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even less into its upkeep. A sickly Christmas tree scantily decorated with dusty ornaments perched in its lopsided metal base, listing drunkenly to one side.
    The drowsy clerk behind the front desk sent them down a dingy hallway to the morgue, where a couple of lab technicians stood over the body of Lisa Adler. Draped with a crisp white sheet, she didn’t look asleep—she looked dead. Her flesh was waxy under the harsh fluorescent lights, the deep purple bruises around her neck vivid against the pallor of her skin. No wonder Jimmy Chen hated this, Lee thought with a shiver. The older of the technicians, a stocky, middle-aged white man with a neatly trimmed beard, gave a nod to the younger one, a thin young Latina Lee had seen before.
    With one clean movement, as though unmaking a bed, she pulled back the sheet. Lee heard Butts gasp before he was aware of his own sharp intake of air.
    “Jesus,” the detective murmured.
    The girl’s body had been pierced multiple times.—Precise and round, the tiny stab wounds appeared to have been made with something the shape and size of an ice pick or barbeque skewer. After his initial shock wore off, Lee could see that the wounds formed a distinctive, swirling pattern.
    “Ante- or postmortem?” Butts asked the older man.
    “It’s impossible to say for certain. Her killer cleaned up any blood before dressing her and leaving her at the crime scene.”
    “He did this while she was alive,” said Lee.
    They all turned to look at him.
    “It’s classic piquerism,” he said.
    “What’s that?” asked Butts.
    “It’s a form of sexual perversion where you stab, prick or cut another person, usually multiple times.”
    “How do you know it was while she was alive?”
    “Because he’s a sadistic bastard. He needs to see her suffer.”
    The young Latina turned away, and the older man shook his head.
    “I can’t yet come to any definite conclusion based on the forensics.”
    “Okay, thanks,” Butts said. “You’ll let us know about any prints, DNA, trace evidence that turns up?”
    “We’ll let you know the minute we have anything.” He handed the detective a manila envelope. “Here are some photos.”
    “Thanks,” said Butts.
    They took a cab back to the station house, where they found Krieger and Jimmy waiting for them. Jimmy was typing up interview reports on his laptop, and Krieger was studying the two messages from the killer, jotting down notes in her neat, cramped handwriting.
    “What did you find?” asked Jimmy.
    In response, Butts pulled out the photographs and tacked them to the bulletin board against the wall.
    “Christ,” said Jimmy, staring at them. Krieger looked through them, stone-faced, without saying anything.
    “They can’t tell us whether the injuries were ante- or postmortem,” Butts remarked. “The perp cleaned her up too good before leaving her in the alley. Doc here says the bastard did it while she was alive.”
    Krieger folded her arms, her face still impassive. “Why do you say that?”
    “It’s based on the type of offender I believe him to be—a power-excitation killer. He gets off on inflicting pain and humiliation on his victims.”
    “Are you certain?”
    “Not a hundred percent. But there are indicators—”
    “Yes, this is piquerism,” Krieger finally agreed, studying the photos. “What’s the point unless you’re using it as a form of torture?”
    Butts shot a glance at her. “How did you know what that was?”
    Krieger shrugged. “It’s from the French word meaning to prick , and it’s a type of sexual perversion—”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Butts interrupted. “Doc already explained all that.”
    “What about prints, DNA, trace?” Jimmy asked.
    Butts shook his head. “Nothing so far.”
    Lee stared out the window at the bleak winter sky, which matched the mood of everyone in the room.
    “Okay,” Butts said, shaking off the gloom settling over them. “Who wants to interview the family? They live in Westchester.