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luck with yours."
    Stone left, relieved that the elusive killer he was seeking hadn't
struck again. Frustrated, that like the killer in this new case, he was
still unknown and free out there somewhere.
* * *
    The photo lab was deserted after 6:00 p.m. Stone spread the
eleven-by-fourteen enlargements he'd ordered across a long conference
table, studied them, reread the reports, then studied them some more.
    Most of the images were in color. Each crime scene had been
photographed repeatedly from different angles.
    Stone peeled off his jacket, loosened his tie. Arranging each set of
photos in sequence, he posted the most similar shots from each scene on
a large cork bulletin board that ran the length of one wall.
    All spinsters or widows, the victims ranged in age from seventy-two
to ninety-three. All were scrupulously clean, as though washed. Their
hair had been trimmed, their nails clipped. The earliest victims were
dressed in fresh nightgowns, the more recent were wrapped in white
sheets. The killer had posed them in similar fashion, face up, sheets
covering their bodies, hands positioned as though in prayer. The only
contradictory due was a small amount of dirt, less than a handful found
under their heads, in their hair, on their pillows. Analyzed, it
matched nothing in or around their homes. It did not appear to have
come from their own yards. No evidence of forced entry into their
homes. None had been raped. The killer had left no DNA or fingerprints.
    The first victim, Tessie Bollinger, age seventy-four, died in
Paterson. So did the most recent, Margery DeWitt, age eighty-seven.
    He killed Gertrude Revere, ninety-one, in Cleveland. Jean Abramson,
of Chicago, was ninety-three. He strangled Estelle Rudolph, age
seventy-seven, in Detroit, and Patrida Lenoy, age seventy-two, in
Boston. Erna Dunn, in Philadelphia, was seventy-nine. Delia Golden died
in Memphis at seventy-two.
    Their homes had not been ransacked. Nothing seemed to be missing.
All the killer took was their lives. A sick son of a bitch, Stone
thought, but so clever that it took all these years before anyone
became aware that the cases were linked and the work of a single serial
killer. He was unique. Few serial killers successfully continue their
deadly odysseys for so long. Time will mellow a murderous rage. But
this man was still killing. If he began in his teens he'd be in his
forties by now. He could be older. He could be anybody.
    Geographic profiling didn't work. The man was a shadow. He covered
the map, his victims separated by many miles, jurisdictions, and years.
There wasn't even proof he was a man. But female serial killers are
most often black widows or baby killers.
    Stone opened his notebook to read again his list of what the victims
shared in common. Alone, they were lonely. Trusting and too friendly to
strangers. The task force had discovered little else. There seemed to
be a breakthrough when they learned that the late husbands of two of
the women were retired military. But no others had military ties except
for one who had lost her only son in Vietnam.
    Bollinger, in Paterson, was first, Meadows in Miami was second.
Number nine, the most recent, was again in Paterson. What if the killer
was retracing his steps, repeating his pattern? Miami would be his next
stop. He could be here now, Stone thought.
    Energized by a sense of urgency, the detective paced back and forth
in front of the pictures, studying them.
    He finally took them down and posted the next set.
    He liked working alone, or with Pete Nazario. He had never felt
comfortable with the FBI. And they dearly weren't comfortable with him.
He'd been given the courtesy because he had linked the cases. But the
agents mistrusted Miami Police, disliked sharing information, and
showed little respect for him because he was only twenty-six and lacked
experience.
    The lack of respect was mutual. He'd been skeptical of their famous
profiling techniques. Of course the murderer was a loner.