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beneath one of three large reredos, antique paintings that look much like orthodox icons,but instead he placed her upon a cement altar in the amphitheater behind the church. It’s a beautiful spot, with a canopy of oak trees and a stream running behind it.
    “I’ve often wondered if Gray was asking God for the ultimate in miracles, bringing Heidi back to life. He found holy places for all of his New Mexico victims, shrines of nature and man. It was as if he were giving his victims a chance to recover. All they had to do was get up, or better yet, tap into the holiness around them and overcome their circumstances.”
    But the women disappointed him, Elizabeth thought, as women always had. They deserted him, or so Gray thought, and then compounded that treachery by not coming back to life.
    She lifted up a copy of her book, covering her youthful picture with her hand. “I hope there might be something in this book that can help you in your current cases. For those who prefer to skip the reading and go right to the source, I’d be glad to answer any questions.”
    The bodies in the room shifted. Elizabeth looked around the table. The silence seemed condemning. I didn’t reach them, she thought. I should have dug deeper and said more. Then, to her relief, a hand was raised. She acknowledged the questioner with a nod.
    “I was wondering, ma’am, if you had any theories on why Mrs. Sanders’s body wasn’t moved like the Franklin woman’s.”
    The speaker, in his late twenties, was younger than everyone else in the room. Elizabeth decided she could forgive him for calling her “ma’am.”
    “I haven’t had a chance to read the case files, Detective. That said, I’ll hazard a guess. There was a nine-one-one call, I understand. It’s possible the murderer was disturbed by the caller. It’s also possible there wasn’t an appropriate petroglyph site in San Diego. From what I know, the murderer appears to be picking and choosing how he emulates the original Shame homicides. It’s possible he didn’t feel compelled to move Mrs. Sanders’sbody and also possible he didn’t want to assume the risk of such a move.”
    Another sheriff’s detective, the one lying on the sofa, spoke. Both his words and bearing were contentious. “Jennings and Sanders don’t match up physically with Gleason and Franklin.”
    “No, they don’t.” Elizabeth’s response was firm. “And I’m sure there are other differences in the two sets of murders. But those might be clues in themselves.”
    The woman detective spoke, not to Elizabeth, but to the group. “If this guy’s out to get college students, he’s not going to have any shortage of targets. The county has over a dozen major colleges. Last figure I heard, there were more than fifty thousand women enrolled in college courses in the San Diego area.”
    The number hung in the air, daunting them.
    “We could run some decoys at popular college hangouts,” said Lieutenant Borman, thinking aloud.
    Nothing was said, but faces were openly skeptical. Borman read the expressions around him. “Lottery odds, I know,” he said, “but we can’t be passive in this. We also can’t be unrealistic. Let’s stake out the local shrines.”
    It was the next logical grisly step, but Borman looked none too pleased at having to concede another murder.
    “We got any local shrines?” one detective asked.
    “My wife would tell you Nordstrom’s,” said another.
    Much-needed laughter swept through the room.

6

    S ERGEANT DEAN EICK was the case agent for the Lita Jennings homicide. Because the same murderer appeared to have killed Teresa Sanders, Eick had also been made the lead investigator for that homicide. As the case agent, he had responsibility for assembling what all the investigators referred to as “The Book.” Most case agents no longer compiled The Book and instead stored case information in a computer file. Eick was old school. He still believed in keeping a paper version of the