"Round up the usual suspects?" Nelson suggested dryly.

"Bring in a few more known sex offenders for questioning," Morton finished, ignoring him.

They had already completed interviews of half a dozen known sex offenders. Nelson disdained to be present at any of these interviews, which he deemed a waste of time and taxpayers' money, but Detective Butts was keen on them.

"Go ahead," Nelson said. "But it won't do you any good."

"Yeah?" Butts challenged. "And why's that?"

"Because you won't find him that way."

Butts blew air out of his nostrils and rolled his eyes.

Chuck looked at Lee. "You agree?"

"I'm afraid so," he replied. "He'll have a history of abusing animals, maybe setting a few fires, but chances are he wasn't caught."

"I checked with VICAP again for crimes similar to this UNSUB," Florette said, flicking an invisible speck from his immaculate shirt. He seemed to enjoy using anagrams whenever possible. VICAP stood for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program and UNSUB was shorthand for Unknown Subject.

"VICAP could be useless for a guy like this," Nelson responded. "Up until now, he could have been flying under the radar."

"Oh, that's just great great!" Butts said, biting off the end of a cigar and spitting it in the trash can. He frowned, the pockmarks on his forehead merging. "You said this was a sex crime."

"Like I said, this guy will probably have a history of cruelty to animals," Lee said. "Also possibly voyeurism and fetishistic behavior, maybe some arson-but arsonists are hard to catch, so he may not have any criminal record."

"Fetishism-you mean like a fixation on shoes or women's underwear, somethin' like that?"

"Right. And that isn't illegal."

"Not yet, anyway," Florette remarked glumly. "Though if this administration had its way-"

"Also, wouldn't that kind of behavior tend to be pretty private?" Chuck asked, turning to open a window. The frigid February air felt good as it rushed into the room.

"Right," said Lee. "He's a voyeur, obviously, but that too can be hard to spot, especially if he's careful. He's not breaking and entering to get his victims, so he's abducting them outside their homes."

"That means less chance of leaving forensic evidence behind," Chuck pointed out, bending down to pick up some papers the wind had blown off his desk.

"Exactly," Nelson said. "And the wide dispersal of victims means he's comfortable in a large geographic area."

Lee pointed to the map on the wall, placing his finger on the red tack indicating the location where Pamela Stavros's body had been found.

"One of the reasons it's important that we include Pamela Stavros as the first known victim is that most likely this is the borough where the killer lives."

Butts frowned again. "Really? How do you figure?"

"Well, he's most likely to live nearest to his first victim," Nelson said. "It's where he feels most comfortable-closest to home. After that, he's more likely to branch out, but statistically, he will kill for the first time close to home."

"He may have other attempts in his past, where he tried but failed to abduct a girl," Lee pointed out. "You should send that to the media for possible leads."

"Right," said Chuck.

"Isn't there usually a stressor of some kind that sets these guys off?" Florette asked.

"Usually, but not always," Lee replied.

"Like what?" Butts asked.

"Oh, it could be anything-loss of a job, death of a parent, being dumped by a girlfriend. Something like that...an event that a normal person could handle, but which sends these guys over the edge."

"Look, Annie O'Donnell's funeral is day after tomorrow," Chuck said. "I was thinking-"

"One of us should be there?" Nelson interrupted.

"Returning to the scene of the crime," Florette murmured, running his elegant fingertips over the arm of his chair.

"Some criminals get a lot of pleasure from observing the results of their crimes," Lee observed.

Butts frowned and kicked at the wastebasket. "That always really fries me, you know."

"Detective Butts," Nelson remarked, "I'm sure that we're all equally upset by these events, but do you think it's really necessary to express yourself constantly on the subject?"

Butts blinked twice, and his mouth moved like a fish gulping for air.

"All right, that's enough," said Chuck. "Let's focus."

"I'd like to cover the funeral," said Lee.

"Do you believe the UNSUB is likely to make an appearance?" Florette asked, removing a pair of glasses from his breast pocket and cleaning them with a crisp white handkerchief.

"It's not unusual for them to show up," Nelson replied.

"Okay," Chuck said. "You've got the funeral, Lee."

"But if he already took a shot at Lee-" Nelson protested, but Lee cut him off.

"We don't know whether the shot was even intended for me."

"Right," Chuck agreed. "And no one is likely pull out a gun at a daytime funeral in Westchester. It's not the same thing as shooting at someone on Third Avenue at night. Detective Florette, I'd like you to start an investigation of the churches involved so far-find out what, if anything, they have in common."

"Right," Florette said, rising from his chair. "I'll get right on it."

Lee looked around the room at the others. The mood had visibly darkened. Butts slumped back in his chair, forgetting all about picking a fight with Nelson. Somehow, putting a name to Jane Doe Number Five didn't help things. Now they had a name to go with a victim, but they still didn't have a killer.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Annie O'Donnell's funeral was held in Hastings, one of the quaint Westchester towns dotting the Hudson Valley like puffballs after a spring rain. Lee took Metro North from Grand Central, catching the 12:15 local train on the Harlem Line, arriving in Hastings in forty minutes flat. He had convinced Chuck to remove the plainclothes cops who had been tailing him, as their presence at the funeral would be too conspicuous. The train station was down by the water, but it wasn't far to the church. He walked up the long road that curved inland from the river. Hastings was perched on the bluffs that rose from the banks of the Hudson, its waterfront buildings looking down over the moody currents of the great river. Clouds swung low over the sluggishly moving gray water, and seagulls swooped low over the river's opaque surface, searching for fish.

The church was a modest white clapboard affair, not very grand by Catholic standards. Except for the sepia tones of the grass on the church lawn, black and gray dominated the landscape. The drab February sky hung low over the mourners, not even a suggestion of sunlight filtering through the flat gray cloud cover. The monochromatic setting, the dark suits of the mourners as they stood in a little clump outside the white wooden church, all reminded Lee of a scene from a black-and-white film. A shiny black hearse was parked in the driveway, waiting for the slow, stately crawl to the cemetery.

The ceremony was just ending as Lee arrived. As he walked up the flagstone path, one of the mourners emerged from the church carrying a bouquet of red carnations, bright as a splash of fresh blood against her black dress.

A solitary crow perched atop a low branch of a black oak, observing the scene with its head cocked to one side, its bright eyes sharp as pine needles. The tree's trunk was darkened by the recent rain, the rough black bark still visibly damp, tiny droplets of water tucked into the deep crevices. The crow gave a low, hoarse caw and took off from its branch, ascending rapidly into the dun-colored sky in a flurry of flapping wings.

Lee watched it rise and disappear over a copse of trees as a light mist fell on the already soggy ground. The small clump of journalists looked miserable, huddled under their huge black umbrellas, cameras tucked under their raincoats. He studied them. Most were young, probably greenhorns still on probation with their cranky, overstressed bosses. None of them had the look of established stars or even up-and-comers-this was hardly a plum assignment, covering the funeral of the unfortunate victim. The real stars would get to cover the discovery of the body, police press briefings, that kind of thing.

Lee watched the mourners leaving the church, searching for any unusual aspect of appearance or behavior that stuck out-anything that didn't quite fit. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but hoped he would recognize it when he saw it.

He scanned the crowd of mourners. Their faces were suitably solemn, some swollen and red-eyed from grief, most of them pale and pasty in the feeble sun. A tall, sandy-haired man with handsome Irish features emerged from the church, supporting a slight, black-haired woman on his arm. She wore a long black veil, but the devastation on her face was clear even through the gauzy material. Obviously they were Annie's parents. The daughter took after her mother, with her wavy black hair-the so-called Black Irish, whose curly dark hair was a remnant of their Italian conquerors of centuries past. Annie's mother had the same delicate white skin as her daughter, though, bespeaking her Northern European ancestry.

Her father had the kind of Irish good looks Lee saw all over New York City: square, broad forehead, deep-set blue eyes, his prominent jaw jutting out beneath a thin, determined mouth. His ruddy, wind-burned skin was the complexion of someone who spent his time out herding sheep on the moors instead of working at an accounting firm. He had the big, blunt hands of a shepherd, not an accountant.

The rest of the crowd was varied-friends and family, as well as neighbors and schoolmates. A dozen or so young people of college age gathered in a little group to one side. As the O'Donnells made their way down the church steps, the crowd parted for them, people stepping respectfully aside as the couple moved slowly toward the waiting cavalcade of automobiles. When Mrs. O'Donnell saw the hearse, she stumbled and lost her footing, collapsing forward. Half a dozen hands came up to steady her, and she continued on her slow pilgrimage. Her husband tightened his grip on her arm, his face a tight mask of grief and anger.

The family climbed into the limousines the funeral home had provided, as everyone else dispersed toward their own cars, leaving the journalists alone on the wet sidewalk in front of the church. Lee studied the mourners, but he couldn't see anything unusual about them. They all looked grief stricken, and everyone seemed to be there with at least one other person. Lee was quite certain that the killer, if he came, would be alone. There were a few young men who fit the age and physical profile, but they were with girlfriends or families, or were part of the group of Queens College students. Lee looked over the students, but it was highly unlikely that the Slasher was a college student, let alone one of Annie's classmates.

The television journalists stood around delivering their spiels into the cameras. Others were scribbling earnestly in notebooks, while a few more lit up cigarettes, hunched under raincoats pulled over their heads, shielding their matches from the rain. Lee turned to go-and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure standing apart from the rest of the press corps.

A thin young man in a dark blue raincoat stood leaning against a Douglas fir. Even under the bulky coat Lee could see that he had narrow shoulders, and his protruding wrists suggested a scrawny, underfed physique. He had long, thin neck and a prominent Adam's apple, but his head was bent over a notebook, so Lee couldn't see his face. There was something unsettling about him, the hunch of his shoulders perhaps, that reminded Lee of a vulture perched on a tree limb.

The man lifted his face to look at the column of departing cars, and Lee saw the delicate, almost feminine features-on a girl they would have been considered pretty. His face had a haunted quality, with sunken hollows beneath his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, as though it had been a while since he'd had a good night's sleep. He looked about nineteen, but was probably twenty-five or so, Lee guessed. His most striking feature were his golden eyes, yellow as lamplight-wolf's eyes. Watchful and wary, they gleamed like gemstones in his pale face. Lee couldn't make out the name on the press pass hanging from the lapel of the blue raincoat, and he didn't want to stare. So far the young man hadn't noticed him. As he was watching, the man pulled something white from his pocket and put it to his mouth. At first Lee had the impression it was a pack of cigarettes, but then he realized the object was an inhaler. His stomach tightened as the stranger gave the plunger a single, well-practiced push, inhaled deeply, held his breath, then exhaled.

Lee's pulse raced as the man shoved the inhaler back into his pocket. He's asthmatic! He's asthmatic! Lee's palms began to sweat, and he tried not to stare at the man as he formulated a way to get closer to him without arousing his suspicion. He would approach and ask for a cigarette-no, that wouldn't do, when there were several journalists puffing away just a few yards from him. Something that wouldn't arouse suspicion, something. But as he was trying desperately to think of something, the man folded the notebook and put it into his coat pocket. Lee's palms began to sweat, and he tried not to stare at the man as he formulated a way to get closer to him without arousing his suspicion. He would approach and ask for a cigarette-no, that wouldn't do, when there were several journalists puffing away just a few yards from him. Something that wouldn't arouse suspicion, something. But as he was trying desperately to think of something, the man folded the notebook and put it into his coat pocket.

He looked around, until his eyes met Lee's, and a look passed between them. Lee couldn't be sure, but he thought it was a look of recognition on the other's part. The man's eyes locked with his, and-was it his imagination?-he gave a slight nod, as if to say, Yes, it's me Yes, it's me. The ghost of a smile flickered on the pallid face. He knows who I am He knows who I am, Lee realized. The man pulled his coat around his lean body and strode rapidly around the side of the church.

Lee took off after him, but he was forced to go around a group of elderly mourners coming out of the church. Then, as he approached the gaggle of journalists, a short, balding man stepped forward.

"Excuse me, but aren't you with the NYPD?"

Taken off guard, Lee stared at him.

"Well, I-"

"Yeah, you're the profiler, right? The one who lost his sister?" the man said. "My buddy wrote the story about you a couple of years ago. I recognize you from your picture."

Lee groaned. He had been the unwilling subject of a "human interest" story when he started working with the police department; someone at the city desk had gotten wind of his appointment, remembered his sister's disappearance, and decided it would make a good story. It did make a good story, but Lee did not enjoy the attention and publicity that followed.

"Are you working on this case?" the man continued, and then, without waiting for an answer, "Do you have any comments?"

The others, smelling blood, crowded around him, shouting out questions: "How's it going?"

"Any leads?"

"What have you figured out about the Slasher?"

"Will he keep killing until you stop him?"

"I'm sorry," Lee said, "but I can't comment on an ongoing investigation." Standard fare, and he didn't suppose they would swallow it.

They didn't.

He struggled to push through them, murmuring apologies, but they trailed after him, sticking to him like so many leeches in black raincoats. He hurried around to the back of the church, turning the corner of the building just in time to see an old, dark-colored car peel around the bend in the road. He couldn't read the license plate, and he didn't know cars well enough to place the make of this one. It wasn't a late model, and he thought it was American-but he couldn't even be sure about that. Black or dark blue, dented left rear fender-that was all he could see.

The reporters crowded around him, barking out their questions.

"Do you think he'll strike again?"

"Are you any closer to solving it than you were?"

"Who else is on the special task force?"

"Are you going to bring in the FBI?"

When they saw that Lee wasn't going to give them anything, they broke up, peeling away one by one, tucking their notebooks into raincoat pockets before heading off to expense account lunches at local restaurants.

Well, if it is him, at least now I'm sure he owns a car, Lee thought. But he had been fairly certain of that already. Everything about this guy fit the profile-right down to the inhaler. Lee pulled his coat collar up to his ears and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The rain was coming down harder now, cold little needles stinging his bare skin. He walked briskly toward the train station as the heavens let loose a torrent intense enough to wash clean the transgressions of an entire generation of sinners.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Later, back home in his apartment, Lee looked out the window at the softly falling rain. He thought about his earlier conversation on the phone with Chuck, who had been less than thrilled with his report of his visit to the funeral.

"Damn reporters-they're like goddamn locusts! I can't believe you couldn't even get a license plate number."

Lee had no good reply. He didn't feel comfortable vilifying the press, but he had to admit that they had gotten in his way.

"How do you suppose he got a press pass? Just forged one, I guess?"

"Probably."

Chuck was exasperated when Lee admitted that he didn't manage to read the name on his press pass.

"It was probably a pseudonym anyway," Lee pointed out.