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trying to work it into something a little less overwhelming.”
    “Tough job,” Struk muttered, still taking in the room with an awed expression.
    “Don’t go blowing up his head,” Granite groaned. “He thinks he works harder than either me or Hutch as it is.”
    Byte flipped him off.
    “Granite is a geo profiler. He’s working on trying to pin down where this guy lives.”
    Struk looked back and forth between Granite and Byte, then nodded. “The names make sense now.”
    “Stick around long enough, and he’ll give you one too,” Granite told him as he flopped back on the bed and grabbed his computer. “Hutch has a strange aversion to calling people by their real names.”
    Hutch directed Struk toward the wall and spent the next half hour going over what he and his team had learned thus far. He made sure he named each of the victims, pointing to first their picture in life and then in death as he said their names. Struk stayed silent, eyes intense, taking it in. His expression turned more and more somber with each name and photo Hutch pointed to. By the last one, the color had drained from Struk’s face, and he was visibly shaking.
    Hutch removed the crime scene photo depicting Kimura’s naked body and handed it to Struk. “Can I get you a drink?”
    “So many,” Struk muttered.
    “I damn sure need one.” Hutch went to the small bar and grabbed the bottle of bourbon with a trembling hand. Struk wasn’t the only one feeling grim.
    Hutch had already seen each of the photos and spoken the names of the victims several times, yet it didn’t get any easier, nor would it, no matter how many times he repeated the process. He was having a difficult time detaching himself from the cases. Hutch poured two fingers of the bourbon, surprised when Struk snatched it up and threw it back, downing the liquor in one big gulp. Hutch raised a brow at Struk but didn’t comment. He knew the feeling all too well. He refilled Struk’s glass and then poured one for himself.
    “I see why homicide has a higher rate of officers giving in to the bottle. I don’t know if I could do this every day,” Struk said glumly, slumping into a chair.
    “You’re not homicide?” Hutch asked, a little stunned at Struk’s statement.
    “No. Vice.”
    “I had assumed incorrectly. Why were you in the briefing?”
    “Captain wanted a representative from each department in the meeting. To be quite honest, I don’t think he considers this a high-priority case, but he knew you would be there and was putting on a good show of it.” Struk swirled his whiskey in his glass, staring at the amber fluid.
    Hutch met Byte’s angry gaze and shrugged. They’d already come to the same conclusion as Struk. Hutch took the seat next to Struk. “So what’s the word on the street?”
    “No one is really talking about it, at least not on my turf. Most of the people I deal with are too worried about getting off or getting their next fix to care about what’s happening around them. I’m going to try and see what I can find out with some of the male street hustlers tomorrow night. They might know more or at least have heard some rumors.”
    “That’s a good idea. You said you’d done some research?” Hutch asked.
    “Yeah, I got a buddy who works over in Oak Park—beat cop. They’ve had three murders with the same MO as the two murders we’ve had.”
    “Dante Reed, Mike Mitchell, and Ralph Mayr,” Byte piped in.
    “Wow,” Struk said, awed.
    “He’s like a walking encyclopedia.” Hutch chuckled. “I seriously don’t know how he keeps it all straight, but I’m damn glad he does and that’s why he’s on my team.”
    Byte preened a little and tapped a finger against his temple. “It’s a highly superior machine.”
    “Oh good Lord,” Granite groaned. “I swear, if you two blow that son of a bitch’s head up any further, I’m going to beat the shit out of both of you. He barely fits through the door now as it is.”
    “Ignore him,”