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move them around like pieces on a chessboard.”
    “Then what’s the story?”
    “Something like this.” Eyes closed, Delgado watched the scene unroll in his mind. “The Gryphon breaks in while Osborn is asleep. He makes some noise that awakens her. She’s not certain if she heard anything or not, so she slips out of bed and looks into the living room to see if anyone is there. The Gryphon strikes from behind. He kills her. Strips the body, tosses her nightgown aside. Rapes the corpse. Takes the head. And leaves the lights on and the door open, as always, when he departs.”
    Nason grunted. “Sounds reasonable.”
    “Reasonable?” Delgado shook his head wearily. “Oh, no. There is nothing reasonable about it.” He moved toward the doorway, his shoulders sagging. “Let’s get out of here. That goddamn music is giving me a headache.”
    The three men returned to the foyer, making a detour around the living room, where Frommer was aiming a video camcorder at the body as he narrated a running commentary on the crime scene. Outside, several news vans were parked around the cordon; cameras were being mounted on tripods; snarled snakes of microphone cable slithered everywhere.
    The coroner’s assistant, Ralston, was waiting for Delgado near the front door. He had handled the Gryphon case from the beginning, and he looked very tired of it now.
    “Not much I can tell you yet, Seb,” Ralston said in answer to Delgado’s unvoiced question. “So far Frommer has hardly let me touch the deceased. He’s rather protective of his crime scene, as you know.”
    “You’ll get your chance. Have you taken the temperature readings?” That part of the pathologist’s examination had to be done as soon as possible.
    Ralston nodded. “Rectum and liver. Body temp is ninety-two point three. That puts the time of death at roughly midnight.”
    Delgado scribbled in his notepad. “The body wasn’t moved.” It was not a question.
    “Uh-uh. Definitely not. That arterial spray makes it pretty obvious she died right here. Standing up, I’d say. The evidence techs will have to chart the trajectories of the spatters in order to fix her exact location.”
    “Anything else I ought to know?”
    “Nothing you didn’t notice for yourself. There are no apparent abrasions, contusions, incisions, or ligature marks on the limbs or trunk, not even any defense cuts. The damage must have been inflicted exclusively on the head and neck.”
    “Just like the others. Did you smell sulfur?”
    “No. I don’t think it was a gunshot. We’ve never found any traces of powder on the previous victims.”
    “And there’s no sound of a shot on the tapes. More like … cutting or strangling ... a combination of the two.” Delgado shook his head.
    “Knife or a straight razor,” Ralston suggested. “With a sideways jerk of a sharp blade”—he demonstrated with a slash of his hand across his own throat—“he could tear out the carotid arteries. Plenty of blood then.”
    “Yes,” Delgado said, looking at the living-room walls. “Plenty of blood.” He sighed. “Okay. Thanks, Rally. See you at the autopsy.”
    He rejoined Nason and Gray, standing a few yards away.
    “We were just saying the interval’s shorter this time,” Gray remarked.
    Delgado had been thinking of that too. He nodded. “Julia Stern was killed on December first. After that, the Gryphon was dormant for more than two months. Rebecca Morris died on February eighth. Now this one, on March sixth.”
    “He’s going faster,” Nason said. “The high doesn’t last as long as it did.”
    Gray nodded. “He’s lost it, all right. Out of control.”
    “Perhaps.” Delgado was thoughtful. “Or he may simply be gaining confidence.”
    “Is that what you think?” Gray asked.
    “Yes. This is a man consumed by grandiosity. He sees himself as more than human—as a god. He believes he is without weaknesses or blind spots. He teases us, certain he cannot be stopped. You know, of