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studio out back.
    A saw-buzz sounded through an open window. Beautiful Girlfriend was goggled and masked and brightened by skylights set into the high sloping ceiling as she eased a piece of rosewood through a band saw. Long auburn curls were bunched under a red bandanna. Her hands were coated with purplish dust.
    Adorable Dog crouched a few feet away, nibbling on one of the barbecue-sauce-crusted bones Girlfriend prepares for her with customary meticulousness.
    Girlfriend smiled, kept her hands working. Dog waddled over and kissed my hand.
    The saw rasped as it ate hardwood. Loud, nasty. Good.
    I sat with Blanche on my lap until Robin finished working, rubbing a knobby little French bulldog head. Robin switched off the saw, placed the guitar-shaped slab on her worktable, pushed up the goggles, and lowered the mask. She had on red overalls, a black T-shirt, black-and-white Keds.
    I placed Blanche on the floor and she followed me to the bench. Robin and I hugged and kissed and she mussed my hair the way I like.
    “How’d it go, baby?”
    I touched the rosewood. “Nice grain.”
    “One of those days?” she said.
    How much I talk about cases has always been an issue for us. I’ve progressed from shutting her out completely to parceling the information I think she can handle. Sometimes it works in Milo’s favor because Robin is smart and able to bring in an outsider’s perspective.
    As if I’m an insider. I’m not sure what I am.
    I said, “Definitely one of those.”
    She touched my face. “You’re a little pale. Have you eaten?”
    “Bagel before.”
    “Want something now?”
    “Maybe later.”
    “If you change your mind,” she said.
    “About food?”
    “About anything.”
    “Sure.” I kissed her forehead.
    She eyed the rosewood. “I guess I should get back to this.”
    I said, “Dinner will probably work. Maybe a little on the late side.”
    “Sounds good.”
    “If you get hungry sooner, I’m flexible.”
    “You bet,” she said.
    As I turned to leave, she touched my face. Her almond eyes were soft with compassion. “The bad days, long-term planning doesn’t work so well.”
    I returned to my office. No call-back from Dr. Shacker. I did some paperwork, paid some bills, got on the computer.
    A search of disemboweling and murder pulled up a disquieting mountain of hits: just under a hundred thousand. Nearly all were irrelevant, resulting from the use of both words in complex sentences, song lyrics by deservedly obscure bands, political hyperbole by blogo-simps who’ve never lived with anything worse than a paper cut. (“The current administration is disemboweling civil liberties and committing premeditated murder on personal liberties with the bloody abandon of a serial killer.”)
    The literal murders I found were mostly single-victim crimes: stalking outrages fueled by sexual fantasy or long-simmering resentment before building to a starburst of violence that led to mutilation and sometimes cannibalism. The crimes were generally carried out carelessly and solves were quick. In several cases, floridly psychotic suspects turned themselves in. In one instance, an offender dropped a human liver on the desk of a police receptionist and begged to be arrested because he’d done a “bad thing.”
    The few open cases were of the historical variety, most notably Jack the Ripper.
    The scourge of Whitechapel had engaged in abdominal mutilation and organ theft, but differences outweighed any similarities to the meticulously organized degradation visited upon Vita Berlin.
    Vita’s abrasive personality said this could very well be a one-off.
    I hoped to God it had nothing to do with the child she’d humiliated.
    I surfed a bit more, trying abdominal mutilation, visceral display, intestinal wounds , had gotten nowhere when my service called.
    “Dr. Delaware, it’s Louise. A Dr. Shacker just called, returning yours.”
    “Thanks.”
    “He’s one of you, right? A psychologist.”
    “Good guess,