Connie recognized one of the reporters with a reputation for sensational reporting. The man was positioned so his viewers could see his squared jaw and perfectly coiffed white hair as well as his station's logo on his microphone. "Isn't it true that Susan McCarthy is dead? That the physical evidence you have is a bathtub full of her blood?" His intense gaze swiveled smoothly from the podium back toward his cameraperson. Before either man could answer, the reporter continued his cross-examination. "Isn't it also true that there was a similar murder a couple of months ago? And isn't it true that the police are referring to the a.s.sailant as the Blood Bath Killer?"

The other reporters now began shouting questions. The DA responded to the barrage by saying that both matters were under investigation. His answer seemed like a resounding "yes" to everything. And that quick, the world knew there was a deranged killer prowling the neighborhoods of Boston.

Channel 7 followed the press conference with file footage of the Boston Strangler murders that had rocked the city between 1962 and 1964. Albert DeSalvo, the Strangler himself, was the city's most infamous serial killer, so what better time to revisit those crimes? The Strangler preyed on women alone in their homes, getting in by posing as a maintenance or delivery man. He then s.e.xually a.s.saulted his victims, strangled them with their own stockings or bathrobe ties and left them in obscene s.e.xual poses.

The report segued to coverage of Susan McCarthy's daughter and distraught ex-husband getting off a plane and being hurried into an unmarked police car. Walter McCarthy's hair was disheveled; his clothes were wrinkled and the circles under his eyes made him look as though he hadn't slept in days. The girl looked confused and frightened by the reporters and cameras. She was maybe seven or eight years old and her long blond hair looked like maybe her father had tried to fix it for her. She probably didn't really understand what had happened to her mother. Maybe she'd been told that her mother was dead, but she was too young to understand what that meant. Her father might have told her something that was easier for a child to comprehend, like that her mother was now an angel in heaven with some previously deceased relative, maybe a grandparent, and that since Mommy was now an angel she would always be with her and watch out for her.

Connie thought about how this little girl's world had been instantly altered. This one incident would affect her for the rest of her life, as it would every member of Susan McCarthy's family.

Connie was hungry. How many hours ago had he eaten his boiled eggs and tuna? The flickering images faded to coverage of the grieving family and friends, who talked about what a good, caring person Susan was.

What were people supposed to say about Susan? Should a jealous sister say that she hated Susan because Susan was always their mother's favorite? Should a co-worker competing for a promotion say that Susan was a backstabbing brownnoser? No one was going to say anything bad about Susan McCarthy now that she was dead.

Connie's grandmother had often used the expression "Never speak ill of the dead," but he'd always thought it ridiculous. Did it mean you shouldn't speak ill of Hitler? Mussolini? Stalin? What about ma.s.s murderers? n.o.body could speak ill of Ted Bundy, who killed college students at the University of Florida and women throughout the Pacific Northwest? Or Richard Speck, who killed an apartment full of nursing students during one b.l.o.o.d.y night of self-gratification? Or Jeffrey Dahmer, who raped, sodomized, murdered and ate people in his apartment in Milwaukee?

n.o.body was going to "speak ill" of Susan McCarthy, just like they never said anything bad even when a drug-dealing g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger was killed on the city's streets. Connie was sure that the day Jesse Wilc.o.x turned up dead from lead poisoning on some street corner, his mother would be on the television saying he was a good churchgoing boy. Every one of these g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers was a good kid who'd just turned his life around when this tragedy struck him down. good kid who'd just turned his life around when this tragedy struck him down. Alves liked to joke about how there must be a serial killer who specialized in knocking off drug-dealing gang members who'd just turned their lives around. Alves liked to joke about how there must be a serial killer who specialized in knocking off drug-dealing gang members who'd just turned their lives around.

When he looked back at the screen, the voice-over was talking about where Susan McCarthy had gone to school, where she worked, where she volunteered her time: Rosie's Place, a women's shelter for survivors of domestic violence. An elderly neighbor talked of how "Suzie" bought her groceries every Sat.u.r.day and shoveled her walk in the winter. A blank-faced newspaper boy said "Mrs. McCarthy" would leave him a bag of homemade cookies with his tip every week. It was amazing how many people had been affected by her death.

Connie felt as though he really knew her. He wasn't getting a complete picture of who Susan McCarthy truly was, but she was certainly the type of person he'd have liked to have had as a friend when she was alive.

The segment ended with a Boston Police hotline number anyone could call with information on Susan's disappearance. Authorities were still calling it a disappearance, and she was officially considered a missing person. But Connie had been in that bathroom. Susan McCarthy was dead. No phone calls to a hotline were going to change that fact.

It was getting late. He had to fix some dinner and get to work. He turned off the television and closed his eyes. He truly believed that she was in a better place.

CHAPTER 10.

Richter lifted Susan McCarthy out of the refrigerator. He didn't like leaving her in there all day, but it took time for the rigor mortis to dissipate. Now, twenty hours after, her limbs were moving smoothly. He could have worked out the rigor with a little ma.s.sage and slow movement of the joints, but waiting was easier. He wasn't in any hurry. like leaving her in there all day, but it took time for the rigor mortis to dissipate. Now, twenty hours after, her limbs were moving smoothly. He could have worked out the rigor with a little ma.s.sage and slow movement of the joints, but waiting was easier. He wasn't in any hurry.

He placed her on the large, white enamel table he had once used to fold his laundry. At first glance it looked like a vintage laundry table from the 1920s, but it was actually an antique embalmer's table he'd purchased at a bankruptcy auction at an old, family-owned funeral home.

Susan McCarthy's skin was cold but still soft. All those years of moisturizers had paid off. The peaceful look on her face told Richter she was enjoying Wagner's The Flying Dutchman, The Flying Dutchman, music he'd selected especially for her. music he'd selected especially for her.

With the first few notes, he thought of the scene in Apocalypse Now Apocalypse Now when Robert Duvall's Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore explains how they're going to attack a Viet Cong village as helicopters fly in low out of the rising sun with ma.s.sive speakers blasting when Robert Duvall's Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore explains how they're going to attack a Viet Cong village as helicopters fly in low out of the rising sun with ma.s.sive speakers blasting The Ride of the Valkyries. The Ride of the Valkyries. Over the years Richter had collected all of Wagner's work. Over the years Richter had collected all of Wagner's work.

Richter studied Susan's face. The minute lines under her eyes showed her age, but he appreciated her maturity. The bloodshot eyes were always a problem, though. Ocular petechia. It happened every time, an inescapable result of oxygen deprivation. Fortunately, you can pretty much find anything you need on the Internet, even dealers in old medical supplies.

He was pleased to see that the music had relaxed her, and the cold table didn't seem to bother her much. He antic.i.p.ated spending some good time with Susan after her transformation, but he didn't want her to be uncomfortable in the meantime. The news reports told about how generous and loving a person she was, how she was admired as much for her character as for her mind. He'd made an excellent decision in selecting her.

Her face looked angelic in repose, her naked body somehow innocent. Richter began gently washing her skin with antiseptic soap. Now it was time for the real work. With great care he made an incision in her neck exposing her carotid artery. Raising the artery with an aneurism hook, he made another small incision and placed a tube inside the artery, securing it with string. He followed the same procedure with the other carotid artery as well as both femoral and axillary arteries.

The tubes were connected to a gravity tank suspended four feet above Susan's head. The ten-gallon tank was filled with straight thirty-index arterial fluid, the strongest solution on the market. He had "acquired" the embalming materials from the same funeral home where he had bought the table. They had a full stock of fluids and powders, although they weren't for sale legally. A late-night visit with bolt cutters and the discipline to take only what he needed before he replaced the padlock with his own a.s.sured him that the theft would never be detected.

Before removing the clamps on the tubes, allowing the arterial fluid to flow through her arteries and return the color to her skin, Richter inserted drainage tubes in the corresponding veins that allowed the remaining blood to flow out of her body.

But first he had the messy job of removing her organs and filling her abdominal and thoracic cavities with embalming powder and cotton. Unfortunately, there was no real way to preserve the organs and prevent decomposition. So this was a necessary step.

Tomorrow, once her body had absorbed all of the fluid it could take and he had st.i.tched her up again, he'd dress her in the blue suit he had taken from her closet. Then she could join the others in the next room. He had a feeling Susan McCarthy was going to fit in just fine.

CHAPTER 11.

Wayne Mooney parked his car at the bottom of Prospect Hill. He knew from experience that the best time to go through a neighborhood undetected was between two and four in the morning. Breaking-and-entering artists did their best work during those hours. knew from experience that the best time to go through a neighborhood undetected was between two and four in the morning. Breaking-and-entering artists did their best work during those hours.

Mooney was wearing dark sweats. It would be easier to cut through the yards without a suit. He walked up the driveway of the nearest house, into the shadows of the backyard, away from the glow of the streetlights. He stood at the base of the hill looking at the rear of the houses on Prospect Hill Road.

Mooney didn't walk up the hill. He cut across the yards at the foot of the hill until he got closer to the McCarthy house. Then he made his way through a half dozen yards and over a couple of chain-link fences before the house came into view.

Navigating his way through a minefield of toys scattered in one yard, he found himself behind the house adjacent to McCarthy's. Looking up toward the house, he had a perfect vantage point from which to watch Susan McCarthy's bedroom. The view would be even better when he got closer. He hopped the fence. Two decades after making it through the Boston Police Academy, he knew he could still beat most of the younger guys in the obstacle course.

He moved through the neighboring backyard, which was overgrown with shrubs and briars. According to neighbors they'd interviewed last night, the old house hadn't been lived in for some time, not since the elderly woman who owned it retired to her summer house down the Cape. Inside, the house was fully furnished as if she just got up one day and left without packing. The exterior of the house showed signs of deterioration, some of the shingles curling up and others rotted off.

Mooney stood on the side of the house where he had an un.o.bstructed view of Susan McCarthy's bedroom. It was the perfect place to sit and watch her, completely hidden by the neglected boxwood hedges. From his post, he also had a clear view of the bas.e.m.e.nt door where the criminalists had recovered the shoe print. He focused on the door for a moment, scanning the surrounding area. He knew what he needed to do. Get into the McCarthy house. And he was going in through the bas.e.m.e.nt door.

Mooney took a step toward the house and someone knocked his legs out from under him, locked both his arms and took him to the ground. A jolt of pain shot through his chest, his face mashed into the moist dirt. He struggled to free one of his arms and managed to land a few elbows. There was the familiar racking of a semiautomatic, and he saw the shadow of a gun aimed at his head.

"Boston Police. Don't move!" the man with the gun shouted.

The first man regained his hold, Mooney's arms and legs immobilized. He knew enough not to struggle and get himself killed by a couple of overanxious uniforms. And he knew they were uniforms, even though they wore civilian clothing. The one with the gun was wearing black jeans and an oversized black Chicago White Sox baseball jersey. Gang Unit, or maybe the Anti-Crime car from District 5.

"Morning, guys," Mooney said, struggling to turn his head toward the barrel of the gun. "Sergeant Mooney. Homicide. Check my pocket."

Mooney saw the look on the young cop's face change. Mooney had never seen the kid before, but the kid now recognized Mooney. Maybe he had seen Mooney at the scene last night.

"Oh s.h.i.t, Sarge, we're sorry," he said, putting his gun back in its holster. "Jackie, let go of him," he said to his partner. "It's Sergeant Mooney."

"How do you know? Check his credentials."

"Trust me, I know. Just let him up."

The big guy let go of him. Mooney stood up, brushed the dirt off and tried to get the circulation flowing in his arms and legs. Maybe he couldn't compete with these younger guys after all. "I didn't even know you were behind me. You guys Anti-Crime?"

"Yeah, we're in the K-Car on last halves. I'm Mark Greene," he said, extending his hand to Mooney. "My partner's Jack Ahearn. Sorry if he roughed you up."

"Roughed me up? I didn't even know what hit me. You guys do a good job. What are you, some kind of judo guy?"

"Wrestler, sir," Ahearn said.

"High school? College?"

"Both."

"You're pretty good."

"I know, sir."

"What are you doing out here, Sarge?" Greene asked.

"Since this is my murder investigation, why don't you tell me what you guys are doing here?"

"We just figure sometimes these killers return to the scenes of their crimes. We've been sitting on the house since midnight. Came here straight from roll call."

"Good thinking," Mooney said. "Unfortunately, if he was coming back, I'm sure we just scared him off."

"Do you need us to help you with anything, Sarge?" Greene asked.

"I'm trying to figure out how this guy operates. I think I know how he got here undetected and where he hid while he cased the place. Now I just need to get into the house the way he did. I'm pretty sure I've solved that mystery. But before I go breaking into the house, why don't you guys call for a marked car so everyone knows we're the good guys?"

CHAPTER 12.

Fumbling through the junk piled on his nightstand, Alves found his cell phone and answered it on the fourth ring. "Yeah." cell phone and answered it on the fourth ring. "Yeah."

"He slid his arm in through the dryer vent."

What time was it? Four fifty-six, according to the bedroom clock's digital readout. Was that Wayne Mooney's excited voice booming in his ear?

"The exhaust vent for the clothes dryer is so close to the bas.e.m.e.nt door, you can reach right in, knock off the hose and unlock the door. I just did it myself."

Sergeant Mooney was at the McCarthy house at five in the morning?

"That's how he got into the house without waking Susan McCarthy. That's why the only struggle was in her bedroom, when he startled her awake. She didn't let him in. She was being watched, probably from overgrown shrubs at the house next door. The killer knew she was alone and he knew how to get in the house because the dryer vent was right in front of him." Mooney finally took a breath.

Silence.

Alves glanced at Marisela. Such a beautiful name, but she liked to be called Marcy. She seemed to be breathing regularly. Good. The phone hadn't woken her up. Maybe she was finally getting used to the calls at all hours. He watched her closely in the dim bedroom light. Maybe her breathing was just a little too regular. She hadn't stirred since he'd picked up the phone, hadn't shifted to accommodate his body's movement. She was pretending to be asleep. "Sarge, do you know what time it is?" Alves tried to keep his voice down. "What are you doing out there?"

"Woke up at two and couldn't get back to sleep, so I figured what better time to come out here than the middle of the night, just like the bad guy."

"The neighbors are going to think the killer's back."

"I have a marked unit with me. This is our first break, Angel. Now we know the footprint by the cellar door is probably his. And the dryer vent has rough metal edges, so there's a possibility he left some hair or fiber evidence when he reached in to open the door. The crime lab's coming to check it out. What size was the footprint?"

"Ten and a half, New Balance."

"I'm going to the New Balance Factory Store in Brighton as soon as they open. I know they sell irregulars. Back in the day, I used to buy my running shoes there. Nice discount for anyone in the BPD Runners Club. They should have no trouble figuring out the sneaker model. Maybe they can tell us where and how many might have been sold locally in the last couple of months."

"Should I meet you there?"

"No. I want you to keep working on how these two women crossed paths with the killer. Have you run it through ViCAP yet? There have to be some other missing-persons cases where foul play is suspected."

"Nothing there. I even spoke with an FBI agent in Quantico to make sure I hadn't missed anything."

"Then go back and look at our unsolved homicides and missing-persons reports from the past year. Look for successful, divorced women who lived alone or were home alone the last time they were seen alive. This isn't the first time our guy has killed. He's killed before and he's decided to start taking the bodies and leaving the blood behind for us."

"Sarge, I don't think serial killers change their MO."

"I don't think he has changed changed his MO, he's still his MO, he's still developing developing it. He's performing some sort of ritual that he's perfecting. There are some sick thoughts going through this guy's head, and I'd say he's getting more daring with every kill. The first time he probably left the body right where it was and took off in a panic. Or maybe he dumped the body. I'm sure he didn't start by killing Mich.e.l.le Hayes, draining her blood and taking her body." it. He's performing some sort of ritual that he's perfecting. There are some sick thoughts going through this guy's head, and I'd say he's getting more daring with every kill. The first time he probably left the body right where it was and took off in a panic. Or maybe he dumped the body. I'm sure he didn't start by killing Mich.e.l.le Hayes, draining her blood and taking her body."

"I'll give it a shot and let you know if I come up with anything."

He brushed the long brown hair off Marcy's cheek. He felt her stiffen. In that moment he hated Mooney for calling so early. Two more hours and he'd be having coffee with the guy anyhow. He couldn't have waited to fill him in?

Mooney read the silence. "Angel"-his voice was tight and tinged with anger-"in a homicide investigation, you have to follow every lead. You take what you've got and investigate the h.e.l.l out of it so that you can catch this guy before he kills again. And he will kill again. If you don't think Homicide's for you-"

"Sarge," Alves began, "I didn't mean to-"

"I need you to chase down the evidence so we can figure out how these women came across this guy and ended up dead. That'll be the most important piece of this puzzle. Once we know how he he found found them, we'll them, we'll find find him. him. I'll be at New Balance. You go through those missing-persons reports. I'll see you at headquarters in a couple of hours." I'll be at New Balance. You go through those missing-persons reports. I'll see you at headquarters in a couple of hours."

Alves flipped his phone closed and sat up in bed trying to focus his eyes with the light from the clock. He looked at Marcy. He never wanted to let the job come before his family, but Mooney was right. This was Homicide.

He leaned over and kissed Marcy on the cheek. "Happy Birthday," he whispered.

"Are you leaving?" she asked, without moving, her eyes shut tight.

"I have to. Sarge has already been up for three hours."

"So we can't have a life because your boss is an obsessive maniac?"

"He's doing his job. How can I complain? He's not asking me to do anything he wouldn't do."

She lay there quietly, facing away from him. He heard her short, quick breaths. He was screwed.

"Marcy, we both knew this was going to happen. But we decided that this was the best thing for us right now. Homicide is going to look great on my resume. And we need the money if we're ever going to get out of this tiny house and send the twins to private school. You were more than happy with the thirty hours of guaranteed overtime every week. Well, this is why it's guaranteed."

He was making sense, but he knew she was not in the mood to hear it. She'd been comfortable with their old life, when he had a regular shift and they could sit and have a cup of coffee together in the morning. Still, she had to understand that he was doing this for her and the kids. He gave her another kiss on the cheek. This time he whispered, "I love you." He stood up, and with the help of the kids' night-light in the hall, walked toward the bathroom.