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she called up the stairs.
    An immediate rumble of footsteps issued from the second floor. Helen smiled as she approached her husband, kissing his cheek. “Long day?”
    Henry put the child down. “How did you know?”
    â€œYou look tired.”
    â€œYou don’t know the half of it,” Henry said and put his battery belt down on the little deacon’s bench by the fireplace. With mild surprise he noticed a ruby fleck of blood under one of his fingernails from the murders he had committed the previous night in the woods along the Mississippi. “Three breaking stories in one day.”
    He went into the bathroom and washed his hands, paying close attention to his nails. Then he stared at himself in the mirror for an inordinately long moment as his fingertips dripped. Finally he emerged and went into the den where his daily martini was waiting for him (dry, two olives). Helen had already laid out his nightly pre-dinner ritual on a TV tray next to his Barcalounger: an ashtray with his pipe, a fresh pouch of cherry brandy tobacco, the day’s St. Louis Post-Dispatch , and the mail.
    A whirlwind of children blew into the den as Henry went through his mail and sipped his martini. Caleb, his oldest, wanted to talk about the chess club. Rachel, his ten-year-old, wanted Henry to know it was high time she got that pony he had been promising her. And little Mary just wanted to sit on Daddy’s lap while he perused his mail and his newspaper. Henry took it all in with good humor and fatherly patience…right up until the moment he saw the little banner headline across the top of that week’s Time magazine.
    A twinge of alarm pinched at Henry’s gut.
    â€œDinner’s ready, everybody!”
    The sound of his wife’s voice snapped Henry out of his daze. “Be there in a sec!”
    Henry quickly thumbed through the magazine until he got to the Current Affairs section and saw the subheading at the top of the right-hand page: “Superstar Profiler Zeroes in on Latest Quarry.” Henry’s hands trembled as he skimmed the article written by the Midwestern bureau chief, the gist of the story laid out in the opening paragraph:
    St. Louis, MO; Famed FBI criminologist, Special Agent Ulysses Grove (Issue #44:15), claims he is about to nab another killer. In an unprecedented buildup of evidence—both circumstantial and physical—Grove now believes that positive identification of the suspect known as the Mississippi Ripper is imminent. “We now know so many things about this person,” the profiler explained from his Virginia office Friday. “We are fairly certain he is white, middle class, probably the head of a large family. Very likely a tradesman or artisan in some technical field.” Grove went on to explain that due to DNA results from recent double homicides in Davenport and Memphis, the Bureau is literally days away from finding a match. “It’s only a matter of time now,” Grove went on. “And chances are he will turn out to be the guy next door.”
    â€œSweetheart?”
    Henry looked up from the magazine like a man coming out of a dream. “Huh?”
    Helen was standing in the archway leading into the dining room, drying her hands in a dish towel, a strand of hair dangling in her eyes. Behind her, the kids were taking their seats at the table. “Are you all right?”
    Henry smiled with a twitch. “You bet…just a little bushed. Man-oh-man, that smells good. Let’s dig in.”
    He went into the living room and took his place at the head of the table. A steaming bowl of mashed potatoes sat magisterially in front of him, puddled in the center with melting butter. An array of comfort food spanned the center of the table: brisket, gravy, green bean casserole, and buttermilk biscuits. The air was sultry with caramelized odors.
    â€œCaleb, please, pipe down now with the Gene Krupa,” Henry said to his son, who