

Lonely Are the Dead

by Paul Westwood

Copyright 2013 Paul Westwood

Published at Smashwords

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**  
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you

Prologue

Sunday, November 13th, 1977

He loved the smell of November - decaying leaves, wet grass, and the memories of a summer that had a faded away like so many promises. It reminded him of change and the endless cycle of time. The only certainty of life was death, the final arbitrator. Of course death could be hastened along, and given a helping hand. Only soldiers and killers visited that darker side, understanding the razor-edge that divided one world from the next.

From where he was standing outside, the man could just hear the distant chimes of the clock inside of the house, signaling that midnight was here. The chill of expectation ran down his spine, sending a giddy energy that curled along his arms and legs. The familiar sensation felt better than an orgasm or any drug. It felt smooth as glass, but filled with a boundless joy \- the fact that he was alive and in control. Control. In all the chaos of the living - the mass of uncertainties that made up most of everyone else's existence, he had found order in the simplest of all things – bringing death to those who deserved, nay craved the final release..

Death was eternal and forever. It was the end, but also the beginning of something new.

With practiced routine, he tread along the garden walk, careful not to leave any lingering footprints that could be measured and used for identification. Ahead, the interior of the house was dark and quiet, but he couldn't help but feel that he was being watched by hidden eyes. That was part of the thrill - the unknown. No matter how carefully he planned or how carefully he went through his careful, practiced motions, there was always a chance of discovery. The universe was just a random collection of events, only organized by the slimmest of chances. He understood it would only take one minute variable to throw off the best of plans. And this night it almost happened.

As if by plan, as his boot touched the first wooden step leading to the back porch, a light inside went on. He froze, a spasm of fear curling in his stomach like a woken rattlesnake. However, he knew he would be safe from view since the reflection of the interior light against the sliding door glass would stop anyone from seeing outside. From his position, he could see inside, though only at a reduced angle. The overhead kitchen light had snapped on. There was a woman inside, her hair unkempt from sleep. She was wearing a red nightgown that reached to the knees and a pair of pink slippers. With a jerk on the handle, the refrigerator was opened, bathing her with yellow light that shone through the sheer fabric, revealing a youthful and lean body. She reached inside and pulled out a carton of milk. As he watched, she went over to the cupboard, took down a glass and filled it. She stood there, taking an agonizing time finishing the milk. The glass was then put into the sink, the overhead light turned off, and then the house was quiet once more.

Standing as still as a statue, he waited. The minutes ticked by as he counted the thumps of his own slow beating heart. After another twenty minutes passed, he took a glass-cutter from the pocket of his windbreaker. Taking the final steps up to the red cedar porch, he stopped at the glass slider, and with his gloved hands began making slow, even cuts; creating a rough square near the handle. After a few minutes of careful work, he gave the area a gentle push. The square of glass fell through, hitting the carpeting below with all the sound of a wasp landing on a window pane. Then it was only a matter of reaching through the glass, unlocking the door, and entering.

Death was here.
Chapter 1

Monday, November 14th, 1977

The phone on the nightstand was ringing. Thomas Markus could hear it, but his mind still hadn't made the connection that it was time to wake up and answer it. In the blurriness of sleep, he had forgotten who he was, or what he did for a living. It wasn't until his wife Jamie gave him a gentle shove with her knee, did his hand reach out of the covers to grab the receiver. He pulled the phone under the blanket and placed it against his sweaty ear.

"Hello?" he slurred into the phone, mentally damning the man who had invented the infernal device.

The female voice on the other end was annoyingly pleasant. "Lieutenant, this is Dispatch. I'm sorry to wake you, but it is your turn to be on call."

"Go ahead," Markus said, wondering why he had ever become a police officer. There was never enough sleep, never enough time to spend with the family, and the pay was miserable by any standards. But yet he couldn't help but love the unknown challenges that every day brought. It was certainly better than sitting behind a desk or working the line at some Joe Six-Pack factory.

"Sir, there have been multiple deaths reported over on 1033 Steele Avenue. The patrolman on scene has requested that Homicide will want to see the scene of the crime. It looks like murder."

"Does my partner know?" Markus asked.

"He has been notified and is waiting for you to pick him up."

"I'm on my way," he said as he slid out of the bed, this time putting the phone back on the cradle with practiced ease.

"What is it?" Jamie mumbled.

"Nothing, just go back to sleep. I have to go out for a little while. I'll be back in time for breakfast."

Before he even had his pants on, Markus could hear his wife snoring away with gentle, even tones. She had been living with a cop for too long to become unsettled by an early morning wake-up call. He finished dressing, wondering why his clothes continued to shrink. Or was he getting fatter? He laughed to himself at the idea of becoming older. His father had been an ex-marine who woke up every morning to do a full exercise regimen. In the end it turned out to be pointless since the old man died in a car accident over twenty years ago.

After combing his thinning hair in the bathroom, Markus brushed his teeth. He then grabbed his keys and wallet, headed downstairs to put his shoes on, and then went out to the garage. Inside were his wife's car, a 1975 Ford Pinto Wagon, and his own vehicle, a 1972 Chevrolet Malibu. Though the police force had offered to give him a Dodge Monaco to use, he preferred the Malibu for two reasons. The first was the big block engine that he had built himself, generating enough power to keep up with most anything except for the most aggressive of gearheads. The second reason was a natural distrust for Dodge products, an inherited fear that he learned from his father.

Markus opened the car door and slid inside, the familiar vinyl seat comfortable against his back. He clicked the garage door opener and then started the engine up. The burble of the powerful V8 was comforting, a reminder that power can be harnessed and controlled. He gently pulled out of the driveway, shutting the garage door with a click of the automatic opener. From there, he left the neighborhood and headed into the heart of Bay City. It was still dark out, with only a slight lightening of the eastern sky to remind him that dawn was just around the corner. It was also cold, so the heater was turned on, the fan squeaking under the dash with a familiar regularity.

His partner, Ben Holt, was waiting outside his apartment building, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Holt was built like a scarecrow - tall and lanky. He had a shock of blonde hair and a face that would win no beauty awards. But he still had an easy way with women that Markus never understood.

Holt waved as the car pulled over. They were soon off, driving past the morning delivery trucks that clogged the side of the road. Leaving downtown, Markus steered a course towards the shoreline.

"You still driving this piece of shit?" his partner asked as he rolled down the window a crack to let the smoke of his cigarette out.

"You still living here in the ghetto?" Markus replied with his own question. It was an old joke that had long gone stale, but he couldn't help smile. Holt had been his partner for the past four years, the previous man, Dan Waits, having retired after thirty years of service. He had learned a lot about policing from that old man. Though Holt was still relatively young \- he had made detective at the tender age of twenty-seven - Markus couldn't but help like the fellow. Where Waits was a curmudgeon of the worst sort, his new partner was always happily telling stories and acting if the entire job was some great cosmic joke. Perhaps it was. The things that a homicide detective experienced were never a laughing matter, but a sense of humor was required since anything else would drive a man to the edge on insanity.

"You know anything that Dispatch didn't tell me?" Holt asked as he threw the cigarette stub out of the window.

Markus promptly answered, "Multiple murders, number unspecified. The house is located on Steele Avenue, so it has to be pretty swank." He knew that the street hugged the shoreline bluff and was dominated by large expensive houses built for the views of the Atlantic sea below. It was the home of the old rich, the politician, and the more savory criminal element. The differences between the three were slight.

Turning off of Madison Street, Markus drove slowly down Steele Avenue, looking for the correct address. He had rarely taken this way before and was surprised by the ostentatious dwellings. The lots that passed by were all large and had homes of various architectural styling - from Tudor to Modern - but all built to a grandiose scale.

"Gee, would you look at that," Holt remarked. "I don't think a police pension will let me live in one of those."

"Not if you're a clean cop," Markus muttered. The police force of Bay City was relatively ethical, dictated more by the moderately-sized manpower than any sense of morality.

Their destination became obvious by the car lights up ahead. Not only were there two police cruisers and the forensics wagon, but two local television stations had sent their vans. A pair of reporters with microphones in hand were standing outside the driveway, the lights from the camera shining brightly across the sculpted front garden.

"Damn it!" Markus swore as he pulled onto the shoulder. "How did those reporters get here before us?"

His partner laughed. "They've got police radios too. And since this happened on this side of town, they know this isn't just another everyday murder."

"We'll see about that," Markus shot back as he shut off the engine and opened the door. Exiting, he saw that the sun had just started to poke over the horizon. It was cold outside, a touch of frost in the air that signaled the coming of winter. The massive house was thoroughly modern - an ugly travesty to his eyes - with more windows than walls. It must have been hell on the heating bills.

Holt led the way, walking past the reporter without saying a word. But Markus was well recognized.

"Hey, Tom!" a reporter yelled out. It was Vincent Delgado of News Thirteen. "What's going on in there?"

The detective shrugged. "Right now, you know as much as I do. I'll release whatever information I am permitted to." That was his standard reply. Some other cops made a little extra cash on the side, selling juicy bits of information to the media or even a politician. Markus never did that since such data could be used by the criminal, undermining any chance of solving the case. It also hardly seemed fair to turn a profit from an innocent victim who had no say in the transaction.

"Fine," the reporter replied with a tone of disappointment.

Markus and Holt walked past the cop who was guarding the house from any outside encroachment. They were quickly recognized and waved through.

The front door of the house was painted a brilliant red and flanked on each side by a long wood-encased window and an alabaster Greek column. Holt opened the door, letting Markus through. Inside, they found a well-appointed entry way with oak floors, a series of modern sketches of the sea mounted on the wall, and a shiny chrome chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. The paint on the wall was a garish yellow. White carpeted steps headed upwards, while to the left and right were a living room and kitchen respectively. Every room was built to be larger than life, which struck Markus as to be a particular vice of the rich. Nothing was ever too big or too flashy. It was like compensation for some personal failing, or perhaps a chance to reach immortality by building something on the scale of the Parthenon.

"Lieutenant," a deep voice called from above. "The bodies are up here." It was Ed Merrick, from Forensics, standing on the top of the stairs. He was a squat little fellow with gray hair, dark eyes and a vapid expression that hid a deeper intelligence. He had been collecting evidence for some forty years now and was rumored to like the dead more than the living. Of course the same could be said for any person who had been around murder for such a long time.

"What have we got?" Markus asked as he began climbing the steps. Holt followed slowly, looking at Merrick with distaste, since he never liked the man. Not many people did. Perhaps the young detective felt uncomfortable around death which was odd, considering his profession.

"Samuel Watson is in the bedroom. In the bathroom is his wife, Eileen."

"Cause of death?"

"This is just from my preliminary examination, but Mr. Watson was struck in the head, rendering him unconscious. The blow was powerful enough to have partially caved-in the side of his head. He would have died anyways, but the throat was also cut, hastening the process to a considerable degree. I'm sure the coroner can give us a more detailed report."

Markus nodded. "And his wife?"

Merrick sighed. "That's where it starts to get strange. Eileen Watson is in the bathtub without a stitch of clothing on. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with clothing line. But the trail of blood on the carpeting and bathroom tile shows that she was dragged there. Her body has been lacerated in several locations, but here comes the odd part - her right foot has also been amputated. Death would have been by bleeding, but with the cord around the neck, she appears to have been strangled."

Holt made a face and said, "Who found the bodies?"

The evidence man shook his head. "I don't know - I didn't ask. But I'm sure one of the patrolmen would know."

He remembered his partner's distaste for the dead, so Markus said, "Why don't you find out what they know downstairs, I'll go look at the bodies."

"I like that idea," Holt said gratefully, and headed back to the first floor.

The coroner led him down a hallway that was marked with large bloody boot prints. "I want pictures of those," Markus said.

"Already done."

They entered the bedroom where two technicians were working. One was busy taking pictures, while the other was busy examining the wooden frame of the bed with a magnifying glass. On the blood-soaked sheets was the body of a middle-aged man dressed in underwear and a t-shirt. The hair on the side of the head was matted with blood while the throat looked to have been hacked open with animal ferocity. The blankets on top had been pulled back to the foot of the bed. On the far wall there was a wide dresser with a smashed mirror on top. Broken glass littered the floor. White curtains were drawn across the large windows. A smeared trail of blood led to a doorway.

Even after all these years of seeing the dead in the most horrific of circumstances, Markus still felt sick to his stomach. He asked, "Is the wife in there?"

Merrick nodded. "Uh-huh. It's not a pretty sight."

The bathroom was all white tiles with two matching sinks, a separate shower stall, and an extra-long bathtub. Inside the half-filled tub was a woman lying face up in water that was colored pink with blood. Her white breasts and black hair bobbed above the surface. In the light of the overhead fixture, Markus could see that she had been a very beautiful woman of an age less than her husband. The eyes were closed as if she was sleeping; a faint smile pursed her lips like she was dreaming a wonderful dream. Around her neck was a purple cord with tasseled ends. It had been drawn tight, cutting into the flesh. The wrists and ankles were bound with white rope, the ends floating lazily in the water. The chest and torso were a mix of angry welts and open cuts, but the worst part was the right foot, which was missing. Only gobs of flesh remained at the end of the limb.

"It's a damned shame," the evidence man muttered, standing next to him. "I mean that someone so beautiful had to die in such a terrible way."

Markus shrugged, suddenly feeling impatient with this man. "It's a shame that anyone has to die this way," he growled. "Beauty or not. Your men can go ahead and take the bodies away. But I want everything in here tagged for evidence. I'm especially interested in that purple rope around her neck. It doesn't match anything I've seen in the house yet. Perhaps our killer brought it with him, along with that clothesline. I also want full autopsies performed by the coroner. I need to know exactly how the both of them died."

With a grim smile, Merrick asked, "Anything else?"

"And for once, keep it under wraps. I don't want the press or even the brass to know anything until I have reviewed the reports."

He looked shocked by the accusation. "Come on, Tom, you know how discreet I am."

Without replying, the detective turned and left the bathroom. He spent another moment looking over the bedroom, noting the red crumpled bathrobe lying on the side of the bed where the woman had slept. He also examined the floor near the dresser where he found blood stains on the shattered glass. It looked as if the woman had put up a struggle before she was tied up and dragged off to the bathroom. The fight was violent enough to break the glass and causing the remnants to be scattered on the floor. The assailant was strong and had no compunctions about using violence to meet his needs. But what exactly were those needs?

With a sigh of exasperation, Markus left the bedroom, went down the hall, and took the stairs down to the first floor. Following voices, he found Holt talking to a young patrolman whose face was colorless. An odor of vomit was in the air and he noticed that the officer had some on his shoes. Some men had tender stomachs which wasn't a good thing to have when in this line of work. Looking at his partner, he said, "What have you got to tell me?"

Holt used his thumb to point. "Jacobs here was the first at the scene. He received a call from Dispatch reporting that Gary Watson, the son of the homeowner, had reported the murder of his father."

Markus asked, "Tell me, Jacobs, what did you see when you first arrived here?"

The officer gulped nervously. "My partner and I arrived as quickly as we could. It only took us ten minutes to get here. I found the house was dark except for the front porch light. The kid was waiting there, looking worse than I feel. He told me that he had come home early this morning, having traveled up from Valley College. He didn't suspect a thing until he had gone upstairs to his bedroom. That's when the kid saw the bloody tracks. From there he went into the bedroom, turned on the lights, and saw that his father had been killed. He immediately ran down and called the police. I had him go with my partner to sit in the car while I went in and investigated. I pretty much saw the same thing, but also saw the woman in the bathroom. I'm afraid I had to use the toilet to puke in. Not all of it made it inside the bowl."

"Don't let it worry you," Holt said comfortingly. "There are some things that no one can get used to."

Markus said, "That will be all. Just make sure to carefully fill out your report. I don't want you to forget a single detail. Go ahead and get back to headquarters and clean yourself up."

Jacobs gave them a shy, lopsided smile before shuffling out of the room.

After a minute shake of his head, Holt said, "Come over here. I found how he entered the house." They went over to the sliding door which had a rough, square cut into the glass. "You can see the perpetrator used a glass cutter. It was just a matter of making a big enough area to fit his hand inside, pull the latch by the handle, and slide open the door. It's pretty standard work for burglars who are trying to gain entry without being heard."

Markus nodded, not surprised by the means of entry. It would have to be something quiet, especially if the killer wanted to surprise his victims. "I want all of this checked for fingerprints. When that college kid is ready for questioning, I want to see him at headquarters."

"How did it look upstairs?" his partner asked, looking pale for just asking the question.

Markus frowned, the lines of his face crinkling together into an unpleasant-looking mask. "It was terrible. Like a slaughterhouse. But let's go outside and get a better look at the grounds. I want to see if any evidence can be found there."

In order to not disturb the evidence of the glass sliding door, they went out through the front and took the red and brown bricked path leading to the back. The morning sun was now out, but its feeble heat was not enough to dispel the frost on the ground. The trees here were devoid of leaves, and the bushes were scraggly and tired-looking. Along the frost strewn ground were two sets of tracks, leading to and from the side sliding door.

Markus stopped across from the deck leading to the kitchen. He stared at the house. He said quietly, "There is something strange about this whole thing. Why would someone break in, kill the two of them, and remove a foot from one of the deceased?"

Holt took a cigarette out, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with a match. He waved the match out, and placed it inside his pocket in order to not leave any false evidence behind. He blew some smoke out of his nostrils and said, "Perhaps some Mafia payback? You know, some kind of warning to anyone else to not cross the wrong guys."

"I don't know - Bay City isn't exactly known for its crime syndicates. We'll have to ask Gary Watson if anything is missing from the house. We'll also have to ask the neighbors if they saw anything suspicious. Though the rich here are trying to buy some privacy, surely someone must have seen a suspicious car or character roaming through the neighborhood. Perhaps we'll get lucky."

"I hope so," his partner muttered.

"Before the sun melts them, I want you to follow those tracks. I don't expect they'll lead to anything, but at least we'll know where the car was parked."

"I'll get right on it," Holt said and began lumbering off to the front garden, his face pressed to the ground.

With a sigh, Markus headed back inside, fully aware of the mountain of work he had to do.
Chapter 2

Monday, November 14th, 1977

From her office on the seventy-second floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, Karen Dekker had an excellent view of the Hudson River. But at this moment she was too busy to watch the slow moving ferries, but was instead looking at the proofs of the upcoming magazine. The layout of _The Caller_ looked good, including the soon-to-be controversial article on Harvey Milk, San Francisco's first openly gay mayor. She was more worried about the story on the German Autumn since it lacked the human touch and photographs to make it a home run. But it was getting too late to have the article rewritten or new source material to make it just right.

Karen sat back in her leather chair, lit a Kool cigarette, and composed herself before calling the senior editor. After a moment of hesitation, she hit the intercom to call her secretary. "Mary, can you check to see if Mr. Lorenz is busy? Have him call me as soon as he can."

"Yes, miss," the high-strung voice answered.

With a faint smile spreading across her finely honed face, Karen thought of the office rumors concerning her and Peter Lorenz, the Senior Editor. Some of them were very true - when she first started at _The Caller_ , Peter had taken upon himself to take her under his wing. This apprenticeship eventually became something else - she had gone to bed with him. It had been hardly the most thrilling experience of her life, but at the time, it seemed expected of her. When he had tired of the relationship, it ended amiably enough with only an undercurrent of the old feelings surfacing from time to time. Most of the staff assumed Karen had gotten the job as Assistant Editor because of her continued involvement. But that wasn't the case at all - she had worked hard to earn the position and was now an important part of the publishing process for this national magazine.

The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She stubbed out the cigarette into the ashtray and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Karen, this is Peter," the familiar voice answered. "Before you say anything, I know you're calling on the German Autumn article. I know it's practically half-finished since the writer rushed it through."

"Well, it is a little rough."

"Of course it is, but as you know, the news industry is about speed. We have to get this story out before the public loses interest or some other magazine publishes it before we do."

Karen was about to answer with a harangue concerning quality, when the intercom buzzed. She knew it had to be important for her secretary to interrupt a conversation with Peter. "Hold on, I have another call coming in." She put the editor on hold and hit the intercom button.

"Miss, it's your mother, Joan," her secretary said breathlessly.

"My mother? What does she want?" she asked. It was odd for her mother Joan to call during business hours. It was usually a nighttime conversation where she complained about Karen's lack of husband.

"She didn't say, but said it was extremely important."

"Send the call over," Karen replied with a resigned sigh. She then took Peter off hold and said, "A bit of personal business. I'll have to call you back."

"Very well, my dear," he replied with a touch of sarcasm.

"Thanks," she said and switched over to the second blinking line. "Hello, mother, I hope this is something important."

The answering voice, which was normally slow to the point of affecting boredom, was now excited as if the end of the world was just around the corner. "Karen, I don't know if you heard the news, but Eileen Watson was found murdered."

"What? Where?" Karen found herself saying, her voice cracking by the unexpected shock. Eileen had been her best friend in high school and they had kept in touch ever since. While Karen had pursued college and a career, Eileen had gotten married to the school quarterback, Joshua Cowan, only to be quickly divorced. Her latest marriage had been to a man twelve years her senior, which had apparently caused no amount of gossip in Bay City.

The reply practically cackled with glee, reminding Karen that her mother never particularly cared for Eileen, especially since the third marriage. "It was at her house, along with that no-good husband of hers. The son from his first marriage, Gary, discovered them. From what I've heard, the police are quite busy now. I bet it was some lover of Eileen's."

Used to the pressures of working with the news, Karen quickly regained her composure, but the unexpected information still sent a quiver down her neck. "Oh, mother," she said disapprovingly, "you are the worst gossip. When is the funeral going to be?"

Joan clucked, "Even I don't know that. But I thought you would like to know since you were always such dear friends with her."

"Yes, I was, at least until a few years ago. I haven't had much time for my old friends. I'll see if I can get some time off of work and then come up as soon as I can."

"There's no reason to do that since you are always telling me how busy you are. You don't have the time to visit me, but once a friend dies who you haven't seen for years, suddenly you're on a tear to get back home. I've been alone here ever since your father died, while you were off seeing the world. At least your sister, Sue, has an excuse, busy raising two boys."

Karen cut her off before it devolved into the standard acrimonious guilt trip. "Look, mom, I have to go. I'll call you as soon as I can, probably when I've landed at the airport. There's no reason to pick me up, I'll take a taxi. Goodbye." With a sigh of relief, she cut off the connection. Ever since the death of her father to lung cancer, dealing with her mother had become more difficult, and the passing years had only made it worse.

She had been glad to leave Bay City. There were too many bad memories there. Her dad, James Dekker, had been such a strong force in her life. His agonizing decay from the crippling ravages of cancer had been too much to watch. The prognosis was given while she was a freshman at college. He fought against death, going through the most troublesome treatments without success. Karen could barely stand to see the change in him – from a man of strength to a frail bag of bones – and had guiltily stayed away as much as she could.

When he had finally passed away, Karen had been in college at Columbia, busy finishing her journalism degree. It had been torture to go back home, and deal with the clinging, sympathetic friends of the family. The death, though hardly unexpected, seemed to have affected her mother the worst. She was dependent on her husband to make all the decisions in life. The sudden change had been too much for her. She had become clingy, and needed constant attention. It was unbearable for Karen, and she was glad to return back to school.

After receiving her degree, it was easy to accept a job working for a small paper in Albany, covering the day to day workings of the state government. It had been interesting work, leading to the uncovering of a major corruption charge for a prominent politician, and a few other minor scandals. The stories had brought the attention of several papers, and even a major offer from a prominent television station. But the offer to work at _The Caller_ had been too good to be true. It was known for hard hitting stories that shook up the establishment and made waves with the general public. A few years of grunt work and then she was working for the editorial department, finally clear of the day-to-day concerns of the reporter. It had been the best move of her life.

But still, she could never shake the ghosts of Bay City. Her mother would call every week, gossiping about friends and family – mostly discussing the grandchildren and how wonderful it would be to have more of them. Now Karen only visited for the holidays, spending as little time as possible there. Going back early, before Thanksgiving, seemed too depressing to contemplate.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the open door. It was Peter Lorenz, giving her a friendly grin. He was short, inclining to pudginess, and his round head had only a scrap of hair left, forming a horseshoe above the ears. The smile on his face vanished when he saw the expression on her face. "Anything the matter?"

She nodded, feeling a pang of grief that hit harder than expected. "An old friend of mine was killed. I need some time off to attend the funeral."

He waved his hands in the air as if dispelling a cloud of doubt lingering over his head. "Take off for a few days. This month's issue is about done. I'm sure we can get along without you for a little while."

"Thank you, Peter. I'm sure it won't take that long."

He laughed. "Just don't be gone too long. You know I can't work unless you're around to help wipe my fevered brow."

"Now you're just teasing me."

Around the office, Peter was known to be a hypochondriac. His morbid fear of death played second fiddle to his boundless energy. He said shyly, "I hate to ask this, but my curiosity always gets the better of me. But just how did your friend die?"

Karen sadly said, "According to the police, she was murdered along with her husband."

His interest perked up. "Really? Well, well, I never would have thought something so positively gruesome would have happened in little old Bay City. If there's any good story there, let me know. I'm sure a little human interest angle could fill up a column or something."

She shook her head, "I don't think it will be worth the bother."

Chapter 3

Monday, November 14th, 1977

Markus had his feet propped up on the desk. He felt tired, reaching the point where coffee only offered a momentary respite from the crushing exhaustion. He was alone in his office now, Holt having left to follow up on some evidence. The ashtray was filled with his partner's cigarette butts, and the idea of smelling another one burning made his lungs recoil with disgust. It had been a long day so far, and there still hadn't been a breakthrough in this case. It would take a thousand questions before they had just the one answer. His hand reached for the coroner's report again, and his eyes scanned the already-memorized words in the summary. He was looking for something that stood out.

Samuel Watson: Death by arterial bleeding after receiving a blow that fractured sub-orbital socket. Time of death was near midnight, give or take one hour.

Eileen Watson: Death by internal and arterial bleeding. Foot amputation was post-mortem. Time of death was near midnight, give or take one hour.

What bothered him about that foot? And the bathtub? Then the realization hit him - why would the killer bother to drag Eileen Watson all the way to the bathroom to amputate the foot? There was blood spilled everywhere in the bedroom and in the lust of the moment, the assailant took no precautions of hiding his footprints. Why was the tub important? Failing to find an answer, the detective shook his head, hoping some of the other tests would bring some new evidence to light.

Holt came in to the office, his face haggard. His hands were jammed in his coat pockets as if trying to stay warm against the onset of winter. "What's going on?" he drawled in an easy manner that did little to hide the exhaustion apparent in his eyes.

Markus tapped the paper in his hand. "I've got the Coroner report here. Both the victims died of bleeding, which is hardly surprising considering the quantity of blood on the scene. But I got to thinking about that bathtub. Why would our killer drag Missus Watson all the way over there to hack off one of her feet?"

"Cleanliness?" Holt offered, his grim expression breaking into a lopsided grin.

Too tired to notice the sarcasm, Markus replied, "Either that, or we have to go with your Mafia idea. Are there any leads on that purple cord? It didn't seem to match anything else in the house."

Shaking his head, his partner replied, "We're still working that angle. There are a few shops in town that may sell something like that, so it will take some footwork to track it down. I don't have much hope in that direction. It could be something old or even sold from another city. I'll get some of the rookies on it though, just in case it leads to something."

"Did the neighbors on either side see anything suspicious?"

"No. I interviewed both of them myself. One is a radiologist. His wife and him went to bed early and didn't hear a thing all night. The same goes for the neighbor on the other side, who happens to be a City Councilman. He wasn't too pleased to talk to me - perhaps he was feeling a little guilty. But he had nothing to add either."

Markus made a face. He finally said, "Wait a minute, I don't remember seeing any houses across the street. Is there anyone living there, deeper in the woods?"

"Nope. The neighborhood association bought that land from the real estate developer years ago. No one lives there since everyone wanted to maintain their privacy. When I followed the tracks by the side of the house, they led into the forest there. I'm afraid I'm not much of a tracker."

"It must be nice to be rich. I want that area searched - look for tire tracks in any of the little turnarounds. Our killer had to park somewhere. There's not exactly a bus stop in that part of town."

"I'll get a man on it. By the way, Gary Watson is here. Maybe he will tell us something more. He is ready to talk now, but I'm afraid he brought the family lawyer with him."

Markus sighed. "That's going to make things a little more difficult."

His partner nodded. "Yes, and worst of all, it is Samuel Watson's partner, Brent Niles. He's not exactly the best friend of the police department, not with half the criminals in Bay City walking the streets, free as a bird, because of him."

Brent Niles was a well-known attorney whose specialty was criminal defense. Any officer working the streets had a story to tell about this sharp-witted lawyer. In court, he had sprung many of a defendant from the clutches of the law, using any obscure technicality or point of law. Markus had often butt heads with the man.

Standing up from his desk, Markus went over to the coffee pot and poured himself another cup. He quickly gulped it down, scalding his tongue. "Let's do it," he said softly.

Located nearby, the interview room was a small room with a single desk, four chairs bolted to the floor, and a single steel door with a one-way mirror. They found Gary Watson and Brent Niles waiting.

Gary Watson was the typical All-American college student with trendy long brown hair, a permanent sneer, and even a school athletic jacket sporting the team logo. But any sense of rebellion appeared to have been quashed by the recent turn of events. The brown eyes were ringed with sorrow and the face was drawn and pale. He stared blankly at the two detectives as they sat down.

Brent Niles was dressed in a silk suit, silk dress shirt and a tie that would have cost Markus a week's paycheck. He looked comfortable in the bleak surroundings as he should have considering the number of times the attorney had sat in that same chair, advising clients not to say a word to the police. His black hair was luxuriously cut, though Markus suspected some artificial color had been added to hide the gray. The eyes were narrowed with interest, while the still-youthful face remained impassive, as if already coldly calculating his next move.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Holt started, falling easily enough into the role of the good cop. It was an old routine with the pair of them but still effective after all these years.

Watson nodded, while Niles merely raised an eyebrow.

"There is no reason for you to be here, Mr. Niles," Markus said. "The boy here won't need a lawyer. This is merely a routine part of the investigation. We aren't ready to charge anyone yet but are merely looking for information that can lead to the murderer. Since Gary here was first on the scene, perhaps he could shed some light on the matter."

The lawyer briefly smiled, but his words were like daggers. "I'm well aware of that, Detective Markus, but I'm sure my partner would have wished that his very own son would have my representation. Young people such as Gary here can be a little too trusting of the police. We all know that can be a mistake if you wrongly decide to make him a suspect."

Markus kept his reply steady and unemotional. "I have no qualms about you staying here, Mr. Niles, since it will save us some time. We would want to question you anyways concerning your business relationship with Samuel Watson."

"There is nothing to report there," Niles replied sharply.

"We'll get to that later," the detective said. "Let's proceed."

"Gary," Holt started, "can you tell me the relationship between you and the deceased?"

The youth was startled by the words, jerking his head up from staring at the table. "My relationship? What do you mean? I'm his son."

"So Samuel was your father, and Eileen was your mother?"

His face turned red with anger. "Of course not! Eileen was my stepmother. She's been, or should I say was married to dad for four years now."

"Did you like her?" Markus asked.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Niles interjected before Gary could answer.

The detective spat back, "I'm not accusing him of anything. I'm merely trying to understand what kind of woman she was – or who could possibly want to kill her and Samuel Watson."

"She was a dreadful little beast," Gary suddenly said before Niles could retort.

The lawyer's mouth dropped open, afraid that he was losing control of his client. He quickly said to him, "As your counsel, Gary, I must advise against saying anything rash. Remember that if you want to keep me working for you."

The youth ignored this and went on. "She was a gold digger and a slut. I'll never know what my father saw in her, besides that body."

"So there was some animosity between the two of you?" Holt asked calmly, taking over the questioning.

The young man grinned in a vicious manner. "Oh, I was the dutiful son and kept my mouth shut about her. I wasn't thrilled about the situation, but luckily I was away at college and tried to keep it that way as much as possible. The old man seemed happy enough with her. I'm just glad of that. He was never happy with my poor mother. The two of them never were."

Holt slowly nodded as he made a note. "Tell us what happened this morning."

"I came home to do some laundry. That was around four. I went into the basement with my duffel bag and started the first load."

"You didn't see or hear anything unusual?"

"No, though when I went to the kitchen to see if I could find something to eat, I noticed the broken glass from the slider."

"You didn't think that was strange?"

"Of course I did," Gary replied sharply. "The house has been broken into before – when we were on vacation in France. It's no surprise considering the rather remote location. I went upstairs to wake my dad and tell him. That's when I saw that he had been killed. I was so shocked; I didn't look any further, but ran right downstairs to call the police. I was worried I was going to be killed next."

"That's understandable," Markus commented. "But I do have one niggling question I would like to ask you. What person does laundry at that time of the morning? And why where you in town, visiting the house, if you hate your step-mother so much?"

"My client doesn't need to answer that question," Niles said firmly.

"He had better have a good explanation if he doesn't want to be considered a suspect," Markus replied grimly.

The youth hesitated a few moments before answering. "I was at my girlfriend's house. She can vouch for me. I was hoping to sneak into my parent's house and get my laundry done before they got up. I hate using the Laundromat since stuff gets stolen there all the time. I was going to try to split without even seeing them. She always makes such a fuss when I'm around. I don't like that kind of scene with her cooing over me."

Holt asked, "Have you got a name and number that we can reach this girlfriend at?"

Gary Watson practically blushed. "I would rather not get her involved. Let's just say that her father isn't my biggest fan."

"Don't worry, we can be most discreet when we have to," Holt said reassuringly.

The student looked to his lawyer who nodded. "Okay, her name is Mary Johnston. Her number is 621-5296."

"Thank you," Markus said. "Now for you, Mr. Niles, do you wish to speak in private?"

The lawyer kept his emotions in check, but Markus could see the hate dancing in the man's eyes. He said coolly, "This young man's father was my business partner. I have nothing to hide from him or you. I will gladly answer any questions that you ask of me, provided they are pertinent to the case at hand."

"And you do not require any legal representation?" Markus asked, a brief smile crossing his lips. He enjoyed getting any digs in on this windbag of a lawyer.

Ignoring the jibe, Niles snapped, "And what questions do you have, detective?"

"Just one. Are you aware of any person or persons who would wish to kill Mr. and Mrs. Watson?"

The attorney rested his fingertips together, touching them to his lips. He said, "Samuel Watson did not do the criminal side of our practice. That was my part of the business. He did wills and trusts, along with some minor corporate law. If he was ever in any danger, he did not confide that information to me."

With a tilt of his head, Markus said, "Thank you. You both can go right now. Make sure to stay around town in case if I have any questions for you. I'm sure I will."

Chapter 4

Tuesday, November 15th, 1977

Karen Dekker woke with a start. It took her a moment to realize that she was sleeping at home in her old bed, the same one that she had occupied as a teenager. She looked at the old windup clock on the bed stand and found that it was just after eight in the morning. The room itself was pretty much the same, though thankfully the old posters of the Beatles were now long gone. Instead, her mother had gone over the walls with a pale green paint, adding two pictures of golden-colored flowers. But other than that, the furniture and even the bedspread were no different.

Last evening she had caught a flight to Bay City. Upon her arrival, she had taken a taxi to her mother's home. It had been a mistake. It would have been better to stay at a hotel, since the house now looked terribly dated instead of the comfortable abode she had once loved. There were too many bitter spirits here – like the antiseptic smell of the hospital bed that her father had practically lived on for the past six months of his life. That was gone, but the memory remained. Also her mother, instead of being grateful for the visit, took the opportunity to revisit old wounds - mostly the perceived mistreatment from her only unmarried daughter. Thankfully her mother had gone to bed early, leaving Karen alone with her thoughts.

It was always strange to come back to Bay City. The town somehow seemed smaller, as if the expanse of New York City had spoiled her perceptions forever. Even the residents seemed smaller than life - a petty thought to be sure, but something still irked her about this place. Perhaps it was true that you could really never go home. Karen had experienced too many things since her youthful days at Bay City, and nothing could bring back that old naiveté.

She rolled out of bed, slipped a nightgown over her head, and ventured out to visit the bathroom. Down in the kitchen, she could hear her mother busily making breakfast. Though Karen felt hungry, the idea of talking to her right now was too much to bear. Instead, she locked the bathroom door, started the shower, and took off her nightgown. She turned to study herself in the mirror. What she saw wasn't half-bad. The reflection showed a still skinny blonde with good legs, a round face and a straight nose set below a pair of blue eyes. So far age had been kind to her, with only a minimum of wrinkles and sags added to her still lithe body. With a shrug, she jumped into the shower, feeling like a mischievous teenager of yore. Perhaps there was something exciting about being back home – the feeling that something unexpected could happen. After she had finished washing her hair, she stepped outside and began toweling herself off.

There was a knock at the door. It was her mother, talking loudly enough to be heard through the door. "Honey, I made some coffee. And there are pancakes too."

"Thank you, mom," Karen answered guiltily, her elated mood quickly disappearing. "But I was planning to get an early start this morning. I wanted to visit Eileen's parents and find out what the funeral arrangements are."

"Are you sure? It's a fresh pot."

"Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check. Can I borrow the car? If not, I'll just rent something."

"You could just call, but I suppose you don't want to do that. Go right ahead," the voice answered back, a trace of anger crackled underneath the normally honey tones. A pair of footsteps receded away and then creaked down the stairs.

Karen practically ran to her bedroom, where she threw on some clothes. It was then a quick visit to the bathroom to apply her makeup, brush her teeth, and comb her wet hair. Afterward, she treaded gently down the stairs, walking in familiar spots to minimize the squeaking of the aged wood. She made it to the front door undetected, where she quickly unlocked the deadbolt and then slipped outside.

Parked outside was her mother's blue 1968 Buick Skylark, a now aged relic that had been bought new off the lot by Karen's father. It was still in good shape, though the rear-end now had a slight sag. A spot of rust was beginning to develop on the rear bumper. Luckily she already had the keys on her ring, a result of her mother's paranoia, so it was easy enough to unlock the doors and start the car. The six-cylinder engine thankfully started on the first crank, and she jammed the transmission into reverse. She quickly backed out, put the car into gear, and pulled away from the house. As she did this, the front door opened and her mother came running out, waving her hands. Karen waved back in a friendly manner with her free hand and kept on going without stopping.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Using the car lighter, she was soon puffing away, enjoying the cool menthol smoke. It felt great to be out of that house, and even though it was a guilty pleasure, it was one that she relished. A stoplight and a few turns later, and she parked the car behind an older green Chevrolet that was in front of Eileen's childhood home. It was a small one-story affair with peeling paint and oil-stained driveway that, strangely enough, held a new-looking blue Corvette.

Though Karen's childhood had been decidedly middle-class, to Eileen's everlasting shame, she had grown up on the wrong side of town. Her father, Eddie Stern, now retired, used to work as a metal stamper operator at a local small factory. Her mother, Martha, never worked, having taking the role of live-in housekeeper and bearer of children. The most amazing offspring of this inglorious and mundane relationship was Eileen. Even as a precocious child, she somehow radiated happiness and joy to anyone who met her. Her mother ended up practically worshiping the child which may have contributed to her being spoiled, at least within the confines of the family's meager income.

Karen walked up the driveway and knocked on the front door. It was quickly answered by Mr. Stern. It took every ounce of her self-control to not take a step back with shock. This once-strong man, who had done physical work his entire life, now looked aged beyond his years - frail and shrunken. His face was worn and the hair was unkempt, the blue eyes darting back and forth with nervousness.

"What is it?" he snapped impatiently. "We've had enough reporters here."

"It's me," she replied nervously. "Karen Dekker. I was a friend of Eileen's."

It took another moment for the name to be recognized by the grief-stricken man. He nodded numbly and opened the door further to let her pass. She entered and found herself in the living-room which was filled with flower arrangements sent by those who shared the grief of the Stern family. Martha Stern was sitting in a dilapidated chair, talking to a heavy man who was standing, wielding a notebook and pen. On the other chair sat another man, his eyes staring at the floor with gloomy silence. It took Karen a moment to realize that this was Joshua Cowan, Eileen's first husband. He looked older than his years, the once proud athletic body reduced to a middle-aged flabbiness. Now, no one would ever suspect this man, with his thinning blonde hair and sallow face, had once been a star athlete and the most desirable boy in high school.

Upon her entrance, the drawn face of Mrs. Stern grew brighter. She stood up, revealing that she was a well-preserved woman wearing a cheap black dress and scuffed shoes. Her hair was brown with streaks of gray, but the face still looked very much like Karen remembered.

Joshua Cowan at first didn't respond, but eventually gave her a weak wave, his expression one of wonderment, obviously surprised to see her here. But he soon returned his concentration to the ground.

"My goodness, you haven't changed a bit," Martha said, taking Karen's hands.

"Thank you," she replied. "I'm only sorry that we had to meet again under these circumstances."

"Please, sit down. Go ahead and take some of those flowers off of the sofa. I never knew that Eileen had so many friends in the world. But of course everyone always went out of their way to be kind to her."

Mr. Stern remained standing at the door, looking blankly at the others. The other man watched as Karen cleared a space to sit down.

Martha said, "Pardon my rudeness, but this here is Detective Markus from the police department. He's looking into why someone would kill my precious little baby." And with those words, she started crying. Within moments she produced a handkerchief which she dabbed against the flood of tears.

The detective looked decidedly embarrassed as he said, "Well, I'm out of questions right now, Mrs. Stern. The coroner is releasing the bodies today, so your daughter can be buried soon." He then turned his attention to Karen. "How did you know Eileen Watson?"

Karen always felt acutely self-conscious when she talked to the police. It was almost like she was afraid of revealing some secret that would wind her up in prison. It was a silly thought since she had nothing to hide - other than smoking a little grass in college or running a red light, she had never done anything illegal. She finally stammered out, "W-w-we went to school together. I mean, back when we were just girls."

He nodded and made a note in his book. "If you could stop by the police department some time, it would be much appreciated. I like to hear everything that I can about her."

"I don't know what I could tell you," Karen replied. "I haven't seen Eileen for over five years now."

With a sidelong glance at the Stern family, Markus said in a low voice, "Let's just say that I want to get a better understanding of Mrs. Watson. What kind of person she was - that sort of thing. It could go a long way in solving this case."

Karen nodded. "I'll help any way that I can. Though Mr. Cowan here was married to her at one time. I'm sure he knows her better than I do."

He smiled in return. "Thank you, I've already talked to him. Now I must get going."

Once the detective left, the atmosphere in the living room took a decided change for the better. The cloud of gloom from Eileen Watson's death hadn't lifted in any way, but the official presence of the police had a way of making even the innocent feel guilty.

Mrs. Stern stood and said, "I think I will make some coffee. Eddie, why don't you come with me? It will give the chance for these two youngsters to talk."

His face gray, the somber father dutifully followed his wife into the kitchen.

Joshua Cowan stretched and smiled, looking at Karen with a look she found familiar. Some of the age had dropped from that lined face, making him appear younger than before. It was a pleasant change.

He said, "It's good to see you again, Karen. It's been a long time. I didn't expect you back for Eileen's funeral."

"Why is that?"

He was embarrassed, looking away from her eyes. "I don't know. You made it big in New York, working for that magazine. I didn't think you would bother visiting Bay City. Anyway, you haven't seen Eileen for years."

"It has been awhile," Karen admitted. "But she was my friend."

"I'm sorry for my rudeness," Cowan said. "Those days at high school seem like a long time ago, but yet they affected me for the rest of my life. I mean look at me. The captain of the football team, and where did it get me? I'm running a used car lot, driving a Corvette that I can barely afford, all to impress some middle-aged divorcees. Sometimes I think about you, and wonder what would have happened if we had stayed together back then."

"What do you mean?" she asked, feeling afraid of what was going to be said next. This is why she hated coming back home, running into the old ghosts of the past. Joshua had been one memory that was still bitter, even after all these years.

"If I had never left you, I would never have married Eileen. I would have done something different with my life. Perhaps I would have been happier."

"You don't know that."

Before Karen could explain further, Mrs. Stern came back in the room, carrying a tray with mismatched mugs. She soon distributed the coffee, unaware she had broken into their conversation. They all spent the next hour going over old pictures of Eileen, remembering the good times, and making light of the bad ones. It was a mixture of joy and sadness, part of the grieving process.

When it began to near lunch time, Karen made her goodbyes, and left. As she started up the Buick, a coatless Cowan ran up to her car, his face flushed.

He said, "Look, I'm sorry what I said in there. I just feeling confused."

Karen said, "It's okay, I understand."

"Do you think I could call you later?"

She shrugged, not willing to answer the question. "I'll see you at the funeral. We can talk there." She grabbed the gear shift lever, yanked it into drive and pulled away. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw the poor man continue to watch the car. She wondered why everything must be so difficult.

Chapter 5

Wednesday, November 16th, 1977

It was morning - too early for the rush hour traffic and just late enough for the rays of the sun to break over the horizon. He stood on the narrow footbridge that spanned the little creek below, listening to the plaintive horn of a faraway train. It was a sound that he liked since it reminded him of traveling and faraway places. It was a sound that he had listened to lying in bed as a boy, those innocent days of dreaming and scheming.

Inside his coat pocket, he felt the weighted sock resting in his right hand. It was loaded with twenty-dollar's worth of quarters; a blow from this was enough to knock down the strongest of men. He then checked his watch. Only another minute to go.

His ears picked up the distant sound of running feet; still quiet enough to almost be masked by the slow gurgling water below. His prey was drawing closer and closer. She was always on time. Even after all these years of doing this, he felt a tightening in his throat. His heart pounded hard in his chest, sending a torrent of blood rushing to his ears. It felt as if his head was going to explode from the pressure growing inside. It hurt, but was also pleasurable – like pulling a bad tooth or bursting a cyst.

The runner hit the bridge, the wood squeaking from the sudden weight.

He turned and saw her come. She was wearing a green jogging suit with white stripes, the jacket only half-zipped, revealing a white sweat-stained t-shirt underneath. Her flaming red hair framed a beautiful pale face that was only marred by a collection of freckles. His presence made her pause with suspicion.

"Excuse me, miss," he said before she passed by. "Do you know which way the bathrooms are?"

She stopped, her chest heaving as she breathed. She gasped out and pointed, "They're back that way. You can't miss them."

"Thank you," he replied. Without another word, he gently pulled the sock out of his pocket and quickly swung the weighted sap at her head. She didn't even have a chance to react. It struck her in the temple, tearing the end of the sock and scattering the coins in a glittering wave of silver.

Chapter 6

Wednesday, November 16th, 1977

It was nine in the morning. Markus was sitting at his desk, going over the various reports he had recently received. His stomach felt upset and the coffee only made him feel worse. This case was beginning to gnaw at him, making it difficult to sleep. And his wife hadn't been helping - ever since their two children had left the house, their marriage had been on the rocks. At least when she had Maria and David in the house, the loneliness of being a police detective's wife could be kept at bay. But now, things were different. Jamie had become clinging, demanding more and more of his limited free time. This case had made things even worse since he needed to be here at work, shifting through the evidence, instead of playing the part of the doting husband.

He put those personal thoughts aside and instead concentrated on the blood-type reports. Outside of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, there was no other blood to be found. That meant the killer had been careful enough not to cut himself. A search for hairs had like-wise brought no new leads, since everything found matched the Watson family or their pet cat.

He had placed great hopes on the glass from the sliding door, but yet again the murderer had been careful. Beyond a single palm print belonging to Eileen Watson, there was nothing to be found. Of course any smart burglar or practiced criminal knew to wear gloves when breaking into a house. The killer was just as smart.

The purple cord was also not recognized by any of the local furniture or fabric stores, meaning it was no longer sold, bought out of town, or purchased through a catalog. It would take more hours and manpower to track down the manufacturer, and even then, the clue may still lead nowhere. At best, once they had a suspect, it would be possible to tie the cord to the murderer, provided he still had some in his possession.

At least the bloody footprint had yielded some results. Though smudged by the carpeting, they now knew the assailant wore a size twelve shoe. That made him a big man, which matched the physical violence done to the victims.

Holt, along with some police recruits, had thoroughly searched the area across from the Watson home, and in the turnoffs had found five different sets of tire tracks of various makes and models. Apparently that side of the road was popular with teenagers looking for a little privacy, meaning it would be difficult to link this weak evidence to a suspect. But still, his partner thought this information was important and was working with the local FBI branch to determine the exact tire specifications, tread, and make. Maybe it would lead somewhere, but Markus doubted it. He felt as if he was waiting for something to happen - a piece of evidence or a motive that would give the killer's game away.

As far as suspects went, there were only three apparent ones - Gary Watson, Brent Niles the attorney, and Joshua Cowan, Eileen's ex-husband. The first two had the best motive - money. Markus had a hunch that neither of them would pan out, but the slow grinding wheels of a police inquiry would make sure of this. Cowan, who was a car salesman, had no obvious motive, other than a marriage that had ended in acrimony. But the short interview with him had given no evidence that the man was involved. Sure, there were some bitter recriminations, but Cowan seemed as shallow as that plastic sports car he drove. He had an alibi, though not one that could be proven, saying that he had stayed home sleeping that night. Some further footwork would see if his story checked.

His phone rang. He picked the receiver up and placed it against his ear. "Yes?"

It was the familiar voice of the desk sergeant. "You have a Miss Karen Dekker here to see you."

It took a moment for him to recognize the name. And then it came to him - that pretty blond that he had met at the Stern house. She probably had nothing to offer, but it still wouldn't hurt to ask her a few questions. At the very least, it would be a pleasant diversion.

"Yeah, I want to see her. Send her in."

"No problem," the sergeant replied.

It was only a minute later when Dekker poked her head into the office. Once she saw the detective sitting at his desk, she smiled with recognition. Markus saw that his initial impression had been right - she was a pretty girl with long legs, a shapely figure and a face that made a man look twice. Though perhaps not in the same league as the departed Eileen Watson, the two of them must have made a pretty pair during their school days.

"You said you wanted to talk to me?" she asked.

"Yes, please go ahead and take a seat. Don't worry, this won't take long. I only have a few questions for you."

She sat gingerly on the hard wooden chair that had seen hundreds of suspects. Placing her large brown leather purse on the desk, she pursed her lips together and waited.

Markus started easy with her. "Tell me again, how did you know Mrs. Watson?"

"We went to school together, starting in the first grade. We were best friends until I went away to college. After that, we kind of drifted apart. Of course I kept track of her, which was easy enough to do since she stayed in Bay City. My mother always had something to say about Eileen."

"Like what?"

"I'm not one to believe in idle gossip."

The detective frowned. "The problem with gossip is that it's usually true. I've been busy trying to tie a motive to the murder of your friend. I've talked to friends of her husband and even his business partner. It seems that plenty of people knew Mrs. Watson, but I still haven't heard anything that leads me anywhere. Except for Gary Watson and her ex-husband, that Cowan fellow, everyone has kind words for her."

Dekker leaned back into her chair as if putting some distance between her and the detective. "I don't know if this will help in any way, but Eileen was always crazy about boys. Or should I say men. She was one of those rare lucky girls who men just loved. And I mean that. I've never seen anything like it. Even after she broke their hearts, they would still flock to her, coming back for more hurt. Call it sex appeal or animal magnetism, but she had it in spades. I ended up playing second fiddle most of the times."

"Do you think one of these men could have killed her?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. She was never vicious about it. I remember when she went out with the Joshua Cowan, who was captain of the football team. Every girl was so jealous of her since he was considered the best catch in the entire class. They broke up for a little while, but poor old Joshua still took her to the prom. They ended up getting married after school, but it didn't last very long. I think he was still hung up on her, at least that was the impression I got over at the Stern house."

With a cocked eyebrow, Markus said, "It sounds like she was quite the girl. Did you ever have any animosity towards her?"

She blushed a deep crimson red and choked back a giggle. "It seems silly now, but yes I did. You see, she stole Joshua from me. We had been going out for five or six months when I came down with a cold. I was out of school for two days, staying at home with the sniffles. When I came back, he was going out with her. We didn't even have a chance to break up. I hated Eileen's guts for a month after that, but we soon made up. You know, silly high school stuff."

Markus slowly nodded, lost in his thoughts. Perhaps he had been looking at this case from the wrong angle. Sure, it had to be a man who executed the crime, but perhaps there was a woman behind it – someone who hired out the killing. What did he know of Mr. Watson's ex-wife? That would be something to add to Holt's list of things to look into.

Any further thoughts in that direction were interrupted by the ringing of phone. He gave a Karen a glance with an accompanying smile before picking up the receiver. "Yes, what is it?"

It was Dispatch. "Lieutenant, I thought you would like to know that a dead body has been reported in Long Park. Two boys were playing along the stream when they found it. They ran home and told their dad. Detective Ballard is already on the scene."

"I'll be right there," Markus replied, a cold chill running down his spine. He just hoped to God that this new death wasn't related to the Watson murders. He slammed down the phone. He said to Karen, "I'm afraid I have to go right now, but if I have any more questions for you, is there a phone number that I can reach you at?"

"I'm staying at my mother's house. Her number is 712-8640."

He scribbled the number on a pad of paper. "Good, let me show you way out," he said as he stood up, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

Markus walked her to the car and then watched as she drove away. The Buick barely had enough power to get out of its way and the thin trail blue of smoke showed him that the valves guides or rings needed replacing.

It was sunny out, but dark clouds on the horizon threatened rain. His own car was just around the block. It felt good to slip behind the steering wheel and fire the engine up. As the car idled, he reached under the seat and brought out a red light encased in plastic. Rolling down the window, he placed this emergency strobe on top of his roof, where it would stay in place by the magnet attached to the bottom. He hit a switch under the dash, and the light began spinning to the sound of the siren mounted under the hood.

With a grin, the detective hit the gas hard and felt the giant torque of the engine drive the car forward with ease. It was only seconds and then he was soon passing other vehicles like they were standing still. It was completely unnecessary to get to the scene so quickly, but it felt good to blow off steam, and there was no better way than driving fast.

He steered the car left unto Princeton Avenue and headed north towards Long Park, which was nestled in a large middle-class neighborhood that consisted of ranch homes, swimming pools, and station wagons - a good place to raise a family or hide behind a facade of geniality. But it was hardly the kind of location anyone would ever associate with death.

As Markus drew closer to the park, he lifted his foot off the gas pedal and let the car coast. There was already a throng of bystanders milling around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the corpse. Or perhaps they wanted something vapid to talk about to the cashier at the grocery store. He never understood why people had such a fascination for death - to him it was just part of the job. Death, in all its various forms, was rarely pleasant and never worth pursuing, unless it was the last resort.

A patrolman, assigned to keep the crowds at bay, recognized the Malibu and let the detective drive through. There, bunched up in the small gravel parking lot, was an ambulance, three cop cars, and a Dodge Monaco belonging to Detective Kenny Ballard and his partner, David LaBryn. Markus slid the car into the nearest spot and threw the transmission into park. He sat in the car for just a moment and listened intently for any sound out of the ordinary from the engine. Satisfied that nothing was out of place, he turned the car off and exited, gently shutting the door.

The sky overhead was quickly turning gray and a spatter of rain hit him on the bridge of the nose. Down a dirt path and through a line of bare skeleton trees, he could see a gathering of police officers and emergency responders. He slowly walked in that direction, his eyes glancing over the ground with a well-practiced search for anything out of the ordinary. As he drew near, a voice called out.

"Markus, over here." It was Detective Ballard. He was the kind of man you never looked at twice. Plain, of medium height and build, his blue eyes never showed a trace of emotion unless he was with friends. His unassuming manner and clothes made him a perfect tail man.

"What have we got here?" Markus asked.

"I don't know. At first I thought it was a mugging or rape gone bad. But then I thought it could be related to that case you are working on."

"How so?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps you had better see it for yourself. I would hate to color your judgment in any way. Here, come this way."

They went down the crooked path leading to the stream. The rain started to pour down in heavy drops. There was a police officer standing here, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. He stood aside to let them pass.

Washed up on the yellowing weed-choked embankment was the nude body of a once lovely young woman with red hair. She was face up, her green eyes staring lifelessly at the empty sky. The side of her head was caved in; a faint film of gore had dried along the cheek. The chest had been punctured several times with a sharp object, the blood washed away by the water. The right arm was missing below the elbow.

Markus looked over the scene of horror, saying nothing. He felt a chill that was colder than the hint of winter. He remembered the bathroom in the Watson home – the pale body of Eileen Watson submerged in the water and the foot that had been violently removed. His plans and suspicions with the Watson case had disintegrated before his eyes. This murder wasn't about revenge or money; this was sadism and madness.

"Now you know why I had Dispatch call you in," Ballard said quietly.

"How was she found?" Markus asked as he nodded in agreement.

"It was two little boys. They were playing down here by the stream when they saw the body. After getting the shock of their lives, they ran back home, told their dad, who didn't believe them at first. But once he got here, he ran over to the supermarket across the street and called us in. I'm afraid the crime scene has been compromised with everyone tramping back and forth, but I'm sure Forensics can still find something interesting."

After a moment of silence, Markus said, "I want to search the banks along the stream. I think she was killed somewhere else and then dragged into the water for the killer to do the work on the leg. Once he was done, she floated down and eventually ended up here. This water here isn't that deep or wide, so she couldn't have come far."

"It's a stretch, but I'll take a look on the other side."

Without a further word, Ballard crossed the stream by jumping from stone to stone. Markus suppressed a laugh when the man slipped and got his foot wet. After a few curses, the veteran detective gave a wave, and they started moving through the underbrush. The ground of the forest was wet with melting frost, making the leaves stick together. He kept his eyes glued to the ground, looking for any sign that the floor of decaying leaves had been disturbed.

It was tough going. Here, small trees were close together and thick bramble choked the side of the stream. Branches whipped against his face, and he felt himself panting from exertion. Looking over at Ballard, he saw that his fellow detective was not having an easy time with it either. Markus had gone some one hundred yards when ahead there was a footbridge, a narrow span that crossed the water. He felt his heart hammer in his chest with anticipation. This had to be the spot. It was a little clearing near the base of the bridge, a place that someone would stand to fish or to make wishes, dropping pennies into the water. A little rough dirt track led to the path above.

He almost walked into the strewn pile of clothing. There was a matching pair of white sweatpants and sweatshirt, a t-shirt, a pair of black underwear, and a matching bra. It reminded him of his daughter's bedroom floor. The jogging suit was splattered with blood and soiled with dirt. Off to the side, was a hand, looking gray and lifeless in the cold of the November rain.

"Ballard, over here!"

The detective hustled up to the path on his side of the stream and began crossing the bridge to the other side. He suddenly stopped and shouted, "Markus, the poor girl was killed by a homemade blackjack! All the evidence is up here!"

"Don't touch a thing! Save it for forensics. And I want two policemen here to stop anyone from damaging the evidence."

Chapter 7

Thursday, November 17th, 1977

It was morning. Karen Dekker was in the living room, sitting on the sofa and watching television on the ancient set. The new murder of Kathy Woods had sent the entire town into a frenzy of understandable panic - women walked escorted, while men wandered through the street in groups, brandishing baseball bats. The news reports were filled with wild conjecture, leading to outlandish rumors, each building upon itself. The city government's calls for calm were ignored as families locked themselves behind doors, watching their once-trusted neighbors with careful eyes.

As for the Dekker household, Karen had made an unspoken truce with her mother. They were now both exceedingly polite but careful not to antagonize each other. The situation still wasn't perfect by any means, but it was still better than the bitterness of before.

The phone in the kitchen rang. "Could you get that, honey?" her mother called from upstairs.

"I've got it," Karen answered back.

Getting up from the sofa, she quickly walked into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring. "Hello?" she said breathlessly.

"Karen, it's good to hear your voice!" It was Peter Lorenz. She recognized the excited edge of his voice. This meant trouble.

"Oh, it's you."

"Yes, I called the number you left with your secretary. I hope you don't mind."

"No, but I'm sorry that I haven't made it back to the office yet. I learned that the funeral is tomorrow. It seems that the police only just released the bodies. I'll be back to work next week Monday."

"No, I don't want you to come back to the office yet."

"What do you mean?" Karen asked, afraid that she already knew the answer.

"The story of the Bay City Murders is all over the television. It's the talk of the town here. You've got to stay there and write a story on it. I can send a photographer if you want - I know you always liked working with Steve Jackson. That story you did in Kenya with him turned out great."

"Peter, I haven't written an article for over three years now," Karen objected. "You just can't expect me to jump in the saddle again."

He replied, "C'mon, you have an eye for what makes a story tick. You're a natural. I've seen your work – hell, I edited most of your stories - and the magazine has never been the same since you stopped writing. Anyway, you also know the territory and the people there. Don't tell me that doesn't count for something."

"Well, when I was visiting with Eileen's parents, I did talk to the detective looking into the case," Karen admitted. "He wanted to know all about her." She didn't want to tell Peter this, but the flattery was working. She was already here and could write a better story than any outsider.

She could hear the triumph across the miles of wire. He said, "See, you're already half-way there. Now I want a story that is filled with drama and human interest. Make it real, make it breathe, and make it the best piece you've ever written. This will be a great coup for the magazine, especially if you can crack the case."

Karen laughed. "Don't lay it on too thick, Peter. I'll do what I can, but I wouldn't expect much. I'll give Steve a call if I need him, but we can probably get by with some touched up file photos. Anything else would be too graphic or mundane. Some black and white photos would look good with the right layout. I'm sure the Art Department could cook up something nice."

"Okay, but be careful. I would hate to lose my favorite editor to a sex-crazed maniac."

"There's little chance of that."

"See if you can pump that detective for some more information. Offer him some help, or else just flutter those pretty eyes of yours."

Karen sighed inwardly, remembering why she detested parts of Peter's personality. At times he could be disgustingly sexist pig. She said, "Don't worry, he seems to like me. I'm sure I can work with him."

"Good. Now come back with a great story, won't you?"

"I'll try."

Chapter 8

Thursday, November 17th, 1977

From his seat at the long conference table, Thomas Markus glanced down to the streets below. In the rush of the afternoon, he could see cars driving down the straight streets, and pedestrians waiting at the crosswalks for the signal to change. From up here on the eleventh floor of the mayor's office, the world outside looked like a simpler place, without murders, politicians, and old detectives who needed a long vacation.

"Detective, are you going to answer my question?" Mayor Freeman asked impatiently.

Markus looked coldly at the pudgy little man, but managed to keep his temper in check. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm just a little tired. I also wasn't expecting such an august meeting. But yes, we are making progress." He was sitting with four other men - the aforementioned mayor, Police Commissioner Thompson, Holt, and a city psychologist, named Evans, who was busy sucking on a pipe. Markus had been pulled from his desk to attend this meeting, even though it was obviously a waste of time. It would better to follow up on the new clues brought by the murder of Kathy Woods instead of discussing the best public-relations damage-control for the mayor.

"Do you think you can crack this case?" the mayor asked anxiously. He was sitting at the end of the table, his back to the windows.

"Markus has been on the force for over twenty years," Thompson eagerly assured him. "If anyone can crack it, then it's going to be him."

"I hope so," Freeman replied, "Because this is going to murder my re-election prospects if we have a killer terrorizing the community. But I would like to know if the detective thinks these two murders are connected."

Markus cleared his throat before beginning. "On the face of it, the connection between a well-known lawyer and his wife with a middle-class jogger would seem like a fantastic stretch. From our preliminary research it appears that the Watsons did not know Kathy Woods, either socially or through some legal matter where she would have met Mr. Watson. But there is certain evidence that still connects the two killings."

"Would you care to share that evidence?" the mayor asked impatiently.

"I would rather not," Markus replied, knowing his answer would not please anyone.

Before Freeman could explode in anger, the commissioner intervened. "Look, Markus, I know you are under a lot of stress right now. But I order you to tell me and the mayor what this evidence is."

The detective looked between the two gentlemen, shaking his head. He finally spoke after some hesitation. He said, "I know I can't keep this evidence under wraps for too much longer. Too many men on the force already know this, but I was hoping to keep this knowledge away from the general public. It's been my experience that some city departments have a rather close relationship with the press. Sometimes information has a way of being leaked. This case is too important to have that happen."

"Are you accusing me of leaking to the press?" the mayor asked, his face red with a barely-concealed rage.

The detective smiled crookedly. "No, but perhaps one of your aides could let something slip. It's a simple matter - I have no reason to be friendly with the media since they can just hamper my investigation. I've used them in the past, but it's a one-way street. But that's the difference between the police and politicians, we aren't out to win popularity contests, but you have to win the support of the voters every four years."

The commissioner quickly stepped in to limit the damage. "I'm sure the mayor would be most discreet. Now go ahead and tell us."

"Yes, sir," Markus replied coldly, giving his partner a quick glance of despair. "We have reason to believe that the killer is collecting body parts." He let those words sink in before continuing. "With the murder of Eileen Watson, he removed the foot. With the murder of Kathy Woods, he removed the right forearm, but left the hand behind at the scene of the murder. As to why, we can only guess. Perhaps he is taking trophies. Maybe the psychologist here can give us some advice on that matter."

Evans finally spoke, "I would like to hear more before I make a judgment."

"Yes, so would I," the commissioner agreed.

Markus could feel the secrecy of his case slip away. Soon the public would know everything which meant the murderer would also know. It would hamper the investigation, but only he would be blamed for any failure of finding the killer. He grimaced before he spoke, "Let's first visit the Watson case. Except for the foot dismemberment of Eileen Watson, I was ready to treat it like a normal murder investigation. Though the murders were brutal, that's hardly unexpected in my line of work. The killer quickly dispatched the husband and then used a knife several times to perforate the woman, expending most of his energy on her. That shows a particularly sadistic streak or even a hatred of women. I originally had three suspects in mind, thinking the motivation would have been dictated by money or personal revenge. A lawyer such as Samuel Watson can make many enemies in the course of his career. As a matter of standard procedure, I will still have these three suspects investigated, but I don't expect anything out of the matter. However, some of the evidence we collected at the scene of the crime will still be useful for identifying a future suspect."

Holt added, "Across the street from the Watson home is vacant wooded land. We had it searched thoroughly. I found several tire tracks there, some older than others, that could have been left by the car used by the assailant. With the help of the local FBI office, the treads are being matched in Washington against the database of tire manufacturers. If we identify a suspect, we can use this evidence to determine if his car has a set of matching tires."

Markus nodded in agreement. He said, "We also have a set of boot prints from the crime scene. They point to a large man, or at least someone with large feet. Though smudged, the prints have been identified as being army issue. Of course there are plenty of Vietnam veterans who may have kept their old boots, or someone can easily get these from a surplus store. But again, we can possibly use this evidence once we have identified a suspect."

Mayor Freeman looked flabbergasted. "You're saying that you don't have a definite suspect yet? The press is going to eat me alive if we don't do something soon."

Ignoring this, Markus went on, "I will now move on to the Woods case. Kathy Woods was twenty-two, recently married, and with no children. Every morning, before work, she jogged the same route in Long Park. Almost anyone in the neighborhood would have known that, which leads to a broad base of possible suspects. From the evidence we gathered, she was attacked on the footbridge, struck in the temple by a homemade weighted sap."

"A what?" the psychologist asked.

"It's a weapon that anyone can make. Take any old sock from your drawer, fill it with ten or twenty dollars worth of quarters, and suddenly you have a weapon of considerable force. The assailant struck her in the head, doing enough damage to partially cave in the side of the skull. This first impact was hard enough to do the job but also caused the end of the sock to break, scattering the coins along the bridge walkway. These quarters have been collected, but no fingerprints have been found. Afterward, he dragged the unconscious Mrs. Woods off of the bridge and down into a clearing below. There, even though it wasn't necessary, he stabbed the body several times, destroying what little life was left." He could hear the mayor nervously clear this throat as if removing a stubborn lump.

Markus continued, "The clothes were then removed, and the body dragged into the stream. It was there that he must have removed the arm, but left the hand behind. Perhaps the killer didn't need it since he already has that part from a previous victim. After this grisly work was finished, the body was then allowed to drift with the current where it eventually washed up further down. It was then discovered by two boys."

The face of the mayor had turned pale, while the psychologist merely scribbled some notes down on a pad of paper.

"And what new evidence have you been able to gather from the scene of this crime?" the commissioner asked.

Markus explained, "The submersion in the water sadly removed most of the evidence from the body. However, the coroner was able to determine that the same type of blade that was used to attack Eileen Watson was also used on Kathy Woods. The forensics team was able to lift a footprint, obscured by the rain, from the dirt path leading into the clearing besides the bridge. It was a boot, matching the same size and make as the prints that were found at the Watson house. Of course it could be some errant walker, but it's probably the same person."

"And what are your next steps?" Freeman asked impatiently. "We have to tell the public that their safety is ensured or else there will be chaos."

Markus said impatiently, "Whoever this killer is, he knew the park well and that Kathy Woods used that particular path with regularity. That points to local knowledge, meaning he knows this city well. Either he is a resident or lives nearby. If that is the case, maybe some similar crime had been committed outside the city limits. We've asked the sheriff's department to send over a list of missing persons or unsolved murders stretching back the past five years. Perhaps there is something there that we can use, especially if we come across one involving dismemberment. Since the hand was discarded, we can only assume this man had done this sort of thing before. We have to try to establish a pattern to the killings and only then do we have a chance of catching him."

"Dr. Evans, what is your opinion on this matter?" the mayor asked, hoping for any further enlightenment.

The psychologist tapped his pen against the notebook. He reached for his pipe, lit it with a match, and proceeded to puff out a large quantity of smoke. He then spoke with clinical precision, "We are dealing with a sadistic sociopath. He is selecting his victims to relieve some perverse sexual urges. Due to an overbearing mother, he is sexually dysfunctional, having never experienced normal relations with a woman. The victims are just substitutes for his real target, his mother, who gave her affection erratically. He kills only for pleasure, the plunging of the knife replicating the sexual pleasure of normal intercourse. Afterward, such a sadist will masturbate while mentally reliving the slayings. Such men are often on the edge of suicide, having lived their entire lives feeling inadequate. I'm wouldn't be surprised if we haven't received letters from this man, since the sexual sadist often taunts law enforcement with letters or contacting the press. He really wants to confess to someone, and if captured, will enjoy reveling telling others of his cruelty."

Markus interjected, "We can check the Bay City Chronicle and see if they've gotten any recent crank letters."

Evans continued crossly, hating to be interrupted. "Such a sadist only wants to dehumanize his victims, making them powerless. It's about control. In this case, I would say he wants to get back at his mother. He strikes without remorse, without feeling, and he will continue committing these crimes until captured."

The mayor made a face of disgust. "It's just my luck that a sicko like this lives in my town. But surely such a man couldn't function in normal society. Why, he would be a raving lunatic!"

Markus replied gruffly, "They said the same about Jack the Ripper, but he was never caught."

Evans gave a brief condescending smile. "The detective has a point. Though our killer wouldn't function well in complex situations, he could still build himself enough of a limited world to function. He may even have a few friends, but will mostly keep to himself. However, there are plenty of quiet men in all walks of life, so we can hardly go and arrest them all."

"Rest assured, Mayor," Markus said, "we are examining the records of every known mental patient who has been recently released. We are also looking into the records of every child molester, rapist, or murderer who is out on the streets. We'll get our man soon enough."

"I sure hope so," the mayor replied. "Or else they're going to crucify me."

"Don't worry," the commissioner assured him, "I'll have a press conference and update them with our current status. I'll keep it vague, but with enough detail to keep the panic down."
Chapter 9

Friday, November 18th, 1977

Karen Dekker picked up the phone, staring at the rotary dial. She wasn't sure if this was a good move, but she needed an in with the police department if she wanted to have any chance of writing a truly groundbreaking article. So with shaking hands, she dialed, all the while feeling self-conscious. Her call was answered by a bored operator, and after some wrangling, she managed to reach Detective Markus.

"Hello?" he answered, the voice sounding strained with exhaustion.

"Detective? This is Karen Dekker," she replied, hoping any nervousness in her voice was hidden by the length wire separating the two of them. It had been a long time since she had had to interview anyone, and the old self-confidence was slow in coming back.

"Ah, yes. What can I do for you?" The tone of the detective's voice was one of disinterest, like his attention was somewhere else.

She gave a cough and quickly said, "I was just wondering if you have any news about Eileen Watson. The funeral is this afternoon, and I would like to tell her mother something positive."

The sigh on the other side was long. "Look, Miss Decker, I'm very busy right now. Anything that the police have found out is confidential right now, though I'm sure the damned press will find some way of getting their hands on the information."

Karen felt a stab of guilt, but plowed on, hoping to use her feminine charm. She said huskily, "Detective Markus, is it possible we can meet for lunch? If you're interested, I'll be over at the Green Room Bar in twenty minutes."

The pause on the other side of the line was so long that Karen thought he had hung up. The voice that answered back was suddenly high and nervous as if a teenage boy was asking a girl out to prom. "I think I can make it," he said.

"Good, I'll see you there." Karen then hung up and smiled to herself. So this strong and silent detective had a weakness for the female sex. Perhaps this could be used to an advantage. Once she had him wrapped around her finger, Markus would be willing to tell everything. It was a game she had played before, getting answers out of stubborn sources of information, but she still didn't relish the idea. It somehow seemed a little cheap, but she knew it was just part of the game when one was a reporter.

She then grabbed her purse, yelled out a quick farewell to her mother, and went outside to the Buick. It was cold, the sky overhead nothing but a gray bowl of shapeless clouds. There was the smell of snow in the air. After several attempts, the old car started and she was soon driving towards downtown. After battling the lunch hour rush, she found a spot a block away from the Green Room, which was an old haunt of hers. It wasn't exactly the cleanest bar, but the food was good and the drinks were cheap. The clientele was mostly blue-collar workers who could endure a few office workers, provided the interlopers didn't mingle too much. Of course an attractive blond would always be tolerated by men from all walks of life.

Passing through the ancient green painted door, Karen found a seat in an empty booth with red torn vinyl seats. From there she studied the other patrons. It was busy, though not intolerably so, with most of the other customers staring into their beers or gobbling down a quick lunch before heading back to work. She lit a cigarette, ordered a Michelob from the passing waitress, and waited; hoping the detective hadn't had second thoughts. Her worries were unfounded when the door opened, and in strode Markus. He looked over the crowd, found her, and sauntered over to sit down.

"Hello again," he said as he removed his jacket. "It's been a long time since I've been here. It used to be a cop hangout until the owner kicked us out. Apparently we were scaring away the normal customers!"

She laughed at this unexpected humor. Instead of being nervous, the detective now seemed very sure of himself. It was an odd change considering the anxiety she had heard over the phone. Perhaps the detective really was that tired and having a hard time controlling his emotions. Of course she had never investigated a murder before and could only imagine the pressures – political and personal - involved.

"So what do you want to drink?" she asked.

He smiled. "Well, I am on duty, but I think I can manage a beer. Has the food here gotten any better?"

Karen admitted, "I don't know, it's been years since I've been here. I don't recognize any of the staff now."

"It's probably the years. Something about working at a bar seems to age people."

After another drink had been ordered along with a pair of hamburger baskets, they fell into silence. Markus just paid attention to his beer while Karen felt uneasy about broaching the subject which could break this newly-formed friendship. But whatever courtesy she had soon gave away to her professional responsibility.

"So," she started, "is there anything you can tell me off the record?"

He stared hard at her, his brown eyes suddenly wary. "You suddenly sound like a reporter. Are you one?"

"No, of course not," she replied, telling a half-truth. Of course she used to be a reporter, but it was still splitting hairs since she now worked for a magazine as an editor. "I'm just curious since my friend was involved. I was hoping to get some first-hand information, that's all."

He seemed satisfied by the answer, but still dodged the question. "We are pursuing several leads that should hopefully pan out. I'm not at liberty to say more than that."

Karen stubbed out her cigarette. She then took a sip of beer and tried again. "Bay City isn't exactly known for its murders. Do you think that the murder of the Eileen Watson and Kathy Woods are related? Has that possibility been examined?"

His mouth pursed together before answering. He said angrily, "All possibilities are being examined, Miss Dekker. I don't know what you are driving at, but I don't like being played the fool. You want something from me, don't you? I don't think you are taken in by my great masculine charm."

Using her index finger, she played with edge of her beer glass. "You do have some charm, Detective Markus, but you do a good job at hiding it. But I'll come clean with you - I work for _The Caller_ as an assistant editor. After the murder of Kathy Woods, I was asked by my boss to look further into the matter to see if there was a good story here. Let's just say that I have a personal and professional reason for doing so. After all, Eileen was my friend."

"So you are a reporter," he said, accusingly.

"Well, I used to be. It's been a long time since I've had to chase down a story. Trust me, this isn't something I wanted to do to you, but like you, I have my job to do."

He hesitated before speaking, his frown revealing that he was saddened by the treachery. "All I can tell you is that we have a very serious problem on our hands. There is a killer out there who strikes without reason, who kills without emotion. This is going to be a hard case to break unless a bit of luck comes our way. I'm afraid most cases like this are often only solved because the murderer slipped up."

Karen felt a sudden urge of pity for this detective and wondered how anyone could shoulder such a responsibility. He wasn't a bad looking man either and she had a sudden urge to sleep with him, which only made her blush. "Tell me, detective, would you like to have supper with me some time? We could go to a place that's a little nicer than this."

He gave her a half-hearted smile. "I'm afraid I'm a little busy right now, but as a married man, I'm glad for the offer. It's been a long time since I've been given an opportunity from such a beautiful woman. But don't worry, since I like you, I'll make sure to give you what little information I can, provided you promise to publish the real story after the killer has been caught."

"I could do that," she agreed. Then she reached over and tried to take his hand, which he quickly withdrew.

"As I said, I'm a married man," he said without much conviction. "Though I don't know how much longer that is going to be."

Karen felt a pang of guilt for trying to seduce someone bound by marriage. "Oh, I'm sorry," was all that she could say.

"It's okay - just part of the job. I'm afraid all police marriages can be a little rough. Most cops have a string of ex-wives, so I'm pretty lucky to just have one. The long hours will put a crimp on any relationship." He swallowed the last remnants of beer from the bottom of glass and then took out his wallet to throw a few dollars on the table. "I have to get back to the grind, but you can call me tomorrow since I would like to hear how the funeral went. One of my men is going to be there to see if anyone suspicious shows up. It's a long shot, but right now that's all we have."

And with those words, he stood up and left.

Chapter 10

Friday, November 18th, 1977

The funeral for Eileen Watson and her husaband was held at the First Episcopal Church, the largest house of worship in Bay City. The lot was packed, forcing attendees to park their cars on the street. Driving her mother's Buick, Karen found a spot a few blocks away, and had to walk the rest of the way, her shoulders hunched over from the biting wind that had suddenly whipped up. Going past the wooden front doors, she was inside the church, the atmosphere warm, smelling of sweat, tobacco, and perfume from the crowded mourners. She cursed to herself for being tardy, since it was now standing room only, the latecomers forced to watch from the back of the pews.

She found a spot to herself in the corner. Before her was a sea of black dresses and suits, the only other color to be seen was a mix of blonde, brown, or white hair. In front of the altar were two closed casket, the finish metallic gray with large handles. Surrounding them was a bed of white lilies. The organ player, an old lady with a chain around the stems of her glasses, was playing something sad, but indistinct. It was a warbling song, the notes rising and falling like a slow, rolling wave. It made Karen feel nauseous.

A narrow door to the side of the altar opened, and out stepped an older man with thinning black hair, wearing a gray suit and shoes polished to a mirror-like shine. By the bible in his hand, Karen guessed this was the minister. He approached the podium and the murmuring voices stopped. He cleared his throat and started speaking through the microphone, the sound shrill and annoying.

He said, "We are here to celebrate the passing of Mr. And Mrs. Watson. I would like to thank everyone for coming and supporting both the families in their grieving. Death is not something we ever want to contemplate, but it's part of life. Even the unexpected passing of our beloved friends has lessons to teach us. God works in his own way, teaching us lessons about his divine love. Their death has touched all of us here, bringing old friends together again, and perhaps we will make some new friends too. This is a time of grieving and a time of celebration. Those may be strange words to use together – grieve and celebrate – but let us not forget that they are intertwined. We are sad that they are gone, but we should also be glad that they are in a better place - a place where someday we will all meet again." He paused, slowly looking over the gathered congregation. "Now if you would turn to page eighty-seven of the hymn book and join with me in the singing of 'The Day Thou Gavest.'

After a flurry of page turning, a ragged chorus of voices started to sing, growing confident with each word. Karen started to feel dizzy, the warmness of the pressed together bodies and the cacophony of voices was too much. She took a step back and felt an arm clutch her by the elbow. She turned and saw that Joshua Cowan had been standing behind her.

He was smiling. Placing his mouth close to her ear, he said, "Let's get out of here." His breath was warm and smelled of cigarettes.

She nodded, taking his hand as he pulled her through the throng. He led her past the front doors and onto the stairs. The cold outside now felt refreshing, the tentacles of claustrophobia diminishing into nothingness. From a pack taken out of his front pocket, Joshua shyly offered her a cigarette, which she gladly took. With a Zippo, he lit it for her before lighting his own.

Karen said, "I feel like such a fool."

He nodded. "Well, it is a little hot in there. I never would have guessed that so many people would have showed up to see Eileen buried. She really hardly knew anyone, except for any number of men." Those last words were spoken with some bitterness.

"Was the divorce from her that bad?"

He looked away from her, his cheeks tinged red from either embarrassment or the cold weather. When he finally replied, the voice was a near whisper. "I should have never married her. But when you're that young, it's easy to go into a relationship thinking that everything is going to work out in the end. Part of me rebelled against the idea of being with Eileen - some may have called it pre-marriage jitters – but my instincts were correct. I turns out that she was just plain money-hungry. In her eyes, I could never make enough money, or buy a big enough house, or have the right friends. Eileen wanted to climb the social ladder, and not wait around for me to strike it rich.

"At first I thought this phase would pass, especially if we had children. It turns out she was infertile, which was perhaps part of her problem. I don't know since I never was that good at psychology. Anyway, after two years of marriage, I found out, through friends, that she had been seen at a few nightclubs with other men. While I was off, busting my ass, trying to make a buck, she was off shaking her ass for anyone with enough money to buy her the good life. It was like she was auctioning herself for a new husband, and may the highest bidder win."

Karen felt too stunned to reply. She had heard that the marriage had quickly fallen apart, but had never heard the back story. Hearing Cowan's venomous words was hardly shocking since all divorced couples had their battle scars to tell, but his ex-wife's indiscretions brought home some half-remembered memories. Eileen was always a flirt, toying with men's affections. In high school, she jumped from boyfriend to boyfriend; wheedling and extorting money, jewelry, and once, she even borrowed poor Tommy Aiken's Camaro for a week. It was hardly surprising that the habits formed in her teenage years would remain until her death.

She finally said, "I'm sorry that things didn't work out between you two."

He blushed. "I'm sorry too, for being an ass. There's nothing worse than hearing a man complain about his ex-wife. But really, I did love her though. Part of me always will."

Feeling uncomfortable, Karen said, "Sometimes it can be hard to let go."

He gave her a weak smile and said, "Well, now that you've heard enough self-pity for the day, what have you been up to? I've heard you're busy in the news world, working for _The Caller_. How's that going?"

"Busy. In fact, I've been asked to do a story on the murders."

"Really?" Joshua said with interest as he stubbed out his cigarette on the ground. "That's very interesting."

She shrugged. "At least my editor thinks so. I guess murders are common enough in New York that I hardly find them shocking anymore. It wasn't something I gave much thought to, at least until Eileen was killed. You never think it will happen to you, or anyone you know. It's always someone else who meets an unfortunate end."

"Yeah, but I would hate to be that Detective Markus."

"Why is that?" she asked.

He made a face. "The police are going to dig up some ugly things when they start looking into Eileen's past."

"But surely there can't be a connection between her and that new victim, Kathy Woods."

Joshua shrugged. "You never can tell what will turn up. "

Any further conversation was stopped by the front doors of the church opening, letting out a mass of mourners. They were headed towards their cars, getting ready to follow the hearse out to the cemetery.

"Do you need a ride?" Joshua asked, his expression unreadable.

"No thanks, I drove myself."

He looked disappointed. "Well, is it okay if I call you later? I promise there won't be any more heart-rending stories of my past."

To her surprise, Karen found herself nodding. "I'll be a little busy working on the story, but yes, we can talk again." She felt guilty for agreeing to this request since her heart was still set on pursuing Detective Markus. That was probably a dead-end, but she still wasn't ready to give him up. But still, there was no harm in having a little drink with an ex-boyfriend from years ago.

His face broke into a broad smile, making him almost look like the young man she had dated all those years ago. "Good, I'll give you a call." He then turned and disappeared into the sea of humanity.

Chapter 11

Friday, November 18th, 1977

"Hey, Markus, where have you been?" Holt asked as he walked into the office. "I've been looking all over for you."

The detective raised an eyebrow and said, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Go ahead and try me."

"I went out with a blond, drinking beer and eating lunch at the Green Room."

Holt leered at him. "Now I know you're lying to me. You haven't been to the Green Room since the old days. Anyway, what would that wife of yours say if she knew you were running around with another woman?"

"Well, I'm afraid to say it was just business. A Miss Karen Dekker, a friend of Eileen Watson, wanted to know if I had any further leads on the murder case. I set her straight and also asked for her impressions of the funeral. Perhaps she may turn up something valuable. Believe it or not, it turns out that she is a reporter for that big news magazine, _The Caller_ , so who knows, maybe she has a nose for such things."

"I see," Holt replied slowly as if not quite convinced of his partner's marital fidelity. "I was looking all over for you since I turned up a new lead. You see I was going through the old reports that we received from the nearby sheriff's department and came across a fairly recent case that we should immediately investigate."

"Go ahead," Markus replied, his interest piqued.

"Almost six months ago, near the town of Chandler, some country girl named Mary Jo Robinson ran away from home. She was fifteen and disappeared without even leaving a note. Apparently it wasn't the first time the girl tried such a stunt, so the parents weren't that worried, thinking she was just staying over at some friend's house. A few days went by before they started calling around to no avail. The county sheriff, a man named Peterson, was finally called in, but he found nothing to indicate foul play. The state police were notified to be on the lookout for her but with no results. A report was even forwarded to us, but she was never seen here in Bay City either.

"Now it turns tragic. Three months ago, a farmer was clearing brush on the part of his field that runs near the road. He came across the decomposed remains of a young girl. A pink jumpsuit was also found nearby, which gave the probable identification as the missing Mary Jo Robinson. The dental records clinched it. The sheriff thought it was some hitchhiking incident gone wrong. You know, some driver picked her up, tried to rape her, and she fought back or something terrible like that. An autopsy showed that the hyoid bone underneath the tongue was fractured, indicating strangulation. There were also a few marks along the rib cage showing that she was also stabbed several times. No witnesses and no evidence meant the case went nowhere. Now here is the odd part - the left hand was missing, perhaps the work of a wild animal, but I thought it could fit with the M.O. of our killer."

"Do you have directions to get there?" Markus asked eagerly. "I want to go look at the scene of the crime."

Holt nodded. "The address is here in the report. It's a few miles out, but I know how much you like to drive that beast of yours."

"Good, let's go."

They left the police department and went out into the street. It was cold and grey outside, and a stiff wind was blowing. After hopping in the Malibu, Markus took the road west out of town. The crowded streets soon fell away to the suburbs which were filled with mothers in station wagons, ranch homes, and shopping malls. After a few traffic lights, they were suddenly in the country, the powerful car humming along like a well-oiled machine. He always enjoyed letting the car stretch its legs, the big torque moving the Detroit steel with ease.

Studying a tattered gas station map, Holt said, "Turn left here on Remembrance Road and go for another eight miles."

Markus nodded, his attention staying with the blacktop. He rarely left the confines of the city and was enjoying the open road, now free of the usual bad drivers and low speed limits. Here there was nothing but farms, little one-light towns, and enough room for an engine to breathe.

"Turn left up here on Grant Avenue and slow down; we're getting close," his partner said as he lit a cigarette.

On the corner of Grant, which was a dirt road, there was an old farmhouse with peeling white paint that exposed the weathered siding underneath. Next to it was an old Ford pickup truck, a barn, and a rusted tractor that looked to have sunk half-way into the ground. Fields of picked corn stalks surrounded the home. The wind made the tops move like waves on the ocean. Markus let off the gas and let the car slow to a crawl, letting his partner study the ground.

"Pull off here," Holt said.

The detective complied and eased the car off the road and onto the shoulder. He killed the engine. They were parked next to a corn field that had a shallow ditch running along the length of the street. He got out of the car and looked over the area. Except for the house, which was some fifty yards away, there was nothing here but street and land.

"Not a whole lot to see," Holt said as he shut his door.

From the house came the sound of a door being slammed. A man in overalls was running towards them, one hand holding onto a dirty baseball cap. He was lanky, middle-aged, and had a scruffy beard that flowed past the neck. "What are you two doing here?" he barked out.

"Are you Theodore Cardiff?" Holt asked.

"Yes, and who's asking?"

Holt flipped out his badge. "We're police officers from Bay City. This is my partner, Detective Markus. We wanted to look over the area where Mary Jo Robinson was found."

"Ah, I apologize," Cardiff replied. "I thought you were just rubber-neckers, looking to gawk over the place where a poor girl was murdered. I've had a couple of those here, though the numbers have been slacking off since the weather got cold. Did you fellows get some idea of who killed the poor girl?"

"Perhaps. Could you show us exactly where you found the body?" Markus asked impatiently, eager to return to the city. Though he enjoyed driving in the country, there was also something desolate about the seemingly endless fields that he found unnerving. It was so devoid of people that he wondered how the inhabitants could stay sane.

"Why sure," the farmer drawled in reply. It was right over here by the overflow pipe that dumps into the ditch."

"Did you say overflow pipe?" Holt asked.

Cardiff spoke slowly as if explaining his job to a child. "Mister, growing corn takes a lot of water. There's always some runoff and with this field, it ends up here. Of course there's some fertilizer mixed in, so it ain't exactly safe for drinking."

"Please tell us exactly how you came across the body," Holt said. "It could be important."

He began walking ahead and explained, "Well, I was removing brush all along the side of the road here, trying to speed up the rate of drainage. Of course the county doesn't like it when the weeds get too high, so I like to do the job before they start complaining. This is something I normally do towards the end of the growing season. I was using my tractor along this side of the road. On my second pass in, I came to right about here and had to stop when I saw something pink buried deep in the grass." He stopped near a dry concrete pipe jutting out of the side of the ditch. "I got down and went to take a look, thinking it was some piece of trash or something. It turned out to be a girl's jumper. Right next to it was a bra and a pair of underwear, both still wet from the last rain. It was then that I saw the remains of a foot sticking out from deep in the brush. It was lucky that I saw it or else I would have run right over the poor thing. I went right back into the house to call the sheriff. I didn't touch her. There is no way that I could have."

Markus nodded, half-hearing the story. He could imagine the killer carefully parking his car and pulling the already dead Mary Jo out of the passenger side door. It would be dark out with only a random chance of being seen on this remote dirt road by a passing vehicle. The house was well enough away too. The crickets would have been the only sound. If the girl wasn't already nude, the killer would have stripped her before going to work. Then the body would have been placed into the ditch, underneath the water coming from the concrete pipe. After the amputation of the hand, the killer would have kicked the clothing into the weeds and then taken off in the car. The detective wondered why did the victims needed to be placed into the water. What was the connection? Markus could only shake his head, unable to solve this little part of the mystery. Perhaps that psychologist, Evans, could shed some light on this strange need of the murderer.

His thoughts were broken when Holt asked the farmer, "Are there any wild animals around here? You know, something big enough to carry away a hand?"

Cardiff wrinkled up his nose. "Just raccoons and squirrels around these parts. But you never know what kind of mischief those critters could get to."

"Well, thanks for your time," Markus said, turning on his heel and returning to the car.

"Yes, thanks," Holt said. "If we have any more questions, I'll be sure to call you."

"No problem, gentlemen. Now I gotta get back to my work." With a wave of his hand, Cardiff headed back towards his farm, only casting a single glance at the parked car.

Markus opened the car door and slid behind the steering wheel. He started the engine which caught immediately.

Holt opened his door, but did not enter. He said, "Hold on a second, I have to shake the bushes. I'll be right back."

"Sure, but hurry up. I want to go ask Sheriff Petersen some questions."

From his rear-view mirror, Markus could see his partner walk behind the car and into the ditch. In a minute, his partner returned, but paused at the back bumper to light a cigarette. With a fumble, Holt suddenly dropped his lighter and his head disappeared as he bent over to retrieve it. In another moment, the passenger door was open and he was inside.

"Sorry about that," he said sheepishly. "I guess the stress is getting to me."

"No problem," Markus replied as he put jerked the transmission into drive. He soon had the car turned around and headed south on Remembrance towards the little town of Chandler. Fifteen minutes and thousands of corn stalks later, Markus pulled into town and found a parking spot. Other than the sheriff's office, a post office and a gas station with two pumps, there wasn't much else to see but a few nearby houses and long stretches of fallow farmland. After leaving the car, they crossed the street and went into the office. Inside there was an overweight deputy, his legs up on the desk, busy watching a college football game on a little B&W television with the volume turned up high.

"I want to see the sheriff," Markus said coldly, dismayed by the obvious laziness of this public servant.

"Can I tell him who wants to see him?" the man replied, his worn boots dropping to the floor with a clunk.

"Detective Markus and Detective Holt from Bay City. We're the ones who asked for the reports about the missing women."

The deputy rudely said, "I see, a pair of city coppers. Go right on in."

"We will," Holt spat out as they skirted past the officer's bulk and went through the door and into the room beyond.

The office was a clutter of papers, old office furniture and a crowded gun rack hanging on the wall. The sheriff was busy tying flies, his concentration solely on the task before his eyes. He was a man with a medium build and a thinning hair that was carefully combed over a nut-brown head.

Markus coughed and said, "Sheriff Petersen?"

"Ye-es?" the man drawled before looking up from his work.

"I'm Detective Markus from Bay City. This here is my partner, Detective Holt. I came to talk to you about the Mary Jo Robinson case."

Petersen put down his pair of hackle pliers. He let out a sympathetic sigh. "Yes, that was a sad story. It's too bad that we never got the bastard who did it."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Well, take some of those papers off and find yourself a chair." After the detectives were comfortably seated, the sheriff continued, "I questioned everyone in town I could about that poor girl but it led nowhere. No one saw her leave and no one saw anything suspicious. This is an isolated spot, where strangers stick out like sore thumbs, so I thought it had to be someone local. Word gets around in places like this, but there wasn't a single rumor about her that turned out to be true. So after a while, people just forgot about her. That's until her body turned up."

Markus carefully studied the sheriff before replying. He said, "I have a hard time believing that a tight community such as this wouldn't have some witness. No one came forward with any information?"

"Out here in the country there are plenty of dark things going on behind closed doors. But I don't know anything that would connect up with Mary Jo."

"Tell me," Holt asked, "how many times did Mary Jo run away before she went missing?"

The sheriff hesitated before answering. He finally said, "In the course of my investigation, I heard many things about her. Some of them may have been true, but I believe that Miss Robinson was no different than many other teenage girls, which is to say she was impulsive. She was a popular girl with the boys, if you know what I mean. She was also a real pretty thing who had the misfortune of being bullheaded. That caused a lot of problems with her poor parents. So yes, she ran away three times before this. The first time her parents were in a panic and filed a report with me. The second time they did the same thing, but stopped at the third time and just waited until she came home. You know a boy, or a girl in this case, can only cry wolf so many times. The parents felt right guilty that they didn't do more when she turned up dead."

"Tell me, sheriff, did you turn up anything else that we should know? Is there any hint or rumor that never made it to the official report?" Markus asked.

He shook his head. "No, nothing. And that's the strangest part. Whoever did this was very careful to cover their tracks. Usually a criminal makes some kind of mistake or leaves some identifiable trace. But this one was real clever or else real lucky."

"Sheriff, thanks for your time," Markus said as he stood. "I was hoping this would be a break on the case we're working on."

"You're doing the Watson and Woods murders, eh? I wish you luck. You're going to need it." He then returned his attention to tying the fly, seemingly oblivious to the detectives who were leaving.

Chapter 12

Saturday, November 19th, 1977

Karen Dekker angrily slammed the receiver back on the phone. After breakfast, she had been trying to reach Bill Woods, the husband of the second murder victim, without any luck. The line had stayed busy; perhaps the sudden media exposure had been too much for the poor man. She knew from experience that trying to reach him through normal channel would be a fruitless exercise, but if she could find some other means, then why not?

The phone rang, the sound startling her out of the thoughts of work. She picked up the receiver and placed it against her ear. "Yes?" she said, rather more nastily than intended.

"Good morning," a nervous voice answered back. It was Joshua Cowan. "Is everything alright? You said I could call you. So here I am."

"I'm a little busy right now," Karen said crossly. She could hear nothing but silence on the other end, and suddenly felt sorry for this poor man.

Before she could make amends, he said meekly, "I can call back later if that will be better for you."

"No, no, we can talk now."

"Anything the matter?"

"I told you about the story I'm writing an article on the murders. I'm trying to get an interview with Bill Woods, but I just can't reach him. I imagine he's not in the mood to talk to reporters, but I'm afraid that's no concern of mine."

He said with a laugh, "You're not exactly the most empathetic person, are you?"

"Usually I'm a very sentimental person but not when there is a job to be done. Part of being a reporter is being a little nasty. I don't necessarily like it, but the editor doesn't care whose feelings get hurt, as long as the story is written before the deadline."

"And I thought the used car business was tough. I've got nothing on you."

Karen found herself smiling, once again reminded of the young man she had dated all of those years ago.

"Look, I was wondering if we could meet for a drink sometime," he said tentatively, as if expecting an immediate rejection.

She hesitated before answering, unsure of what to say. She really had no urge to rekindle this old relationship. It seemed too easy and too desperate. "I'm flattered but I don't know if I have the time. I'm so busy trying to write the story."

"Look - no strings attached. I'll even let you buy your own drinks. That's the new feminist thing, right?"

"I don't think we have to go that far. I'm still old-fashioned in that regard. I'll let you pick up the tab." Karen felt a momentarily stab of guilt as she thought of her interest in Detective Markus. But that thought was quickly put away. It was only a few drinks. It wasn't like she was doing anything with this old boyfriend.

His tone lightened with relief. "Good. Will tonight work?"

"No, I don't think so. I have lots of writing to do, along with some background research."

The disappointment was palpable. "Well then, when is the best time?"

"Let's try next week."

"Okay," he said happily. "By the way, I had a thought about your problem with meeting Bill Woods. I don't know him myself, but maybe your mother does – at least through other people. If I remember correctly, she was always quite the gossip. I bet if you asked her, she would know someone who does know him."

"Hey, that's a good idea."

"No problem. I'll be looking forward to your call next week. Bye." He hung up.

Renewed with the new idea, Karen took the stairs up to the second floor, she found her mother busy putting laundry away.

"What is it, dear?" she asked.

Karen replied, "Mother, do we know the Woodses? You know, that poor girl who was killed in the park."

Joan paused, holding a pair of socks. "Now let me think. I know a Rose Woods, but I don't think she's related. There are so many new people in this town. It isn't like the old days when everybody knew everyone else. Things were certainly simpler back then and we didn't even bother locking the doors at night."

"Oh, this isn't any help at all," Karen said, feeling exasperated.

"I'm sorry, dear. But why do you want to know about the Woods family?"

"It's for the article I'm working on."

"Yes, I see. Well, it did remind me something terrible that happened, maybe twenty or twenty-five years ago, when the town had those terrible murders."

Karen felt her jaw drop. "What murders?" she blurted out.

"You were just a little girl back then, nothing but cute dresses and pigtails. Those two Valley College girls died first, and then those two housewives. I don't think the police ever captured who did it. It caused such a fuss back then that even your school was canceled for a week. Your dad wouldn't even let me leave the house, though why a sex maniac would ever want anything to do with me, I could never guess."

"You said this happened twenty-five years ago?"

"I don't know. More or less."

Karen ran to her room and grabbed her purse. Going down the stairs, she called out to her mother, "I'm going out. And thanks!"

As the front door opened, her mother's reply from upstairs was already distant. "Thanks for what?"

But Karen didn't respond. Instead she shut the door, ran out to the car and was soon heading downtown. She parked in front of the library, shoved a quarter into the parking meter and ran inside. The building had changed much since she last seen it. Now there was new orange carpeting, desks with matching swivel chairs, and even new wood paneling. She remembered the old Depression era styling and thought this modern look was an improvement.

The aged librarian behind the desk stared at Karen in the unnerving way of the practiced bureaucrat. "Yes, may I help you?"

"I need microfilmed copies of the Bay City Chronicle, starting with the year 1952."

Something about the earnest voice caught the interest of the librarian. She personally escorted Karen over to the archive section and showed her how to operate the machinery. Within moments, Karen was whizzing through the microfilms, looking for articles on the now-ancient murders.
Chapter 13

Saturday, November 20th, 1977

Detective Markus was at his desk, wearing rubber surgical gloves and sorting through the pile of letters that been had received from the Bay City Chronicle. According to the editor, with the recently reported murders, the volume of crank letters had increased considerably. Of course some details of the crime scene were still only known to the police, which made finding a genuine letter somewhat easier. Since the majority of the correspondence were rambling manifestos about the evils of modern life, alien visitations, or vampires, these were immediately pushed aside.

However, there was one letter that he kept returning to. It was written with block characters, like a child practicing his letters. It went like this:

I will kill again. I'm the one who took her away. To lie in the grass and be forever mine. The next one was even easier. The ditches are filled with them and my blade is sharp. I was the one watching from outside. The windows gave me a vision o/f timeless beauty. They never knew I was there. I went through the glass. The man, the defiler, had to be killed first and then I had her all to myself. She kicked and screamed but there was nothing she could do. They are so frail so weak. I shall keep on killing until I have finished. One step closer. Just a few steps away. The other vision of beauty came to me willingly. She ran straight into my arms. The police cannot stop me. No one can stop me. I grow stronger every day. Zeus.

Markus read through the letter a few more times, fitting the known evidence with the words. There was nothing definite here that could convince a jury, but something felt right about the words. This had to be the writing of the killer or someone as equally insane. He carefully took the letter and slid it inside a new manila envelope. Reaching for the phone, he dialed Forensics.

Three rings later and someone answered. "Merrick here."

The detective ran his finger against the edge of the envelope. "This is Markus. I got a letter here that I want you to examine. It is part of the pile of crank letters we got from the _Chronicle_. I want you to look for hair and fingerprints, but be warned that the secretary over there has already touched the paper. I was careful enough to use gloves, but keep that in mind if anything odd turns up. I don't want one of the boys running down a gray hair that belongs to me."

The evidence man replied, "I'll send one of my men up to get the letter, but if I know this killer, we won't find anything. So far he's been very careful and probably used gloves when writing the letter. I bet he even used tap water instead of his tongue when licking the envelope. Perhaps he has a law enforcement background, or read enough detective books to know little things like that."

"I'll keep that in mind," Markus said. "The last thing we need is some psycho cop running around and killing women."

With the laugh of an undertaker, Merrick said, "There are already enough self-professed lady-killers on the force, though their eyes are on scoring at the local disco, not blood."

"I don't think we'll find anything from this letter either, but I'll take that chance. By the way, is there any more news on the Woods victim?"

"As you already guessed, her body was clean. The trip down the river removed any hairs or fibers that we could have used. From the force of the blow to the head, she was already dead when our boy dragged her down to the embankment. But that didn't stop him from stabbing her a few times, just for good measure. The blood we found on the jogging suit matched that of the victim and nothing else. With the rest of the clothing there were no extraneous fibers or hair that we could match to anything other than Woods. It's a dead end."

Markus did not reply, his hopes for an easy solution had been dashed too many times already.

Merrick said, "Look, I hate to say this, but you're going to have to get a lucky break if you want to bring this bastard in."

"Right now, I'll take whatever luck I can get."

The evidence man grunted. "Don't worry, something is bound to come up. It usually does." He then hung up without saying goodbye.

Markus made another phone call, this time to the office of his partner Holt, who had a desk in the common room shared by the other detectives. The phone rang and rang without an answer. He waited impatiently, and after ten rings, hung up. He then called Detective Ballard, who picked up on the first ring.

"Hey, Kenny, have you seen Holt around? He was supposed to be in today."

"Nah, but there aren't many of us here right now," Ballard replied with an easy manner. "Like most of us, he's probably busy running down a clue or something."

"He normally calls and reports in, but I haven't heard a thing from him all day."

"Hold on a second, I'll see if he punched in on the time clock." There was a sharp clunk as the receiver was put down. A few moments later and the old veteran was back on the line. "Nope, nothing doing. He punched out last night, but not this morning."

"Hmm, that is odd. Do me a favor, ask around and see if anything turns up. Give me a call back either way. I'm not worried - Holt can take care of himself – but it does seem rather odd. In the meanwhile, I'll go ahead and check with the desk sergeant."

"No problem," Ballard replied and then hung up.

Deep in thought, Markus carefully returned the receiver back to the cradle of the phone. Like a cold hand passing over his heart, he had an uneasy feeling of worry. Something felt wrong here. As of late, Holt had been acting strange, almost distant. The two of them had always worked together, but now his partner was always disappearing to follow up on some obscure clue. Was there a reasonable explanation for this sudden change of behavior?

Grabbing his coat, he left his office and walked down the busy hall to the front desk. There, the desk sergeant was busy filling out some paperwork.

"Hey, detective, what can I do for you?" he asked when he finally saw Markus standing there.

"Have you seen Detective Holt around today?"

"No, sir," the man replied. "But I've been a little busy getting ready for my review. I'm hoping to get promoted out of this job. You won't believe the amount of crazies I have to deal with."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Markus replied absentmindedly as he headed out through the front door.

His car was parked out on the street. After unlocking the door, Markus slid inside and started the engine. Pushing the pedal down, he rocketed towards downtown, ignoring the speed limit and traffic signs. With a mighty squeal, he locked up the brakes and slid into a parking spot across from Holt's apartment. With a slam of the car door, he was out, running towards the entrance of the building.

Once inside, the detective took the elevator to the sixth floor. The floor indicators ticked by at a glacial pace, only making him more impatient. The doors opened, revealing a hallway with thick, green carpeting, gold wallpaper, and a multitude of numbered doors. Stopping at apartment 608, he pounded on the door. There was no immediate answer, so he knocked again.

The door behind him creaked open, causing Markus to jerk his head to look over his shoulder. There was a little old lady dressed in a nightgown standing there, looking at him with a baleful eye. "What are you doing there?" she asked with the loud voice of someone who was hard of hearing.

"I'm with the police," Markus replied testily, raising the volume of his voice to match hers. "I'm looking for Mr. Holt, who lives here."

Upon hearing these words, the old lady looked aghast. "But he works for the police. Surely he hasn't done anything wrong."

"No," he replied impatiently. "We work together. He hasn't reported in today and I'm just checking that he isn't sick."

"Well, I did see him last night. He delivers my mail for me since these days it's such a bother to get downstairs. He knocked on my door, made his usual delivery, and then went straight inside his own apartment. I haven't seen or heard him since."

Markus doubted the old lady could hear anything short of an atomic blast, but he nodded kindly. "Thank you," he said.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out his ring of keys. Searching through the mass, he found the one he was looking for. Luckily, before going on vacation, Holt had once given him the key to his apartment to check on the cat. Out of forgetfulness, Markus had never returned the key. The door was soon unlocked and opened. With a friendly wave to the old lady, he went inside.

There was a low murmur of voices. Markus stopped, ready to fumble out the Smith & Wesson from inside his jacket. He then let out a pent-up sigh. It was the television, turned down low enough where the voices were indistinct. The living-room looked like it normally did – a collection of simple furnishings that included a brown leather sofa, a matching chair, and a heavy Spanish coffee table; all gathered around a large wooden console television. Some talk show was on, the toothy guests nodding in agreement to the silver-haired host. In the middle of the green shag carpeting was a long but thin fresh bloodstain that was already half-dried.

Thinking of his friend's safety, Markus's eyes widened with fear. "Holt! Where are you?" he shouted. There was no reply. He drew out his pistol and edged into the kitchen, which was empty.

Going down the hallway, the detective then peeked into both of the bedrooms. One was used as an office but there was nothing here but a typewriter and the pages of an unfinished novel that Holt had always promised to finish. The next bedroom was larger and contained a king-sized bed that was unmade, a nightstand with a lamp and alarm clock, and a dresser that had a set of keys and a wallet.

With his heart in his mouth, Markus then ventured into the bathroom. Here the countertop was cluttered with men's needs – shaving soap, an old-fashioned safety razor, and a bottle of cologne. To his relief, the bathtub was empty. But he now knew that his partner was in trouble since what man would leave his home without his keys and wallet?

Not wanting to disturb anything for Forensics, Markus slipped out of the apartment. With a grimace, he pounded on the old lady's door. He had a phone call to make.

Chapter 14

Sunday, November 20th, 1977

That afternoon, as Markus drove towards the police station, he rubbed his stomach. He was feeling sick and queasy; the tension of the past few days had finally caught up with him. But with Holt missing, he felt bound by duty to once again sift through the sparse clues, looking for the killer who may have kidnapped or even killed his partner. There was also a niggling thought that he tried to keep at bay – perhaps Holt was somehow involved in these murders or possibly was even the killer. His partner had the knowledge of police evidence procedures and the best way to circumvent them. He also was a loner, which was circumstantial evidence at best, but still fit the bare set of facts.

His other concern was the _Bay City Chronicle_ article on the Woods killing. By the information revealed, it looked as if someone in the mayor's office was talking freely to the reporter. There was much further information on the evidence collected at the Watson home, along with a mention of the homemade sap and coins found at the park. Worst of all was the detailed description of the wounds on all three victims. This morning, the news on the television repeated the same facts, but with shrill commentary and outlandish ideas. At least there was nothing reported on the possible connection with the death of Mary Jo Robinson or the fact that his partner was missing. But still, the damage to the case was immeasurable.

Shaking those ruminations aside, the detective turned his thoughts back to his wife Jamie. Since the disappearance of Holt, she had been in a fearful state of shock. Half-expecting the killer to show up on their doorstep, she demanded that Markus show her how to use the extra revolver stashed in the nightstand. He had dutifully explained how the safety worked and had even gone as far as telling her how to use the speed loader. But his heart hadn't been in it – he was so tired, and lately she had shown little concern for his needs or worries. She was also spiteful, constantly finding faults with him. It sickened Markus, and he hoped the kids coming back for Thanksgiving would serve to distract her long enough until Christmas.

After stopping for gas, the detective parked his car in the back of the station. He got out and looked over the parking lot. Only a few officers were here, since Sunday was normally a time of quiet. It was true – the hustle and bustle of the city was oddly muted, much like the leaden sky above. Cinching the belt of his overcoat against the winter wind, he walked towards the door, his eyes searching for something unexpected. Only when he was safely inside did he let his guard down.

At his desk there was a note from yesterday. It was from Merrick, requesting a call at home. After sitting down, Markus reached for the phone and dialed the number given. It rang two times before being picked up.

"Hello?" a feminine voice answered.

"Hello, Mrs. Merrick, this is Detective Markus. I'm sorry to call on a Sunday, but your husband wanted me to."

"One second please," she answered back pleasantly. And then came a booming voice, "Edward, there's a call for you! It's one of your cop buddies! A Detective Markus?"

It was a few seconds later and then Merrick was on the line. His voice was subdued. "Good afternoon, Tom, I'm sorry about what happened to Holt. I would keep your hopes up though, there's no reason to believe that he is dead. He's a tough cop. But you shouldn't have come in to work today. You need to get some rest. You know it's a good day to just sit back, drink some beer, and watch some football."

Ignoring the last part of the evidence man's words, Markus said, "I saw your note. Did you turn up anything?"

"It's about that letter that the Bay City Chronicle received. There was a small fingerprint on it. We went to the secretary and had her prints taken – no match. We also checked against yours and there still wasn't a match. Perhaps our killer made his first mistake. I'm having it run down in our files, and if we don't get a match, I'll try the Feds next. They have a bigger file that we do."

The detective felt his face crack into a smile. Here was a potential break in the case. If the fingerprint could match up to someone with a criminal record, it would only be a matter of time before the man was caught. "Thanks, Ed," he replied. "I owe you one."

"Don't thank me, it was your hunch."

"By the way, I want you to check against my partner's fingerprints too."

"What?" the voice of Merrick suddenly rose in alarm. "Why would you want to do that?"

"I would prefer it if you could keep quiet about this, since it's just an unfounded suspicion of mine, but I would feel better if I knew Holt was in the clear on that account. His disappearance at this time is awfully suspicious."

"Okay, I'll keep it under my hat, but you just have to be wrong about Holt."

"I think I am, but I just want to be sure."

"Well, I'll be seeing you tomorrow." The line went dead.

Markus leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. It was a damned shame that this clue hadn't come up sooner. If it had, then perhaps the murderer would already be in jail and Holt would have never disappeared - provided his partner wasn't the killer. He then turned his attention to the report on his desk. It had been compiled last night, and he had read it then, but it was still worth the time to review again.

Evidence had been collected at Holt's apartment, including fingerprints, blood, fibers, and hair samples. The fingerprints and hair samples were numerous, including those of several women, male friends, and even Markus, who often visited with his partner for a drink after work. The blood on the carpeting was AB positive, which, according to the departmental medical records, was a match with Holt. The large numbers of fibers found were essentially meaningless, but were collected anyways in case a future comparison could be made with a suspect. Other than the bloodstain, there was no further evidence of foul play. Perhaps someone other than Holt, but having the same blood type, had been killed there. At this juncture, Markus didn't know what to believe.

The phone on his desk suddenly rang, startling the detective from his reverie. He reached over, picked up the receiver and placed it against his ear. "Yes?" he asked with annoyance.

He immediately recognized the answering voice as belonging to Karen Dekker. She said, "Hello, detective. I was wondering if you could meet me at the Green Room."

"I'm a little busy right now," he replied crossly.

She replied nervously, "I've been doing some research that you just have to see. It may change the way you are looking at this case. Trust me, this is important."

Markus sighed. "Look, Miss Dekker, this hasn't been reported yet, but my partner, Holt, has gone missing. It was probably done by the killer, but we don't know anything definite yet. As you can see, I have a lot of work to do, so couldn't you just tell me this information over the phone?"

There was a pause. Karen then replied, "I'm sorry to hear about your partner. But you must see the old stories that I've dug up at the library."

"The Chronicle?"

"Of course. They are very important and will provide the main piece for the article I am drafting."

He shook his head with resignation. "Perhaps I could meet you there for a few minutes, but for your sake, I hope you aren't pulling my leg."

"Good," she replied with excitement, "I'll be there in ten minutes." She then hung up.

Grabbing his coat, Markus left the station and started walking towards the Green Room which was located just a few blocks away. It was cold outside and the sky threatened rain, or possibly even snow, but it still felt good to stretch his legs. He had been spending too much time sitting behind a desk or the wheel of car. Perhaps he should do this more often. He shook his head at the idea since exercise was never his forte.

The parking lot next to the bar was mostly empty, but he immediately recognized the sagging frame of the decrepit Buick that Karen Dekker drove. It was a shame to see a car age. Few owners bothered or even cared to make the necessary repairs, but instead just let their autos rot away. The junkyards were filled with cars that could have lasted longer, if only the owners had given them the proper care.

Entering the Green Room, he observed a few patrons sitting the bar, their eyes glued to the football game on the television set mounted near the ceiling. In a booth located near the back, he saw the arm of Dekker waving excitedly at him. As he drew closer, he saw that she was wearing a white sweater with a gold brooch. There was a hint of cleavage that drew his eyes like a magnet. Her long blond hair was pulled back behind the ears, falling on her shoulders with long waves. He wondered if she had dressed up on his account. On the tabletop there was a manila folder with the edges of paper sticking out.

"Hello again," he said as he slid into the vinyl bench seat across from her.

A waitress came and he ordered a Schlitz beer for himself while Karen got a gin and tonic. After the drinks were brought, she stared at Markus, her blue eyes lit with excitement. With a flourish, she opened the folder and shoved it towards him. The first page was a photocopied newspaper article.

A junior at Valley College was found stabbed and killed in her apartment at the West Quad. The victim has been identified as 23-year-old Tanya Clarke of Bay City. The police were alerted when her roommate discovered the body that morning. No suspects have been named yet, but police spokesman Sergeant Thiel said that all leads will be followed until the perpetrator is caught.

He noticed the date in the corner, March 16th, 1962. He turned the page over to look at the next article.

A second tragedy stuck Valley College today. A second body was discovered by the campus pond. The victim has been identified as Natalie Austin, a freshman at the school. According to the police, there is no identifiable links between this new murder and the death of Tanya Clarke from the week before.

The date for this clipping was for March 21st, 1962.

Markus turned over two more pages, his hands shaking with nervousness. The remaining articles were pretty much the same, each describing the grisly murder of a young woman. The detective returned his gaze to Karen, who appeared to be waiting expectantly for him to say something.

"Well, what do you think?" she finally said impatiently.

After a thoughtful pause, he replied, "I think this is all very interesting, Miss Dekker, but I wouldn't jump to any conclusions if I were you. I hate to say this, but there are plenty of murders every year. In fact, I remember those two first murders since they occurred at Valley College. You see, I was a student there at the time. There was a general curfew and even escorts for the female students. It must have worked or else the killer moved on, since nothing else happened. But these two other murders, there may not be any connection at all."

Ignoring his protests, she soldiered on. "I searched the archives and never saw any convictions for them. Could you take the time and check? I would also be most interested to see the coroner reports and find out if there was any dismemberment. Surely they must still exist in the police records."

He jabbed his finger at the folder. "Can I keep these?"

"Sure, go right ahead. I made a second set of copies for myself."

"Thanks," he replied.

Taking a sip from her drink, Karen asked, "So, detective, how long have you been doing your job?"

"I've been in homicide for twelve years now. Before that, I was the normal cop, driving around and arresting drunks. But it seemed so petty, so I decided to step up and try the nasty and brutish side of the department. I've been in Homicide ever since."

"Twelve years? That's a long time. You must have seen some terrible things in your time."

"Is this an interview or a first date?" Markus asked with humor.

She smiled. "Perhaps a little of both. I was planning to use you as the centerpiece for my article. You know – jaded detective does good, even though he is haunted by memories past."

"I wouldn't exactly say haunted," he replied. "Sure, I've seen things that most men haven't, but I've learned to deal with it. But it isn't easy."

"What's your secret?"

"It helps to have a good family. I've got two kids that I'm proud of and a wife that I love. I wouldn't trade any of them for the world."

He saw her shift uncomfortably. Karen then practically blushed as she said, "I know this seems awfully forward, but this is the modern age after all. I find you rather attractive, Detective Markus. I don't know why, nor do I care to explain my feelings to you right now. I'm wondering if you could find some time in your life to spend with me."

"I don't know what to say," he replied uneasily.

She said hurriedly, "It doesn't have to be anything permanent, just a normal adult fling. Once I'm done with this story, I'll be heading back to New York. As the years pass by, I'll just be a fond memory to you. Maybe we'll run into each other when I come back to visit my mother. Then again, maybe we won't. But either way, we can have something special happen today."

Markus felt flattered by this offer of adultery, but also embarrassed. He coughed nervously and said, "As I said before, I'm a married man. Though things with my wife aren't exactly the best right now, it doesn't mean I will cheat on her. It wouldn't be fair."

The atmosphere grew palpably colder as her eyes narrowed. The sultry voice turned hard as she said, "I'm not the kind of girl to throw myself at every man who comes along. I'm giving you an opportunity here. I've had that fool, Joshua Cowan, asking me out, so I do have other opportunities."

He shrugged, feeling helpless. This woman, though beautiful, was still at least ten years his junior. No matter how enticing the prospect of sleeping with Karen was, it would still have potential ramifications that would forever change his world. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he could see himself falling hard for this woman. It would mean heartache for him, and if his wife found out, for the family as well. "I'm not sure it would be the best thing," he finally mumbled.

Karen's face grew red with anger and he half-expected her to storm out of the bar in anger. Instead, she lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. After a few tentative puffs, she said cruelly, "Then I suggest we keep our relationship purely formal. I will call you only if I have some questions for my article or some new information. You will continue to tell me what you can."

Markus felt sorry for her, wondering what she saw in him. Perhaps it was some father complex, or else she needed an authority-figure in her life. Maybe that damned psychologist, Evans, would know. He finally said, "Look, Miss Dekker, things would never work out between us. We both know that. But we can still remain friends. I will tell you something that I just learned this day."

"Go ahead," she said.

"We recently received all the crank letters from the Bay City Chronicle. I was sorting through them and found one that may have been written by the killer. Whoever wrote it was fairly close to the known facts, so I sent the letter to Forensics to be checked for fingerprints. A print was lifted, and we're going to see if there is a match in our files."

"Thank you, detective," Karen said coolly. "Now I have to go so I can do some more work on my article."

Before leaving, she quickly gathered her purse and coat. Markus watched her retreating back as she left the bar in hurried fashion. Life was unfair, he thought to himself. It was a shame that he never had this type of opportunity in his past. Whoever would have guessed that such a beautiful woman wanted to be with a middle-aged cop who was well past his prime?

Chapter 15

Sunday, November 20th, 1977

The cold bite of winter was in the night air. The wind whipped through his jacket, making his arms break into goosebumps. But instead of shivering, he kept still and watched, the thrill of the moment still better than anything he had ever experienced. The shadows of the garage hid him from view, but it was still dangerous to be here. The houses of this suburb were crowded so close together. It would only take a nosy neighbor or a barking dog to alert the prey. But that was part of the excitement – the unknown, the risk, and the unexpected.

Through the sheer curtains, he could see that she was talking to someone on the phone. She was dressed in a pair of white pajamas, pacing back and forth, gesturing with her free hand. Part of him wondered what she was talking about, but it really didn't matter. She was the final piece of the puzzle: the last touch of a creation that would last him until his final years, and into the world beyond.

The thought made him tremble with anticipation.

He walked closer to the window, safe in the knowledge that he would remain unseen. The light would reflect off the glass inside, keeping him invisible while he stood outside. It made him feel like a god, safe from detection and the cold unfriendly eyes of strangers. She stopped talking on the phone, an angry expression distorting the beauty with a flash of temper that he found startling. This one was strong and filled with an unsettling determination. She would be perfect.

Someone else entered the room. It was an older woman - her gray hair pulled back and the face a mass of wrinkles and worry. This had to be her mother. Through the glass, he could hear their faint voices. It was a cacophony of youthful vibrancy versus years of sorrow and disappointment. The negative emotions from within made him shudder with revulsion. He stepped back, but kept his eyes glued to the scene before him. The great play of life.

Before he could react, the older woman suddenly reached for the light switch on the wall. The room was plunged into darkness. From inside the house, he heard a scream that tore through the stillness of the night. Not sure what to do, he turned and started running towards the garage. Then the next door neighbor's back porch light went on. There was no longer any place to hide.

With one more longing look at the house, he turned and fled.

Chapter 16

Monday, November 21st, 1977

"Would you please call the police," Joan Dekker asked again, the voice no less urgent than half-an-hour ago. She was peering through the drawn curtains, as if expecting the intruder to make another appearance.

"We've already gone over this, mom," Karen replied with exasperation. "I think you're just a little jumpy with those recent murders. What are the chances that we would be next? It's nearly impossible!"

"Don't talk to me that way, young lady. I know what I saw."

Ever since her mother had spotted the figure out in the backyard, there was no sleep for either of them. The neighbor, old Mr. Jenkins, also heard the screaming and had run outside to see what was going on. Coming through the backyard, he had seen nothing to cause alarm and had gone back home as soon as everything was determined to be okay.

But still, Joan wouldn't let the matter go. She said, "Please, I would feel better if the police knew about this."

Karen finally gave in, hoping she could finally get some sleep. "Look, mom, I know someone in the police department. Would you feel better if I gave him a call?"

The old lady nodded.

With a sigh, Karen reached for the phone and dialed the number that Detective Markus had given her. After four rings, an unfamiliar woman answered.

"This is police operator, may I help you?" The tone was unemotional, the voice cool and collected from years of service.

"Er, yes. This is Karen Dekker. I'm trying to reach Detective Markus."

"He's not in right now. You do know it's past one in the morning."

"Yes, of course I do. But he gave me his direct number to call him." She looked at her mother who was pacing back-and-forth across the tiled floor. "In case of emergencies."

"Hold on," the voice answered back. "I'll see if he can be reached at home." The line went silent for a minute.

After a few clicks, the call was transferred. "Good evening, Miss Dekker," Markus finally answered sleepily. "Or should I say good morning?"

"Thank goodness you answered," Karen said. "I'm sorry that I woke you up."

He gave a little laugh. "That's okay. I'm used to it, though I'm not sure if my wife is pleased that I'm talking to another woman at such a time at night."

Karen's voice quickened, "Please give her my apology. I really didn't want to call you this time of night, but my mother thought she saw a stranger in the back of the yard. She let out a scream and the man went running."

"When did this happen?" Markus asked.

"About thirty or forty minutes ago."

"Why didn't you call sooner? I would have gotten a few patrol cars over to search the neighborhood."

"I should have," Karen admitted, "but I didn't see anything myself. Neither did the next door neighbor, who was up watching television. He ran out of the house like a bolt of lightning and turned on his back porch light. There wasn't anybody there."

The pause on the other side was long enough that Karen thought the line had gone dead. When the detective finally started speaking again, his voice was filled with concern. "Does anybody other than me know about the research you have been doing?"

"The librarian has been helping me," Karen replied, "but she's a woman in her sixties. Maybe someone else overheard us, but I doubt it."

"The funeral for Eileen Watson - did you tell any of your old friends about your magazine job? Or the story that you're working on?"

Karen replied cynically, "I told Joshua Cowan. He wanted to know what I do for a living so he can try to guess how much money I am making. But surely you can't suspect him. It doesn't fit into the timeline of the previous murders."

"Perhaps someone was at the funeral; a bystander who overheard your conversation and found it a threat. Or perhaps he just likes the way you look."

"For a man who has turned me down twice, you still flatter me," Karen said.

He laughed. "I also wanted to thank you for the leads on those murders. I'm having the original police reports dug up from the basement storage. Keep up the work, and if you hear anything else interesting, please let me know."

Before Karen could answer, she heard a distant feminine voice on the line. "Thomas, either go back to bed or use the other extension."

"Yes, dear," Markus replied back to his wife, his tone one of practiced obedience but with an underlying hint of sarcasm. He then said, his voice once again strong, "Just to be on the safe side, Miss Dekker, I'm going to send a cop car over to park in front of your house. The patrolmen won't like such a boring duty, but I don't want to take any chances. Anyway, they'll love the overtime."

"Thank you, detective," Karen replied gratefully. "My mother will be happy to hear it. Good night."

"Goodbye, Miss Dekker. And just a reminder, don't go anywhere alone, even if invited. This guy preys on defenseless women, and if he is after you, is bound to strike when you least expect it. You'll be safer if you stay with the crowd." The line then went dead.

Karen thought of her date with Joshua Cowan. She should have mentioned it to the detective, but shrugged the thought away. There was no way her old boyfriend could be the suspect. She went to fix some coffee, expecting a long night ahead.

After several hours of waiting up, the sun peeked above the horizon. It was morning now, the sky cloudy and gray, and the fear of last night had naturally turned to one of skepticism. Even her mother had relaxed enough to fall asleep on the sofa where she was snoring gently away. But with the amount of work that needed to be done, Karen could not afford the luxury of sleep. That article needed to be worked on. She instead went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. After her second cup of coffee and a slice of toast, she was almost feeling human again.

She stepped past her sleeping mother and went upstairs to shower and change. Her plan was to go to the Woods funeral, hoping to have a chance to talk to the husband. It was a long shot, since the place was bound to be swarming with media, but she could at least interview some of the victim's friends. Painting a sympathetic portrait was always an important part of any article dealing with murder. Kathy Woods could have been a monster in real life, but now that she was dead at the hands of a killer, only the best parts of her life could be written.

After showering, she felt even better than before. The hot water had worked its miracle, removing the dirt – both real and imaginary – from the day before. In comparison to the steam-filled bathroom, the temperature of the house felt frigid, sending goose bumps down her legs. She hurriedly ran into her bedroom, where she quickly put on some clothes. There she selected a black dress with black nylons, but added a blood-red scarf to offset the morbid attire.

After she had finished dressing, she went downstairs to find Joan sitting at the table, sipping at a cup of coffee.

"I'm heading out, mom," Karen said.

"Just make sure to put some gas in the tank. Do you think we should bring some coffee to those police officers outside?"

Karen smirked, thinking of those poor cops having to wait outside in the cold. At least they had the taxpayers paying for the gasoline to keep the car warm. "Why, are they still out there?"

Joan replied, "They were when I looked out the window this morning, dear."

"I'll tell them that they can home now. I imagine they're pretty tired by now."

"Please, there is no reason for them to leave yet. I would feel safer if they stayed out there."

Karen laughed. "Oh, mother, nothing is going to happen to you. I think you're just happy for the attention, but I can't stay. The visiting hours at the funeral home are going to start in another half an hour, and I know it's going to be crowded there."

After driving over to Allan Street, she found the parking lot at the Berkowitz Funeral Home crammed with cars. Luckily a spot opened and before it was taken by a nearby Cadillac, she was able to slide the Buick in. The other driver, an older gentleman with white hair, looked at her crossly before moving on.

The inside of the funeral home was crowded, with several visitors hunched around the ubiquitous coffee urn and plate of cookies, guarding the scant provisions with all the ferocity of sailors set adrift in the Atlantic. Through the press of people, Karen could make out the coffin, a line of people waiting to talk to a dark-haired thin man with puffy circles under his eyes. She took this to be Bill Woods, the widower. With as much patience as she could muster, she joined the end of the line and waited as it inched slowly forward.

Karen hated funeral homes. They always had a faint odor of decay, no matter what the morticians sprayed on the somber curtains, carpeting, and plain furniture. The gathered mourners always laughed or cried, as they told stories of the deceased's past life. But the entire time, they were simply trying to ignore the specter of death, the only real certainty of life. It was her father's death that had brought this truth home to her. He had never been a kind or caring man, but after his death, the accolades for his life had rung hollow in her ears. The relatives were the worst, breathing words of false consolation that meant nothing. It was a lie. It was all a lie.

Her thoughts were broken by someone saying, "How did you know Kathy?"

Karen looked up and saw James Wood staring at her. His fragile voice matched his current physical condition – pale with dark shadows under the sad blue eyes. She had apparently shuffled forward, blind to the fact that it was her turn to meet the newly-minted mourner. "Kathy?" she said stupidly.

"Yes, my wife."

Shaking her head, Karen tried to regain her composure. "I'm sorry, Mr. Woods, but I didn't know Kathy."

"Oh. Then why are you here?" The mask of pleasantry slipped, revealing a cautious, almost forbidding expression.

"You see, I was a friend of Eileen Watson. She was supposed to have been killed by the same man who did this to your wife. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

"Ah," Bill Woods said, nodding in understanding. His expression returned back to pitiful sadness. He turned and took a few steps to stand next to the coffin. Looking down at the dead, he motioned Karen over.

With a concealed shudder, she walked over and looked at the reposed Kathy Woods. At one time, she must have been beautiful, but the makeup had been thickly piled on, probably to hide the damage done by her attacker. The hair was fiery red, framing a pale, ghostly face. She was wearing a green dress with a single carnation pinned above a breast. To Karen, the hands that were folded over the chest looked bloodless and unreal, almost as if they were made out of rubber.

"She was my darling, my life, my whole world," the man said. "Who could do this to her?"

"I don't know," Karen gently replied. "She was very beautiful."

"She went jogging every morning," he proudly replied. "She said it was the only way she could keep off the fat." He chucked mournfully. "But if only she had stayed home. Then she would still be alive."

"Did she ever mention being followed or seeing something strange in the park?"

"Why do you ask?" the tone of his voice suddenly laced with suspicion.

Karen said reassuringly, "I'm just trying to understand. My friend Eileen, it was so unexpected. She was the type of woman who you would think would live forever. Nothing ever seemed to scare her."

He gave a faint smile. "Kathy was the same way. She wasn't afraid of anything. The day before she was killed, she told me that a man had been watching her in the park. Of course there are always all types in this world, so I wasn't too worried."

"Did she describe him at all?"

Bill shook his head. "No. She just said it was a man, watching her from the woods. She didn't seem too worried about it. She thought it could be a birdwatcher, and felt silly even mentioning it to me. After her death, I told the police about it, but there was so little description, it wasn't enough for them to go on. I feel like a fool for not going with her on the next run."

"You didn't know. Who could?"

"Yeah," he replied as he slowly shook his head. The tears were flowing down his cheeks now.

Feeling sick with herself for pumping this poor man for information, Karen turned and left.
Chapter 17

Tuesday, November 22nd, 1977

The man tossed and turned, making the covers of the bed askew. He was thinking of that old woman and the blasted neighbor, ruining his chance of taking the last part of his puzzle. It wasn't fair, but he couldn't very well kill off the entire population of Bay City, not if it meant being discovered. He whistled gently between his teeth, thinking of that blonde-haired bitch. It was that face that interested him the most – the high cheekbones that would make a model envious, the full lips, the smooth skin, and a dainty chin. Not many women had such attributes in perfect proportion. He wanted her.

With a sigh, his thoughts turned to the future. If he was careful, there was still a chance he could get the prize he so desired. It would be risky, but worth the chance. What he needed was a plan – something that would throw off the police and the remaining fool detective. That Holt fellow was easy enough, so why not a few more? They had to pay. They were getting uncomfortably close to him, but yet they were still missing the obvious clues. It was a funny thought – thinking of all those grown men running around, searching for evidence, while he was still free to roam the streets.

He smiled, kicked the remaining blanket free, and stood up. It was time to go to work.

Chapter 18

Monday, November 21st, 1977

It was dark inside the room. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the wan afternoon sun. The overhead projector was the only source of light. Detective Markus was at the forensic department with Merrick, watching as Dan Hiatt, the fingerprint man, was explaining the likeness between the two prints displayed on the screen.

Using a wooden pointer to indicate what he was discussing, Hiatt spoke slowly, "This is a great match. The whorls of the pinky, even with the slight smudging from the lifted print, match the one on file almost perfectly. The loops are ulnar, indicating a right hand. As for the arch, they are tented just like this the one we have on record."

"So are you sure this is a good match?" Markus asked impatiently.

As if explaining something simple to a new student, Hiatt replied, "This is never an exact science, especially with a latent print like this, but I'll give you a ninety-five percent certainty that this is the same man we already have on record."

"Thanks for the good work," the detective offered.

"Yes, thank you, Hiatt," Merrick beamed.

The print man returned the compliment with a rare, chilly smile. "I'm just glad to help. I have a daughter myself, you know."

"Don't worry, we'll catch the bastard before he can do any more harm," Markus commented.

"I sure hope so," Hiatt said as he went over and switched on the overhead light before leaving the room.

Blinking, Merrick said, "Well, what do you think of this suspect?"

Markus studied the perp sheet in front of him. The fingerprint had matched with Frank Kilroy, a forty-two year old machinist who had served time on two counts of sexual assault. Both of them were on young women. There was also a charge of child molestation with a twelve-year old girl, but that had been dropped after the parents had refused to let their child testify. According to the written notes from the parole officer, Kilroy currently lived in the basement of his mother's house, and had a hard time keeping a job because of his poor social skills.

It was a good fit to the profile that the psychologist Evans had given, but Markus still wasn't pleased. The murders that Karen Dekker had discovered happened twenty-five years ago, which would have made Kilroy seventeen at the time. Either he had started young and hidden his crimes well, or else there was no connection between the two events.

"Do you think we have enough for a warrant?" Merrick asked.

The detective shrugged noncommittally. "That would depend on the judge we asked. But Kilroy is certainly a person of interest. I'll bring him in for questioning and see if we can get him to crack."

"You had better bring some backup with you. This is a man who can kill without compunction. If you're not careful, you could be the next victim. Don't forget what happened to Holt."

"I'll bring Ballard with me. He can keep a cool head."

"Okay, well good luck."

"Yeah, thanks," Markus answered as he stood to leave. "And thanks again for putting your men on overtime. They really did good here. I'll make sure to let the brass know."

"Thanks, we need a bit of recognition here. The bosses kind of forget about the work that goes on behind the scenes."

Markus found Detective Ballard in the break room. He was sitting at one of the scarred tables, leaning the plastic chair against the wall. In one hand was a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee, and in the other was a half-eaten sugar-coated doughnut.

"Hey, Kenny," Markus said, "I've got a job for you."

Looking up, the old veteran said, "Yeah? What is it?"

"How would you like to help me bring in a suspect for the Woods and Watson killings?"

"So you finally got a suspect? At this rate, I didn't think we would ever get a break." And with one bite, Ballard finished off the doughnut before proceeding to lick his fingers clean in a manner that Markus found most revolting.

From the department parking lot, they took Ballard's Monaco over to Yuma Ave, which was a neighborhood of moderately priced homes that were built in the 1930s. The houses were small and closely packed together like frightened children. Some yards were in good condition, while others were littered with trash.

Ballard slid the car next to a curb two houses away from the suspect's residence. He killed the engine. Markus studied the little home where Kilroy resided. It was a dirty one-story redbrick affair with a tiny front yard that was still covered with fallen leaves that had turned brown as dirt. In the driveway, there was a newer silver Pontiac Firebird.

"Not a very nice place," Ballard commented.

"We all can't be millionaires," Markus gruffly replied. "He's supposed to be living there with his mother. She must have bought that Firebird for him, or else being unemployed pays better than it used to."

"Maybe she drives it," Ballard said sarcastically.

Markus laughed. "She's seventy-six, Kenny. Of course the engines they put in cars these days aren't worth the time of day, so maybe it is her car."

The veteran detective slowly shook his head. "I know, I know – you've told me this before. But most of us really don't care. We just want to get in the car and go. It's not all about performance and racing. If it was, we'd all be driving motorcycles."

Markus replied tolerantly. "Not in this weather. Hell, winter surprises me every time. I hate the damn cold and all the snow. But by the time I'm sick of it, April comes and I forget all about winter. I can't wait to retire and get out of here. Jamie wants to go to Florida, but I'm thinking out west would be better. Less humid. Plus all those long stretches of road would be a great place to drive."

"Well, are we going to sit here and jaw, or get this Kilroy character?"

"If there's one thing holding you back from promotion, Kenny, it's your impatience. I just want to get a feel for the suspect before we bring him in."

"What's to feel? We have a low-life scum preying on women. Give me five minutes in the interrogation room, and I'll have him spilling the beans in no time. Trust me."

"No violence unless he tries to escape. The evidence we have against him is purely circumstantial. Even the letter doesn't contain any new information. Hell, he could just be a kook who happens to fit the profile a little too well. So keep that in mind. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," Ballard replied crossly.

"Good. Now pull up and block the driveway. I don't want Kilroy to run for it in that Firebird because Lord knows, we wouldn't have a chance of catching him in this piece of shit Dodge."

As the veteran detective started the engine, he made a face. He then slowly eased the Monaco forward, turning cautiously into the driveway. When he had finished parking, the front bumper was practically touching the Pontiac. "How's that?" he asked impatiently.

"That will do, Kenny. Good job."

Without a further word, they exited. Ballard waited until Markus made his way from behind the parked car. Together, they walked to the front door. As he knocked, Ballard stood off to the side with his hand resting on the butt of the revolver that was hidden in his pocket.

After a short moment, the door slowly opened to reveal an old lady who couldn't have been much taller than five feet. She was wearing a bathrobe and had completely white hair that was thin and wispy. Her blue eyes peered suspiciously at them through thick lenses. "Yes?" she asked, her voice high, but cracking with each syllable.

"Good afternoon. Are you Wilma Kilroy? We're looking for your son, Frank. Can we talk to him?" Markus asked as politely as he could.

"Are you from the police? He isn't in any sort of trouble is he?"

He took out his wallet and showed his badge. "Yes, I'm Detective Markus, and this here is Detective Ballard. We just want to ask your son some questions." As Markus talked, he could smell something odd coming from inside the house. At first he thought it was coming from the old lady, but this odor was pungent, reminding him of the time he visited a chicken coop. It took all his willpower not to gag.

"Well, he's not here," she replied sharply. "And maybe he could hold a job if you cops stopped bothering him so much."

"Is that his car there?" Ballard butted in.

"Of course that's his," she replied. "But that doesn't mean he's here."

"Then where is he?" Markus asked with increasing exasperation.

Wilma Kilroy looked back and forth, as if weighing her answer. She finally blurted out, "I don't know where he is. He took my car and headed out this morning. He never tells me where he goes."

"Quick, what kind of car do you own?"

"Well, I don't get around that much longer," she rambled on. "Not with my bad vision. Poor Frank has to drive me to the doctors. Thank goodness he stays around home so much."

"Just tell me what kind of car you own," Markus said, feeling his jaw clench with impatience.

"It's a 1973 Bel Air. My ex-husband bought it for me, brand new, right off the lot."

"What's the license plate, ma'am?" Ballard asked.

"I don't remember. I could never keep track of such things."

Markus, "Keith, I want you to track down that license plate number. I want Frank Kilroy picked up. Have the patrol cars alerted and out looking for him."

Detective Ballard ran back to the car.

Chapter 19

Tuesday, November 22nd, 1977

He pretended to read the newspaper, but was actually repeatedly scanning the same page of the sports section. The articles were now a meaningless jumble of words and figures that left no imprint on the mind. Instead, he watched as the stores stretched along the outside mall began to open. It was cold outside; the concrete underneath felt like ice. The morning sun had broken through the white clouds, lighting the glass fronts with a brilliant yellow glow that was blinding. He blinked from the brightness, reveling in the unexpected heat.

The sensation was almost too much. He almost missed her passing. If it wasn't for the familiar clicking of her high-heels, she could have walked on by without him noticing. The man lowered the paper and stared at her as she unlocked the front door of the coffee shop. She was a beautiful creature who moved with a graceful energy that reminded him of a cat. Her long hair was gathered in a pony tail that went past her shoulder blades. Even with the winter coat, he could see a sliver of the snow white flesh of her neck. He had been watching her for a long time, but today was the day he would finally meet her.

As she opened the door and entered, he stood up and looked around. There was no one around. With three long steps, he grabbed the door handle and jerked it open before she had a chance to close it.

She stared at him, her brown eyes wide with shock. "We're not open yet, sir," she said politely, but he could hear the quaver of fear in her voice.

"I know," the man replied softly. To his ears, the words sounded distant. He could feel his pulse beating hard against his neck.

Without a further warning, he tried to grab her by the neck. But she moved too quickly and pulled away before he could get a grip. She screamed, the sound breaking the cold silence of the morning. He lunged forward, the door shutting with a metallic clang as the bell mounted above the frame rang out. Before he could react, her purse swung out, hitting him squarely in the face. He could feel the situation getting out of control. He had to silence her before she alerted someone.

She was now running past the tables and chairs, heading towards the opening that led to behind the counter where the coffee maker sat and the wrapped baked goods were displayed.

He ran after her, his anger rising with each step. She grabbed something from the counter and swung it at his head. The glass coffee pot shattered against his head, stunning him for a moment. She was then digging for something inside the voluminous purse. Before the man could react, he was suddenly blinded with pain as a spray of mace struck directly into his eyes. He screamed, flailing his arms blindly at the shopkeeper. She clawed at him, raking his cheeks with a set of nails that felt like daggers. He fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

Before he could move, the door behind him suddenly swung open. Squinting, he turned his head to face this new intruder. It was a policeman, the eyes unfathomable through mirrored sunglasses.
Chapter 20

Tuesday, November 22nd, 1977

"Well, Markus," Thompson said, "we had a stroke of luck." The police commissioner was sitting behind his mahogany desk which was empty except for a picture frame and the file on Kilroy. The carpeting was gold colored and matched the drapes, which were drawn shut as if trying to block out the coming winter. A motley assortment of awards and framed certificates covered the wood paneled walls.

"In cases like this, luck is about the only thing you can count on," the detective replied. "The suspect had been careful before, but he could only control his violent impulses for so long. The woman opening the store was lucky that patrolman stopped by to get a cup of coffee. I'm just happy that the press hasn't caught wind of this yet."

"Now that he's been fingerprinted again, does it match up with the letter you spotted?"

Markus nodded. "Hiatt, our fingerprint expert down in the lab has taken another set of prints from the suspect. He assures me it is a match with what we have on file and what was pulled off the letter. That and the fact we caught Kilroy red-handed attacking another woman proves he's our man, alright."

"Good," Thompson replied with a nod of his head. "Now I want you to wrap this case up tight. Question him and then get a search warrant. I want enough evidence gathered so the prosecutor will have a good shot at the death sentence. Except for a few soft-hearted liberals, the city will be clamoring for it. Anyway, men like Kilroy don't deserve anything less."

"I agree," Markus lied. He didn't exactly agree with the death sentence except in the most extreme cases. Anyways, the evidence he had seen so far indicated that Kilroy was one sick man. He was sure that the psychologist, Evans, would agree. Men like Kilroy needed to be studied to see what made such a sick mind tick.

"Where is he now?" the commissioner asked.

"Kilroy is down with Detective Ballard who is giving him the old silent treatment. I was going to head down there myself after the suspect has sweated it out for a bit. He'll be willing to spill the beans when we're done with him."

The commissioner cleared his throat. "Back in my day, we would have used the rubber hose on him. We got plenty of confessions that way."

Markus smiled benignly. "I'm afraid things have changed since then. The last thing we need in a case like this is a charge of police brutality. But don't worry, we'll get him to talk."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from the best detective on the force." It was a dismissal. The commissioner then rose from his chair and shook the Markus's hand.

From there, Markus left the office and strode past the secretary, an amply proportioned blond. She smiled vacantly at him as she busily hammered at the keys of the typewriter. Out in the hallway, he pushed the elevator button and waited, deep in thought. When the doors finally opened, he stepped inside, hardly noticing the other passengers inside. He only paused to look at the lit numbers above as they slowly counted down the floors.

At the ground floor, Markus exited. Going mechanically through the maze of corridors, he soon found himself back at Homicide. Instead of heading towards his office, he went towards the interrogation room. A half-dozen detectives were hanging outside, talking in an animated fashion.

One of them, David LaBryn was Ballard's partner. He said, "Hello, sir. Do you really think we caught Zeus?"

"Zeus?" Markus asked, not understanding.

"Don't you remember the letter that creep wrote? It was signed Zeus."

"You're right, I had forgotten that. I guess I was more concerned by the contents than the signature. Is Kenny still in there?"

LaBryn replied, "Yeah, but that Kilroy fellow still hasn't said anything. At least that's what Kenny said when he came out to take a piss."

"Really? That makes the suspect a little out-of-the-ordinary, doesn't it?" One of the normal procedures was to stick a detective in the interrogation room with the suspect. The detective's job was to sit at the desk and slowly scribble out some unimportant notes. It was the natural tendency of the accused to start talking, just to fill in the empty silence. It took someone with much self-control, or a naturally anti-social nature to stop themselves from conversing with the other person in the room. Either Kilroy was smart enough to recognize this technique, or else he was the quiet type. Or possibly both.

Leaving the young officers behind, Markus opened the door to the interrogation room and entered. Inside, he found Ballard laconically scribbling on a pad of paper, sitting across from Kilroy. The suspect was of medium stature and a body that would certainly not win any bodybuilding contests. The face had a long nose, protruding brown eyes that looked dead to the world, thin lips, and a weak jaw. The skin was sallow, almost sickly, like Kilroy had just gotten over some terrible sickness. The opening and shutting of the door had done nothing to stir the man from his catatonic pose.

"Has the suspect said anything yet?" Markus asked.

"This one is meek and mild," Ballard replied, setting down his pen. The notebook in his hand was covered with random doodles. "He hasn't even asked to go to the bathroom. He must have one hell of a bladder."

Markus joined the veteran detective, sitting on a bolted-down metal chair across from the suspect. "Look, Mr. Kilroy," he started, "I know you don't want to be here, wasting your time waiting in this little room. We all have things we want to do and answering questions from the police always ranks low in life. But don't worry, I'm here to help you. Now perhaps you would be willing to speak to me so we can clear up this little misunderstanding."

Kilroy didn't even life an eyebrow, but continued to stare at the flat surface of the table.

Drumming his fingers impatiently against the table, Markus tried a different tact. He cleared his throat. "A man like you has to be clever to outwit the police for so long. I mean, we would have never caught you if it wasn't for a bit of luck. You just had the misfortune of having that cop bust you right in the middle of your little act."

Kilroy stirred, his eyes awaking as if lit from a fire within.

Markus continued on, fully aware that he had gotten the man's attention. "I'm sure you would like to tell your side of things. You know, just for the sake of posterity. I would hate for the news shows and the papers to get your story wrong."

Instead of verbally responding, Kilroy pursed his lips together and stared at him.

Ballard shifted in his chair and said, "You're going to have to speak sometime, friend. We have enough evidence to pin you with two murders."

Markus hid a smile, knowing that the evidence was actually quite circumstantial. At best they could charge this man with assault and battery, but he wanted more before a judge was brought in to sign a warrant.

With a high, timorous voice, the suspect finally spoke. "I didn't do anything wrong." He tried to raise his hands in protest, but any movement was limited by the handcuffs snapped around his wrists and attached to the arms of the chair.

Ballard said, with his nose wrinkled in disgust, "So attacking an innocent woman is doing nothing wrong? What kind of world do you live in, buddy?"

"She deserved it!" Kilroy blurted out, his thin face turning red with anger.

Markus was glad that the tape machine in the other room was running, recording every word. But he nodded to Ballard, who jotted this piece of information down in his notebook. He then said, "And why exactly did she deserve it?"

Kilroy laughed, a high-pitched unpleasant sound. "I thought she would want to join the others. The way she looked at me, I didn't like it. She treated me like dirt and had to pay for it."

"So you admit that you attacked her?" Ballard asked.

"Of course I did," the suspect replied with a grin.

"And the others?" Markus asked impatiently. "What about them?"

"I take full responsibility for their deaths," he replied smugly.

Markus paused and waited for the other detective to take up the questioning.

Ballard took the cue and said, "Let's start with the Watson killings. Can you tell us how you did it?"

Kilroy looked between the two detectives, his eyes wide with excitement. "I saw Eileen Watson last month. I went shopping at the grocery store for my mother. And there she was – one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I tried to talk to her, but she just walked by me without even replying. When she left the store, I followed her out and watched as she got into her car. I got in my car and drove behind her, all the way to that wretched glass home out by the sea."

"What kind of car did she drive?" Markus asked.

The suspect paused here, the question obviously throwing him off. When he finally responded, the answer was cautious and uncertain. "I don't remember, but it was something expensive."

"Okay, then what happened?" Ballard continued on as he jotted down another note.

"Well, I got interested in her. Real interested in her. So I started going there at night to watch her and that old husband of hers through the windows. I watched them eat dinner, watch television, fuck, and all sorts of things."

Ballard fished out a pack of cigarettes. He flipped the lid open and offered one to Kilroy who shook his head. With a shrug, the veteran detective lit one for himself. He inhaled deeply before letting out a cloud of smoke.

Markus took this moment and asked, "So why did you kill her?"

The suspect smiled wanly. "Because I wanted to. She had to pay."

"Pay for what?"

"She was too rich and too pretty for this world, so she had to die. I broke into their house and found them in bed. I got her ugly husband out of the way and then I took care of her."

"I see," Markus said quietly. "Now could you tell us how you broke into the house?"

"I went through the side door. It was unlocked. People who live out in the country never think that anyone is going to rob them."

Markus knew this piece of information was untrue since the glass sliding door had been broken. Right now, he didn't know what to believe. Some aspects of Kilroy's story rang true, while others seemed like lies or evasion. Perhaps there would be some physical evidence at the suspect's home to link the murder to him.

Ballard looked at him for a moment, the impassive face giving away nothing. He said, "Let's go on to the next victim. How did you kill Kathy Woods?"

Kilroy gave a little giggle. "I've often gone to that park. There's lots of pretty girls to watch, all busy jogging or pushing strollers. I saw her there once, early in the morning, jogging along the trails. I began to watch her from the woods. She went the same route every day. It was easy enough to kill her, once I was in the mood."

With a nod, Ballard went on. "We recently came across some older murders that we think can be linked to you. Did you also murder Mary Jo Robinson?"

"Who is she?" he answered, looking confused.

"She was fifteen and found dead in a ditch out in the country," the veteran detective growled.

"Oh yes, I remember her," Kilroy said with a wan smile. "Too bad for her parents."

It was time for Markus to spring some unexpected questions. He asked, "Did you ever attend college?"

Kilroy shook his head. "I'm afraid I wasn't considered the academic type. My high school counselor suggested I stick with shop classes."

"So back in 1952, you did not know Tanya Clarke or Natalie Austin? They went to Valley College."

"No, I don't think so."

"Can you tell me what you were doing back then?"

"I was in the Navy for four years. I signed up right after high school. They made me a mechanic."

Markus said, "Seventeen seems awfully young to start in the Navy, but don't worry, we'll check into your history. Now going back to these recent murders, I have a few more questions. Would you tell me why Mary Jo Robinson, Eileen Watson, and Kathy Woods were all killed near water?"

For a brief moment, Kilroy looked dumbfounded by the question. But he quickly replied, "It is part of my ritual; part of my sacrifice to the great gods."

"Ah, I see," the detective said. "Is removing parts of the body necessary too?"

The suspect went pale. His mouth quickly closed, the teeth making an audible clicking noise. He did not answer, but instead went quiet, returning his gaze to the table.

"Mr. Kilroy," Markus asked, "what is your answer?"

There was no reply.

Chapter 21

Tuesday, November 22nd, 1977

Karen sat on a stool, looking over the back of the bar with its rows of bottles standing against the mirrored back. She could see her own reflection next to Cowan. She was wearing a revealing blue dress and her skin shone with a thin layer of sweat. He was wearing a powder-blue suit with a black shirt. Together, they looked like any other couple trying to have a good time at the disco. Behind them, a mass of people were dancing in a storm of swirling lights, moving to the thumping beat from the speakers mounted above. The conversation over the volume of the music was at first halting and uncomfortable, but was now becoming easier with each passing minute. Perhaps the third gin & tonic in her hand was part of the reason.

They talked about his job, and the different types of customers that came to the dealership. The also discussed her work as a reporter and the new challenges of being an editor. They did not mention Eileen Watson.

"So," Cowan said, steering the conversation into another direction, "how is your story about the Bay City Killer going?"

Karen felt a brief moment of suspicion towards this old friend. Why did he seem to have such an interest in the article she was writing? Could he be the killer making sure his identity remained hidden? She shook that idea away. It seemed impossible. This was an old boyfriend, a man who once meant everything to her. In the past, she had never seen him get angry or threaten to hurt anyone. Could the years have changed him that much?

"Well?" he asked, the tone of his voice changing to confusion.

"I'm sorry. I just didn't think you would be that interested in it."

"Hell, the killing of Eileen and that other woman have been the most exciting news in town for years. Of course I'm interested."

"Well, I did find out that these weren't the first killings involving dismemberment."

"Really?" he asked, his eyes wide with interest. "So you found something out that the police didn't know. That's impressive. I always thought you were smart."

Karen was long used to receiving kudos, but hearing it from Cowan made her feel proud. "Why yes, twenty-five years ago there were two killings at Valley College. After that, three more women were killed. The killer was presumably never caught."

"Do the police know about this?"

She somehow felt odd revealing her work with Detective Markus. She said, "Yes, they know. I told them."

"Imagine that. I wonder why the murderer started up again."

"I don't think anyone knows the answer to that," Karen replied as she held up her hand to attract the attention of the bartender. He soon came by and took her empty glass away, only to quickly return with yet another gin and tonic. She sipped it tentatively, and watched the reflection in the mirror as a new song started up. It was a slow number. A young couple was dancing close together. They were laughing with mouths open, nothing but white teeth and pink gums.

Cowan went on, "What kind of man do you think our killer is?"

"A sick fuck," she spat out.

"That's a little unfair, don't you think?"

She turned to face him. He looked serious. "Unfair? What about those poor women? Don't you think it's unfair that they're dead while he is still alive?"

He shrugged. "There's no reason to get nasty. Of course he has to be punished for his crime. I just wonder what makes such a man tick. It's obvious that he is doing this for some reason. Perhaps the police would have a better chance of catching him if they knew why. There has to be some explanation for why he is removing body parts. Perhaps he has some sick fetish."

Karen felt ill. She said, "Can we change the subject? I came out with you to forget my troubles and dance, not to concentrate on my work or the death of my best friend."

Cowan patted her on the arm. "I'm sorry I made you so angry."

They fell into an uneasy silence. Karen felt guilty for her temper but didn't want to admit it.

After swallowing the last of his beer, he said brightly, "By the way, did you ever hear what happened to Nancy Cook? You remember her in high school, right?"

"Of course. What happened to her?"

"Well, if you remember, she was the biggest slut in high school."

"Oh, come on, that's unfair. She just never found the right guy. It wasn't her fault that every man in school took advantage of her sensitive nature."

He smiled. "She did find the right guy. She married an ex-priest and had six kids with the guy!"

Karen laughed. "An ex-priest? No, you can't be serious!"

"It's true, I swear to God. Now what ever happened to your friend, Amy Parker? She was such a prude. I always half-expected her to join a commune."

She answered him. Once again, they fell into an easy conversation, the night falling away to booze, dancing, cigarettes, and laughter.

Chapter 22

Tuesday, November 22nd, 1977

Markus shut off the engine. His car was parked on Yuma Street across from Kilroy's home. Next to him sat Ballard, who was looking over the warrant that had just been signed by Judge O'Neil. Markus watched as a smattering of snowflakes melted against the warmed windshield glass. It was the first snow of the year. The gray dreary landscape was quickly transformed by the thin layer of fresh whiteness. The world looked fresh and new. He could do little to assuage his disappointment. Kilroy just felt wrong to him.

"Should we go in?" Ballard asked.

"Nah, I would rather wait for some uniforms to take care of any hysterics. The patrol car will be here in a few minutes." It was common for civilians to get mouthy with plainclothes, but quickly knuckle under when a uniformed officer was present.

"You don't seem very happy with our suspect," Ballard commented.

"Do you?" Markus snapped.

"I don't know, but this is more your case than mine." The old detective fished into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He was soon smoking away, turning the warm air of the car into an uncomfortable atmosphere.

Irritated, Markus quickly rolled down the window a few inches, allowing a swirl of snow to enter. "Jeez, Kenny, are you trying to kill me here?" he asked.

Ballard didn't reply, but just cracked a grin.

Ignoring this, Markus continued to discuss the case. "Well, for one, his story is missing too many details. I'm not sure if he's playing with us; purposefully keeping his so-called confession as free as facts as possible. From what I've seen, most criminals, when they confess, thrive on the little details. It's like they have to brag about how they overpowered the victim, or prove how clever they are. Kilroy is just vague enough to make me think that he's either lying or one hell of a conman. Also, he was just too easy to get. Every other case showed how careful the killer was, but Kilroy went and bumbled something as simple as assaulting a woman. It just doesn't make any sense."

After clearing his throat, the other detective shrugged. "You've been doing this job long enough to know that everyone brought to the interrogation room will lie. It's human nature. This Kilroy fellow doesn't seem like the sharpest stick in the forest, so I think he's just not remembering everything that went on. Not all of us have photographic memories."

"You may be right, but something is still nagging at me."

Ballard rolled down his window and threw the stub of his cigarette out. "I don't know if I am right or not, but I still have a feeling that he's our man. Anyway, we'll find out soon enough once we get a chance to search the home. We know the killer likes to keep souvenirs. All we need to do is find one to make our case. It doesn't matter what the man says, provided we find enough evidence to satisfy the prosecutor."

"Yeah," Markus agreed half-heartedly. He was about to curse the tardiness of the uniformed police, but stopped himself when a patrol car pulled into the driveway. "They finally made it," he said impatiently as he opened the car door.

The two patrolmen were fresh-faced and still young enough that Markus did not recognize them. Like shy teenagers picking up their first date, they followed the two detectives up to the front door. Ballard rapped on the door while Markus stood with his back to the door, looking over the neighborhood. He wondered what the neighbors were thinking. It was probably something bad, but that was to be expected. People enjoyed watching the misery of others.

Mrs. Kilroy answered the door. Markus turned to examine her. This time she was wearing an old-fashioned blue housecoat, and her hair was tucked under a paisley scarf. But the same scared eyes stared at them through the thick glasses. "Yes?" she croaked.

Ballard's normally laconic tone became stiff with well-practiced officialdom. "We have a warrant here to search your home. If you refuse us entry, we can still legally enter the premises."

As she hesitated, Markus could begin to smell the same odor as before. Once again he was reminded of animal waste.

She took a step back and said, "This is about my son, isn't it. I tell you Frank wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Your son hasn't been formally charged with anything," Ballard said. "We are merely here to collect evidence. If there's nothing to be found, then your son will be freed. It's best that you help us out, or you will be charged with obstructing a police inquiry. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

Mrs. Kilroy sighed, let her eyes drop to the ground, and slowly opened the door wide enough to let them pass. Motioning for the two uniformed officers to stay outside, Markus entered with Ballard following behind. They found themselves in a cluttered living room with mismatched antique furniture, wooden floors, and a red rug that needed a good cleaning. The light was dim, only a single bulb from a fixture above provided the scant illumination. Here the odor was almost overpowering, making the detective's eyes smart.

"Where is your son's room?" Markus asked, trying not to choke.

She hesitated before answering, her eyes brimming with tears. "Downstairs. He sleeps in the basement. You'll have to go through the kitchen to get there." She pointed to the back of the house.

Following her direction, Markus and Ballard went to the kitchen that looked to have been last updated forty years ago. Here dirty pans and dishes were stacked in the sink while the cupboards stood open, revealing rows and rows of cereal boxes. The small table was cluttered with newspapers, magazines, and a collection of smudged glasses. Along the brown and white linoleum were several brown pellets of what appeared to be cat food.

Ballard made a face. "Who can live this way?" he commented.

"I don't know," Markus replied as he opened the door leading to the basement. His nostrils were hit by an even more overpowering wave of odor that made him gag. Covering his nose with his hand, he turned on the light switch. The resulting illumination from below was hardly worth the effort. He took a few steps down the carpeted stairs and began to hear a rustling noise, like a cat scratching at the door to be let out.

The basement took up the full length and width of the house. The wiring and pipes ran above in a random order. A single light bulb glowed weakly from the ceramic fitting attached to the ceiling. In the middle of the concrete floor there was a hot water heater and an ancient gas heater with ductwork that looked like octopus arms. Near the wall there was a mattress covered with a disarray of blankets, and piles of clothing. There was also a television set that was on, the characters from some soap opera talking with muted voices. Near the stair landing, an ancient refrigerator hummed away with a metallic whine.

These objects, however, were all secondary compared to the nearly two-dozen small cages stacked against the front wall. In the dim light, Markus could see little paws and snouts, the beady eyes of squirrels staring at him.

"What in the hell?" Ballard asked nervously.

Markus shook his head. "You got me. I guess we had better start searching the place."

"Yeah," the other detective drawled. "I just hope we don't catch some kind of disease being down here."

With a chuckle, Markus halfheartedly kicked at a pile of clothing by his feet. "Knowing my luck, I'll get sick. I'm not sure if I can spend too much time with my wife. It may lead to manslaughter."

Ballard laughed. "After thirty years of marriage, I'm looking at first degree murder. Where do you want me to start?"

With a sweep of his hand, he motioned to the cages and bed. "There isn't much here worth searching through. But if I wanted to store some dead parts, I would start with that refrigerator."

Ballard gave a shudder. "Be my guest, old friend. I still want to enjoy my supper tonight."

"After all these years, I thought a veteran such as you would have a stronger stomach."

"It's not the stomach, it's the bad memories."

With even breaths, Markus went over to the refrigerator and put his hand on the handle. He glanced at Ballard, and saw the detective turn away as if expecting the worst. Gritting his teeth, he yanked open the door. The overhead light inside was bright, lighting up the interior. Inside, there were several plastic bags, wrapped tightly around the dismembered bodies of squirrels. A six pack of Schlitz was also crammed in the back.

Next to him, Ballard let out a sigh of relief. "Well, if we can't bust him for murder, I'm sure we charge him for animal abuse. What kind of sicko does that to little creatures?"

"The same kind who murders women," Markus heard himself answering roughly. "Keep on searching down here. There still might be some kind of evidence hidden away. I think his mother is innocent of his doings, so he may be careful enough to hide things from her. We'll have to go over inch, just to be sure."

The two detectives went to work, looking through every nook and cranny of the dimly lit basement. After a few minutes, Ballard excitedly called out, "I think I found something!"

Markus hurried over to the rear of the room to find the detective on his haunches, looking through an open metal tool box. Inside was a collection of knives and narrow saws, some stained with recognizable dried blood. Nearby was a pile of yellowed newspapers and dirty rags.

"What do you think?" Ballard asked.

"We had better take them back to the lab," Markus replied uncertainly. "I would like to have those bloodstains tested against those of the victims." He motioned towards the refrigerator. "He probably used these for his experiments on these poor little beasts, but we had better check just to be sure."

"I'll take them back to the car," Ballard replied as he gingerly shut the toolbox.

"I want to take a look upstairs and the garage," Markus said. "I don't think there is anything else to see, but I want to be sure."

"Okay, I'll have Mrs. Kilroy sign a receipt for this grisly little find. I'll meet you out in the garage."

Markus took the stairs. As he climbed up, he could hear Ballard's labored breathing from behind. It was a wonder that the old detective was still on the force. Of course the union made sure that a man could work as long as he wanted to. And for a detective like Ballard, he had nothing else to do with his life, having spent the majority of his years doing police work. He was the sort who would die in the saddle, a copper to the very end.

In the kitchen, there was a side door that led outside to the driveway and unattached garage. The garage itself was a small, allowing only one car to be parked inside. The exterior matched the color of the house trim, but it had been a long time since the structure had been painted – it was peeling and the gray weather-stained boards could be seen underneath. The only ingress was the main door. With a tug, Markus rolled it open.

Inside was a dusty collection of junk – a lawn mower, paint buckets, a rake, and several cardboard boxes that were split on the sides. With disappointment, the detective was about to turn away when he noticed a large glass jar in the corner of the rear wall. The cloudy fluid was of a sickly yellow color, and something was inside. As he cautiously reached toward the hellish container, he felt the bile rise in his throat. It was the head of his missing partner, Holt, the chemically stained eyes staring blankly through the glass walls.

Markus turned away, retching.

Chapter 23

Wednesday, November 23rd, 1977

Karen Dekker pretended to study the menu, even though she already knew what she wanted to order. Markus, who was sitting across from her, was busy talking to a surly waitress, ordering a hamburger. She studied the worn, haggard face of the detective and wondered what she saw in such a man. He certainly wasn't handsome, but the features revealed an inner strength that was lacking in so many others. It just wasn't the fact that he was a police officer, used to command, but something more. There was a touch of sadness there, or perhaps it was loneliness. It made Karen want to console the detective, even though she knew the offer would be rejected.

"Ma'am?" the waitress asked without a trace of politeness.

With a blush, Karen realized she had been daydreaming. "I'm sorry. I'll just have a grilled cheese sandwich with some chips on the side."

"Very good," was the reply. The waitress then stalked off as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

"This is such a friendly place," Markus commented with a small laugh that sounded hollow.

"I'm glad you could meet me for lunch," Karen said. "Though, perhaps in the future, we should find a different place."

"I don't mind. I like the Green Door, though the staff may not reciprocate the same feeling to the customers. But yeah, next time we should go somewhere different."

Karen smiled. "So, I don't exactly want to pump you for information, but I saw the news report that the killer has been caught. That's good news for my mother and me. At least she will be able to sleep tonight. Last night she was awake most of the time, peering through the windows. It drove me crazy. Now tell me, is there any information that the press isn't yet privy to that you would care to share?"

Markus returned her smile with an uneven frown. "I don't know what to say. There was a creepy letter written to the _Chronicle_ that I thought could have come from the killer. I had it checked for fingerprints and we were able to get a match with a man named Frank Kilroy. We tried to pick him up, but he wasn't home. But yesterday morning, this Kilroy fellow attacked a woman who was opening up her coffee shop. She was lucky that a passing policeman intervened, or else she could have been the next victim.

"After his arrest, we questioned him and some of his story seems to fit the pattern and evidence. But some of it doesn't. But the real kicker was when we got the warrant to search the home he shares with his mother. We found a collection of bloodstained tools, and I had the fortune – if you want to call it that – of finding my partner's head, stored inside a glass jar. It was hideous."

This last piece of information made her feel sick to her stomach. She muttered, "That sounds like an open and shut case to me."

"The prosecutor certainly thinks so. And I'm sure the newspapers are happy too now that they can run plenty of gruesome stories on this weirdo."

"Why are you looking so unhappy? The case is solved."

"I don't know. It's just a hunch, but I don't think this Kilroy did it."

Karen took a restorative drink from the gin and tonic. "And just what is this little hunch telling you? If he killed your partner, and you have evidence that he did so, then what exactly is worrying you?"

With a shrug, Markus said, "I guess you would have to see Frank Kilroy for yourself. He's not exactly the type to commit murder. He comes off as weak and puny, though there is something very creepy about him. When the house was searched, we also found some tools that were used to cut up little animals – at least none of the blood types matched anything human. His past rap sheet definitely shows an animosity towards women. I suppose a psychologist would want to examine the relationship he had with his mother or some other nonsense like that."

"So you don't think this Kilroy character has it in him to kill someone?"

The detective hesitated a moment before answering. "I really don't know. He fits the profile and has some animal cunning, but not all the evidence fits."

"Like what?"

"Those old cases you dug up. As you guessed, body parts were also removed then. Well, we've been able to confirm that he was in fact serving with the Navy during the time of those murders. He was out to sea when they happened, but the similarities between these and the current cases cannot just be coincidence. Personally, I think Kilroy is a fan of the real killer and is willing to take the credit for his actions."

Karen shook her head in disbelief. "It's a fantastic idea. Do you have any solid evidence to back your ideas?"

Markus frowned. "I'm afraid not, but once we gather all the evidence for the prosecutor, I'm sure some further discrepancies will come to light. I personally don't like this Kilroy, but I want to make sure the right man is convicted - even if the brass on top doesn't agree."

"Aren't they listening to you?"

He shook his head. "Oh, it's the standard response. The public is in frenzy for the murders to stop. As long as the police have someone – anyone – then we can go on with business as usual. The commissioner is happy because the mayor is happy. No one wants to spend time on a case once there's an arrest. I've been told in no uncertain terms not to dig too much deeper into this case. Kilroy is being delivered to the county jail tomorrow, to await trial. Until then, there isn't much I can do but start gathering evidence and then see how it all shakes out. By the way, I've also kept the police protection on your house in place. Until the real murderer is caught, I don't want you to be in any danger."

"I'm sure my mother won't mind – last night she brought out coffee for them."

They were interrupted by the arrival of the waitress who had the food. After the plates had been placed, another round of drinks was ordered.

Karen eyed her sandwich with distaste. All this talk of murder and dismemberment had spoiled her appetite. Instead, she took a final, steadying swallow from her drink and then reached for her pack of cigarettes. After lighting up, she carefully said, "I was thinking of doing an interview with you - for the magazine that is."

"Why me?" Markus asked gruffly as he took a bite out of his hamburger.

She studied his expression for a moment before answering. She finally said, "Part of writing a good article for a magazine is to add an element of human interest. Sure, it's important for the reader to get all the facts, but they also want a hero to identify with or a villain to hate. Since I can't interview Kilroy, I'm sure a story with you as the central character would be most fascinating for the readers."

"I'm sure it would be," he replied blandly as he put his food back down on the plate. "But I'm just a simple police detective. Part of my job is to remain as anonymous as possible. I need to blend into the crowd and be unrecognized. When I get in the interrogation room with a crook, I just want them to think of me as a normal working schlub, not the guy who broke the Zeus killings. I suggest you look elsewhere for your hero." And after those words, he stood up, grabbed his coat, and left.

"Detective!" Karen called out, but her words fell on deaf ears.

Chapter 24

Thursday, November 24th, 1977

Parking his car a block away, the man went on foot, but stayed away from the road by ducking through an empty parking lot between two factories. It was quiet with everyone home for the holiday. The sun showed itself momentarily as it broke through the thick clouds. The light reflected off of the frosted blacktop with a scintillating display that was nearly blinding.

He stopped at the street and looked both ways. There was no traffic, so he quickly ran across to the other side where an auto scrapyard was located. Here there was a chain-link gate with barbed-wire strung on top. Behind the fence was a parking lot with several vehicles. A padlock and chain was the only means of stopping trespassers. With a cold smile, he took the heavy bolt cutter he carried and applied enough pressure to snip through the linked metal. Like a dying snake, the chain rattled to the ground and lay still. Pulling the gate wide open, he entered.

Inside the yard, the man stopped at a red-painted Ford F-350 tow truck. The front grille was protected by a black heavy-duty brush-guard that had been scarred, but undented, from several previous automotive encounters. Using the bolt cutter handle, he smashed through the side vent window. After knocking away a few shards of glass, he reached in with his gloved hand and pulled the door lock knob up.

He was soon inside, resting on his back with his head under the dashboard. With a wire-cutter in hand, he found the two red wires leading to the solenoid and the main power. Removing a half-inch of insulation, he twisted these wires together. After finding the brown ignition switch wire, he cut it and touched the end to the combined red wires. The starter gave a few tentative turns and then the engine caught. Quickly sliding behind the wheel, he gave the gas pedals a few stabs and felt the big-block engine under the hood roar with life.

He then slid a screwdriver on the top center of the steering column. Pushing the blade hard between the wheel and the column, he pushed as hard as he could. With a minute snap, the locking pin broke, freeing the steering wheel. The same cold smile returned. He shut the door and put the truck into gear. After pulling out into the street, he got out and ran back to close the gate. There was no reason to let a passerby know that something was amiss.

He then steered the truck over two more blocks and parked it a good two hundred feet from an intersection. It was a deserted street, the businesses empty. He put his seat belt on, snugged it tightly against his shoulder, and there he waited quietly, feeling the vibration of the engine rolling up his spine. The minutes passed, but his eyes never wavered from the street ahead.

There it was: a Dodge Monaco police cruiser slowing for the sign. He could just make out the cap of an officer and see that someone was sitting in the back. Just like a good law-abiding citizen, the driver was coming to a full stop.

He threw the transmission into drive and pushed the gas pedal all the way down to floor. With a chirp of tires, the heavy truck lurched forward. He had to time this just right. He was getting closer. Now he could see that there were two officers in the front seat, staring at him with horror, their eyes wide with shock. It was too late for them to react.

The heavy front bumper stuck the front door with a tremendous crash, pushing the Dodge straight into the curb. The front of the truck buried itself into the side of the car. The impact was hard enough to just lift the driver's side tires up into the air. With a metallic shriek, the windows shattered and the steel bent at an alarming angle.

As soon as the motion stopped, he kicked open the truck door, and to his relief, it easily opened. Two steps and he was standing by the hood of the wounded police car. A quick glance at his handiwork showed that the driver was in a state of shock, the scalp bleeding freely. The other officer was struggling to pick himself up from the car floor.

With a calm determination, the man took out a pistol from his coat pocket and fired through the still intact front windshield. The bullet cracked through the glass and struck the closest cop in the right eye. Another quick shot, and the front passenger was struck in the chest. Just to be sure, he calmly fired again, and this time the bullet hit the neck, misting the interior with a spray of blood.

Five more steps and he reached for the rear passenger door. It took some pressure, but it opened. Inside was a frail-looking individual, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Grabbing the collar, the man pulled him out of the car and dragged the prisoner away.

Chapter 25

Thursday, November 24th, 1977

In the kitchen the phone rang. Rising to answer it, Markus moved the napkin from his lap to the cloth-covered dining room table. He had just sat down for Thanksgiving dinner and didn't want this rare family moment to be disturbed. But such was life as a police officer. He smiled wanly at his wife, who was busy conversing with the children, who had returned last night to spend the holiday at home.

"This had better be good," he snapped into the mouthpiece.

"Sorry to ruin your Thanksgiving," the voice on the other end answered. It was Ballard. "I thought you would like to know that Frank Kilroy escaped about thirty minutes ago."

"What? How?" Markus asked, his mind reeling from this new information.

"As you know, Kilroy was being transferred to the county prison today. It was the usual setup – two uniforms in a police car. There was no reason for an additional escort. But when the officers didn't report in on time, Dispatch thought they were just having radio problems. So they checked with the prison, who said the officers hadn't come in yet. Before Dispatch could have a chance to send out some cars to search, a civilian called in a traffic accident involving a cop car. It happened over on Tilman Avenue, near the industrial part of town."

"My God, what happened?"

"According to the first officer on the scene, the cruiser was at an intersection, struck on the side by a tow truck. There was no sign of the driver who did it. The two officers were inside the car, both shot through the windshield." With a catch in his throat, Ballard paused for a moment before continuing. "The rear door had been left open. Of course there was no sign of Kilroy."

Markus looked through the open kitchen door and watched his family. They were busy eating and chatting. He let out a sigh. "It seems that Kilroy had a little help. I want the owner of the tow truck found and questioned. It was probably stolen from his yard, but there has to be some kind of clue there."

"I'm already on it."

"Good. I'll be at the scene soon enough. In the meanwhile, I want an all-points bulletin put out. I want every off-duty patrolman called in too. We have to catch the bastards before they get out of the state."

"That's going to make some people very unhappy. It is Thanksgiving, after all."

"I don't give a damn," Markus spat out. "Two cops are dead and I want to find out who did it. The boys will be eager to find the man who did this to one of their own."

"So am I," Ballard protested. "I'm just saying."

"They'll be happy to earn the overtime. Now I have to go tell the news to my family." He then hung up the phone and returned to the dining room.

Jamie looked expectantly at him. "Who was that?" she asked.

"I'm afraid something serious came up. I have to leave."

"When will you be back?" Her voice was tinged with anger.

"I don't know," Markus replied with a resigned shrug. "You never can tell with these types of things."

She said harshly, "Don't be too long. I know the kids want to spend some time with you. You're never around the home anymore."

"There's an important case going on. You know that," Markus said in his defense. He could feel a cold rage building up inside. It was better that he left before there was a blowup. The kids shouldn't have to see them fighting.

His son broke the tension by saying: "Don't worry, dad, we'll save some turkey for you." He laughed. "Well, maybe a little."

"Thanks," Markus said as he turned to leave.

He went to the bedroom where he dug out his pistol from the top dresser drawer. Because of long years of habit, he cracked open the cylinder to check the loads. The brass ends were all in place. In all the years of service, he had only used his gun once, and even then, the shot had missed. It was one of those strange set of circumstances – he had gone into the local liquor store and found that the place was being held up. Without thinking, he had drawn out his revolver and fired at the robber, but instead hit a few whiskey bottles on the shelf behind the counter. The robber was scared enough to have dropped his weapon, but the owner was displeased by the lost inventory. Shrugging that old memory away, the detective changed into a blue pinstripe suit with a red patterned tie.

With a final wave to his family, who just stared coldly at him, Markus left through the side door. He opened the garage, feeling the winter wind biting through his wool coat. Pulling on the car door handle, he slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine. He gently pulled out into the street, and started driving. The road was slippery and it took some concentration to keep the powerful Malibu on the road; the big torque of the engine wanted to kick the rear out. However, he was used to the motion and with practiced ease, applied enough counter-steering as necessary to keep the nose pointing straight.

Tilman Avenue was only a few miles away. It was a road that was densely populated with light manufacturing and a few junkyards. Markus had been this way many times before to buy parts for his car. The street eventually ended near the highway on-ramp which led to the county prison. This route had been used by the police for many years since it was out of the way from residential streets.

Ahead, the detective saw a group of flashing red and blue lights. The road had been blocked off on both sides with patrol cars. Cops in winter-issue coats were standing around, waiting for someone to give them orders. As Markus slowed, he rolled down his window to speak to an officer waving a hand indicating that the car should stop.

"Oh, I didn't recognize your car, sir," the uniformed said.

It was someone he had seen before but hadn't bothered to learn the man's name. "I haven't gotten a new one yet," Markus snapped. "Now get someone to move that patrol car out of the way so I can drive through."

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, his face unexpectedly blushing a crimson red.

As he waited, Markus almost felt sorry for the man, but realized that everyone was uptight from the strain. Two officers were dead, and it would be some time before anyone on the force would feel normal again. The police were a tight group and easily demoralized when one of their own met an untimely death. Two in one day was too much.

After the patrol car had been pulled off to the side, Markus drove inside the cordoned off area. There was already an ambulance here, presumably to cart off the dead, not to perform any life-saving operations, and the familiar Forensic station wagon. That means that Merrick and his team had to be close by.

Markus sighted the evidence man at the scene of the crime. Here sat a Ford tow truck with an open driver door, the front grilled enmeshed with the side of a Monaco cop car. The patrol car was pushed up against the curb, the front windshield shattered with bullet holes.

Merrick looked up from his work inside the auto and waved the detective over. He said, "You finally made it here. I'm sorry to say that Officers Pethouski and Willard are dead. From the looks of it, they didn't have much of a chance. The driver of that tow truck was quick in his work, firing his pistol accurately enough to kill them in a matter of seconds."

"How did you deduce that?"

"These are trained officers. Even with the sudden impact, at least the passenger, Officer Willard, should have had a chance to fire back. But his pistol has not been discharged. This means the attacker was a professional, perhaps a soldier, to pull off this kind of action. It would take some planning to do it right."

"Any sign of the prisoner?" the detective asked as he began to look over the ground around the wrecked automobile.

Merrick shook his head. He placed a sample into a plastic bag. He then said, "I called in a K-9 unit, but they're running late. There are some tracks there though. I haven't done any measurements yet."

Looking over the frosted grass, Markus noted that two sets of footprints led off to a factory beyond. He said to the evidence man, "Has anyone followed them?"

"No, I assumed they took a car that would have been parked nearby. Why would anyone in their right mind wait for the police to arrive? Unless they had a death wish or something."

Markus made a face. "It's better to follow-up any clue, you should know that." He motioned to two nearby officers, who were just busy standing around, talking to each other. "You two, come with me."

They followed the detective, who had his head bent low, following the footprints in the grass. This soon gave away to an empty parking lot, but the trail was still clear on the light dusting of ice sprinkled on the blacktop. It led to an alleyway that ran between the front office and the main factory. Here the ground was littered with cigarette butts, a few empty bottles, and a rusted paint can with an open top. A blue metal door that was scratched and gouged near the lock, hung open a few inches.

Markus unbuttoned his jacket. He faced the door. Drawing his pistol from the shoulder holster, the detective then motioned to one of the uniformed officers to open the door all the way.

The policeman, an overweight man with bushy blond sideburns, reached for the door. With a jerk, he flung it open.

A gun fired from inside. Markus felt the whistle of a bullet as it went right by his ear, smacking the brick wall behind him. With a whine, the spent projectile ricocheted between the two buildings. In that brief moment, Markus saw inside the building. A man was standing in the gloom, next to a line of tables, with a gun at the ready. As another shot rang out, the detective dove to the left, hitting the ground with enough impact to rip open a jacket sleeve.

The officers scrambled for their guns, allowing the door to slowly fall shut.

"Are you okay?" one of the officers asked the detective.

Markus could feel the adrenaline rushing through his body like a wave of heat, making the coldness of the air dissipate. He pulled himself back up to his feet. He grinned lopsidedly at the other men. Fighting the tremble in his voice, Markus said, "I'm afraid that I'm getting too old for this kind of action." The detective felt the panic gripping him begin to subside. Standing off to the side, he said, "Pull that door open again. Don't shoot in there unless you have to. I'm going to try to talk to him."

The overweight officer gingerly pulled the door open again, staying far clear of the entryway.

"This is the police!" Markus shouted. "Don't shoot or we will be forced to fire back. Got that?"

The voice that answered was ragged with fear. "Help me!" It was Kilroy.

The detective hesitated, wondering if this was some kind of trap. He said, "Just put the gun down and we can talk about it."

The reply was filled with terror. "You can't come in here! Just go away before it's too late!"

Markus looked back and forth at the other two policemen, wondering what to do. And then, without a further word, Markus ran inside the building with his pistol at the ready. Another shot was fired, the sound reverberating in the confines of the room. The bullet whined off the wall. The detective felt his foot hit something hard and unyielding. He tripped and went sprawling. The gun in his hand clattered to the floor. In that moment, he breathed a sigh of relief that that the weapon had not discharged from the collision on the cement floor. Looking up, the detective saw Kilroy staring at him, the gun in his hand forgotten.

"What have you done?" the suspect muttered, the eyes glazed with fright, like a wild animal cornered by a pack of wolves.

It was then that Markus noticed that Kilroy was chained with one loop of a handcuff attached to the ankle, the other to a steel table leg that curled to the bench seat. There was something terribly wrong here. Turning over, his eyes traveled to the doorway, where he could see a metal line has been stretched across the opening, a few inches above the floor. His eye continued to follow the cable, which led to a mechanical alarm clock attached to a bundle of dynamite. The second hand was sweeping up towards the twelve position.

Quickly getting back on his feet, the detective ran with a burst of speed, pushing his body forward at a pace that was harder than he had ever remembered doing before. He jumped through the open doorway just as the explosion went off. The cataclysmic shock hit his back like a sledgehammer, causing his head to make contact with the brick wall across the way. He saw a burst of light and then slipped into darkness.

Chapter 26

Thursday, November 24th, 1977

Karen suppressed a laugh as her uncle started to snore on the couch. It was after Thanksgiving dinner and she was getting tired of the constant yammering from the visiting extended family. Her sister was here with her two children, who were running and screaming through the rooms. Karen was sitting on the chair, listening to her Aunt Thelma go on about the murders that were enthralling the entire city. Of course the capture of Kilroy had sent a sigh of collective relief through the community, especially for the female denizens.

"So, your mother tells me that you are writing a juicy little story on our murderer. Surely New York City would have something more interesting than old Bay City."

"I suppose so," Karen replied politely, wishing she could slink away somewhere. "But my editor thought everyone in the nation would be interested."

"Really?" her aunt said with surprise. "Nothing ever seems to happen here, and suddenly we're the center of so much attention. It's too bad it had to end so quickly." She let out a bark of a laugh. "We could have put this city on the map!"

"Yes," Karen replied uneasily. She was about to launch into a diatribe about small towns being no better than big cities, but she was interrupted by the phone in the kitchen.

Within moments, her mother called out, "It's for you, Karen. It's that detective friend of yours. He wants to talk to you."

Her aunt Thelma raised her eyebrows at this, clearly intrigued that her niece would be involved so closely with the police.

"Thanks," Karen called out as she practically ran to the kitchen.

There, she saw that her mother was busy washing the dishes. The clink of the plates and the running of the water was a familiar, comfortable sound. Karen picked up the receiver and took a seat at the kitchen table. "Yes?" she breathed into the phone.

"Hey," the voice on the other end said. It was Markus. "How was your Thanksgiving?"

"The usual thing," Karen replied as she eyed her mother. She felt happy hearing from this man. He was so direct. After his unexplained leaving at the bar, she had expected to never hear from him again. "You know, the family comes over and stuff themselves full with whatever they can fit in their mouths."

The detective laughed. "I had a quiet time with my family. That's until the phone rang." His voice turned grim. "If you turn the television on, you'll probably see the story front and center. The news stations just love reporting on explosions and the death of an escaped convict."

Karen felt her breath catch. She said, "I don't have time to watch right now. Tell me everything that happened."

"I told you that Kilroy was being carted off to the country lockup, at least until his court case came up. It turns out that someone – we don't know who yet - took that chance and freed him."

"But who would do such a thing?"

"That's a good question. This unknown man stole a tow truck from a nearby scrapyard. He then used this vehicle to ram the police car that was transporting Kilroy. The impact disoriented the officers long enough for this new suspect to kill them. Both of the police were murdered at close range with a good-sized caliber pistol."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Markus sighed, the breath rasping over the wire. "Yeah, the whole department is in shock. We haven't lost anyone for maybe four or five years now. But to lose two of our brothers in blue in one day is too much."

"But what happened to Kilroy?" Karen asked quickly, and then regretted her impatience. She could only imagine the collective grief that the police must be feeling.

There was some hesitation before the detective answered. He finally said, "When I got on the scene, I found the evidence team working on the car. But the uniforms were just standing around, not even bothering to follow the obvious tracks that had been left behind by Kilroy and his rescuer. Well, by the looks of the footprints, it looked as if Kilroy was half-dragged across the ground. I had two officers come with me. The trail eventually led to a factory that was shut down for the holiday. We found Kilroy inside the break room. He started taking potshots at us, screaming for us to leave."

"But why would he stay there?" Karen asked. "It doesn't make any sense for him to wait around for the police."

"At the time, I didn't even think of it," Markus admitted. "It wasn't until afterward that I started to really think about it. When you're being shot at, it's hard to use your head."

"That's understandable. I've never had the misfortune."

"It's not that common, at least in Bay City. Anyway, I foolishly tried to rush in there and disarm him. As soon as I stepped across the threshold, I went sprawling. It turns out that there was a tripwire set across the doorway. I saw that Kilroy had been chained to a table, unable to escape. It turns out that the whole place was booby trapped with enough dynamite to blow the place to kingdom come."

Karen gasped. "But what happened? You're still alive!"

"I'm afraid I wasn't brave enough to stick around and wait for the fireworks. As soon as I saw the dynamite, I ran for it. In seconds the explosion went off, throwing me hard against a wall. I was lucky enough to live, but I'm afraid Kilroy was blown to smithereens. There wasn't anything left of him but a scrap of flesh."

"My god," she gasped, "it's a miracle that you're alive."

"I passed out for a moment from the force of the explosion, but all I got were a few scratches and bruises. Luckily the other officers were outside. So yeah, it's a bit of a miracle."

Karen mentally went over the facts that she had just heard. She finally said, "It doesn't make any sense. Why would someone go through all that trouble of freeing Kilroy, only to have him killed in such a manner?"

The detective answered, "I don't know. But it does prove that I was right that Kilroy was not the killer. Perhaps the real murderer just wanted to quiet this man, and finish off some police while doing it. I'm worried though."

"Why is that?"

"This represents a change. Our killer always targeted women before and worked hard to hide his identity. Starting with Holt, he's now trying to go up against the men hunting him. Perhaps this points to a new phase. I worry for your safety and my own. I'm afraid things could get worse before this is all over."

"I'm not sure how things could get any worse," Karen said.

When Markus finally spoke, his words were hasty, as if exceedingly nervous. "Look, can you get out of your house for a while? I would like to talk to you about some ideas I have. You're good at digging up evidence, and I could use your help."

Karen thought of her relatives and her mother, who was now drying the dishes and placing them on a rack. Spending the rest of the day here would be torture compared to working on this interesting story. She said, "Right now, detective, that's the best idea I've heard all day long. Where do you want to meet? The Green Door?"

"I'm afraid they're closed – even their employees have to enjoy the holiday." He chuckled. "But I know a good Chinese restaurant that also serves beer. Do you want me to pick you up?"

"I'm not sure if I can wait that long," Karen joked. "I can drive there myself. Just give me some directions."

Markus said, "Sure, it's a little place called Yen Ching. It's located near 23rd Avenue and Wilson. There's a parking lot right behind the restaurant. It's the best place to put your car while you eat inside. I'm afraid it's not the best neighborhood, but the food is worth the risk."

"Thanks, I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Good. I'll be waiting inside." With those final words, the detective hung up.

Putting the phone back on the cradle, Karen said to her mother, "I have to go. I have to go work on this story some more."

"But it's Thanksgiving. You don't want to miss this time with the family," she pleaded.

"Sorry, mom, but my job comes first."

Before there was any argument, Karen left the kitchen, bounded past her relatives in the living room, and headed upstairs to change her clothing. She wanted to look her best, so, after rummaging through her luggage, she selected a red dress with a plunging neckline. It was something that she had recently bought in New York City on a whim, just in case she needed to impress some new man in her life.

After quickly brushing her hair and throwing on some gold hoop earrings, she headed downstairs. Without even saying goodbye to her relatives, she grabbed her jacket from out of the closet. She then went out the front door and to the car. It was cold outside; the frost had coated the windows of her mother's Buick.

Gritting her teeth at the delay, she slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine. It idled roughly, expelling a cloud of blue smoke from the exhaust. Turning the heat to the highest setting, she reached for the scraper, and started to go around the windows, removing the built up ice. It was some minutes later when Karen reentered the car. Shoving the transmission into reverse, she carefully pulled past her aunt's parked car.

Except for a few passing cars, the main roads were empty. Wilson Street was in the seedy part of town that was known for tattoo parlors, strip joints, and pawn shops. Karen thought it an odd place to meet the detective, but of course choices for eating out were few this time of year. She saw the sign for the restaurant, and turned down an alleyway. There she saw a small, garbage-strewn lot with three parked cars. She noticed a green Malibu. So the detective had beaten her there.

She parked the Buick next to his car, got out, and pushed the lock plunger down. Shutting the door, she turned to head towards the restaurant rear entrance, but instead found herself facing a man wearing a black ski mask. Before she could react, he lashed out with a dark object. The pain erupted on the side of her face. She felt herself falling, desperately clawing the sides of the parked cars. Her nails scraped against the sheet metal with a terrible noise that hurt her ears. Karen fell to the ground. The ground began to spin away.

Chapter 27

Friday, November 25th, 1977

She felt sick. Her head ached. Karen felt herself awaking as if from a deep sleep. It had been a sleep filled with nightmares and a blinding pain. She had dreamed of moving, the sounds of an engine running, tires whirring over the road, and an odd rocking motion that reminded her of traveling as a child in the backseat of her father's car. Now it was quiet. She also felt cold as if all the heat of her body had sunken into the frigid, hard ground lying underneath.

She opened her eyes and blinked a few times, wondering if she was blind, since there was nothing to see but blackness. It took a few panicked seconds before she realized that the light here, wherever that was, was incredibly dim. By the hardness of the ground, Karen knew she was lying face down on concrete. But where? With an effort, she lifted her head, trying to look at the surroundings. It was a room. A basement. The narrow windows set in the foundation had been boarded over, allowing only a few slivers of stray light to shine through. Above, the wooden floor joists of the upstairs floor. A staircase heading up led to a closed door; a line of artificial yellow light edging the frame. The blower fan of the nearby heater churned along. There were footsteps above. The sound subsided and then disappeared.

There was a strange smell in the air. She couldn't place it at first, but an ancient memory of biology class, where much to her revulsion, a frog was dissected, brought the word back: _formaldehyde_.

Karen tried to sit up, but now realized that her wrists were bound together at the front. The edges of her fingertips edged along the surface of the shackles. It was steel – perhaps handcuffs. Her ankles were also bound together. Only then did the panic begin to set in. Her heart began to beat hard and fast, making her body tremble with fear. She suddenly remembered the attack on her and the masked man. That meant she was a prisoner of the killer – the very same man who killed Eileen Watson and who knew how many others. There was a rush of adrenaline, the energy soaking her body like a burning fire. She rolled to her side, and then managed to sit up. She was now able to look over the vicinity with more detail, searching for some way to escape.

On the other wall, there was a set of cupboards next to a long table that was low to the ground. The lack of light made it impossible to see any detail of the dark shapes on the table top. Of more interest was the form of a person, sitting in nearby chair and watching her without moving. It was dark enough that she couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman.

"Hello?" Karen called out in a loud whisper.

There was no response.

Her voice shaking, she said, "I need some help here. Where am I? Why am I down in this basement?"

Again, there was no response. There was no motion.

Using her bound feet, she rocked, slid, and rolled towards the immobile figure. As Karen got closer, she saw that it was a mannequin or some type of statue posed to sit in the chair. It had the form of a skinny woman with long hair. The rank odor of formaldehyde was stronger here. Using her manacled hands, she slowly reached over and touched the clothed leg. It was cold to the touch. Something felt unnatural about the sensation – Karen was reminded of Kathy Woods and how she looked resting in the coffin. She quickly withdrew her hand.

Just then, she heard the floor above squeak. It was footsteps. The door opened. A click of a switch was heard and then the basement was flooded with light from the overheard bulbs. The burst of brightness made Karen blink with discomfort. She could hear the stairs creak. Before turning her attention to this newcomer, she looked up at the woman in the chair. What she saw made her scream.

It was a corpse: the leathery skin brown and lined and the hair was blond and long. Where there were once eyes, were large blue marbles. The lips were curled back, revealing a set of white teeth set in brown, rubbery gums. The neck was stitched to the chest with thick string, as were the hands attached at the wrist. The clothing, however, looked new.

As Karen breathed in, readying another wail, she heard a gruff male voice. He said, "So you've met my wife. She hasn't been looking very forward to meeting you. Not that I can blame her. Please, dear, say hello."

To Karen's surprise, a high-pitched, almost womanly voice came out of the man's mouth. He said, "She's a slut. Why is she here?"

"Quiet, dear," the man answered himself, the voice back to its original gruffness.

Her eyes wide with panic, she turned her head to get a better look at the captor who was standing over her. He was of a medium-height, with a mid-section that was starting to bulge. The face was covered with a black stocking-like material that made it impossible to see his expression. With dark blue pants, a wine-colored turtleneck, and a pair of black army boots, this man looked anonymous and blank.

With a voice low and filled with menace, he said, "There is no reason to cry out. The neighbors will never hear you anyways. I've worked hard to make my house soundproof. It's necessary for my, let's say, experiments."

Karen choked out, "Why did you bring me here?"

The faceless figure lifted his hand and pointed at the table. She swiveled her head and only now recognized what was there. It was a body – or more like body parts – arranged and sewn together to make a whole. The only thing missing was the head. Above, attached to the wall, was a collection of saws and knives, all cleaned to a brilliant sheen. There was also a plastic apron hanging on a hook, along with a number of coiled ropes.

She gasped, feeling sick to her stomach. "Why? Why would you do such a thing?" she managed to say between sobs.

"You know why," he replied, his voice rising with anger. His hand swept upward as if to strike her, but then suddenly fell to his side. "But don't worry, I won't hurt you. I want you to first understand what's going to happen, Karen. It's important to me. You will become the last part of my final creation. You will become part of my new wife." He looked towards the seated corpse. "My old one no longer loves me."

"That's not true," he told himself, using that strange feminine voice.

"Don't lie to me!" he spat out, returning to his normal voice.

Karen pulled against the handcuffs, but the metal only bit into her skin. She had to escape from this madhouse, but there was nowhere to go. It was a helpless feeling – something she was not used to.

The man did not appear to notice her discomfort, but instead began to pace the floor, marching back and forth with unbridled energy. He said, "I have a story to tell you. It doesn't matter if you want to hear it or not, since you don't have much choice, do you?"

She didn't say anything, afraid of breaking the spell. Every minute he talked, was another minute she would stay alive.

Chapter 28

Friday, November 25th, 1977

"I never wanted to kill," he started, his voice low. "But I never had any choice. It's a feeling that comes over me – like a man getting hungry or wanting to ball the prettiest girl in school. I'm normally a rather subdued kind of guy, but I do have my little peculiarities." He pointed at the mummified remnants propped up on the chair. "That was my first project. I was an amateur back then, but my next creation will be so much better." He then lapsed into silence as if thinking of some faraway memory.

Karen had done plenty of interviews as her time as a reporter. This was now a chance to get this twisted man to talk, and possibly let her go. She had to try. Feeling as if her mouth was filled with marbles, she said, "Why will it be better?"

This faceless man stopped his walking and turned to look at her. After a moment, he said, "I've had practice, Karen. You see, I've been doing this for a long time."

"But why?" she asked, feeling more confident.

He shrugged. "I've never been good with women. Ever since I was a little boy, I could never summon the courage to talk to them. My mother never approved of such things. I was told to be quiet and mind my own business. She was right. Children should not be seen or heard. I was punished if I spoke out of turn. I was punished if I was seen talking to women."

"You're talking to me," Karen said with a half-hearted smile. Hiding the revulsion she felt inside, she thought that this man could possibly be charmed. It was a long shot, but right now there was nothing to lose.

"That's true," he replied. His expressionless voice turned a shade colder.

"See, it isn't that difficult."

"But it is. I was a loner in school. A no one. I was ignored, ridiculed, and mocked until I understood what I had to do."

"And what was that?" Karen asked in a whisper.

"To kill. To take what I wanted. The first girl I killed was a classmate of mine. It was night when I did it. She was walking back from the football game when I got her. It was a wonderful feeling having her life slip away in my hands. But it wasn't enough. I needed more. That's when I decided to make myself the woman of my dreams." He paused, turning to face the sitting corpse. "My wife has served me well over the years, but I yearn for something new. The very first time I saw you, I knew you had to be with me forever."

"What's so special about me?"

"Don't be coy with me. I know all your tricks – the flips of the hair, the little lies, or whatever it takes to get your way. You're a beautiful woman, just like the rest of them were. You should consider yourself lucky to be with me."

"I would like to know more about you," Karen said, trying not to sound scared. "I'm a reporter. I know there are people who would like to help you."

But the words did not have the desired effect. Instead, the man stopped talking, the indistinct features an empty void of emotion. The voice, when he finally replied, was cold and distant. "I did not ask for your pity. I don't need it." He took a step towards her, his fists clenched into tight balls.

"I'm sorry," Karen said quickly. Using her feet, she pushed herself away from him.

This movement only seemed to incense this man further. He reached over and grabbed her by the hair, and began tugging her towards the table. The pain was too much for her. She gasped in pain, kicking her bound legs to try and gain a purchase on the concrete floor. Her feet slid crazily against the smooth surface. She was soon turned around, the tears flowing down her cheeks. With a mighty heave, she was then thrown against the wall, her back aching from the violent impact.

Karen looked up and saw the man reaching for a long knife that was hooked to the wall. The killer touched the blade, his fingers running gently against the edge. With practiced ease, he pulled it off the hook and weighed it in his hand. He then placed it on the table. Turning to look at her, he said, "I'm afraid it's time."

She shook her head in a violent fashion. "Wait, I have to know, was I right?"

"About what?"

"Those girls – in the past at Valley College. Was that you?"

He hesitated before answering, but the tone of his voice was one of pride. "Of course it was. They were the beginning of my first project. I wanted the best parts for my ideal wife."

"The best parts?" Karen asked, her eyes wide. She wondered again how she had gotten into this situation. This man was insane.

"Yes. Every man needs a wife. I just had to work a little harder to get mine." The killer laughed. "I tried to date like any other boy at school, but no girl ever wanted to go out with me. That kind of feeling eats you up inside. One day I decided that I had enough of loneliness. I decided to make my ideal woman. The best set of tits, the best legs, and the most beautiful face I could find. You should feel lucky to be included for the finest one yet. I will even name her after you. Do you like that idea?"

"I-I-I don't know," Karen stammered, her heart heavy with horror.

"I've killed dozens of times. So many times that I've forgotten the number. There's no reason for you to plead or try to get away. You're going to die no matter what happens."

Coming over to her, he leaned forward and grabbed her by the front of the dress. As he lifted her up, the seams began to split. Karen took this one chance, and pushed upwards with all of her strength, driving the top of her head into his chin. The sudden blow threw the killer off-balance, causing him to topple backwards, carrying her along. His back connected with the table, causing it to tip over. With a loud bang and clatter, the corpse spilled onto the floor, adding to the confusion.

Using her joined hands as a balled-up club, Karen began to repeatedly strike the man in the head as hard as she could. At first he did not move, the fall apparently stunning him beyond reaction. But as she aimed for another blow, the murderer began to shake his head and moan. Suddenly, grasping her by the shoulders, he pushed her away and scrambled to his feet. Once he saw the remains resting on the ground, the man began to whimper like a lost child.

"What did you do?" he whined. "You hurt her."

Karen was busy trying to turn over. She felt the blade from the table resting underneath her legs. If she could reach it before he noticed, then there would be a little surprise in store for the bastard. She never had the chance. A kick to the side, and she went sprawling, gasping for breath. The side of her chest was now on fire. She looked up, cringing at the thought of that knife piercing her flesh.

He was standing over her. The sharp blade was now in his hand. He said, "I'm afraid this is going to hurt – a lot. I was going to make it painless for you, but then you went and made me angry. I don't like to get angry."

"Please!" Karen shouted, feeling all hope vanish.

He laughed, a sound that wasn't filled with mirth, but instead was a cold, lifeless noise. "Now I don't want to hear you when I'm busy working. It's too distracting when I'm trying to cut flesh. Instead, I'm going to gag you and then tie you to the table. It's like getting an operation – but you'll never wake from this particular surgery."

He put the knife back on the wall. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, the man began to tie it around her mouth. She tried to struggle, but felt too weak to resist. He then righted the table and gently lifted the headless corpse, pulling it over to the side to rest against the wall. With the same superhuman strength, he lifted Karen up and carried her over to the table. With the use of ropes strapped over the legs, chest, and arms, Karen was soon unable to move She tried to shout and scream, but only felt the rough cotton clogging her tongue.

His voice hissed like a snake. "They say the first cut hurts the worst," he said as he reached back on the wall for the knife.

The blade hovered over her face.

Karen stared at it, praying for anything to happen – anything that would free her from this hellish experience. She knew who the killer was now. The voice and bodily motions finally added up. But with her mouth gagged, there was no way to accuse this twisted psychotic.

Above them, came the distant sound of a doorbell.

"Shit," the man said.

Chapter 29

Friday, November 25th, 1977

Markus opened the front door and was surprised to see Detective Ballard. His partner, David LaBryn, was standing on the first step, looking over the neighborhood with little interest. It was snowing outside with thick heavy flakes. Only an inch was on the ground, but the way it was coming down, there would be plenty more before the day ended.

"Good morning, Tom," Ballard said brightly. "I'm sorry to stop by without calling, but some important news came up. Since I was in the area, I thought it best to deliver it in person."

"Well, it is my day off," Markus replied. "But an old friend is always welcome to stop by."

The veteran detective stepped inside with his young partner in tow. Ballard paused, examined the living room and the dining room beyond. He said, "Is the missus around?"

Markus shook his head. "No, Jamie went off with the kids to visit her grandmother. I wasn't exactly in the mood to travel today, so I stayed behind. Anyway, I needed a chance to get a little peace and quiet. You know how it is on these holiday weekends."

"Yeah," Ballard agreed. He then paused, shuffling from foot to foot. His face was stony when he finally said, "Have you seen Karen Dekker recently?"

"No. Is she in some kind of trouble?"

LaBryn interjected, "She's gone missing since yesterday. You were the last one to talk to her. At least that's what her mother said."

Markus took a step back. "We were supposed to meet at the Yen Ching restaurant. I showed up there, but I never saw her arrive. I just assumed that she had something come up and couldn't make it."

Ballard frowned. "Joan Dekker reported that her daughter was missing. Karen was supposed to meet with you. In light of what's been happening, I can only conclude that she may have come to some harm. I was hoping you could shed some light on your recent movements."

Feeling surprised by these turn of events, Markus said, "Would you care to sit down, gentlemen? There's no reason to stand while you quiz your superior officer."

"I prefer to remain standing," Ballard said. "Look, I don't want you trying to pull rank on me. I was sent here personally by the commissioner. There are some questions that have to be asked, and I'm just the man who was ordered to do it."

Markus edged towards the brown sofa against the wall and sat down, leaning back into the folds of heavy cloth. "And I'm sure you enjoy your work."

The veteran detective ignored the comment. He said, "So, let's return to your movements yesterday. What did you do after leaving the restaurant?"

"I came home and watched some television. After dinner, I went to bed early. As you know, this case has been rather difficult. I almost got killed yesterday when that bomb went off. I need all the rest I can get. That's why I took today off."

"I see," Ballard said blandly. "However, according to the staff at the Yen Ching, you were never there. You see, Karen's mother overheard where she was going. Before I came here, I went there to question the staff. No one meeting your description was seen that day."

"I tell you, I was there," Markus protested, his anger rising. He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to throw these two men out, but instead, he took a deep breath, and tamped down on his hot temper.

"That's curious, because her car was in the parking lot. You didn't notice an old Buick there?"

"No. I didn't know what kind of car she came in."

"Really?" the old detective said. "But that's not important. Let's move on to another matter. Your partner, Ben Holt, was working on some tire tracks that were found near the Watson home. Before his disappearance, he received a report back from the Feds, which seems to have mysteriously disappeared."

"I saw the report. I didn't think it was very important. It's just another dead end."

Ballard stared hard at him. He said, "I had those reports re-sent. They made for some interesting reading, if you're a suspicious fellow like myself. One day, when you were busy in the office, I had a casting taken of the tires on your Malibu. It's a good match with the tires tracks that were found."

"Goodyears are as common as mud," Markus disagreed. He noticed that LaBryn was looking keyed up: the hands were balled together and the young man's face was ghostly white.

"Yes, but not Custom Superwide Polyglas tires. Those are favored by owners of sports cars. People like you."

Markus frowned at the two men. He could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. His tongue felt thick as he said, "I don't believe what I'm hearing. Let me get this straight – you're accusing me of doing those murders? You're accusing me of being Zeus?"

"I'm not accusing you of anything, but I would like to know why your face is bruised. Has someone been hitting you?"

"I fell down the stairs," Markus replied flatly. "Do you have any more stupid questions?"

Ballard calmly replied, "Only a few more. Do you mind if we take a look around the house?"

He replied angrily, "I know the law. If you don't have a warrant, and I'm not under arrest, then you don't have a right to go through my house. I suggest you leave right now."

As his eyes narrowed, the veteran detective said, "You know as well as I do, that the law isn't always followed to the letter. I can get my warrant whenever I want, or even after the premises have been searched. And with two dead cops, the force is more than eager to bend the rules right now. So come on, there's no reason to be difficult about this. The quicker we get our questions answered, the quicker you will be freed from any suspicion."

Markus's hand quickly dove into a cushion. He pulled out a small-framed Colt pistol and immediately started firing at the two detectives.

Ballard was an old hand who immediately recognized the danger. As a bullet buzzed by his ear, he dove to the left, falling headlong into a stuffed armchair, which toppled over. Another bullet went by, shattering the wide bay window.

LaBryn was still standing, clawing for the gun hidden inside his jacket. He had no chance. A bullet struck him in the chest, and another in the stomach. He fell to his knees, moaning with pain. The blood began to trickle out through the wounds, staining the thick shag carpeting.

After the hammer hit an empty chamber, Markus jumped up and ran for the side door leading to the garage. He hit the garage door opener switch mounted on the wall and then jumped inside of the Malibu, fumbling for the keys. The engine started and the transmission put into gear. As he reversed out, Ballard came through the door, a pistol clenched in his hand. The bullets came flying, puncturing ragged holes into the windshield.

Markus punched the pedal down, sliding the passenger side of his car against the parked Monaco. Braking to a stop, he then shifted the transmission into drive, and took off. The snow made the Malibu difficult to handle, so he scrubbed enough speed to stop the rear from sliding. As he sped away, a final bullet struck the passenger door with a dull thud but did not penetrate. In the rear view mirror, he could Ballard running for the Monaco, presumably to call an ambulance for the wounded LaBryn. It would also be a time to call in pursuit.

He turned left, heading for the road that led downtown. It was dead, hardly another vehicle was out. He felt calm, unaffected by the gunfire. There had been too much death to be frightened anymore. His plan was to drive through the heart of the city, and then go along the ocean road, and then out into the country. Once the Malibu hit the back roads, there was nothing that could stop it - unless the weather got worse.

The first pursuer picked him up a few blocks later. It was a black and white, the red and blue lights flashing furiously as it tried to close the distance. Markus smiled to himself as he dropped the throttle. After the initial slippage of the rear wheels on the snowy surface, the Chevy picked up speed, and easily pulled away from the emissions-choked cop car. At the next intersection, Markus blew through a red light, ignoring the horn from a station wagon, which was forced to slam on the brakes. As he neared the downtown, traffic was getting thicker, and the roads icier from the continual crush of rubber against pavement.

With practiced ease, Markus weaved in and out of traffic, using his horn to clear the way. He thought of putting his own flashing light on the roof, but it would just be one more indicator for a pursuer to lock in on. With a jerk, he turned sharply onto a cross street, the rear end sliding dangerously. He counter-steered, fighting the bulk of the car against the laws of physics. Luckily the tires caught, and he was able to straighten out the nose. A quick glance at the side mirror, and he saw that the pursuing cop car had lost control and had careened into a line of parked cars. He smiled to himself. Through his years of police service, he often had to chase criminals. It was something different to be on the receiving end. But nothing the police had could catch him.

This moment of elation gave away once he saw two more black and whites ahead. They were parked across the road; the four officers were behind the cars, standing with their weapons at the ready. Once again he punched the gas down, aiming for the small space between the two vehicles. The windshield exploded into a maelstrom of glass as the car was raked with buckshot. The heavy Malibu struck the roadblock hard, sending the others cars sliding along the snow-covered street. He sped onward, leaving the scene of destruction behind.

It took a moment for Markus to comprehend that his right shoulder was aching with pain. Reaching over with his left hand, he felt a warm spot of liquid that had soaked through his shirt. Looking at his fingers, he saw blood, almost matching the color of his burgundy turtleneck. One of the shotgun pellets must have gone home. This realization hit him like a sledgehammer. His feeling of invincibility had been pierced. Now anything was possible.

The car was clear of the city now, the tightly congregated buildings giving away to homes and small businesses. He ignored the other vehicles on the road, and even the traffic signals and stop signs. The steering felt funny, pulling hard to the left, and a wisp of steam curling from underneath the hood indicated that the radiator had been punctured from the impact. It would only be a matter of time before the coolant ran out, making the engine overheat, stutter and then stop. But for now, the Malibu ran on.

He turned down a two-lane road, heading towards the bluffs that looked down on the ocean. It was here that the Watson murders had occurred. He remembered the pleasure of seeing that woman beg for mercy and the cold fury that had engulfed him when he began to stab her. Is this why he had come this way? In order to relive those memories? It didn't matter. He would soon be out of the reach of everyone, and there, have the chance to kill again.

A motion in the rear view mirror caught his attention. It was another black and white, the light bar blazing blue and red through the falling snow. With a laugh, Markus dipped into the throttle again, urging the wounded Malibu on. The engine readily responded, the torque hitting him in the gut with a familiar feeling. It was getting impossibly slick up here near the sea, and it took a moment for the wheels to connect. But soon enough, the speedometer climbed, and the distance between the two cars began to widen, A sharp corner was ahead, so he hit the brake and slid gracefully through the curve, further distancing himself from the pursuer.

But a glance at the dashboard showed the temperature light had turned on. The car must be losing more coolant than he expected. The cold weather would help some, but at this speed, the engine wouldn't last too much longer. Markus slowed the car down, watching as the pursuer began to close the gap. He wished he had his service revolver with him, but it was still on top of the dresser at home. He wondered if Karen had been discovered in the basement. It was too bad that he never had the chance to finish the job with her. It would have been good to have a new wife.

Another curve came on.

Markus sped up, taking the road as hard as he dared. This was a high point on the bluff that was free of houses. The ocean below looked cold - the color of gray steel. Halfway through the curve, he felt the power fade as the engine coughed and stalled. The cop car tapped him in the back bumper, sending his Malibu hurtling into a skid. He jammed on the brakes, but it was too late.

The big car slipped off the road and crashed through the guardrail. Markus opened his arms, waiting to embrace the coming ocean waves below.

Chapter 30

Saturday, November 26th, 1977

It was morning now. Karen sat in the hospital bed, watching the flurry of snowflakes brush against the windows. It was light outside, the sun a dim circle of light that just barely broke through the clouds. Right now she wanted to go home, but the doctor thought it had been best that she stay overnight as a precaution. The bruising on her body wasn't that severe, but there were still some worries of internal bleeding. Yesterday had been a flurry of police questioning, the pestering clucks of her visiting mother, and a relief that the terror was over. Now she was glad for a moment of quiet.

There was a knock at the door. Karen hastily arranged the covers on the bed and ran a hand through her hair. "Yes?" she called out, knowing that a doctor or nurse would have barged right in.

In came Detective Ballard, who she had met last night. He looked even more tired than before, with dark haunted circles around his eyes and a pale face that was lined with worry. He raised a hand in greeting.

"Good morning," she said.

"I thought I would check in on you before I headed home," he said with a strained voice.

"Why don't you take a seat?" she offered.

"That's okay," the detective replied. "I've been up all night trying to pull the strings together. I only came to the hospital to see how my partner was doing. The doctors say he has a good chance of pulling through."

"That's good. There's been too much bloodshed. I would have hated for Markus to claim another victim."

He gave a half-hearted smile. "I'm just glad that we intervened before Markus had a chance to kill you. It was pure luck though that we got him."

She shuddered - a remnant of the horror would always be with her. She said, "Tell me, detective, what led you to suspect him? I never even guessed that he could be capable of such a thing. He seemed so normal – perhaps a little set in his ways – but not the monster my mind conjured when thinking of such a ruthless killer."

Ballard shrugged, obviously self-conscious describing his mental processes. He said, "When you've been in the business of homicide as long as I have, you learn to listen to your hunches. Detective Markus was never the friendly sort, but plenty of men are guilty of that. However, this was also a man who was always very sure of himself. Arrogance comes with the job, but his was rather peculiar. How a psychopath managed to get so far in the police department will leave the brass scratching their heads for years to come.

"My suspicions with Markus first started the day that Kathy Woods was murdered. He seemed to know exactly where the killing had taken place. It seemed too good to be true, even for a lucky guess. Sure, we would have turned her up with a general search of the park, but he knew spot on where to go. Of course I didn't think of it at the time, but it was just one piece of the puzzle."

"And what were the other pieces?" she asked.

"Now I feel like I'm being interviewed," he replied with a self-depreciating grin. "Perhaps I'm working backwards here, but Markus's imaginary wife was also very suspicious. He always talked about her, but I had never met her and I had worked with him for years. A few days ago, I quietly went around the department, asking if anyone else had ever met her. No one had. I spent yesterday talking to his neighbors, and they always assumed she was either a recluse or too ill to leave the house. No one saw his children either, so like everything else, it was just a figment of his imagination. After the fact, it sounds incredulous, but not many people will think poorly of a respected police officer.

"The disappearance of his partner, Ben Holt, was another clue. I know from experience that men in this business work closely, and form good friendships. Those two never seemed to gel. Holt was always working out some agenda of his own, while Markus took his own course. When Holt found something that could implicate his partner, he had to be removed. Luckily for me, I discovered the tire track evidence in Holt's desk. It matched Markus's tires up to the same vehicle as used by the killer. It was too much of a coincidence. It was the beginning of the chain of events that led me to start my own investigation. After your disappearance, it took some time to convince the brass that I was on the right track. They couldn't believe the conclusions, so I had to interrogate him myself."

"I'm glad that you did," she said gratefully.

"So am I."

"What about Kilroy? What part did he play with this?"

"That Kilroy was one sick individual. Pardon the expression, but he got off on the exploits of Markus. So much that he wanted to act the same as his hero. Markus picked up on that in the letter received by the _Chronicle_ and decided to use it to his advantage. Kilroy ended up being the perfect scapegoat – someone to take the fall. It was Markus who put his partner's head in Kilroy's garage. And it was Markus who found it."

"It was almost like Detective Markus was actually two people," Karen commented.

"I couldn't agree more," Ballard said. "And I think we mostly knew the good side, the part that was holding back the evil that dwelt inside. That's the man I'm going to try to remember. I suggest you do the same."

"I'll try."

"Now you must excuse me, I haven't seen the missus for over a day now. She'll be missing me."

"Goodbye, Detective Ballard, and thanks again."

He nodded and then left.

Now that the detective had left, Karen felt very alone and even a little frightened. It seemed impossible that such evil could lurk inside one man. This was one story for the magazine that she wasn't sure could be finished. It was still too close, too real and personal to share with anyone else. The dread of coming so close to death was a scar that would take a long time to heal. Perhaps it never would.

After a few more minutes of thinking down this road, she was surprised by another knock at the door. Thinking it was Ballard, returning to expound on another point, she beckoned for the new visitor to enter. It was Joshua Cowan. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"I hope I didn't wake you," he said shyly.

"No, I've been awake for hours."

"I was wondering if we could talk about our future together. I would hate to have you go back home and leave things unsettled."

"So would I." She smiled at him.

###

Connect with Paul Westwood Online:

Blog: http://ofghostsandgunpowder.blogspot.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/PaulWestwoodbooks

The Works of Paul Westwood:

**The Color of Sin:** Las Vegas. Devon Pierce lives a life of his own choosing, surviving by his wits and violent actions. For those in desperate need, he is the judge and executioner of last resort - above the law and incorruptible. Cleora Kinney, an exotic dancer, has been wronged and the Afghanistan treasure of her deceased father has been stolen. Only Devon can set things right. But first he must follow the clues found hidden deep in the shadowy underworld of the city of sin.

**Grave Injustice:** It had been in the Warren family for years: the ancestral home deep in the South. After the death of James's reclusive uncle, the house is now his to sell. But James is haunted by a childhood memory of a ghostly horror of a deceased young girl. With the help of his wife Beth, who is a law student, the young couple must solve a murder from the Civil War and lay to rest the spirit that still haunts the grounds. But the danger is not only in the past, but will come crashing into the present. Their lives and fortunes will be forever changed.

**Nano Zombie** : Not all zombies are undead. Brent is a man who lives in the near future, a crumbling civilization where man feeds upon man. Escaping from the chaos of the city, he is suddenly thrust into an unspeakable nightmare of sickness and war. In a world of apocalyptic horror, he battles for those he loves, an orphan girl and a woman with a mysterious past. In the desolated countryside, Brent fights to stay alive and find a cure to the most terrible disease that humanity has ever seen.

**Nano Zombie Redemption** : This exciting sequel to Nano Zombie has Emily battling to stay alive in a dying world. Now that her adopted father, Brent, is gone she must learn how to survive on her own. Food has run out and the Infecteds rule the dust-filled wasteland. With danger at every turn, she, along with her companions, try to find a way to finally defeat the zombie hordes. The horrific journey will test their bonds of friendship and even love.

**Horror America** : Move over Sherlock Holmes! When the supernatural game's afoot, helpless people call on the good Dr. Townsend to save them. Ghosts, the undead, werewolves, and more horrors that man was not meant to see are loose in 1870s America, so it's up to Captain Parker, a gunslinger for hire, and Dr. Townsend to stop the horror. Yet when Townsend's beautiful daughter falls under the spell of a mysterious suitor, their fortitude will be tested in a battle like no other. Written in a series of connected short stories narrated by Parker, this novel will keep you turning pages late into the night.

**Lonely Are The Dead** : 1977. A ruthless serial-killer is stalking Bay City. His purpose is unknown, but the dismembered victims are always young and beautiful. In order to find the perpetrator, Police Detective Markus has to set aside his personal troubles, and pull the evidence together before panic sweeps the city. His only ally is Karen Dekker, a reporter with a tortured past and the chance to break the biggest story of her career.

**The Cursed Sun** : Two centuries after the Final War, civilization struggles to rise from the radioactive ashes of the new Dark Ages. An innocent man turned outlaw is forced on a journey across a desolated landscape, risking his life to deliver a warning to the growing rebellion. The message he carries will change the balance of power, and with it, the hopes of humanity.

**Murder at Zero Hour:** William Grant, an American, joins the British Army during the Great War. He is posted to France, where he witnesses the horrors of war on the front line. During a dangerous night patrol, a captain is murdered, leading to a series of unanswered questions. With only his wits, Grant must solve the mystery while keeping his own skin intact. Will he be a victim of war or just another victim?

**At Harper's Ferry** : The book that started it all. Jack Blackwood is a lonely drunk who starts a detective agency in the heart of Washington DC. As Fort Sumter is attacked, he and his partner Ezra are embroiled in a case that could change the very course of the war: the son of a retired congressman has gone missing, along with military papers outlining the Union's Anaconda Plan. At the heart of the matter is a beautiful prostitute, a trail of dead men, and a spy who will stop at nothing to deliver the plans to the Confederacy.

**At Bull Run** : The second book in the Blackwood Series. A wealthy man hires Jack Blackwood to find the murderer of his only son, who had recently joined a newly-formed Union cavalry regiment. In a city crowded with temptation, the investigation uncovers a killer who is targeting prostitutes and soldiers alike, causing panic in the ranks. Only Jack's wits and the power of the Colt can put a stop to the killings.

**At Shiloh** : The third book in the Blackwood series. As Grant's Army marches through Tennessee, it is beset by guerilla fighters led by the traitorous Major Gardner. An invaluable shipment of gold is stolen from the Union and must be retrieved at all costs. Posing as a guntrader, Jack must not only complete this impossible mission, but survive the perils of battle and the amorous advances of a widow trapped in an unfriendly town.

**The Blackwood Trilogy** : Jack Blackwood is a widower and a drunk. Ezra Miller is an ex-slave in a white man's world. Together, they run a detective agency in Washington DC. As the Civil War rages, they are involved in a series of cases that will change the very course of the war. This anthology collects all three adventures – At Harper's Ferry, At Bull Run, and At Shiloh - at one low price.

Free Bonus Chapter of The Color of Sin:

It was supposed to have been a nice and quiet evening at home. My current home being the an old warehouse that I had personally converted into apartments. I, of course, had kept the entire top floor and left the space underneath empty so I wouldn't be bothered by the worst impulses of humanity: noise. The other units brought in a tidy income though I purposefully kept the rents low enough to keep out the neuvo-rich. Instead, the building was populated with artists, workers, and a mish-mash of hustlers and conmen. They were the type of people who kept to themselves and weren't always asking questions about the landlord above. Instead they were quite happy to get entrance to such a secure building at an affordable price. And considering the area we lived in, D Street Avenue in Las Vegas, a little safety went a long way.

I was sitting on the sofa with my legs up on the footrest and half a Gimlet at my elbow. On my lap was a tablet. I was scrolling through a map app, trying to find the best way to drive out of this town. July was coming, which meant the hottest part of the year. A vacation was due, and I was entertaining the thought of taking my car on an extended tour of Oregon. I really didn't want to leave - I liked this town - but I was overcome with a feeling of restlessness. I had been bored as of late, which often happens in my line of work.

In the corner of my eye, I saw the graceful movement of Melodie Glass, who was working on some new dance moves. She had come over for the privacy and the fact that I had a large space to practice in. The massive JE Labs speakers and Mark Levinson electronics were an additional bonus. The high-reved pop music sounded dismal to my ears, but she seemed to enjoy the fidelity as she stretched and contorted her dancer's body into moves that only can be done by top-level gymnasts or professional strippers. She was the latter sort.

Melodie was pale with long black hair, smooth skin, and a face that revealed an Asian ancestor. She was skinny but well-endowed on top – work done by a good plastic surgeon – and had the well-muscled legs of someone who moved all day for a living. She was wearing a faded black leotard with red legwarmers. Her hair was pulled back and kept in place with a hair clip. Though taller than your average woman, she was still a few inches shorter than myself.

She was working her body hard. If I had installed a stripper pole, I'm sure she would have been sweating even harder. But instead, she was practicing her floor routine, the gyrations meant to keep the dollar bills coming. With the stiff competition in Vegas, the men and women who made their living at exotic dancing, Melodie made sure to stay in shape and keep her dances fresh. Even with the air conditioning running at full blast, there was a slight odor of perspiration. From the track lighting above I could see a gleam of sweat on her exposed skin.

I put the tablet down and took a sip of my drink. Lime juice mixed with gin had a wonderful way of sharpening the senses. As I drank, I saw Melodie stop. She went over to the CD player and turned off the power, sending a momentary thump through the speakers. I frowned, knowing that something serious was on her mind.

"Devon?"

"Yes?" I replied as I set my drink back down.

She took a step closer. "Is it true what people say about you?"

"What do people say?"

"That you help people in need."

"I don't think I've ever been called charitable."

"You know what I mean."

I gave her a half of a smile. "Yes, it's true that I help those who can't help themselves. Of course there has to be some profit in it." I vaguely pointed at the luxury furnishings and the expensive rug at our feet. "This sort of stuff doesn't come cheap. I am, after not, not running a charity here. But there are some rules to the game. The first, of course, is that I won't go killing for money. The second is that I won't harm the innocent, though the latter is questionable since I have never met anyone who is truly innocent."

"You're the most cynical man I've ever met," she purred.

"I prefer the word experienced. But I did not earn my money by doing anything that is unethical – within the confines of what I consider ethical, that is."

She leered at me. "That leaves a wide range of possibilities, honey." She instantly turned serious again. "Maybe you really could help a friend of mine. Her name is Cleora Kinney. She's a co-worker of mine at the Pussycat Lounge. She's only been there a few days and anyone can tell that she isn't cut out for the life. But I do know that she needs help and I can't think of anyone but you."

I scratched my chin in thought. After a few moments of this, I said, "I wasn't exactly planning to be in town for very much longer. Anyway, I'm not hurting for money right now."

"This is something interesting."

"What is it?" I asked, taking the bait.

"Last night, after our shift was done, we got to drinking and talking. After a few beers she opened up and told me everything. We're talking a lot of money here."

"A few thousand dollars? A hundred thousand?"

"Maybe it would be better if you would talk to her yourself. I would hate to tell you the wrong thing and have you turn down the job. She can explain it better than I can."

"Now you've got me interested."

She closed the space between us with a few sultry steps – all hips and doe-like eyes. It was a good performance that got my heart racing, even though I knew the act was as false as a street bought Rolex.

She said, "That's the point, honey. She'll be here in a few minutes."

"What?"

She reached over and ran a hand through my hair. "Don't worry, you'll like her. Everyone does." She then sauntered off, showing her backside to good effect. She went back to the stereo, turned the CD back on, and began to dance to the rhythm of the music.

I returned my attention to the Gimlet. I took a drink and tasted nothing. I was too busy being angry with Melodie to notice the flavor. I put the glass down and tried to return my attention to the map on the tablet. But the route I had chosen instead blurred and disappeared from my vision. Instead I busily thought of the possibilities: a changed will that left the poor girl out of a sizable estate, a drug dealing boyfriend, or some stolen merchandise that she knew about. Dancers like that were always making friends with rich men who wanted to share their wealth. What could be different with this woman?

The door buzzer went off. It was just barely audible over the thump of the music. I got up off the sofa, threw Melodie a nasty smile, and went to unlock the steel reinforced door. After that, it was a walk to the elevator that I had specially modified so that it took a code to access my two floors. As an extra precaution, the door leading to the staircase was locked with thick doors at the floor levels. With the wired alarm system I had installed myself, no one could get inside without me knowing. In case I was out of the building, I had a computer setup to send an email to my cellphone. This may all sound rather paranoid, but when you do my type of work, a little caution goes a long way.

The door to the elevator opened. I got inside, selected the ground floor, and waited impatiently as I was taken slowly down. In the entryway, I saw a young blonde waiting behind the door. The glass of this entryway was reinforced with chicken wire. The wood was thick and old, an original part of the warehouse. With a flourish, I opened the door and let her in.

"I'm Cleora," she said as she offered her hand.

"Devon Pierce," I replied. We shook. "Come right this way."

In silence, we rode up in the elevator. There I studied her. In profile she looked good. With small features, she looked more like a teenager than a woman who works the stage for a living. Her nose was straight and the color of her eyebrows matched the color of her blonde hair. She had honest to goodness freckles, blue eyes, and a page boy haircut. She was wearing a shapeless top and a black skirt that went down to the knees. Long white socks and tennis shoes added to the school girl effect. The calves had the muscled tone of a dancer. I could see why men would like her, but there was also a coldness there that would be hard to penetrate.

"Come right this way," I said as I opened the door to my apartment.

She went in and let out a gasp. It's a common enough reaction when new visitors see the wood floors, plush rugs, the paintings on the brick wall, the gleaming stereo, and the Herman Miller furniture. The entire effect was that of stylish modernity and was a far cry from the ghetto streets a few stories below us. This was my hideaway from the world and only trusted souls were allowed into the inner sanctum. Part of my annoyance with Melodie was giving access to her friend iwithout my permission. But if you can't trust your friends, than who can you trust?

"Are you a drug dealer?" Cleora asked.

Seeing the arrival of her friend, Melodie stopped the CD player. I noticed that this time she had done it correctly by using the buttons. She said, "No, and he's not part of the mob either. He's just a rich bastard."

I could see that this answer did nothing to clear up the confusion. I added, "I'm not that rich. But I do like to live comfortably. As for my income, I consider myself as a sort of an investor. This building, for example, used to be a warehouse. I provided apartments for the people of this neighborhood and in the process built a place for myself that I found comfortable. I also have other interests that meet my financial needs."

"But why this neighborhood? You could be living big in Summerlin." That was a more swank part of town.

Melodie answered, "Devon here isn't like other people. He likes to associate with conmen, junkies, and strippers. He thinks normal people are boring."

I nodded. "And their lives are rather boring without the sort of problems I find interesting. Perhaps I could help you."

Melodie said, "Cleora, why don't you tell Devon here all about your problem. I'll go shower and change." With those words, she went down the hallway and went into the bathroom. The sound of running water was immediately heard.

It was obvious that Cleora was feeling uncertain, so I went over to the bar and fixed her a drink. While I was pouring out the vodka, she sat down at the stool and waited until I was done. She gratefully accepted the screwdriver, taking a tentative sip.

She said, "I don't feel right being here. I mean what can anyone do for me?"

"I don't know anything about your situation so I can't possibly answer your question. But we could start at the beginning."

Cleora gave me a shy look, an honest to goodness inside view at the real woman underneath the veneer of the armor she must have developed in her line of work. I could see why Melodie said that this girl was not cut out for the job as an exotic dancer.

She finally said, "Okay, but this is going to sound a little crazy."

"Try me."

"My real name is Amy. Cleora is my professional name – everyone uses it except my sister. You see I was an army brat. That meant I never had a real home. Instead my family traveled from base to base. Five years ago, when I was eighteen, I got pregnant. This happened over in Henderson."

This was a suburb that southwest of Las Vegas.

"We were living in a little ranch home in a neighborhood Luckily my old man was off on his first tour in Afghanistan when I found out I was going to have a child or else there would have been hell to pay. The father of the baby was a boy named Timothy King who was an awkward kid I went to school with. There was nothing ever serious about us, instead we were just friends who liked to fool around. I don't know where he is now. I really don't care. So I had a little girl. She's named Madison. She's the only reason I came to you. I want her to go to college. I want her to have the things that I never had."

I nodded and didn't say anything. Now that she was on a roll there was no stopping her now.

"My father Bill Kinney was a captain in the Special Forces, doing some type of work for the government. It was all hush-hush, you know, top secret. We were never rich, that's for sure. But somehow when he was sent over to Afghanistan, he must have discovered some way to make money. I don't know what it was or how he got it back to the States, but that's not important. I know it had to be illegal, whatever he did. I mean they don't hand out free cash to soldiers, do they? But he was a hard man who thought he was the toughest thing on the planet. The older he got, the more he had to prove himself. A week after he returned from his final combat tour, he went out to the bar. He got into a fight with a younger man - some tough college football player. It must have been a lucky punch, because apparently my father just folded up like a house of cards when he got hit in the side of the head. He never regained consciousness. He died two days later."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She gave a shrug. "That was two years ago. I wasn't that sad at the time. And I'm not exactly grieving now."

"How did you find out about the money?"

"When Bill came back, he couldn't keep it a secret. He told my mother and my sister Kim and I that we were going to be rich soon. He also told us that we couldn't tell a soul. He made us promise."

I pursed my lips together. "Did your father tell you the source of this new found wealth?"

She shook her head and took another sip of her drink. "I thought he was making it up. Not that he was the sort of person to lie, but he came back from the war a changed man. He was a drunk.. He was abusive toward my mother. He threatened my little girl. I thought he was telling us lies about the money to keep us happy."

I was skeptical now. "What made you change your mind? I mean one day you don't believe him and the next you're suddenly sure that there is a fortune just waiting for you."

"I'm getting there. Eight months ago a man named Keith Miller came to the door. He ended up staying with us. He claimed to have known my father over in Afghanistan; that they had served together in the Green Berets. He was just out of the army and looking for a job. My mother let him stay with us until he could get back on his feet. I wish she had thrown the bum out on his ass."

The sudden venom caught me by surprise. But before I could say anything, she continued on, her jaw tight and unyielding.

"Keith said he knew my father well. He said they had spent two tours together. He had no family and nowhere to go. At first he seemed so kind. He was good with his hands and really helped around the house. After a few weeks, he even got a job as a bouncer at the club I worked at in Henderson. He isn't a big guy but he's got muscle. I've seen him fight and toss out some real tough guys. I admit that it felt good to have someone strong around. He seemed to like me and my daughter quite a lot. And with my mother sick with lung cancer, my sister and I really needed him.

"In the end I fell in love with Keith. We might as well have been married, that's how close he was to me. He seemed to be a good man. And when mother died, Kim quit job as receptionist so she could take care of her two sons from a former marriage and my daughter. It was up to Keith and I to bring in the money. Things were tight and I was glad for all the help I could get from him. But there was some strange quirk about Keith that became quite bothersome. You see he loved to talk about my father. I thought he was just waxing nostalgic about an old comrade, wanting to know Bill's habits: where he liked to visit, or where my dad hunted, or what kind of work he had done around the house. Keith also took a real keen interest in gardening and found some excuse to dig up most of the yard. I didn't pay any attention to this until the day that he left."

"It sounds like he was looking for something," I commented dryly.

She took the final sip from her glass. The ice cubes were all melted. I also noticed that the water in the bathroom was off and Melodie hadn't come out yet.

"Whatever it was, he found it," she said. "One day I awoke and Keith was gone. He only took his personal stuff and never showed up at work. This two months ago. To be honest, I wasn't all that surprised. I knew that he wasn't that good for me. But there was one strange thing that really got me shook up. In the back of that house was a patio that wasn't much larger than one of your rugs. It was made with old flagstones. One of them had been removed. Underneath was a hole that contained a scrap of canvas that was olive green. I can tell you that it didn't take too many leaps of the imagination to put the pieces together. Something, perhaps that money my father talked so much about, had been hidden there.

"I was angry as hell. I thought I would never see Keith again. I had to quit my job at Henderson and come to Vegas to get a better paying job. But just last week, after I had gotten out my shift at my new job at the Pussycat Lounge, I was driving home. I saw him outside of the Sands casino, pulling some breezy redhead out of a new Lexus with temporary tags. She looked high maintenance and much too rich for a man like him. Before I could find a parking spot, the two of them disappeared inside. I searched around the casino but didn't see them. I ended up camping in the lobby. It was an hour later when he came out with that woman. Like a fool, I ran after him, demanding all sorts of explanations. He practically ran away, dragging that bitch with him. They hopped into that car and took off. I ran to my car and started following them. Two blocks later, he dropped her off at the entrance of a ritzy condo called Eastgate. After that, I lost him in the traffic. I think he knew that I was following him."

"And you think he found the money that your father hid? Perhaps he just shacked up with a new woman."

Cleora actually blushed. "I can tell you that Keith isn't the type who can a snooty woman fall for him. He's different – uneducated and good with his hands. He's no gigolo."

I let out a small sigh of exasperation. "It's a general observation of mine that woman of all classes aren't particular when it comes to a man's background. If they like what they see, then they'll try and get him."

"You don't know Keith. He's a brute. And I'm not just saying that out of hatred. He can be tender and even sweet, but there's an anger inside of him that is downright scary. I have the scars to prove it. No woman in her right mind would be with him long. As I said, I was glad when he was gone. I also got scared that he would come after me, once there weren't any witnesses around. He can be cruel if he think he's been wronged. I'm glad that I left Henderson."

"You no longer live with your sister?"

"No, I share an apartment with one of the girls from the Pussycat. It's easier that way. I send my extra money back to my sister, who is busy taking care of my daughter, and visit them on the weekends."

"Would you like another drink?"

She shook her head. "No thanks. So will you take on my case?"

"I'm not a private detective. Let me give it some thought and I'll get back to you."

Cleora dragged a cellphone out from the heavy purse that was still slung over her shoulder. "Would you like my number?"

"That won't be necessary at this time. I'll contact you through Melodie."

After that, I walked her down to the front entrance. I waited until she got into her car – a beat up Kia – and drove away. Deep in thought, I went back to the apartment. Once the door shut, I could hear the Melodie humming some unknown song. The sound was coming from the bedroom. I went there, walking gently on the sides of my feet.

"Hey," I said through the half-open door.

"Why don't you come in?" Her voice was low and filled with desire.

I took a few steps inside. With the gauze curtains across the windows, the room was dim. I could just see the Stickley bed and matching side tables with their Tiffany lamps. Lying on top of the bed was Melodie. She wasn't wearing anything at all except for a smirk. The look suited her quite well. She was propped up on a pair of pillows, her long black and wet hair leaving a dark stain on the cotton. There was no extra fat on this specimen, only toned but shapely muscles that only accentuated her natural curves. She wasn't shy about me looking either, but we had our fling in the past so there was nothing new that Melodie could share with me.

"So what do you think of my new friend?" she asked. She said the words casually as if we were talking on a street corner.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. "I like her. It appears that Cleora has led a tough life. But she still managed to find her way through. That proves she's got her head on right."

"I like her too. So will you help her out?"

"I've got to think about it. There is a lot I need to know before I can even began to find out what was stolen from her."

"So do think really think that this Keith character did find something that her father buried in the backyard?"

"It seems plausible. Bill Kinney served in Afghanistan. To me that means poppies, opium, and heroin. With all the supplies being ferried back and forth, it wouldn't be that hard to smuggle some drugs into the country. You know as well as I do that it is a quick and dirty way to make some money."

Before I could react, Melodie grabbed my arm. I did not resist as he pulled me closer, guiding my hand to one of her perfectly formed breasts. That plastic surgeon really was a genius. But before my fingers touched the ruby hardness of her nipple, pulled back, easily breaking her grip.

"Damn it, Devon," she said sourly.

I rubbed my chin and stared into her dark eyes. "You know as well as I do, Melodie, that the game is over between you and I. Anyway, I thought you had a new boyfriend."

"I do," she said nastily as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Hold on, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"It's too damn late," Melodie spat out. She ran out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where she slammed the door with enough force to make the internal walls shake. She was a strong girl.

I went back to the living room. There I began to paw through some records that were tucked inside a bookcase. I found a Handel record. I went over to the Goldmund turntable, turned it on and, after turning a few knobs, had some glorious baroque music pouring elegantly out of the speakers. I stood in front of the stereo and listened intently, trying not to think of what could have happened in that bedroom. Don't get me wrong, I liked Melodie quite a bit and felt like a fool for turning her down, but I also did not want to rekindle that old flame. Before we had broken up, things had gotten complicated. I was happy to be friends with her and didn't want anything more than that – or so I told myself.

When she finally came out of the bathroom, Melodie was dressed in her street clothes: a miniskirt, a red sleeveless top, and a pair of high heels. Her damp hair was twisted into two long braids. A plastic grocery bag containing her workout clothes were in hand. She looked shyly at me, unable to meet my eyes. This was so unlike her that I felt a moment of pity.

"A fight with Angelo?" This was Melodie's boyfriend, a small-time hustler who I personally disliked. Of course I generally didn't cotton to anyone who sold cocaine.

She nodded. "It was a bad one. I was just trying to prove something to myself. I'm sorry."

"It's no problem."

"I wish things had worked out between us. If they did, I wouldn't be stuck with Angelo. He can be such a bastard sometimes."

I raised an eyebrow. "So can I. Things weren't always smooth sailing between the two of us."

She frowned, her eyes misted with tears. "Angelo is my Keith. They both take advantage of women who are in need. But I can't help myself. That's why I feel so strongly about Cleora. You have to do something for her."

"I'll have to think about it," I said. "Come on, let's get you home."

I escorted her down to her car, a new Mini Cooper. A chaste kiss on the cheek and I sent her on her way. I watched the taillights recede into the maze of traffic. I could already feel the heat of the day slowly start to give away to the chill of the desert night. It would take hours of time but it was inevitable. Around me were the sounds of civilization: people talking, the thud of a car door shutting, and the low rumble of an airplane flying overhead. But I was far away from all of that. Instead I was thinking that I needed some time and space to forget. And only then could I make a decision.

