Bolton nodded. “We’re looking for an isolated murder site.”

“Which leaves how many sites?” Angie said.

“Countless. Tenements, abandoned buildings, environmentally protected wetlands, a half dozen small islands off the coast, closed prisons, hospitals, warehouses, you name it. If one of these killers has been lying dormant for two decades, we can assume he’s planned everything in detail. He could have easily outfitted his home with a soundproof basement or suite of rooms.”

“Has there been any further proof to suggest the killer who’s been lying dormant may have been killing children?”

“No definitive proof,” Bolton said. “But of the one thousand one hundred and sixty-two flyers you received, covering over ten years, two hundred eighty-seven children are confirmed dead. Two hundred eleven of those cases officially unsolved.”

“How many in New England?” an agent said.

“Fifty-six,” Bolton said quietly. “Forty-nine unsolved.”

“Percentage-wise,” Oscar said, “that’s an awfully high number.”

“Yes,” Bolton said wearily, “it is.”

“How many died in ways similar to the current victims?”

“In Massachusetts,” Bolton said, “none, although there were several stabbing victims, several with hand perforations, so we’re still studying those. We have two cases of violence so extreme it could bear match-up with the current victims.”

“Where?”

“One in Lubbock, Texas, in eighty-six. One outside of Miami, in unincorporated Dade County, in ninety-one.”

“Amputation?”

“Affirmative.”

“Body parts missing?”

“Again, affirmative.”

“How old were the kids?”

“Lubbock was fourteen and male. The one in unincorporated Dade was sixteen and female.” He cleared his throat and patted his chest pockets for his inhaler, but didn’t find it. “Further, as you were all apprised last night, Mr. Kenzie provided us with a possible connection between the murders of seventy-four and those of the present day. Gentlemen, it looks like our killers have an ax to grind with children of EEPA members, but we haven’t, as yet, connected the group to Alec Hardiman or Evandro Arujo. We don’t know why, but we must assume the connection is primary.”

“What about Stimovich and Stokes?” an agent asked. “Where’s their connection?”

“We believe there is none. We believe they are two of the ‘guiltless’ victims the killer spoke of in his letter.”

“What letter?” Angie said.

Bolton looked down at us. “The one found in your apartment, Mr. Kenzie. Under Stimovich’s eyes.”

“The one you wouldn’t let me read.”

He nodded, glanced down at his notes, adjusted his glasses. “During a search of Jason Warren’s dormitory room, a diary belonging to Mr. Warren was discovered in a locked desk drawer. Copies will be provided to agents upon request, but for the moment, I read from an entry dated October 17, the date Mr. Kenzie and Ms. Gennaro observed Warren with Arujo.” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable assuming a voice that wasn’t his own. “’E. was in town again. For a little over an hour. He has no idea of his power, has no idea how attractive his fear of self is. He wants to make love to me, but he can’t completely face his own bisexuality yet. I understand, I told him. It took me forever. Freedom is painful. He touched me for the first time, and then he left. Back to New York. And his wife. But I’ll see him again. I know it. I’m drawing him in.”