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  Coursey dropped his briefcase onto my desk and snapped it open, pulling out a packet of neatly stacked paper. He handed me the top sheet.

  “Are you familiar with profiling?”

  I nodded.

  “Profiling of repeat and recreational killers is done with the ViCAT computer at Quantico.” Dailey had apparently missed my nod. “We enter specific details about the murder, including but not limited to the condition of the corpse, location it was found, method of demise, signs of ritualism, physical evidence, witness testimony, and any beforehand information about the deceased. The computer analyzes the data and gives us a rough description of the suspect.”

  “For example,” Coursey took over, “our suspect is a male Caucasian, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-nine. He’s right-handed, and owns a station wagon or truck. He’s blue collar, probably a factory worker, possibly in the textiles industry. He is an alcoholic, and prone to violent rages. He frequents western bars and enjoys line dancing.”

  “Line dancing,” I said.

  “He also wears women’s underwear,” Dailey added. “Possibly his mother’s.”

  I felt a headache coming on.

  “As a juvenile he set fires and committed relations with animals.”

  “With animals,” I said.

  “There’s a high probability he’s been arrested before. Possibly for assault or rape, probably on elderly women.”

  “But he’s impotent now.”

  “He may also be gay.”

  I lifted my coffee cup to my lips and found it was empty. I lowered it again.

  “He hears voices.”

  “Or maybe just one voice.”

  “It could be the voice of his mother, telling him to kill.”

  “Maybe she just wants her underwear back,” I offered.

  “He may be disfigured or disabled. He might have severe acne scars, orscoliosis.”

  “That’s a curvature of the spine,” Dailey added.

  “Is that a hunch?” I asked.

  “Just an educated guess.”

  I thought about explaining the joke to them, but it would be wasted.

  “He may have been dropped on his head as a child,” Coursey said.

  He probably wasn’t the only one.

  “Gentlemen.” I wasn’t sure where to begin, but I gave it a try. “Call me a skeptic, but I don’t see how any of this is going to help us catch him.”

  “First of all, you should start staking out western bars.”

  “And local textile factories that have hired someone with a criminal record within the last six months.”

  “I could stake out the zoo too,” I said. “He may be sneaking in at night and committing relations with animals.”

  “I doubt it.” Coursey furrowed his brow. “The profile says he’s impotent now.”

  I rubbed my eyes. When I finished, the two of them were still there.

  “Of course, the profile may change slightly as more data becomes available,” Dailey said.

  “If he kills again.”

  “When he kills again.”

  They looked at each other and nodded smartly.

  I wondered, in all seriousness, what would happen if I pulled my revolver and shot one of them. Would the other one arrest me, or would he wait to see if my profile showed the proper aptitude for the crime?

  “Here’s the statement we’re releasing to the press.” Coursey handed me another piece of paper. “Now that we’re assigned to the case.”

  “We still have jurisdiction.” I let some irritation show. “No state borders have been crossed.”

  “Not yet. Until then, we’re just consultants.”

  “Simply a tool for you to use.”

  “To help make things run smoother.”

  There’s a laugh for you.

  “This”—Dailey handed me more papers—“is a list of reasons why we’ve pegged the murderer as organized rather than disorganized. You’re familiar with the concept of grouping serial criminals as either O or DO?”

  I nodded. He went on, paying me no heed. I had a feeling this entire meeting could have been conducted without my presence.

  “DO, or disorganized criminals, usually have little or no planning stage. Their crimes are spur of the moment, either lust- or rage-induced. Signs of guilt or remorse can usually be found at the scene, such as something covering the victim’s face; an indication the killer doesn’t like the accusation of a staring pair of eyes. Clues in the form of physical and circumstantial evidence abound, because the DO type doesn’t stop to cover them up, or only does as an afterthought.”

  “I’m familiar with the labels.” I stated it, distinctly, precisely.

  “The organized type,” he went on. Perhaps I hadn’t been clear enough. “Usually spends a lot of time on the planning stage. The perp may spend days beforehand fantasizing about the murder, plotting out every detail. He won’t leave evidence intentionally, and usually the victim bears no sign of savage, uncontrollable violence. The injuries, while they can be sadistic, are more focused and controlled.”

  “We’ve come up with one hundred and fifteen reasons why we believe this killer is the organized type,” Coursey said. “And we’d like to take an hour or so to go over them with you.”

  I was ready to fake a heart attack to get them to leave, when Benedict walked into my office, saving me the trouble.

  “Jack, we got a lead on that Seconal. Sixty milliliters were purchased by a Charles Smith on August tenth of this year at the Mercy Hospital pharmacy.”

  “Have we found him?”

  “He gave a fake address. There are seventeen Charles Smiths in Chicago and twelve more in the rest of Illinois, but it looks like the name is fake too.”

  “What about the doctor?”

  “That’s how we nailed it down. The doctor’s name was Reginald Booster.”

  The name was familiar.

  “The unsolved murder from Palatine a couple months back?”

  “That’s him. He was killed at his home on August ninth. I had the file faxed to us and I’ve called his daughter. We’re meeting her at the house at one.”

  “Let’s go.” I stood up and grabbed my jacket, thrilled to be actually doing something on this case.

  “We’ll go over this when you get back,” Dailey said.

  It sounded more like a threat than a promise. I left without acknowledging them, but felt no moral victory in being rude.

  They hadn’t noticed.

  Chapter 7

  HE KNOWS WHERE SHE LIVES.

  He knows where all of them live, but this one was easier to find than the others. It was just a matter of looking her up in the phone book. T. Metcalf. Did women really think they were fooling anyone by only allowing the first initial of their name to be published? Who else but women did that?

  He watches her apartment from his truck. Theresa Metcalf. The second whore to die. He’s parked across the street, binoculars aimed at her window, peering through her open blinds. There’s movement in the apartment. He knows it’s her, getting ready for work.

  He has her schedule down better than she does. As usual, she’s running late. When she finally hits the street, it will be in a rush. But she never runs, and she never calls a cab. Work is five blocks away. She always walks the same route. Human beings are creatures of habit. He’s counting on that.

  He looks at his watch again. She’s later than normal today. His palms are sweating. It’s been a thrilling morning so far; preparing the candy, leaving it for Jack, getting her address. Now comes uncertainty.

  The Gingerbread Man leaves very little up to chance, but grabbing a person has too many variables to account for them all. He’d originally intended for Theresa to be the first, but when the day came to snatch her, she’d uncharacteristically walked to work with her roommate.

  Potential witnesses, the weather, traffic, and unpredictable human nature all conspire to make an abduction very delicate and tricky. He doesn’t know if she carries Ma
ce. He doesn’t know if she has a black belt in karate. He doesn’t know if she will scream and attract attention. All he can do is plan as best he can, and hope for luck.

  He watches the blinds close in the window. Good. She’ll be coming down the stairs in a few minutes.

  “You open?”

  He quickly drops the binoculars and looks to his right. A boy, no more than ten, is staring in at him. Black kid, big head, wide eyes.

  It had been a long time since he’d killed a child. Almost another life. Before prison. The last one was a little girl. She’d been playing in front of her house. He grabbed her on impulse. She was so fragile and small. Screamed like an angel.

  “What do you want?”

  “Bomb Pop.”

  He reaches into the cooler behind him and pulls out a Bomb Pop. First sale of the day, not including the freebie he’d given that cop earlier. It sells for two dollars. He pays a dime wholesale. Since he works independently and the truck is his, the only overhead is gasoline. Not only does he have the perfect urban camouflage, but he’s even making a profit.

  The kid pays him in change, counting it carefully. Little shit has no clue how close to death he is. Just a quick tug on the shirt, and the boy could be his. He scans down the street for witnesses and sees nary a soul.

  But not today. Today he has other plans.

  The kid lopes off, licking his ice cream.

  The front door to the apartment opens, and the whore strides out. He runs through the grab one more time in his head. Pull out in front of her. Jump out. Stick her with the needle and haul her in back. Shouldn’t take more than ten seconds. Then he’ll have her for his use, for as long as he can keep her alive.

  Tapping his foot, impatient, he lets her get a block ahead of him before he starts the truck. His hands are sweating and he has a sudden attack of the giggles. The syringe is in his pocket, filled with fifty milligrams of Seconal. Not much, but a little goes a long way. He’ll pump it straight into her arm, and it’ll begin to take effect within five seconds.

  First she’ll become drowsy and disoriented. Then she’ll begin losing muscle control. It takes about five full minutes before she will be under completely, but until then he should be able to handle her without difficulty. Seconal has a soothing effect, and so far everyone he’s used it on has remained compliant, if not downright helpful.

  He practiced on winos when he’d first gotten the Seconal. There are plenty littering the streets of Chicago, begging for handouts. The first one he gave six ccs, killing him almost instantly. He halved the dosage, and the next one never woke up. One to 1.5 milliliters turned out to be the right dose for women, depending on how chunky they were. These whores aren’t chunky. They’re racehorses. Whorses. He giggles.

  The alley is coming up. He pulls into it ahead of her, taking in everything. There’s no one nearby. Perfect. She approaches the truck without even noticing it.

  Wait! She’s crossing the street! He’s watched her walk to work almost a dozen times, and she’s never crossed until she reaches the intersection. His mind races. Call it off, or improvise?

  “Theresa?”

  He’s out of the truck, coming at her on an angle, syringe palmed in his right hand.

  “Theresa?”

  She stops and looks at him. He smiles brightly. Smiles disarm people. His pace is fast, but he puts some bounce in his step and tries to look in a hurry rather than threatening.

  “I thought it was you. Charles, remember?”

  He says it at normal speaking level, which is too low for the twenty-foot distance between them.

  “Pardon me?”

  She cranes her neck forward a bit. Her posture isn’t defensive, but her expression is confused. She isn’t sure if she recognizes him or not.

  He takes two more steps. “I’m sorry, you don’t remember me, do you? I’m Charles.”

  Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to place him. “Sorry, I . . .” She shrugs.

  “You mean you don’t even remember the truck?” He takes three more steps and makes a grand sweeping gesture toward his ice cream truck. “I thought you’d remember the truck.”

  “Look—I’m late for work . . .”

  “At Montezuma’s. That’s where you work, right?”

  “Have I served you before?”

  “No.” The Gingerbread Man grins. The smile is genuine now. “But you will.”

  The girl doesn’t like his leer and subconsciously shifts her weight away from his approaching form. He detects the subtle change, and knows that if she bolts or screams, he won’t get a second chance.

  “Here, let me . . .” Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a handful of quarters. Trying to look clumsy, he lets the change spill from his hand and all over the curb.

  “Aw . . . my boss is gonna kill me!”

  He kneels down and begins picking up coins, hoping he looks really pathetic.

  He must, because she only watches for a few seconds before coming over to help.

  “Thanks. This is a whole morning’s work here.”

  She crouches down, picking up a quarter. “What did you say your name was?”

  He checks for witnesses. A guy on the end of the street, walking past, not paying attention.

  “Charles.”

  “And where do I know you from?”

  She reaches out to hand him some coins. He snatches her wrist and yanks her to him, jabbing the needle home, hugging her close so to any casual observer it looks like an embrace.

  She tries to twist, but he has sixty pounds on her and his hold has taken away her leverage. Leaving the syringe still sticking in her arm, he brings his hand up to the back of her head and crushes her face to his, drowning out the cry welling up inside her with a kiss.

  He tastes fear. She has the nerve to try to bite him, and that gets him excited. He likes to bite too. He sinks his teeth into her lower lip, and then her body begins to relax.

  Half pulling, half carrying, he gets her over to the truck. A cab rolls past, but doesn’t slow down. Once she’s in back, he handcuffs her to the metal bar he’s bolted to his freezer. Then he removes the needle from her arm and puts it back in his pocket.

  Theresa Metcalf shakes her head, as if she is trying to clear it. When she notices the handcuffs, she screams.

  In the driver’s seat, Charles flips on the music. A recorded pipe organ version of “The Candyman” trumpets through the speakers at full volume. He checks his mirrors and carefully backs out of the alley. She screams again, but he’s confident that he’s her only audience.

  “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” He giggles.

  Quite a day. Quite a day indeed. And quite a night it will be as well.

  He’s bought three new videotapes. He’s planning on filling them all.

  “Wait till we get back to my place,” he tells T. Metcalf. “Then you’ll have something to scream about.”

  She is too drowsy to hear him.

  Chapter 8

  HOW DID YOU KNOW,” HERB SAID, smacking his lips, “that I was in the mood for candy?”

  I glanced over at Benedict. He was clutching a bag of chocolate, eyes twinkling.

  “Do you keep an emergency supply in your jacket?” I asked.

  “Me? These are yours. They were on the seat.”

  “Where?”

  “In your car here, on the passenger seat.”

  I started the Nova and frowned, puzzled.

  “They’re not mine. Was there a note?”

  “Nope. Just candy. Maybe it was Don.”

  I shook my head and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Don left.”

  Benedict mulled it over, cradling the candy in his hand. “How do you feel about it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. No.”

  “Remind me never to get romant
ically involved with you.”

  I turned left on Jackson and headed toward Mercy Hospital, where Herb had traced the Seconal prescription and where the late Dr. Booster had kept an office until the ninth of August. The Booster case was still listed as open, even though the investigation had gone cold. The detective in charge was a Palatine cop named Evens. Herb had left him a message, telling him to get in touch.

  “So who gave you the candy?”

  I shrugged. “Haven’t the slightest. Maybe someone put it in my car by accident.”

  “Accidents like that never happen to me.”

  “Have you checked your car? Maybe you have a bag too. Maybe your entire backseat is crammed full of chocolate products.”

  “Stop it. You’re getting me excited.”

  I tried to think it through. My car was unlocked when we got in. Had I left it unlocked? I must have. How likely was it that someone broke into my car just to leave me candy? Especially in a police parking lot.

  “Mind if I . . . ?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Benedict ripped open the plastic bag and withdrew a mini bar, holding it up to his nose.

  “Smells okay. I don’t think they’re laced with arsenic.”

  “Would that even matter to you?”

  “Probably not.”

  My partner opened up the candy and popped the entire bar into his mouth. He chewed for almost a full minute, making cooing noises.

  “Maybe it was Bill, in Evidence.” Benedict’s mouth was still half full. “He’s always been sweet on you. This could be his way of expressing his love.”

  “Bill is almost seventy.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Jack. Want one?”

  “I’ll pass. But feel free.”

  He grunted a thanks and opened another.

  “There’s no one you know who would give you candy?”

  “Nobody. I’m all alone in this big cruel world.”

  “Geez, Jack. That’s really sad.”

  “If there were an award for the world’s biggest loser, I wouldn’t even win that.”

  “At least you don’t dwell on it.”

  I hit the gas and cruised through an intersection just as a yellow light was turning red. It was an unnecessary risk, but I didn’t get to be a lieutenant in the male-dominated world of Chicago law enforcement without taking chances.