He picked up his paper coffee cup, its few swallows of java staining the inside, cold and nearly congealed from the morning. He tossed it into the trash under his desk and realized that the noise in the department had lessened, most of the staff having left for the day.

But not Bentz.

As Montoya stepped into the hallway, he noticed that Bentz’s desk lamp was glowing through the open doorway of his office, soft light spilling into the corridor.

Montoya poked his head inside and found his partner, shirt-sleeves rolled over his forearms, elbows on the desk, a clump of hair falling over his eyes. He had jotted notes all over a yellow legal pad, but his gaze was focused on his computer monitor, a split screen with two victims visible. Grace Blanc, the prostitute, was on one half, and another, a woman he didn’t recognize immediately, filled the second half of the monitor. She looked familiar in the crime scene and was splayed in the same position as Grace had been left.

Shit, he realized, it was a picture of Cherie Bellechamps, one of Father John’s victims back when he was terrorizing the city a decade earlier.

Both women were half dressed, their red hair mussed, their eyes those of the dead, the purple scars surrounding their necks sporting the deep cuts from irregular beads—in the case of Bellechamps, a rosary.

“What gives?” he asked, taking in the two, nearly identical images.

“Father John,” Bentz spat out angrily. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I think he’s back.” Bentz tossed a sheet of paper across the desk to Montoya. “Just got the blood type back on the sperm found in Grace Blanc,” he said. “Guess what? It matches that found in the sperm left in all of Father John’s victims ten years ago.” He reached into his desk drawer, found a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, and silently offered Montoya a stick. When his partner declined, he unwrapped a piece and tossed it into his mouth. “It’s not DNA, but . . .”

“I was hoping that son of a bitch was dead.”

“You and me both, but look.” He pointed to the monitor with its grisly photos. “The crime scenes are nearly identical. I suppose they could be copied, but would the new killer have the same rare blood as John?” He was shaking his head.

“Well at least we know who he is.”

“Do we?” Bentz clicked the pen in his hand. “Probably has a whole new ID, maybe even a new goddamned face.” From the file, he withdrew a photo of the killer, one from ten years prior. “I’ve already requested computer enhancement on this. What would he look like with a beard, without, as a blond . . . Oh, crap, who knows what he looks like now? Damn it all to hell!”