking her in the presence of police protection could be his culminating moment, even more of an insult to them than Sister Salazar had been. He imagined Ms. DeMarco's warm, soft body, and he felt a wave move over him, the beads of perspiration that broke out on his skin freezing instantly, but doing nothing to quell the fire building within him. He had to have her. He had to touch that flawless, tender skin, and he could almost feel her quiver beneath the cold steel of the knife. He'd have to deal with Mister Double Chin.

9:57 a.m. Six miles away, Bill Gilkey answered his cell phone. "No, all's quiet; lights out, SUV is still in the driveway. He's probably sleeping... Whatd'ya mean, detain him?... No shit. How'd you wangle a search warrant?... Right, got'cha. See you in twenty minutes."

Gilkey scratched his head. Something big was coming down, and he wondered if this was the break they'd been digging for. He waited until Fordrow pulled up to the old clapboard structure a few houses down at 32 Mason Street. Description: low rent. Quickly, he turned off his engine and hoofed it down the street, thinking it was way too cold for an Atlanta boy. He and Fordrow greeted each other only by virtue of their eyes meeting. They bounded up the old wooden steps and clunked across the worn porch planks, not caring if they woke Gulliver's ass out of bed or not. Fordrow pushed the doorbell while Gilkey scrambled around to the back of the building. "Open up," Fordrow called. "FBI." Pound, pound, pound. Instinctively, Fordrow's hand came to rest on the compact 10mm Glock model 29 nestled under his armpit. Pound, pound, pound. He waited. "Mister Gulliver," he called awkwardly. Then, he remembered the name on the search warrant read Gordon Powers. "Mister Powers. This is Special Agent Fordrow of the FBI. Please open up." He turned the doorknob and it was swept out of his hand. Gilkey stood there, his weapon by his side. "I don't think he's here, man." Fordrow jagged his head at the dark colored Isuzu Rodeo in the driveway. "You sure?" "Doesn't look like it. There's not much to search." They stepped inside and shut the door against the icebox outside. The building had been subdivided decades ago, and the apartment consisted of a fairly large living room, a small but workable kitchen, a dining area, and a single bedroom. A cursory check revealed that they were the only people there. Fordrow said, "Is there a basement?" They made a visual sweep and noted a door off the hallway. Sure enough, the dank smell of an old, musty cellar smacked them in the face as soon as they opened it. Fordrow pulled the string on an overhead light fixture, and a single bare bulb threw off a weak, gray light. Some dilapidated wooden steps disappeared into darkness, and an old oil furnace cranked away somewhere down there, sounding like a snoring dragon. Fordrow put his foot down, and the step groaned. The gray light got darker as he moved down, and he touched the jagged foundation wall to steady himself. He took out his Glock, and for a second he had recollections of his army days as a patrol leader doing building-to-building searches in Panama. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a shape seemed to float from the obscurity. It was large, and light colored, on the far side of the cellar about twenty feet away. Something tickled his forehead and he went to brush it away, thinking it was a spider web. Behind him, Gilkey whispered, "What's up down there?" Fordrow realized the spider web was another string, and he pulled it. More gray light spilled into the cellar, barely penetrating the darkness. The walls were of century-old stone and cement, and the floor of the basement was no floor, at least not at the foot of the stairs. There it was dirt, old, oily dirt that smelled like asphalt mixed with piss. Off to the side, the groaning furnace sat on a crumbling slab of concrete, as did a rust-coated oil tank against the far wall. Next to the tank was another slab, much newer, however, and there sat the object that had caught Fordrow's attention. He waved Gilkey down from the top of the stairs. Gilkey clunked down the stairs and stopped. "God almighty," he said as he put away his pistol. He walked over and joined Fordrow at the freezer. It was large enough to hold a body the size of Sister Salazar's, no problem. A hasp and padlock protected its contents. "That's going to an awful lot of trouble to protect some deer meat." "I'd bet a paycheck there's no deer meat in there. We're gonna need some bolt cutters." Gilkey already had his cell phone in hand. "While we're at it, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to get forensics in here to go over the inside of that thing. Who knows what we'll find?" "I'll give you one guess," said Fordrow.

10:05 a.m. Dianne frowned when the phone rang. Damn it, she thought. First Gilkey, and now O'Brien calling what seemed to be every ten minutes. Pausing, she looked at the caller ID. Sure enough, it was one of the numbers on Julie's "authorized list." It was like they were punishing her for trying to lead a normal life, but what else was she supposed to do? She couldn't just pack up and put her life on hold. For one thing, there was her job. As menial as it was, she needed it. With her class schedule changing each semester, it was the one job flexible enough to change with it. The last ten days had been murder, she reflected, but she failed to laugh at her own pun. She pushed a button on the handset and walked to the window. O'Brien's car was still smack in front of the entrance, just as Gilkey's had been all night. They were on her like green on grass—and she knew that with Special Agent Gilkey that could been as literal as it was figurative—but their dedication was as much from respect to Julie as it was anything else. They'd never live with themselves if something happened on their watch. Perhaps this was a good time to get away after all. She knew Julie and Chief Bergmann would never let anything happen to her, but she also knew that the protection couldn't last indefinitely. Besides, what was she trying to prove? Nothing like having a serial murderer after you to make you see life more clearly.

"It's ten a.m.," she said into the phone. "Do you know where your pain-in-the-ass guardian angel is?" "Just doing my job," O'Brien shot back. "If your job is to make me feel like a prisoner on my own home, then you're doing a pretty good job of it." "I've got my orders," O'Brien said coolly. "You got a problem with that, you gotta take it up with the chief or your boyfriend. Is everything all right?" "This is all so childish." "Okay, it's childish. Does that mean everything is all right?" Dianne sighed. "Everything's fine. Are you hungry?" she asked as an afterthought. "And cold," O'Brien replied. "Is that colder that a witch's tit, or colder than the balls on a brass monkey?" O'Brien chuckled. "I'll always remember that last Christmas party. Your boyfriend said a witch's tit was colder. I had five bucks on the brass monkey." "C'mon in. I'll make you some breakfast." "I must be growing on you." "Like a fungus, but it's better than having you out there making me feel like a bug under a microscope. What do you want for breakfast?" "Hot coffee and warm buns." Dianne grinned. "The coffee I can give you, but my buns are taken." "Story of my life," O'Brien said as he stepped from the car. Inside, he was finishing his third cup of coffee and his second cinnamon bun when the phone rang. Tightening the belt on her fuzzy robe as she scooted across the room, Dianne's face brightened as soon as she heard the voice. "I'm so glad you're back," she said, "but I think you're right. Maybe this would be a good time for me to get away for a while, even if it's only for a few days... No, everything's fine, and Collin is right here with me. We were just having passionate sex when you called." O'Brien chuckled as she handed him the phone. "It's Julie." "I've had better," he said, blushing right through his rosy Irish skin. Dianne shot him a you wish look as she grabbed the plates and disappeared. "Naw, everything's fine. Haven't been any strangers in or out of the building all night, according to Gilkey. Same thing with me... Damn right, it's colder than a witch's tit... Really?... No, that's fine. I'll check in at the station and probably grab some sleep myself... Right... Fine... Catch up to you whenever." Dianne reappeared. "He's already checked in at the station and is only fifteen minutes away. You'll have to suffer through the rest of this beautiful day without me." Dianne walked over and put a hand on O'Brien's arm. "Thank you, Collin. As much as I hate to say it, I feel better when you're around." O'Brien patted her hand and said, "Listen, I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but this really would be a good time for you to get away, even if it's only across town. If it's a place to stay that you need...." Dianne gave him a hug and said, "Thanks Collin. I promise I won't be a sitting duck any longer. You'll have to catch this creep without me being the bait."

10:47 a.m. So, Mister Double Chin was leaving. Quickly, he scanned the parking area and noted that a replacement hadn't shown up yet. His opportunity may have just arrived, he thought, but surely after having made the decision to give Ms. DeMarco around-the-clock protection, the investigators wouldn't suddenly just leave her alone. What did this mean? His first notion was that she'd put up a stink and said that she'd had enough of this protection thing. That would me most like her, but the investigators wouldn't care about that. The second notion was that he was being decoyed. Mister Double Chin's leaving could be a setup. He looked around. Had he been detected?

"Have a nice day," he said to the departing vehicle. Mister Double Chin may have just saved his own life. His heart was thumping now, as was his cock. He was torn, the urge to have her fighting with his sense of caution. She was up there, all alone, and he'd need to move quickly if the time had come, but this was no time to get careless. He weighed his options. Getting into the apartment would be no problem. He gripped the handle of the knife next to him next to him on the seat and visualized her in the shower. He'd been fondling that knife handle for the last four hours and it felt comfortable in his hand. Her blood would be a river of red down the drain of that shower, and her skin would turn smoky gray, the color of a soulless body. Ever cautious, he dropped his rented minivan into drive and pulled into the spot just vacated by Mister Double Chin. The weather could be his ally. People were nesting, leaving anything that involved going outdoors to be done later. The rented minivan had an outside temperature readout, and he noted that it had shot up to three above. He started to rethink his options. Like him, people were probably looking out their windows, checking out the weather. The fact that no one was out could make him stand out. Not only that, but, knowing Hernandez, there was little doubt there'd be a gun in the apartment, and under the right circumstances there was little doubt she'd use it. The urge within him was overcoming him quickly. He'd prepared himself to wait the entire weekend for ultimate fulfillment, skulking within range and camouflaged against the background of her life, and this unanticipated opening was causing him some angst. He eased back out of the parking spot, deciding that sitting in front of the building would be too conspicuous. He'd pick a less noticeable spot and wait for a few minutes to see if Mister Double Chin came back. If not, he'd need move quickly. The window of opportunity wouldn't stay open for long. Then, when he had his prize, he'd call Gulliver, that asshole, and show him that he meant what he'd said.

11:27 a.m. The minivan moved from one side of the parking lot to the other just as Julie pulled in. His angle was from behind so it was impossible to see the driver in the dusky light, and no one came out when it repositioned itself at the far end of the lot. It just sat there, spewing exhaust vapor. Odd. He didn't like odd things, not now, and not around Dianne. He kept his eye on the van for about five minutes and picked up his cell phone. His first call went directly to Olsen's voice mail, which meant she was probably on a plane. He hesitated before making the next call, but he'd already told O'Brien that he was back in town and O'Brien had no doubt already relayed the news to Bergmann. He knew he'd have to talk to Bergmann sooner or later, and he dialed the number.

"Yeah." "This is Julie." "You're back, I hear." Good old O'Brien. "I just pulled into the parking lot at my apartment. Figured I'd catch a few z's, if that's okay with you." A stone cold silence hung there. "You there, Chief?" "We have a lot to talk about." "Such as?" He could have gone all day without saying that. "For starters, why you left an assignment without letting your partner know where you were going. You're lucky you're not here right now, Hernandez. I might have trouble keeping my foot from finding its way up your butt." "I can explain." "No, you can't. You stay with your girlfriend until I tell you otherwise. You got that?" "But—" "No buts. I have half a mind to suspend your skinny ass." "I was of no use out there, Chief. Olsen had everything under control. Listen, I think I know—" "I don't give a fat flying shit what you think. You violated basic procedure, Hernandez." Then, hesitating, Bergmann stopped ranting. "You know what? There's a lot of shit up in the air right now, I'm tired, and I don't feel like screwing around with you. You stay put until I decide whether to bring you up to speed on what's happening, or bust you down to patrol." Julie didn't say a word. "Olsen's plane will be in somewhere around three. I'll call you when I hear from her." Click. Julie pushed the stop button on his cell phone. He was at the end of the rope with Bergmann, but he too had other things to worry about. Eyeing the minivan, he punched up his home number, expecting an onslaught of Where the hell are you? questions from Dianne, but there was no need for her to know about the minivan right now. Maybe someone was just warming it up. The phone rang, and rang again, until the answering machine in his apartment kicked in on the eighth ring. Keeping his eye on the van, Julie waited another five minutes and tried again. Hmm. Long shower maybe. Debating his next move, he suddenly he noticed the minivan's exhaust, or lack of it. He knew that once an engine was hot the vapor plume dissipated, but there were always a few visible white puffs burping into atmosphere in when it got really cold. There were none now, however, which meant the engine wasn't running. He tried to connect his observations: Dianne didn't answer the phone, the minivan was dormant, and suddenly a pain shot through his chest. He ripped the Glock from his shoulder holster and flung his door open, twanging it on its hinges. Sprinting the entire length of the parking lot to the minivan on the opposite end, he recklessly yanked on the driver's side door, not caring who or what was inside. It was open; nothing there. His panic escalated. He turned, Glock ready, and sprinted back toward his building. The cold air stung his face, but he could have been running into a flamethrower for all he cared. He pulled his keys, knowing the whole time what he might find when he got there.

11:58 a.m. Someone had been there. He felt it. Still holding the Glock, Julie sank onto the sofa and suffered through a gush of emotion. He'd screwed up big time, but there had to be a way to use this to his advantage. Something had to point him in the right direction. He felt another wave move over him and he forced himself to hold it in, even if it caused him to explode. Deal with it, he told himself, but he didn't know which to deal with: the despair of Dianne being in the grasp of a homicidal maniac, of the self-doubt of being outwitted by a disturbed mind. Either way, her blood would be on his hands if he didn't find her, and even if he somehow managed to save her, the emotional distress on her could be permanent. He may have just ended the one relationship that had ever meant anything to him.

He holstered his pistol and started looking at the surroundings in a different light than he'd ever looked at them before. This was a crime scene now, and he needed to put his emotions to the side. For the first time in his life, he found himself questioning whether he could do that. Bergmann was right: he should have been off this case as soon as they'd learned that Dianne was a target. Julie forced himself to concentrate. Stop freezing at the wheel and find some answers. Think. Look at the evidence. Surely there was evidence. Where would it be? He stood in the living room, thinking something was different. He couldn't tell what, exactly; perhaps it was the air itself. He forced himself to focus. Usually, the apartment was tidy. He'd made the comment more than once that living with Dianne was like living in a department store showroom. He was glad for that now as his eyes moved from object to object, looking for something out of place, something left behind, something that would confirm what he already sensed. He noticed that one end of the coffee table had been moved recently. It was less than an inch, but the original carpet impressions were still sharp. Had there been a struggle? Maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Perhaps Dianne had simply gone to the gym. Sometimes she did that on Saturdays. He went to the bedroom. Unlike him—he wore the same workout clothes until they stood up on their own—she washed hers after each use and folded them neatly into a dresser drawer with a pile of other stretchy, multicolored articles. She even had different shoes. He went to the closet, spotting three pair lined up on the shoe rack there, but that told him nothing. He had no idea how many she owned. He gave up on the workout angle and stood in the middle of the room, the room where he'd made love to Dianne countless times before. He took a deep breath. The room had two odors that he remembered, one being that of his smelly running shoes, which, again, he used constantly and never bothered to put away. The second was vanilla. Dianne liked vanilla, and it came from various sources, including a little dish of potpourri that she kept atop the dresser, and candles. He liked the candles. She lit them often, and in the wee hours when the building was asleep and darkness shrouded everything inside and out, the glow from those candles danced against her golden skin as he kissed it, here, there, and there again, inhaling her along with the vanilla scent. Now, neither aroma stood out as distinct, and the air seemed pungent and nauseating. He heard the constant hum of the heating unit as it labored against the outside freeze, but the circulating air did nothing to diminish the sickening aroma. Maybe it was his imagination. He moved from the bedroom to the kitchen and noted that the light on the combination wall phone/answering machine was blinking. Quickly, he pushed the play button, but there was no message as if someone had called and hung up after the greeting was given. He checked the stored numbers on the caller ID, noting that the last call had come from his own cell phone, which he'd placed minutes earlier, but the next to last call had come from Dianne's cell phone. His heart thumped. Why would she have called the apartment if she knew he was out of town? Why wouldn't she have called him on his cell phone? Something wasn't right. He hit the return call button and a second later a familiar ringtone chimed weakly in the silence. For a moment, he thought it was his own cell phone, but that was secured to his belt and it wasn't ringing. The notes chimed again and he realized it was Dianne's cell phone, the one he was calling. Stepping from the kitchen, he felt the blood rushing through his veins in torrents. The phone chimed twice more, but he couldn't determine where it was coming from. It stopped. His call had gone to voice mail. He dialed again. Sure enough, the phone chimed faintly in the background. It was coming from the bedroom. He retraced his steps and the ringtone grew louder, but it was still faint, muffled somehow. His senses keen, he zeroed in, feeling the prickly itch of perspiration on his back. It was coming from underneath the bed, he realized now, and he dropped to his knees. The first thing he came across was his old softball mitt. He had no idea how it got there and he fired it into the wall. The cell phone chimed again and he noticed a lump across from where he was searching. The lump turned out to be Dianne's handbag, and he pulled it gingerly from beneath the bed. The cell phone chimed one final time and, again, the call went to voice mail. His brain started churning on the subject of how Dianne's handbag ended up under the bed. Perhaps there really had been a struggle, and suddenly his knees buckled at the thought of Dianne trying to fight off a maniacal attacker. He fought the surge of emotion that flooded him, and tears formed once more as he punished himself for not having foreseen what he was imagining. It was his fault. He was all ego and testosterone, a fact that had been told to him a thousand times, and now he had to pay for his arrogance, but it was worse than that. It was Dianne who was paying, and he would have switched places with her in a minute if he could have. Julie pulled the cell phone from the specially designed pocket in her handbag. He remembered how happy she'd been when she'd purchased that handbag, one of the many designer items she'd snagged as soon as it hit the clearance tables down at the department store. The bag had many special pockets and sleeves and features, she'd explained to him as if he cared: one for the phone, one for lipstick, one for change, one for keys.... That's when he noticed that Dianne's car keys were missing.

12:27 p.m. Getting in had been no problem. He'd had the keys for a month, and in that time he'd been able to ascertain which one fit the deadbolt on her front door, as well as which one fit the front security door to the building. He'd been careful when he tested those keys two weeks earlier, a story at the ready in case an inquiring neighbor stumbled upon him as he tried to get in. He was a fellow graduate student with Dianne, he would have said with a sheepish smile, and they were working together on a paper, which she'd forgotten. Now, she was stuck at work, he needed a copy, the paper was due... blah, blah, blah. "She gave me her keys so I could pick it up, but I'm afraid I've forgotten which one fits the door. I'm sure it's one of these." There were several options he could have exercised had an objection been raised, including killing the neighbor. None of them had been necessary, however. No one had bothered him in the slightest, and as such there had been no alert to either the delectable Ms. DeMarco or the suspicious Detective Hernandez that a friend of theirs had been observed entering their residence.

The apartment had been warm on that first visit. The rooms were full of knickknacks and stuffed animals, lending an air of hominess to the place. That had to be her doing. Outside of a pile of wrinkled workout clothes on the floor of his closet, the only evidence that Detective Hernandez lived there were the pictures, lots of them, and it was clear from his smiles in all those pictures that he adored Ms. DeMarco. She looked heavier in some of those pictures, which meant she must have lost some weight recently. He stared at one picture in particular, one of her in a bathing suit, and he felt a stir in his genitals as he held it. He ran his fingers over the glass, as he would run his fingers over her skin. His cock throbbed as he fantasized about how soft and fragrant that skin would be, like warm cream. He smiled wickedly, thinking about what he'd do to her when the time came. One's not enough, and three are too many. Fully aroused, he'd taken a pair of her panties from her lingerie drawer, lacy ones with the aroma of potpourri floating from them, and he'd rubbed his cock with them. The silky fabric was a lubricant, sliding up and down on his rock-hard organ until he came in them. He wanted to put those panties back that way, but thought better of it and put them in his pocket. Now, he looked to his right and checked on Ms. DeMarco. Drugged and bound in duct tape, she was sitting limp on the passenger seat of her own little blue Miata. The timing couldn't have worked out any better, and he was glad that he'd been forced to change his plan. Sometimes things just worked out. The satisfaction of having abducted the lovely Ms. DeMarco right under the nose of Detective Hernandez made the deed doubly satisfying, and exhilarating to say the least. It was like two ships passing in broad daylight. Hah! What fun it was, but nothing compared with the fun yet to come. He felt his cock respond once more, but his pleasure would have to wait. First, he needed to get some sleep. He'd leave his calling card on her soon enough.

3:47 p.m. "Where is Hernandez?"

"How the hell do I know? It wasn't my turn to watch him." "Have you talked to him?" "Not since yesterday." Olsen made a face. "What's going on now?" Bergmann turned and faced the wall. The back of his shirt looked as if he'd slept in it, which he had. She leveled a gaze at Fordrow. "What's with the third degree?" Fordrow said, "Hernandez has dropped off the radar again. We can't raise him on his cell phone and there's no answer at his apartment." Olsen dropped her eyes and she knew why Bergmann had turned away. Hernandez was out of control, and not having a handle on his actions or his whereabouts was like playing Russian roulette with someone else's life. Who knew what crazy thoughts were bouncing around inside his head? The fact that Dianne looked to be the next intended victim should have precluded Julie's continuation on the case, and it was a decision Bergmann or Fordrow should have faced up to. Now, Dianne's life could be hanging in the balance, as well as the case itself. It wouldn't have been the first time a vigilante cop blew one out of the water. Officially, this was an FBI case, and Olsen looked at Fordrow to see if he had any inkling to take control of the situation. "When was the last time anyone talked to him?" Olsen asked. "This morning," Bergmann answered. "After he got back from California. I told him to stay put with his girlfriend, and now he's evaporated again." "What if I find him?" Olsen asked. Bergmann fired a glance at Fordrow and said, "I don't want to jeopardize this case, Detective. I'll take Hernandez out if I have to." Fordrow said nothing, silent permission for Bergmann to do what he'd just said. Olsen took a deep breath. "I'll start at his place." "Hold on a second," Bergmann said unexpectedly. "We need to bring you up to speed on a couple of things." Bergmann actually smiled, catching Olsen completely off guard. She looked at Fordrow who was displaying the same goofy adolescent grin. "What?" she said eerily. Bergmann said, "We got another warrant."

5:12 p.m. Gilkey finally arrived and said, "Are Olsen and Hernandez coming?" Fordrow and Bergmann had been playing pocket pool for the last fifteen minutes as they waited on Gulliver's porch for Gilkey to show up.

"Did you find Howard Morgan?" Bergmann asked, ignoring his question. It was just after five and the freezing, grim day was rapidly giving way to another freezing, grim night. Answering for Gilkey, Fordrow said, "We managed to track him down at a Pacers game. He was none too pleased until I explained the situation, then he said the game sucked anyway and he'd get here as soon as he could. He should be here any time now." Indeed, Morgan's six-year-old Buick rolled up and crunched over the frozen gravel that had accumulated curbside. Morgan got out and donned a camouflaged hunting cap. "I hope you found something good to get me here on a Saturday," he said as he climbed the three steps to the porch. "We haven't started yet," said Gilkey, holding up some huge red-handled bolt cutters. Morgan swung a look at Bergmann. "I'm a medical examiner, Chief, not a forensics guy." Bergmann handed him a pair of latex gloves. "Trust me on this one, Howard. If I'm right about what we might find in there, you'd want to be the first in line." Morgan took the gloves. "Might as well get on with it then." They made their way into the gloomy cellar, stooping under the rough floor timbers as they stood in front of the freezer. They all swung a look at Gilkey, who stepped up and snapped through the padlock. It hung there for some seconds, swinging back and forth like Kryptonite on a hook until Fordrow removed it and dropped it into a plastic bag. Holding his breath, he took a firm grip and pulled up on the hasp as a sucking sound threatened to pull him into the freezer. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness as both Gilkey and Bergmann clicked on foot-long instruments. They moved in, their faces contorted into awful grimaces as if they expected to see another version of Sister Salazar. Morgan said, "What's all this crap?" Gilkey made the observation that the inside of the freezer wasn't freezing. He stabbed a flashlight beam into the darkness and came up with the electrical plug. "Looks like he's using this thing as a big storage box." Moving his flashlight beam over the contents, "What are we looking for?" he asked. "The warrant is very specific," Bergmann replied. "We're looking for evidence indicating that Gulliver knows the caller's identity, and that's all. Before we go pawing through all this stuff, we have to consider whether the discovery of anything else that seems pertinent to this investigation could be compromised as possible evidence for some other aspect of the case." "That's a mouthful," said Fordrow. "But we won't know until we start." Bergmann shrugged and held up his flashlight. "Let's keep it organized." The first thing Gilkey pulled out was a pair of jeans, Levis to be exact. "What's up with these?" "They look like girls' jeans," Morgan said. "Check out the flower patches." "What's the next item?" Bergmann asked, his brow beading despite the cold air. Gilkey put the jeans aside and pulled out a worn cardboard box, inside of which were some old Harbor High School yearbooks, several of them. Bergmann spotted the one from 1968, the same as the one they'd requested from the high school a few weeks earlier. He took it and said, "Gimme some light." Fordrow stepped up and hovered over Bergmann's shoulder. "What are you looking for?" "I'll know it when I see it." Bergmann went page by page, grunting occasionally as if something was important. "Your breath stinks," he said to Fordrow. "Garlic linguine for lunch," Fordrow said offhandedly, but he maintained his position as Bergmann went through the obligatory pictures of the school, through the interpretive mood-setting nature shots, through the pictures of kids with peace signs painted on their faces, and their butts, and their cars; there were peace signs all over the place. "I remember these days," Bergmann noted as he flipped slowly through the portrait pictures. "Funny. There's no writing in there," Fordrow observed. "Don't kids usually write stuff in each other's yearbooks?" "Doesn't look like anyone was gonna remember old Gordon," Bergmann said snidely. As Gilkey and Morgan went back to the freezer, he turned a page and it became obvious that one of the pictures was missing. He hadn't noticed it at first, the picture on the subsequent page filling the spot precisely. "Check this out." "Which picture is missing?" Fordrow asked. "The one on the front of the page, or the one on the back?" "I'd say this one," Bergmann answered, indicating the right facing page. "I wonder whose picture it is." Bergmann started reciting names, which were in alphabetical order. "Gibbons, Gonzalez, Greene, Haas, Hardy, Hammondton...." He stopped and looked at Fordrow. "Harrison," said Fordrow. Bergmann looked at the other pictures and indeed the names continued as Herbert, Hermann, and Hirsch. Miranda Harrison's picture was missing. "I wonder if any others are missing." Two more were. He looked at Fordrow and said, "Fuckin' A." Fordrow was already making a note to check their copy of the yearbook back at the station. Behind them, Gilkey said, "What the hell...?" Gilkey was holding up a ventriloquist's dummy, and Bergmann recognized it immediately. It was the same dummy Olsen had pointed out to him the day before, the one young Gordon was holding on page fifty-eight of the yearbook, in the picture titled Talent Show. He turned to that page. "I'll be damned," said Fordrow. "Chief?" It was Morgan. Bergmann turned, his eyes bulging as adrenaline pumped through his body. "Yeah, Howard?" "You've got a list of known victims back at the station, right?" Bergmann nodded. "I suggest you photograph this stuff and contact their next of kin. My guess is that they'd recognize some of it as belonging to their lost loved ones." Morgan was holding up several pieces of jewelry, necklaces mostly, and while three of them displayed crosses hanging from a chain, one of them wasn't a necklace at all. It was a rosary, a heavy rosary, with thick, glossy beads, ruby colored. "I'll give you three guesses," said Morgan. "I only need one," Bergmann responded. He closed the yearbook and stepped away from the freezer. "Find Olsen now," he ordered, "and let's meet back at the station as soon as possible. We've got a lot of legwork to do and not much time to do it." "Any idea where she'd be?" Gilkey asked. "Yeah. She's out trying to find Hernandez." "And where the fuck is he?" Gilkey shot indignantly. "Don't we need to find him too?" "Yeah, we do. I want an APB out on Hernandez, with orders to use force if necessary." Thinking the Chief had misspoken, Gilkey said, "You mean Gulliver, don't you?" Bergmann wheeled, his eyes burning in their sockets. "I mean Hernandez, Special Agent Gilkey. We don't need to put out an APB on Gulliver." Gilkey shot a glance at Fordrow that indicated Bergmann didn't have his facts straight. "You mind telling me where you're going with this?" he snapped at Bergmann. Fordrow put a hand ever so lightly on Bergmann's shoulder. "Chief—" "Don't Chief me," Bergmann fired back as he shoved the hand away. "I know Hernandez. He's way ahead of us on this, and he has been for a long time. We find him, we find Gulliver. Hopefully we can do it before he compromises this case."

5:42 p.m. Olsen knocked twice and put her ear to the door, realizing that the button below the peephole was a doorbell. She pushed it and detected a neighbor's door opening behind her. Olsen turned, catching a glimpse of gray hair. She moved quickly, her badge already displayed by the time she stopped the door from closing. "Hold it!" she called. "I'm Detective Olsen from the county sheriff's office. I need your help." The crack widened to reveal an old woman's face, the face of every loving grandmother in the Midwest. The smell of meatloaf wafted into the hallway.

"I don't live here," the old woman said flatly. "I'm just visiting, taking care of my granddaughter while her mother is off on a church retreat for the weekend." Salt of the earth, Olsen determined immediately. She smiled. "Something sure smells good." The old woman smiled but said nothing. "Do you know who lives here?" Olsen pointed across the hall. "I've met the girl," the woman answered. "She's very nice. Haven't met her boyfriend. I understand he's a police officer." "My partner," Olsen responded. She'd never said that before. "Have you seen him?" "I saw some men come and go this morning, but like I said, I've never met him so I don't know what he looks like. I supposed he could have been one of them." The words hit Olsen in the gut. "There was more than one?" "Men have been coming and going out of that apartment all day. I thought it seemed a little strange, but who am I to say? It's none of my business." A toe-headed little angel appeared at the old woman's side, probably about six years old. Olsen smiled at the girl while the words one of them ricocheted inside her skull. "Hi sweetheart. Do you know the man who lives over there?" "That's Julie. He's got a girl's first name." "And I'm Sam," Olsen offered, "and I've got a boy's first name. What's your name?" "My name is Jennifer, and I know all about you. Miss Dianne said that you're Julie's new girlfriend." The old woman shooed the girl behind her while Olsen speculated on where that idea had come from. One guess: Mister egotistical, arrogant, full-of-himself Hernandez, is where. "Did you see him today?" Olsen asked as the girl peeked around Grandma's housedress. "Just now," the girl responded as Grandma pushed her back into the room. "If that was him, he came and went about an hour ago," Grandma clarified. "He may have been here earlier in the day also." "You saw him?" "I saw him, but he didn't see me. With the other men coming and going this morning, I sort of got curious as to what was going on. I guess I was just nosy, but you never know in this crazy world. Please, I have to go now." "Wait... please. The other men; did you see them too?" The woman nodded. "The first one this morning was kind of a heavy set fellow. I think he was a police officer too." "What makes you think that?" "I glanced outside as I was making myself a cup of tea this morning, you know, to check the weather, and I saw him sitting in his car outside the building. He sat there for quite a long time," Grandma added, "and I thought that was quite odd." "'He was driving a plain brown wrapper," the child said as she came around Grandma. "Mister Julie told me what a plain brown wrapper is." Olsen smiled at the girl's innocence. Skeptical and ever vigilant, Grandma had clearly lost hers several decades ago. Heavy set, plain brown wrapper: that had to be O'Brien. "And the other men?" Olsen pressed. "I saw one of them," Grandma said. "Jennifer was watching TV." "No I wasn't," Jennifer said. "I saw him too." Grandma pulled the child from the doorway now. "It was later in the morning, before lunch. Couldn't tell what he looked like. He had a scarf on with this cold weather and all, and was all wrapped up like a mummy. Please, we have to go now." The door closed this time, and Olsen stepped back across the hall and tried the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand and the unexpected click set off an alarm in her head. She stood there and thought of the series of events that had occurred over the last twenty hours, realizing that Julie's door being unlocked wasn't happenstance. A dreadful feeling came over her. The knob still in her hand, she pushed slowly, her free hand unholstering her Smith & Wesson. With her heart pounding, her eyes adjusted to the darkness within. Inside, it was a series of shadowy shapes among which the digital display on the cable box glowed distinctly atop the TV. It read 5:45, and the only break in the silence was an occasional gust of wind that rocked against the door to the balcony. As she traced the contours of the apartment, she found the light switch inside the door and boldly flipped it on, hoping the sudden light wouldn't reveal a sudden dead body or something. Her senses keen, she moved through the living room, to the kitchen, to the spare bedroom, which had been set up as an office and was obviously the place where Dianne did her studying. The air itself seemed electric, but no place more so than when she stepped into the master bedroom. As in the other rooms, everything looked in order, but her eye was drawn to something on the floor. It was a handbag, she discovered a moment later. If Dianne was like most women, she had an everyday bag along with several others she used when the outfit or the mood called for it. Perhaps this was one of those, Olsen thought, but that wasn't the case. The bag was full of the usual things that all women carried, including a billfold with about seventy dollars in it. Olsen said, "Oh shit." There'd be no reason for any woman to leave without her handbag unless she was going out for a jog or something, but Olsen knew instinctively that wasn't the case either. Something had indeed happened here, and that's when she concluded that one of the visitors to the apartment that day hadn't been a welcomed one. Not only that, but she knew now why Hernandez had left California in such a rush the day before. For him, this was no longer a police case. Olsen pulled her cell phone from its place on her belt, and it rang in her hand, startling her. She recognized the number instantly. "Where are you?" she asked abruptly. "He's got her." "I know." "I need your help."

6:01 p.m. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Olsen had to make one more phone call before she called Bergmann. That call was to Deputy Sheriff Ernie Sanborn at the county sheriff's office. He owed her one—for more than just professional reasons. For him it was a hormonal thing. For her, it wasn't much different, the memory of their New Year's Eve date two weeks earlier popping into her head despite everything else that was happening right now. She put the thought aside and dialed quickly, her instincts telling her that every minute was important. Someone answered on the first ring.

"This is Sam Olsen. Who's this?" "Oh, hiya Sam. This is Lehman. Long time no see." Seconds were burning away. "Yeah, hi Bob. Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I need to talk to Ernie Sanborn right away. Is he there?" "No need to explain. I know how love is." Just great. "C'mon Bob, is Ernie there or not?" "Sorry Sam. He's off duty. Try him at home. He's probably there all alone on a Saturday night, just thinking of you." Lehman chuckled. "You need the number?" "Yeah, I need it." Wrong choice of words, Olsen thought instantly. She got the number and said, "Thanks Bob—for everything." "Anything for you, Sam." She dialed Sanborn's number, praying that he was indeed sitting at home thinking about her. Five rings into the call, Olsen expected an answering machine to kick on, but Sanborn finally answered, sounding half asleep. Thank God, thought Olsen, blurting, "Ernie, this is Sam." "What are you wearing?" "Ernie, pay attention." "I am paying attention. Now speak slowly so I can write everything down. Let's start with what's underneath." "Ernie, I don't have time for this. It's about the case." That got his attention. "Really?" "Yeah, really. Listen, I need you to file two stolen vehicle reports. Here are the plate numbers."

6:55 p.m. The temperature had rocketed up to ten degrees, but the wind was coming in at a steady clip and it felt as cold as it had at three below. An occasional flurry whipped about, but it was too cold to snow. Inside his Jeep Wrangler, Julie went through his checklist: Glock loaded, safety off, extra clips in place: check; ankle piece in place, fully loaded: check; night vision goggles at the ready: check; twelve gauge Remington wrapped up in a moving blanket in the back of the Wrangler: check; cell phone on the dashboard charger, waiting for a call back from Olsen: check. That was his most important weapon right now. He pulled up the full service gas pump and said, "Fill it up," to the mummified attendant who didn't think that freezing his nuts off to pump twenty bucks worth of gas was a good career choice right now. C'mon Olsen, call back for Christ's sake. Then, he thought: for Dianne's sake, and his mind wandered into what could possibly be happening to her right now. The dashboard clock read five minutes to seven. The last time he'd talked to her had been at ten o'clock that morning, and he prayed to God that it hadn't been the last time. He hadn't told her that he loved her on that call, and he vowed to himself that if God ever blessed him enough to talk to her again, he'd say that to her at every opportunity for the rest of his life.

A gut-wrenching pain burned through his insides, repeating itself until he was sure he was in the process of turning himself inside out. He'd been so close. Spotting that minivan had been pure luck in that he hadn't been looking for it specifically. The only thing on his mind had been Dianne's warm body, and some sleep, but since the episode at the Madison County Mall, he'd trained both himself and Dianne to look for strange vehicles whenever they pulled in their lot. He did that, knowing every vehicle that belonged there by now, and that's when the idling, vapor-spewing minivan revealed itself as a stranger in that place. If it hadn't been for the abnormally cold air, he'd have missed it entirely. That's when he blew it. If he'd gone by his instincts and yanked open the door to that minivan and pointed his Glock into the occupant's eyes, he wouldn't be speculating about Dianne being alive right now. He almost doubled over as the thought came and went in a second: Dianne is alive right now; and then he said it aloud, but it didn't sound very convincing. His face was burning, and his heart was pounding, and he tried to maintain some sense of sanity. Suffering through his pain, he prayed that it be more than anything Dianne was experiencing right now, hoping that, somehow, his pain would lessen hers. He'd have traded places with her in a second. A knock on his window stirred him from his blurry-eyed funk. Julie shoved a twenty through the crack and that's when he spotted the brown sheriff's department cruiser at the edge of the lot. He cracked his window a little more, noting that the cruiser wasn't occupied, but not for long. A sheriff's deputy scurried from the gas station's convenience market carrying a bag and a cup of coffee. The deputy did a double take, and Julie's concern about Dianne was replaced by another urgent, stabbing alarm. The deputy angled into his cruiser, and the first object of his attention was his two-way radio. He talked into it for some moments, glancing at Julie's Wrangler the whole time. Where was that attendant with the fucking change? The door to the attendant's booth slid open and the attendant came toward him. The deputy saw this, and the door to his cruiser popped open at the same time. Julie said, "Fuck," and turned the key. Hearing the Wrangler's engine, the deputy rushed back into his cruiser, and Julie never got his change. Peeling into the roadway, he hit sixty by the time he spotted the cruiser's flashing lights pull out behind him. As his eyes moved from the rearview back to the highway, he couldn't help but notice another set of lights coming toward him off the ramp from I69. He floored the Wrangler and blasted past the oncoming cruiser, seeing it screech to a halt and fishtail into a nasty U-turn as he swerved onto the ramp from which the cruiser had just come. In his rearview, he saw two sets of blipping lights rocketing toward him. Julie had been on the other end of situations like this, and knew that long stretches of highway were not good places to outrun or outmaneuver chasing cruisers. He knew every inch of these roads, however. What he needed was a place off the road where he could disappear, a place where two-wheel-drive cruisers couldn't go, and he knew just the spot. Glancing into his rearview, he determined that he had maybe thirty seconds on the cruisers, if that, and no doubt both deputies were on the radio indicating they were in pursuit. The first deputy had spotted him as if he'd been looking for him, which meant that someone had put the word out. Bergmann, that bastard. These were county boys chasing him, which meant that there had to be an APB out. Julie's heart skipped a beat. Why? Did they find Dianne? Was she still alive? He'd find out soon enough. The cruisers were gaining on him, he noted quickly. He was doing about eighty and there was no way to outrun them. The interstate wasn't exactly deserted, and one erroneous yank on the wheel could send the Wrangler with its high center of gravity into an ass-over-teakettle flip that could disintegrate the vehicle, and him along with it. Up ahead, two eighteen-wheelers were cruising along in tandem, and to the sheriffs they'd be strings of lights in the darkness. Julie did a quick go-around on the left-lane-dick that was protecting the world against anyone doing over fifty-five, and barreled ahead, swerving violently in front of the first eighteen-wheeler. He slowed, forcing the eighteen-wheelers and the left-lane-dick to form a moving roadblock, and he cut his lights, hearing the immediate blast of the eighteen-wheeler's horn as it hovered on his tail. He knew exactly where he was on this road. When he saw the overpass he was looking for, he drifted into the emergency lane and waited for a break in the string of guardrails that were whooshing by. Still hidden, he slammed on his brakes and banged a hard right onto a stretch of farmland nestled into the corner formed by the interstate and the crossing local highway that passed through a wide spot in the road called Moonville. By the time the sheriffs realized what he'd done, he'd already bounced wildly across the fallow rock-hard field and was climbing the sloping overpass buildup to the local road. Once on it, he turned east, away from Moonville, and crossed into Delaware County. The sheriffs would communicate to their dispatcher that they'd lost him, and the dispatcher would communicate it to the Delaware County Sheriff's Office and to the state police. He was safe, but not for long, which was fine because he didn't have much time—and neither did Dianne.

8:13 p.m. "Then bring him in, goddamn it. What are you waiting for?"

Olsen thought: Oh-oh, this wasn't good. Bergmann was beyond angry, and well on his way to totally ripshit. "I said I'd made contact, Chief. I didn't say I knew where he was." She could almost hear his teeth grinding over the phone. "Does he want to talk to you again?" "Yeah. He said he needs my help." Prompting him, seeing as he was too pissed off to think clearly, Olsen said, "Do you want to know what he wanted?" She could hear some chatter in the background. Sounded like he was talking to Fordrow. "Tell me," said Bergmann. "He wanted me to file two stolen vehicle reports." "Why?" "I didn't ask. I just ran them." "You just ran them." "Yeah, I just ran them." "Without asking." "We're talking stolen vehicle reports here, and nothing more. What the hell, Chief, whose side are you on?" "I should be the one asking whose side he's on. That son of a bitch hasn't followed one procedure, hasn't paid attention to one order, hasn't—" "Chief!" "What, goddamn it!" "Dianne is missing." Olsen was sitting inside a Dunkin' Donuts, smelling her own armpits and trying to clear out the bad taste in her mouth from not having brushed for a day and a half. She could feel Bergmann deflate on the other end of the phone. Suddenly calmer, "What about the stolen vehicle reports?" Bergmann asked. There was a definite choke in his voice. "The first one was on a minivan, Dodge Caravan, plate number RCC-1804. It was an Avis rental, rented this morning to a John B. Goode here in Andersonville." "Hold on." More chatter in the background. "What was that name again?" "John B. Goode, spelled G-o-o-d-e." "Got an address?" "And a credit card number." "What is it?" Olsen gave it to him. Bergmann said, "I'll call you right back." Olsen waited, nerves tingling. Bergmann smelled something. She sipped her coffee. Her cell phone rang five minutes later. "Hold on to your shorts, Olsen. I had Fordrow call his people, and while the name on the credit card matches up, the address doesn't." "What should it be?" "32 Mason Street." "No way. That's Gulliver's address!" "Yeah, way. That's where me and Fordrow are right now. And the name?" Olsen was all buzzed out now, the need for caffeine no longer necessary. "What about it?" "It's not John B. Goode... I mean, it is, but it could easily translate to Johnny B. Good." "As in the song?" "And as in one of Gulliver's former hokey DJ names." Olsen said, "Oh... my... God. That was the second visitor." "What?" "I need to tell you about the second stolen vehicle report," she said quickly. "So tell me." "It's on Dianne DeMarco's Miata." Once again, Bergmann didn't respond and Olsen waited, knowing that something was brewing on the other end. Bergmann came back with, "I need fill you in on what's happening. We executed the search warrant and we found another copy of the Harbor High School 1968 yearbook." "And?" "Some pictures were missing." "Which means?" "Let me give you one of the names and you'll know what it means: Miranda Harrison." Olsen felt herself go light in the head. "Do we know the other names?" "We do, but they didn't mean anything to us until about ten minutes ago. They were both girls, Olsen, and they both disappeared the same way Miranda Harrison did, one of them two years later, the other three years later. Neither of them has ever been found." Olsen felt like she'd swallowed a brick. "And he's got Dianne," she choked out. "Gilkey's on his way to get a DNA warrant now," Bergmann added as if she'd asked. "That won't do us a damned bit of good if we don't get to him soon. For all we know, it might already be too late." "Get hold of Hernandez," Bergmann ordered. "And then what?" She could tell Bergmann was struggling with the question. It was decision time—on everything that had been coming down for the last two months. "Chief?" "You find out where he is and let me know. I'll take it from there." Olsen knew she was putting herself on the line now, but in her mind she had no choice. "You send the troops in after him and someone's going to end up dead." "I've got no choice." Bergmann was playing it by the book. "Sure you do," she fired back, her voice loud enough for the three other patrons in the coffee shop to look her way. She stepped into the outside frost. "Listen, Chief, I know one side of you wants to wring his neck, but you have to call off that APB. Put yourself in his shoes." "Goddamn it, Olsen, I don't need to put myself in his shoes! He's conducting his own investigation and he's jeopardizing this case. I can't risk it." "Is that all you can think about?" Olsen knew she'd probably pay for those words. Yeah, well, life's a bitch, one way or another. "There's more at risk than just this fucking case, Chief. He's trying to save Dianne's life!" "And what about the lives of the other people who'll die if we don't put this guy away? If he gets off, you don't think he'll kill again? C'mon Olsen, you know better than that." She did indeed. "I think...." "I don't give a rat's ass what you think. The APB stays, Olsen. I say he comes in." "And I say we give him some help." "I wouldn't go there if I were you." "That would be my call, wouldn't it?" "Let me give you some free advice, Olsen. Don't do this. I want to know where he is, and I want him brought in as soon as possible. You violate any of that order and you'll be going down with him." "Thanks for those words of wisdom, Chief, but why don't you listen to my advice. Why don't you move it on that DNA warrant, and then stop by the church and pray we're not too late." "I'm praying now," said Bergmann.

8:38 p.m. It took some time for her to regain even partial control of her senses. The first thought that entered her head was that she was already dead. The second was that she wasn't, but would soon wish she was. She noted the stale smell of cigarette smoke, but it failed to cover a second more fetid odor of something dead, or rotten. Gagging on her own mucous, she coughed violently, hacking up a huge glob of phlegm that made her retch. She steeled herself against her own spasms, but despite her best effort she spit up and felt the warm ooze trail down her chest. That's when she realized she was naked, and she felt an anxious rush as she speculated on how she got that way. The blur in her mind faded with each passing minute, but she wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or not. The last thing she remembered was cleaning up the breakfast dishes and going to take a shower. Lying there, she couldn't remember if she'd actually made it to the shower. Where was she? She yanked furiously on the restraints that were binding her, kicking and pulling until she realized it was useless. She screamed, but the pressure in her head almost caused her to pass out again. Her rage released in the form of tears that tracked warm along her temples and turned cold, causing her to shiver uncontrollably. A fierce light all but blinded her and she turned away from it, noting for the first time that she was lying on what looked to be a steel table. It was freezing. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the painful light, hoping to shut out the rest of the world with it. Maybe it was all a dream. A shadow formed and lingered beyond her eyelids, but she dared not open them, wanting to hide in the darkness as if it were a protective shield. No such luck. Something touched her, lightly at first, so much so that she thought perhaps it was a bug. It wasn't. A hand roamed the inside of her thighs, rubbing over her pubic hair and coming to rest on her stomach. She sobbed fitfully. This was no dream. The hand touched one of her breasts and she lashed out, opening her eyes and screaming, striking like a viper but unable to come anywhere near her target. Wild with anger, she pulled mightily at her restraints, catching a glimpse of her captor before he turned away and all went dark again.

8:45 p.m. Julie said, "Did you file the stolen vehicle reports?"

Wondering what he was up to, Olsen said, "Yeah. The minivan was a rental. Rented this morning to a John B. Goode. Mean anything to you?" "Should it?" "It's one of Gulliver's old on-air handles." She let the comment hang there, waiting to see if Julie came to the same conclusion she and Bergmann had come to. "What about the second vehicle?" "I figured you'd know all about that. It's Dianne's Miata." "And you filed the report?" "Damn it, Hernandez, for the third time, yes!" "Can you get your hands on a county cruiser at this time of night without the whole world knowing about it?" Ernie Sanborn again, Olsen thought. She looked at her watch. It was already 8:45 and she felt the time, and quite possibly Dianne's life, slipping away like sand through her fingers. "I could be hanging myself out to dry for you, Hernandez. I need to know what you're up to." She held her cell phone tightly and listened to the wind whipping across her windshield. Julie didn't respond. Her loyalty torn between him and Bergmann, she didn't know where either of them was, or how she should react when one of them called upon her to take the next step in each of their pursuits. Both were after the same thing ultimately, but each of them faced a tremendous loss based on what the other was going to do. For Julie, the job wasn't even a consideration anymore. For Bergmann, it was all about the job and making sure a very bad guy got put away for good. Outside, the Arctic freeze of the last two days had become less intense, the temperature having climbed to a still cold but manageable twenty degrees despite the onset of darkness. She came upon a McDonald's and decided to hop into the drive-through as she realized she hadn't eaten anything since the puny breakfast on the airplane that morning. How long ago that seemed now. She couldn't believe it was still the same day. She ordered a number four combo with large fries. "Get me one too," Julie said into the phone. Olsen smiled, thinking she'd forgotten how to do it. "The only way you can eat it is if I bring it to you," she said, another way of asking where he was. "You get hold of that cruiser first," Julie said, another way of telling her she'd find out in due time, of which there wasn't much. "Be careful. Bergmann's got an APB out on you," she cautioned, but Julie was already gone and she didn't know if he'd heard the warning. Like that was going to stop him. Olsen peeled out from the second window and hauled it to Ernie Sanborn's place.

9:01 p.m. It was all going according to plan. He knew it was only a matter of time before they put it all together, but hell, he'd put up enough signs that a bat could follow that trail. Unfortunately for them, it would be the wrong trail. He prepared himself for the ecstasy to come.

9:15 p.m. Shadows danced, a light flickered, fighting with a darkness so intense that it seemed touchable. A candle burned on a stand between her legs, ruby red wax oozing down its side like clotted blood. The stench was nauseating. Dianne sensed a presence and tried to look around, but the pain that shot through her neck was like a dagger to the base of her skull. Something was caked to the side of her face and she prayed to God that the dried fluids were her own, even if it was blood. Knowing her situation, she knew the alternative, and the mere thought made her heave, but there was nothing more to expel. She tried to be rational, but felt herself dancing on the edge of hysterics.

The realization settled on her that she was no longer entirely naked. She was wearing a dress, whose dress she didn't know, but there had to be symbolic meaning in it. What was it? She felt the ebb and flow of consciousness and snapped her eyes wide open, wondering if it wouldn't be easier to simply drift off and never wake up. A light. There. Some movement. A form. What was it? Sounds. Think, she said to herself. Don't let him make you hysterical. That's how he wins. It's his profile, and she'd studied it a thousand times. His mind is uncontrolled, and at the same time he's rational and calculating. The terror he creates, and the pain he inflicts is nothing more than a procedure, organized steps to sexual fulfillment. More sounds. Her head lolled from side to side. A door opened somewhere above her, and she realized with the rush of light that she was in a basement of some sort. A terrible fullness rose in her chest. Was this how it was all going to end? The light disappeared and footsteps clunked heavily down some stairs. She felt the presence in the far shadows, but saw nothing until he came forward. He moved to the edge of the ring of light being thrown off by the candle, but came no closer. She tried to discern if there was a face there; it could have been the face of death itself. "How did you get into my apartment?" she slurred. "Does that matter now?" Startled, Dianne looked to her right. The voice had come from that direction, but there was no one there, or was there? How many people were in the room? She caught a glint of something shiny, barely a spark in the darkness. "I need to make sure it doesn't happen again," she mumbled. A chuckle, from somewhere else this time. She was on her back and the sound came from where her head was pointing. Struggling to concentrate, she suddenly realized that she was no longer restrained in any way. Her eyes darted. "Don't bother," a voice said. Again, the words had come from somewhere else. Her arms and legs were useless, but whatever they'd drugged her with—and she was becoming surer with each passing moment that it was they—it allowed her some clarity of thought. "Don't bother what?" she responded, looking back to the spot where the face should have been. "Thinking you can escape." The words came from yet another direction. How many of them were there? There was a rustling in the room, preparation of the ritual to come, she thought somehow. They were playing mind games with her, but why? Why wouldn't they just get their jollies and get it over with? Her eyes shifted downward. The dress: she was part of some bizarre fantasy. "I've listened to some of your conversations with Gulliver," she said daringly. "You don't like him very much, do you?" "I hate him!" her captor screamed, and as he did his arm swooped into the air, slicing the dress between her legs in a violent upward thrust. She felt nothing, but wondered if she'd been cut. Her heart beat furiously, but she realized oddly that her time had not come despite the razor sharp blade that had come within an inch of her vagina. The knife was huge and wedge-shaped, an expensive piece of cutlery like the ones she saw on those cooking shows on TV. The killer came closer and he put the blade to her neck. It was then that she saw his face clearly, a face gnarled in psychosis, one she didn't recognize. "I don't ever want to hear that name again," he hissed. His breath was foul and his mouth was a twisted white line, twitching involuntarily at the corners. "Why not?" she questioned boldly. "Because she loved him more than she loved you?" It was a shot in the dark and she took it not knowing where it would lead, but it was the only ploy she could think of. Thoughts passed in a millisecond. The voices she'd heard earlier seemed to come from every direction. A vision entered her head, and she saw herself being gang raped by a group of sadistic miscreants. She felt herself go nauseous. "You think you're so smart," he said haughtily. "You and that arrogant boyfriend of yours." Julie. His life would be over when they found her, and a sense of sorrow came over her. He'd always been a force in her life, a presence that was always there, comforting her, and urging her to be the best at whatever she chose to do. Her own thought rang back to her: a presence that was always there. She felt it now, and it suddenly put her at ease. She felt the blade trace down across her chest. She opened her eyes and stared into the killer's eyes. She needed time. "I'm smart enough to know that he's playing you for a sucker now, just like he always did," Dianne said. "They both did. They laughed at you behind your back. You were just another trick." The eyes darted about, unsure now. "I know what you're trying to do, but you're wrong. She didn't love Gulliver, bitch. She didn't even know him. That's how fucking smart you are." The words hung there as Dianne felt the knife drag across her nipples. Her chest heaved mightily. She tried to wiggle her toes. No luck. She didn't love Gulliver, bitch. She didn't even know him. How could she not have known him? It didn't make sense, or did it? "I'm not talking about Gulliver, you fool. I'm talking about Gordon." The dancing eyes were back, and the killer ripped through the remaining fabric with the knife. He cupped one of her breasts, squeezing it so that the nipple protruded between his fingers. "Do you know what we're going to do to you?" he asked, eyeing a large gallon-sized glass jar sitting nearby. It was back to "we" again. She hadn't noticed the glass jar previously, and she eyed it fearfully. "Don't try to change the subject. She never loved you. It was all a game and the only prize was your money. What was it, thirty-five bucks a pop?" "We're going to solve the riddle," the killer said, tapping the glass jar with the blade. "That's enough," another voice called out from yet another part of the room, and Dianne tried to look around again, but suddenly all went black once more.

9:25 p.m. "Why do you need a cruiser?"

"C'mon Ernie, I just do." "You have legs. Why can't you do it yourself?" "I don't need the whole world knowing about it. That's why." "First the stolen vehicle reports, now this. You want me to help you, I need to know why." A dose of her own logic. Sanborn wasn't budging, despite all the deliciously nasty things she'd just promised to do to him if he went down to the station and signed out a cruiser for her. She glanced at the time readout on Sanborn's microwave, not knowing how much of it they had left. Sanborn leveled a gaze and pointed to the police scanner crackling away at low volume on his kitchen table. "I heard the APB being put out on Hernandez, and I know he's already been spotted. This have anything to do with that?" Olsen froze. She knew nothing about Hernandez being spotted, and she involuntarily crinkled the McDonald's bag she was holding. Sanborn cut a glance to the bag and said, "I didn't think that was for me." "Do you know where he was spotted?" "A couple of units gave chase for a while, but they lost him somewhere around Moonville. They think he crossed into Delaware County." "The killer has his girlfriend," she blurted. Sanborn took on a hit-in-the-face-with-a-shovel look. "Jesus H. Christ, Sam. Why didn't you say something sooner?" He stood and took the small duffel bag that Olsen knew contained his service pistol and his Sam Browne belt. "Let's go." Olsen grabbed his arm. "Thanks Ernie. I owe you one." Sanborn said, "Yeah, you do.

10:42 p.m. "How'd you get hold of the cruiser?"

"I pulled one in from the favor bank." "All on the Q-T, right?" Olsen glanced at Sanborn, who was listening intently. "Right," she said into the phone. "No one knows a thing." "Good. Here's what I need you to do." Her eyes on Sanborn the whole time, she said, "Got it," and ended the call. "What'd he say?" Sanborn asked. "He said the show starts at midnight."

11:15 p.m. _The show starts at midnight_ —he hoped he had that much time. Inside his Wrangler, Julie opened the compartment on his center console and pulled out the dashboard charger for his cell phone, knowing he couldn't afford to let his battery run low. Glancing at the dashboard clock, he noted that half an hour had already passed since he'd spoken to Olsen. Impulsively, he dialed her number again. She answered on the first ring. "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm pulling in now." Hidden from the road, he'd parked behind an old roadside diner just inside the Delaware County line. Sure enough, a pair of high beams pierced the cold night in search of his Wrangler. He wasn't happy when he opened the cruiser's passenger side door and saw Olsen sitting there. Someone else was driving. "Who's that?" he shot indignantly. "This is nobody," Sanborn called from the driver's seat. "And nobody's gonna worry about that now, are we?" There was no time to argue. Julie slid into the back seat and said, "Put on the dome light." His eyes cut to Sanborn. "Don't worry about him," Olsen said without elaboration as she handed Julie his McDonalds bag. Julie shoved a handful of cold fries into his mouth and pointed to the on-board computer. "Is that thing tied in to the state police network?" Sanborn didn't get a chance to answer as Olsen's cell phone went off. "It's Bergmann," she said, checking the incoming number. Julie moved closer and she pressed the phone's speaker function. "What's up, Chief?" "Have you heard from Hernandez?" Julie looked her square in the eye. "Not yet," she lied. "Where are you?" Bergmann went on. "Did you execute the DNA warrant on Gulliver's place?" Olsen asked, avoiding the question. "We had some trouble finding a body to run a test at this time on a Saturday night, but yeah, we got the results. Gilkey and Fordrow just called in from the FBI lab in Indianapolis." "And?" "It was negative," Bergmann said dejectedly. "No doubt about it. The DNA on those bodies didn't come from Gulliver." Julie felt his stomach seize. Glancing at Olsen, it looked like she was having the same reaction. "What's the next step," she asked flatly. "I think we're back to square one." "He's got Dianne, Chief. We can't be back to square one. What about the minivan?" "Same thing," Bergmann went on. "We dusted it for prints but got nothing that ties in. We got an APB out on the blue Miata, but unless we get a hit on that, we got zilch." A gust of wind rocked the car as they waited for Bergmann to say something else, but he said nothing and Julie knew that wherever Bergmann was, he was sitting there holding his nuts and feeling totally useless. "Are Fordrow and Gilkey coming in?" Olsen asked. "Yeah. We got a lot of eyes looking for the Miata so we're gonna regroup back at the station. You never answered my question." Thinking quickly, Olsen said, "I'm on my way back to my place. At this point, all I can do is wait. I'll be in touch if I hear from Hernandez." Bergmann said, "Right. I'll call you if something comes up." Olsen ended the call and Julie calmly pointed at the on-board computer again. "Is that thing fired up?"

11:58 p.m. She could hear them coming down the stairs. Noticing that the candle between her legs had completely burned away, she wondered how long it had been since she'd last been conscious. Her head seemed clearer now, but her throat was tight and she heard herself wheezing. A light came on, enabling her to capture the full scope of her surroundings. She was in a basement, that much she knew, but it was no regular basement. Again, she noted the gleaming steel table beneath her, the kind one might see in a commercial kitchen. It was positioned so that she was facing... what was that? And why were there chairs all around? It came to her. It was a puppet stage, with dark cloth strung up as a backdrop. What the...?

The footfalls stopped and two characters, Disney-like in their appearance, came up and flanked her to either side. One of them was a cowboy, dressed in a fringed leather shirt and leather chaps. A large knife was sheathed on his belt, along with two guns that looked disturbingly real slung on at the hip. He wore nothing beneath the chaps, and his penis stuck out from his body. The other character was an Indian, with two more knives dangling from a cowhide belt. He too was fully aroused, his erection obvious beneath a flapping leather loincloth. Beneath hideous masks, only their eyes were visible. Shrinking away, Dianne suddenly realized she was tied down again. The cowboy propped her head with a pillow and moved the table so that she had a perfect view of the stage. Oddly, she thought: fingerprints, and she looked at the cowboy's hands, noting they were covered in surgical gloves. Her heart sank. "Who are you?" she asked. The mask swiveled in her direction. "I am the midnight cowboy, and you are Annie." Who the hell was Annie? "If you want me to be," Dianne said, not daring to break the fantasy. "Annie loved the midnight cowboy," the cowboy said. "She told him he was the best, that he was better than all of them." All of them. So Annie had slept around. Dianne forced herself to concentrate, trying to stretch seconds into minutes as she tried to pinpoint the reference. Midnight cowboy: all she could think of was the movie. It was from back in the sixties, and she remembered seeing it once. It was the story of a country bumpkin who fancied himself as some sort of romantic stud, but his attempts at turning himself into a gigolo fell short and he had to deal with a world filled with rejection. Thinking quickly, she said, "You are the best. You're better than all of them..." Tentatively, she added, "...Gordon." Eyes glared from beneath the mask. "I'm not Gordon." The thoughts whistled through her head. Was Annie Gordon's mother? The ratty housedress in tatters around her: was it Annie's dress? She took another chance. "Gordon?" she called again. The cowboy ignored her, going about his business and checking the restraints on her arms and legs. "Annie loves you," Dianne said bravely. "She... I... don't love any of those other men. I love you, Gordon. You're the best. You're the one I—" "Quiet!" the cowboy screamed. "The party is about to start." He adjusted some lights that looked like they came from a dentist's office so that they pointed at the stage. Chest heaving, Dianne watched as he fronted the stage, his erection still potent. "Join us at the gates of hell, if you dare. Flesh, blood, and smoke will be served after midnight." With that, he sat next to her and pulled the knife from his belt. The Indian appeared on a small platform behind the stage and two marionette puppets jiggled and danced their way to the middle. One of them was a cowboy, looking exactly like the one sitting next to her. The other was a female character, adorned in a dress made of the exact same fabric as the one she was wearing. The puppets approached each other. "Howdy stranger," the female puppet said. It was obvious that the words came from the Indian manipulating her. The cowboy puppet tipped his hat and said, "Howdy ma'am," but the words came from next to her, or did they? It took a second for it to register, and she realized that the character next to her was the voice of the character on the stage. "What's a girl gotta do to have a good time in this here town?" the female puppet asked. "I take it you're looking for a real man," the cowboy puppet replied. Again, the cowboy puppet's voice seemed to come from two places at the same time. "I am looking for a real man. Are you a real man?" "I am a real man. Want to feel my muscles?" The female puppet touched the cowboy puppet's arm and she began to laugh, a shrill, derisive laugh that seemed to echo off the basement walls. "You call those muscles? Why you ain't nothin' but a tutti-frutti, is what you are." "I ain't no tutti-frutti. I'm a man." The cowboy puppet's voice was suddenly loaded with anger. "You ain't no man," the female puppet went on. "A man would be sweepin' me off my feet. You ain't doin' nothin' but sittin' there beggin' for it. You ain't no man. You ain't nothin' but some tutti-frutti, and I can't love no tutti-frutti." "But I want you to love me." "I ain't lovin' no tutti-frutti that plays with dolls. I need to go out and get me another man." Dianne watched the scene unfold and had a feeling she knew what was coming. It was only a matter of time before the cowboy puppet killed the female puppet in a fit of jealous rage—and that's exactly what was going to happen to her. She wondered how much time she had left. She replayed what she knew about the case, and she remembered the pages from Olsen's thesis, the ones that Julie had written off as so much rubbish early on. Dianne decided to press forward, using what she knew and hoping that it would somehow save her life. "Gordon?" she called softly. "Watch the show!" the cowboy bellowed. The marionettes stopped jiggling and Dianne thought: who was the Indian? "I don't want to watch the show. I want to talk to you... Gordon." "Gordon's not here," the cowboy said sharply. "Of course you're here. I saw you, remember? You took me out of my apartment and brought me here. I'm glad you did." "Don't listen to her!" the Indian called from the stage. "She's just like all the rest of them." The cowboy's eyes bore down on her, but he said nothing. Was there just the hint of confusion there? "I'm not like her," Dianne said, her eyes indicating the female marionette. Then she glanced at the cowboy's erection, which was wilting quickly before her eyes. "I can see you're a real man, Gordon. You're no tutti-frutti, and I don't know why she didn't love you." "I didn't love you because you were just like him!" the female marionette yelled from the stage. "I couldn't stand you from the second you were born. I shoulda' killed you then, when I had the chance." Dianne thought: the female marionette was Gordon's mother! But who was the man she'd just referred to? Recalling the conversation with Daniel Lester, Gordon's mother had been a prostitute, Dianne remembered. Was "him" one of her johns? Was "him" Gordon's father? "Don't talk to him that way!" the cowboy marionette shot fiercely. "And you!" Dianne swung her eyes to the stage. The cowboy marionette was pointing at her. "You're lying to him, you bitch! Can't you see what a sorry fucking faggot he turned out to be? He's not a real man. He's nothing but pimp, and it's your fault. It's because of you that he turned out this way." Thinking quickly, Dianne sensed the situation was spiraling downward. So far, there'd been no mention of Gulliver. How would the mention of his name affect what was happening? She felt something. The cowboy was touching her, running his hand over body. His eyes were menacing now, and his erection had returned in a big way. He touched her with the blade, and she pulled furiously on her restraints. "It's because of you," the cowboy said as he dragged the flat side of the knife across her skin. Dianne's eyes darted to the stage. She saw it clearly now. The cowboy marionette was holding a knife too, and he was pointing it at the female. Time was short. "Those other men meant nothing to me," Dianne cried out. "Don't listen to her!" the cowboy marionette called, and he raised his knife. "I want you to love me now," Dianne said desperately. It was the only thing she could think to say that might keep her alive. The female marionette started screaming. Dianne looked up. Above her, the cowboy mask was leering, the cowboy's eyes on hers. She shot a glance at his penis. "I'm not like all the rest," Dianne said. "I want you to make love to me, Gordon. Untie me." "No!" the Indian called. "Gordon! Look at me!" The cowboy refocused. Dianne pointed with her eyes. "I'm wet for you, Gordon. Can't you see that? I want you now." The cowboy's eyes cut to her vagina and lingered there. "Put it in me, Gordon. Put it in me now." Their eyes met again, and the cowboy traced the knife down Dianne's chest. Bracing himself, he grabbed his penis and climbed the table. "You fool!" the Indian called. "It'll be traceable." The cowboy ignored him, and he slowly positioned himself between Dianne's legs. "Say you want me," he said from behind the mask. "I want you Gordon." "Say you love me, that you don't love all those other men. Say you love me, Mama." Something snapped. Watching as he prepared to plunge into her, Dianne began to cry. One part of her wanted to buy as much time as possible; another part wanted lash out. Edging toward hysterics, her cries turned to laughter. The cowboy stopped, and his erection, which had been as hard as a nightstick, deflated instantly. "Is that it?" she shot derisively. "Why you ain't nothin' but a tutti-frutti after all." She saw his eyes flare in anger, and she erupted uncontrollably into more laughter. Suddenly, the cowboy marionette began screaming at the female marionette. "Die bitch! Die now!" The cowboy raised the knife. Dianne spat into his eyes. "Fuck you," she cried out. "I was playing with you the whole time." The cowboy screamed wildly. Screaming against him, Dianne closed her eyes and waited for the blade to plunge into her throat when what felt like an explosion ripped through the basement. The lights went dark, and a beam from one of the floor joists gave way, smashing into the cowboy and knocking him off the table. Chunks of stone from the foundation wall crashed onto puppet stage, and the Indian was nowhere to be seen. A single light illuminated the billowing, choking dust, and Dianne was able to make out the smashed in front of a car, one wheel dangling inside the basement wall. It hadn't been an explosion after all, and it was the car's own headlight that was beaming through the dust. "Down here!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, and a fist plowed into the side of her head. Dazed by the blow, she was able to make out the flash of a knife as it swooped toward her, but it never touched her. Instead, a shot rang out and she was showered with blood and bone and spongy pieces of brain matter. Someone's head had just exploded all over her.

Sunday, January 20th... 12:12 a.m. He literally jumped down the stairs. "Freeze!" he screamed to no one in particular and ready to kill anything.

"Julie, I'm over here!" Dianne's voice! He was there in a second but he froze, not realizing the blood all over her body wasn't hers. "Julie! Find the knife! Cut me loose!" She was alive, and that's all that mattered now. His heart pounding, Julie dropped to all fours, literally falling onto someone's lifeless body. He turned it over, barely recognizing the bloody face in the murky light. It was Manny. "Shit!" he said, spotting the knife, thinking: had he been after the wrong guy the whole time? Quickly, he cut the restraints and lifted Dianne from the steel table. "He was going to cut me up," she cried hysterically. "He was going to cut me up." She repeated the words over and over as she collapsed into a ball. Julie went down with her. "It's over," he said. "There are two of them," she cried as she held on to him. Julie pried her arms from around his neck. "Where's the other one?" "Hernandez! Are you down there?" It was Olsen, shouting through the crash point in the foundation wall. Julie looked up into the opening, unable to see past the single headlight shining there. It was Olsen's shot that took off the top of Manny's head after Sanborn had slammed the cruiser into the house. "Yeah!" he shouted. "I have Dianne." A blast of cold air whipped through the basement. Julie took off his coat and put it around Dianne, his hand coming away sticky and covered in blood. He wiped his hand on his trousers and took a firm grip on his Glock, knowing that they were sitting ducks if someone else was still in that basement. "We have another perp," he called out. He heard Olsen say, "Shit!" but nothing more. He took hold of Dianne with his free arm, half lifting and half dragging her to a darkened corner of the basement, away from any light. It was better to see than be seen. "You're gonna be all right," he whispered, stroking her hair. "We'll get out of this." "I think he has a gun," she whispered shakily between sobs. "Two of them." Just fucking great, thought Julie. He didn't dare leave Dianne's side, but they were sitting ducks. Whoever was down there was familiar with the surroundings and could possibly be zeroing in on them right now. They had to get out of there, and if someone else fired first, Julie prayed that he'd be able to get a shot off and make it count—as opposed to being dead. He held Dianne close, hoping he could get her to stop sobbing. "I'm with you," he whispered, "and I'm never going to leave you. Hush now. We have to listen." Dianne nodded and coiled herself, shivering in his arms as freezing air whistled through the broken foundation wall. He listened to the tick-tick-tick of the car's engine as it cooled, detecting the smell of gasoline. Above him, he could hear floor joists creaking, the sound moving. Was it Olsen, or Sanborn, or was it the second killer? Maybe he'd already escaped. Concentrating, Julie heard the wheeze of his own lungs. Suddenly, BOOM! Someone was trying to kick in the basement door at the top of the stairs. He'd just come from there. How could it be locked? He surmised quickly that he and Dianne weren't alone in the basement after all. He gripped the Glock and searched the darkness. BOOM! It had to be Olsen, or maybe it was Sanborn providing a distraction while she searched for another point of entry. The blows were powerful, but with no accompanying crack of doorjambs or splintering wood. BOOM! BOOM! And then the shuffle of feet scurrying across the floor. "They'll never get in," a voice said. Dianne stiffened in his arms. Instinctively, Julie shuffled backwards, shielding her body with his. Reaching the far wall, he struggled to his feet and tried to pull Dianne up with him. The voice had come from right behind him, only a few feet away it seemed, yet he saw no one in the shadowed darkness. The car's single headlight was above him now, spearing into the darkness, and he could see dust billowing inside the length of the beam. He debated whether the light was an advantage or a disadvantage, and for whom. "Olsen!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Can you hear me?" It didn't matter that he was marking himself. He and Dianne were already marked. "It wouldn't matter if she could. She'll never get into this basement." The voice came from a different direction this time, completely across from where it had come from a moment earlier. How many people were down here? Julie asked himself. He pointed his Glock, shifting it from point to point. He heard the sound of sirens in the distance, and wondered whether Bergmann and the FBI boys were on their way. "Do you hear that?" he called into the darkness. "You'll never get out of here alive." Laughter burst forth all around, from everywhere at the same time but nowhere in particular. Julie pointed his gun in different directions as the sound shifted, not seeing anything as his tried to find a shape in the darkness. "What makes you think this isn't part of my plan?" the voice asked. The words startled Julie and he jumped away from them. They came from right next to him, as if someone were talking into his ear. "You were wise to know that the show started at midnight." Julie pointed his gun at the words. "What was it that convinced you not to fall for my misdirection the way all your colleagues did?" Misdirection. The words now were more misdirection, just as they'd always been. Spotting the steel table only a few feet, Julie scooted away from Dianne and grabbed onto it, pulling it over. It fell with a heavy crash, and it was all he could do to drag it across the basement floor. If someone had a bead on him, he'd already be dead, he thought to himself as he settled in behind the table with Dianne. No, he had time, as much time as the killer would allow. "Which misdirection is that?" Julie called into the darkness, thinking it might be wise to create some misdirection of his own. He whispered something to Dianne and felt her nod. He touched her face and kissed it, hoping it wasn't the last time he did that. Her skin was freezing and he knew she wouldn't be able to endure much more of this insanity. "It was all misdirection," the voice said. "From the very beginning. The cigarettes, the dark SUV, the license plates, even the DNA match. You see Detective Hernandez, you went for the obvious." "You're a genius," Julie called out. "You're all such simple creatures. You'll discover later that the DNA on those unfortunate women matched up with that of my dead friend here." Again, laughter bounced from place to place. "Well, it may not actually be you that discovers it. You see, you'll be dead." Julie dragged himself ever so slowly away from Dianne. The killer was talking, the egotistical son of a bitch. He needed to keep him talking. "Too bad about Manny," Julie called out. "I guess you'll have to get yourself a new engineer as well as a new lover." "Engineer? I have no idea what you're talking about." Sly, thought Julie. His verbal trap had been eluded easily. The words had come from behind him this time, but Julie kept his focus to the front. The guy was still playing with him, trying to prove his superiority right to the very end. "You're very careful with your words," Julie said, hoping the killer would catch the veiled compliment at not having just incriminated himself. "Words are my life," the killer responded. Julie looked to his left. "And it was your own words that led me to you." A pause. "Speaking of which, how did you find us?" the killer asked. Julie looked to his right, pointing the Glock. Where was this bastard? "I'm a cop, smart guy. You stole my girlfriend's car. You ever heard of LoJack?" Julie dragged himself another foot towards the stairs. "Very... smart," the killer admitted, the words coming from different directions. "By the way, I can see you moving towards the stairs." Julie pointed his Glock and fired into the headlight. "Now we're even," he called out, his ears ringing. He moved in the opposite direction now. "Again, very smart," the killer said, "but we're hardly even." The words came from under the stairs. It was pitch black now, not even a glint off the steel table. Julie scrambled back to where Dianne was, or should have been, but she was gone. "Which words?" the killer asked. Something struck the stairs and fell with a thud. A rock, perhaps, or a piece of cement from the broken foundation. Was it Dianne, or was it the killer, trying to distract him further? "What are you talking about, Einstein?" "Which words led you to me? I'd be interested to know." The voice came from up above this time. Another piece of cement plunked against the stairs, then another, then against the far wall. It had to be Dianne, thought Julie as the sirens got closer. Suddenly, a flashlight beam cut into the darkness and landed on the steel table, intensifying the light. "Hernandez, are you still down there?" It was Olsen, calling through the opening in the broken foundation wall. Thinking quickly, Julie fired at a spot a couple of feet below the light and hoped he didn't hurt her. A light landing on him or Dianne could be fatal right about now. He scooted away from the table while the shot still rang in his ears. "Your clues were shit," he called out loudly, "although I think I just figured out how you were Noreen from DeBuke. It was your friend Gulliver that did you in." Another pause. "How... ... ... so? From the left and from the right this time. "When he dropped off that copy of the riddle letter." "How... ... ... so?" again, from the far corner now. More rocks. "Tell her to stop that or I'll spray this whole place with bullets." Julie did no such thing, noting that the voice was frustrated now. "Think about it, genius, or do I have to spell it out for you?" There was silence when there should have been words. More rocks. "Stop that!" "I only want to know one thing before I kill you," Julie said calmly. "My, but you are arrogant," the voice replied just as calmly. "Just as your partner always said. What is it you want to know?" "I want to know how you were always tenth." Another pause. "Do you have your cell phone with you?" There was no change in direction this time. The words had come from exactly the same place as they had last time. Julie zeroed in on the spot, noting that his cell phone was still clipped to his hip despite everything he'd been through in the last few minutes, minutes that might turn out to be his final ones. "Yeah, I have it." "Then answer it, and you'll know how I was always tenth." Julie felt his cell phone vibrate on his hip. It vibrated once, twice, then three times. "Answer it!" the voice called, angry now. Julie plucked it from its holder, not knowing whether to listen to the phone or the voice itself. The voice's location hadn't changed with the last four exchanges and even though he couldn't see his hand in front of his face, Julie had a pretty good idea where it had come from. He readied his Glock as more stones bounced to and fro. God bless Dianne. She was as gutsy as anyone in that position could ever be. The phone vibrated on more time and stopped as the call went to voicemail. "Go ahead, asshole. Show me how you were always tenth." "Gladly," came the reply. Julie's phone vibrated again and he fingered the Glock, making sure the safety was off. The sirens were close now. His phone vibrated once more and he looked at the incoming number. It was one he didn't recognize. The sirens got louder still, and blue and red blips of light began to dot the opening in the broken foundation wall. Then he thought: lights, and he realized in that millisecond that he'd just marked himself as a target as he raised his cell phone to his ear. He ducked away as a shot rang out and cratered into the foundation wall behind him. Another rang out and grazed his forearm, right where his head had been a split second earlier. He noted the muzzle flare on that second shot and rolled to his left, propping himself away from his previous position. A third shot rang out and Julie squeezed off the remaining nine rounds in his clip, not bothering to insert another one. If he were any sort of cop at all, his target would be hamburger now. It was time to take care of Dianne.

1:27 a.m. Olsen looked at the body. Even in death the features were gnarled and distorted, the permanent face of psychosis. "He was one sick puppy," she said, moving the flashlight downward. She counted six entry wounds in the middle of the chest. Not bad shooting considering the fact that Hernandez was shooting blind and under a little bit of pressure. She moved her foot away from a still pooling puddle of blood that oozed from the corpse. Fordrow came up behind and put a hand on her shoulder.

"The paramedics looked at your friend Sanford..." Olsen shot him a look. "That's Sanborn." Fordrow smiled. "I did that on purpose. I figured you needed something to get you back to normal." Suddenly serious, Fordrow added, "Listen, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Procedure is procedure and that's how investigations are conducted. Hernandez is damned lucky it turned out the way it did." Olsen shook her head. "Dianne was an inch away from being carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey and you're telling me he was lucky? Some luck. Who knows how she'll come out of this." Fordrow didn't say anything and she went on. "Hernandez was right all along. If we had only listened to him, we could have avoided all this." She moved the flashlight off the body and turned away. "What about Ernie?" "He has a concussion from the crash but he should be all right. They're loading him in an ambulance now and taking him to County General." Olsen just nodded and started to move off, but Fordrow stopped her. "On a hunch, I called back to the station and had O'Brien look through the yearbook. You'll never guess what he found." "What, a message telling us where Jimmy Hoffa is buried? Good. We can crack another one." "There were three boys named Manuel that graduated from Harbor High School in 1968. None have the last name of Allocca, but one looks like a younger and slimmer version of our Manny—same greasy long hair, same nose, but without the beard. O'Brien is running a background check as we speak." "So it was right under our nose the whole time," Olsen concluded. "This is making me feel better and better. What's next? A calendar and a map with an X-marks-the-spot?" "A diary would help." "You're not funny," Olsen chided. "The way this case went, we wouldn't have picked up on it unless it came to that." Fordrow turned away, thinking Olsen needed to stew in her funk for a while. His flashlight beam landed on Manny's prone body. Like Gordon, or Gulliver, or whoever he was, Manny's body rested in a pool of blood, half his skull having been blown away by Olsen's bullet. More flashlight beams broke into the darkness and Bergmann and Howard Morgan clunked down the worn wooden stairs. They exchanged a few words with Fordrow and he stepped aside. "Which one of these two bodies is Manny?" Morgan asked. Olsen focused her flashlight beam and said, "The one with the missing skull." Morgan said, "Charming," and bent over the body. He gathered up two tubes of blood and added, "According to Hernandez, this will be our DNA match to the rest of the murders." He straightened and noted the steel table as his flashlight passed over it, prompting him to shine the light on the rest of the surroundings. "What the hell is this place?" No one answered as Olsen asked, "Where's Hernandez?" Bergmann said, "He's upstairs. They're about to load Dianne into an ambulance and he's trying to line up a rape crisis counselor to meet them at the hospital." "So he's going with her after all?" Olsen asked. "She doesn't want him to. She's telling him this is his case and he needs to be here to finish it out." Fordrow's cell phone rang. "Yeah." He listened for a moment and said, "Then wake his ass up." He put his hand over the phone and turned to Bergmann. "O'Brien says he's got a hit on Manny's name as it's shown in the yearbook, which is Allatorre. Seems that a Manuel Allatorre is linked to several aliases in our own FBI files, and is shown as having spent time at Atascadero State Hospital, which is not far from Santa Cruz." Bergmann said, "Gimme the phone." Taking it, "Tell me about the hospital," he barked, and even in the bleak light of the flashlights his ever-expressive face could be seen changing shape. "Like the man said, wake someone up if you have to. We need to know about this guy." He handed the phone back to Fordrow. "According to O'Brien, the place is a maximum security looney bin. It's where the state sends its wackos." "What kind of wackos?" Olsen asked. "Wackos who are incompetent to stand trial, wackos who have been found guilty by reason of insanity, wacko inmates, and...." Bergmann stopped there. "And what?" "Sex offenders." Olsen just shook her head. "That's just fucking great. Another little detail that got by us." She shoved her way past Fordrow, Bergmann, and Morgan who were standing there like the Three Stooges, and clunked her way up the stairs. Outside, she bumped into Gilkey, who was fumbling with a roll of crime scene tape. The temperature was holding at a balmy twenty degrees and vapor was coming from every mouth and tailpipe in sight. "Where's Julie?" "In the ambulance with his girlfriend," he said, pointing. Olsen made her way to the first of three ambulances, spotting Ernie Sanborn inside. "Remember what you said you'd do if I agreed to help you," he said, cracking a grin. It was the first time she'd been able to come anywhere near a smile all night, but somehow sex had a different meaning right now. "I'll see you later," Olsen said as a couple of paramedics walked up and closed the doors. She wheeled away and headed for one of the two remaining ambulances, spotting Julie and Dianne inside. "Brilliant deduction," she said to herself. She knocked on the window and Julie waved her in. It was warm inside, the heat having been cranked to full blast. Dianne was covered in blankets and Julie was sitting next her, holding her hand. "How are you doing?" "It's amazing what a girl's gotta do to get a little attention around here," Dianne said, trying to be funny, but no one laughed. Julie kissed her hand and wiped away a couple of tears that had broken free and tracked down his cheeks. Olsen put a hand on his shoulder. "It seems that Manny and Gordon go all the way back. They're in the same yearbook." Julie looked up, but said nothing. "The connection was right under our nose the whole time." Julie's look spoke volumes, and the words I told you so came through loud and clear. Olsen shifted uncomfortably. "They were lovers," Dianne said, trying to break the tension. "Probably have been since high school," Julie added. "We should have known that. We were so locked in to Daniel Lester that we didn't consider all the possibilities. Evidently even Lester didn't know about their relationship." Olsen turned to Dianne. "Your boyfriend is one hell of a cop, you know." Julie wiped his nose on his sleeve and asked, "Where's Morgan?" "In that awful dungeon with Bergmann," Olsen replied, jagging her head. "You should tell him to issue three death certificates." Olsen looked at him oddly. "Three people died tonight," Julie went on. "Gordon, Manny... and Gulliver. It was Gulliver that ultimately gave them away." Olsen asked, "How so?" "Dianne said it when we were in California." "What did I say?" Dianne asked. "You were talking about the killer. You said the only thing he was zeroed in on was himself, that he was so egocentric that he considered himself the center of the universe. That's when I started to put it all together—or thought I was. The ego, the loner existence off the air, the situation with his mother: if anyone fit the profile, it was Gulliver, or Gordon, one of them, but it backfired. I mean, the dark colored SUV at the mall, the cigarettes we found on the asphalt there—Gordon had to know that it would all point to Gulliver, and it worked. We fell for it hook, line, and sinker. The killer—or, in this case, killers—knew we'd run a DNA test on those cigarette butts, and they knew it would match up with the DNA from the rest of the murders. They also knew we'd discover that the murders took place near areas where Gulliver had worked over the years. Don't you see, it was a trail of breadcrumbs." "To what?" "To Gulliver, and they knew that eventually we'd find a way to run a DNA check on him." "In order to prove he wasn't the killer," Olsen concluded. "It would have shifted the suspicion off of him completely," Julie went on, "but the circumstances didn't work out quite right." He looked at Olsen. "We were lucky." Bergmann's face appeared in the ambulance door window. Julie looked at Dianne, who nodded, and he waved Bergmann in. Olsen made room for him on the bench seat next to her. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," Bergmann said in his most humble voice. "If there's anything you need, anything at all, don't hesitate. You got that?" "I got that," Dianne said through a tight smile. Bergmann looked at Julie. "Take all the time you need, Hernandez. We'll see you back at the station whenever you get around to it." Bergmann got up abruptly and turned. "Good job you two. It could have been a lot worse." "I guess that's about as high praise as we're gonna get," Olsen said when Bergmann was gone. Julie nodded. "That's Bergmann." "What kept you on the trail?" Olsen asked, getting back to where they were. "Remember the day Gordon—and it was Gordon that day, not Gulliver—delivered the riddle letter to my apartment?" "Of course." "Do you remember the end of that conversation?" Olsen looked up as if she were looking into the files in her brain. "Not really." "He called Dianne by name. More to the point, he used her last name. How would he have known that? I'd never mentioned Dianne to him, and as far as I know, Dianne had never met him." Dianne shook her head in agreement. "It simply didn't make sense." "That was it?" "There's more." Julie looked back at Dianne. "Remember the night we went to Roy's?" Dianne nodded. "We were being followed. More specifically, you were being followed. He was stalking you." A confused look crossed Dianne's face. "And you knew this?" "I'd been taken off the case at that point, and I wasn't sure what I knew. That's why Olsen and I showed up at the mall that night. I certainly couldn't risk being right, if that makes any sense." Not knowing what to think, Dianne's eyes were daggers, pointing straight at him. It was going to take her a while to see that he was trying to protect her. Julie shifted his gaze to Olsen. "That night we were at the radio station, when I lost my keys?" Olsen nodded. "It was Manny who called me the next day and told me he'd found them." "So you misplacing your keys was no accident." "They made copies of them." He looked at Dianne. "That's how he got into the apartment. He used me the whole time to get to you." "Oh my God," Dianne said suddenly. "The missing panties." Julie took her hand. "What missing panties?" "There were times..." Dianne choked with emotion. "...there were times when I couldn't find some of my underwear." "How many times?" Olsen asked. "Twice," Dianne answered. She caught Olsen's eye. "You know how girls are with panty lines." Olsen nodded. "I was looking for a specific pair, and I figured I'd just lost them. You know, dropped them on the way back from the laundry room, or left them in the dryer or something. Didn't think anything of it." Tears began to stream. "The second time it happened, when I was looking for them? I noticed some goop on the edge of the dresser drawer. I thought it was a drop of hand lotion and I wiped it away with my finger." She looked at Julie. "It wasn't hand lotion, Julie. He was there, and I touched it. I actually touched it. Oh, God." Julie held her close. "It had to be Manny who mailed that riddle letter from Santa Cruz," he said to Olsen, "and probably him as well who kidnapped Sister Salazar. There's no other explanation." Olsen nodded. "We never thought to check on his whereabouts, did we?" "We never even investigated the possibility of there being an accomplice. Gordon and Manny played us but good. I wonder if Gulliver was part of it at all." "Unknowingly, perhaps, but he had to be. That night when Vic said the call came from inside the station? He was calling himself. Gordon was calling Gulliver." "And he made it seem as if the call was coming from outside the station," Olsen concluded. "They did it right in front of us the whole time, made us look like fools. We were fools." Olsen caught Julie's eye. "Who knows how many women you saved tonight," she said to him. Unexpectedly, Julie took out his badge and fingered it. "Maybe now Bergmann will listen to me once in a while."

