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shock of stylishly tousled brown hair and an angular nose, but his eyes were lost in the shadows of his face. “I’m a stringer—a researcher for the
Plain Dealer
. My name is Brandon Jablonski. We heard about you finding another Torso killer victim over on Pullman and want to do an in-depth piece on it, the Torso Murders, the history, the effect on Cleveland. Can I ask you a few questions?” He lowered his hands, scooped up his notebook, and got out a pen in one smooth movement.
    But he did not move closer, so she did not depress the tiny plunger. “Where did you hear that?”
    He gave her a grin, with straight teeth and a chiseled jaw, looking less and less like some psychotic stalker every minute. “I have my sources.
    What can you tell me about the victim?”
    “Nothing,” she said, “yet. What makes you think he’s a victim of the Torso killer?”
    The hands holding his pad and pencil flopped to his sides. “Come on—decapitated on some kind of autopsy table?”
    She wondered again where he got this information. The construction workers? Mr. Lansky? The patrol officers?
    He went on: “The Torso killer terrorized Cleveland for four years, more really. He was America’s version of Jack the Ripper, unparalleled in savagery and never caught. He cut off heads, limbs, genitals. But he wasn’t some kind of monster.”
    “Could have fooled me.”
    “I mean, he was a monster, but he wasn’t insane. The entire city was keeping an eye out for this guy in a day when no one had televisions or iPods or the Internet—in other words, people actually paid attention to what occurred outside their own doors. People knew their neighbors. People, well, people read the friggin’ paper. And he still moved around as if invisible.”
    “I know,” she said. “But I can’t—”
    “He took his victims, he did whatever he felt like to them, and then he dumped them in public areas. And he
still
wasn’t caught. He was so unique, as serial killers go. I’ve read book after book on criminal profiling and still can’t get a picture of this guy, who he was, what motivated him. Ms. MacLean—” He took a step toward her.
    Her arm with the canister had begun to slump, but now it snapped to attention. “Stay right there.”
    “I only want to ask a few—”
    “I can’t answer them. All inquiries must be directed to Medical Examiner Elliott Stone. I’m sure you know the number. Call in the morning and make an appointment.”
    Another step. “But—”
    “No buts. I’m getting into my car now. Do
not
come any closer.”
    “We need to work together on this, Ms. MacLean. I know you must be as obsessed with it as I am—”
    She slammed the driver’s door shut and cranked the engine until it gave a whining sound. Brandon Jablonski made no attempt to stop her.
    She pulled out, careful not to hit him and careful not to get close enough for him to strike one of the windows. In the rearview mirror she saw the man watching her, rooted to his original spot, a contradictory morass of dark colors and perky smile. Whatever else, he had a healthy respect for pepper spray. It made her wonder if he’d been on the receiving end of it before.
    She also wondered if he would skip the helpful “Hello, ma’am” warning next time.
    It didn’t matter. She could not discuss James Miller’s death or its possible connection to the Torso Murders. She might say too much, turn the cop’s killing into a media event and reveal too much about herself in the process.
    Because she was
exactly
as obsessed with the case as he was.
     
     
     

Chapter 6
     
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6
PRESENT DAY
     
     
    Theresa yawned her way into the laboratory Monday morning, catching the eye of her boss.
    “Hot date?” Leo wanted to know, watching her pour a cup of what smelled like burned caffeine. “Did you finally do the dirty with that hostage negotiator?”
    “Fell asleep rereading Badal’s
In the Wake of the Butcher
.”
    “That’s a sad commentary on your