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behave on an actual case. The other man at least knew what department Zane came from, although that certainly didn't expose his training. Some research to learn a little more about his asshole of a partner might not be a bad idea. It was obvious from the fact that he had been stationed in the Gulf that he had been military of some sort, and when Zane pondered that it didn't really come as much of a surprise. It wouldn't take long to request a file on Grady.
    "When would you like to go?” Morrison asked.
    "As soon as we're done down here,” Ty answered with a nod to the lab doors as they approached.
    "That may be a bit of a problem,” Morrison answered nervously as Henninger slid his key card through the security slot.
    "Then fix the problem,” Ty said to him coldly.
    "The NYPD detectives assigned to the case haven't returned our calls for two days. They don't know you're here,” Morrison told him.
    "So, what's the problem?” Zane asked, stopping at the security desk.
    "Technically it's still a joint case. The site was left in NYPD custody,” Morrison answered with a grateful look at Zane as Ty sighed in exasperation. “We'll have to notify them of the changes to the case and give them—"
    "Then get on it,” Ty interrupted before stalking through the security door Henninger held open for him.
    "Go on,” Zane said quietly. “Let us know when it's set up."
    Morrison fled, followed by his quieter partner, and Zane turned and followed Ty, wondering if this would be the pattern for the job: Hurricane Grady sweeps in, tosses everything askew, and sweeps right back out, leaving Zane to clean up the mess.
    He hadn't worked his ass off the past two years to be a goddamn janitor.
    * * * *
    Four hours after entering the lab, Ty sat amid a flurry of papers and untidy stacks of reports. He leaned his elbows on the table, scowling heavily and staring at the shiny stainless-steel top.
    On the other side of the table, Zane was busily working on his charts. He just happened to glance up, the look on Ty's face giving him pause. “What's wrong?"
    Ty didn't look up. His eyes were slightly glazed and his brow furrowed. “There's no pattern,” he muttered. “The only things connecting these cases are the little tokens the dude leaves with the bodies and the fact they all end up dead. Other than that, there's no common victim type, there's no common MO. Weapon, cause of death, even the way he stages them. All different."
    He finally focused his eyes and glared at the files accusingly as if it was their fault.
    "Victim Number One; Kyle Walters,” he recited suddenly. “Wealthy Wall Street type, found in his bedroom, still alive, half-insane, suffering from severe hypersensitivity to light, sound, smell, you name it. Dies in the hospital without ever saying a coherent word. Cause of death is ruled a meth overdose. Hell, the only reason we even know this guy was a victim was the maid finding the token from the killer a week later. Serial killers tend to get their kicks from watching their victims die or from the power to kill. Why would he leave him alive and risk being identified?"
    "Maybe they get their kicks just as much from watching the suffering,” Zane suggested quietly, not looking up from his paper. His fingers moved over the charts, still making notes from the case files. “The best developing pattern is the fact that the victims are so different. Like he's choosing specifically based on some reasoning. A majority of serial killers fixate on a particular style of victim—young blonde women or rich gay men, for instance."
    "Yes, dear, I'm aware of that. That's my point. We have a thirty-seven-year-old male stockbroker; overdosed with shitty-quality meth,” Ty said as he closed his eyes and rested his head back against his chair. He shook his head, reciting everything from memory. “Next, Susan Harris, a twenty-something hooker found in nothing but a six hundred-count white sheet in the most exclusive cemetery in the