Four lives and four tragedies reduced to factoids.

I studied the four minuscule photos and wondered what they’d been doing the days they’d been killed, what they’d been thinking, planning, dreaming.

In just over a week, four lives had been taken and countless more thrown into turmoil—husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends, wondering why this had happened, and what they could have done to prevent it, and whether their loved one had suffered, and why hadn’t they said something more meaningful the last time they met. And, most of all, why. Just why.

Four lives taken, countless more awaiting justice. But when I read that article, I saw no end—no justice—in sight. Just more deaths. More victims. More mourners. More questions.

Neither magazine mentioned the possibility of a hitman killer, but that likely wasn’t a theory investigators would release to the media. The murders, though, had all the earmarks of professional hits—the deaths clean and cold.

“Four murders in four parts of the country, four very different victims, four separate methods,” I said. “Linked by a calling card. A page from Helter Skelter.”

“Yeah. Heard about that.”

“It’s a book, isn’t it?”

“About Manson.”

“Charles Manson? The freak with the cult? He killed some actress, didn’t he?”

“Before your time, I’m guessing.”

“The sixties. Peace, love and drug-induced murderous rages. Hippie stuff.”

“Now I feel old.”

“Right, like you were more than a baby yourself. From what I remember, the Manson case was textbook disorganized crime. Definitely not the work of a pro. So what’s the connection?”

“None, other than that it scared the shit out of a lot of people. Like this guy’s doing.”

I glanced over at him. “According to Newsweek—or their contacts, at least—the Feds have evidence suggesting there’s something to the Manson connection.”

“Then we don’t ignore it. But don’t focus on it.”

“Okay. So where do you want to start?”

A small frown my way. “No idea. That’s your area. Yeah, you weren’t a detective. But you think like a cop. Good enough. We’ll work something out.”

So we did, laying out theories. We had a hired killer making random hits. Option one: system overload. When a pro chess player goes nuts, he becomes obsessed with the game. A pro killer goes nuts? No mystery what might obsess him. Option two was more likely. Why does a hired killer kill? Because he’s been hired to.

“The guy beside me on the plane mentioned that Leon Kozlov had a record,” I said. “That’s a good place to start—checking criminal records and arrests. I have contacts in U.S. police departments—lodge regulars—but I’d really rather not use—”

“Agreed. Last resort.”

“Good. There are legit ways we can check for criminal backgrounds, though it’ll take some time and legwork.”