“This is where the killer grabbed her,” Teresa muttered, picturing the scene in her head. “He came out from the dark. She braked to avoid him and ended up in the lay-by. That’s how he approaches his victims. There’s no wooing.”

Marini squatted to check the black marks on the road.

“Wooing?” he inquired.

“There’s always a plan, a pattern, in a serial killer’s dance with his chosen victim,” Teresa explained. “First there is the aura phase: the killer gradually withdraws from reality into a world of increasingly defined and elaborate fantasies that will eventually spur him into action. Then the trolling phase, which marks the beginning of his hunt; he has sighted his prey, and begins to desire it. After this there should be a third so-called wooing phase: the approach to the victim. But in this case, it’s missing. He’s gone straight to the next phase: the capture. Then the murder phase. And finally the totem phase, the killer seeking to prolong his pleasure for as long as possible.”

“How does he do that?” asked the inspector, standing up again and beating his heels against the ground to shake the ice off.

“He photographs the body. Or he dismembers it. He preserves it . . . He needs souvenirs, because when the delusions created by his fantasies begin to fade, he will realize that everything is just as it was before, and that temporary sense of omnipotence will be replaced by frustration. It’s an endless cycle. The only way to quell his inner torment is to kill again.”

“But he didn’t kill Melania Kravina,” Marini pointed out. “Technically, he’s not a serial killer.”

Teresa smiled.

“You’re wrong. He is. He’s just learning how.”

Among the trees, someone called for back-up. Teresa and Marini went up to him. For several moments, nobody spoke. Blood stained the snow where it had become trapped in the frozen pool of water at the mouth of an underground spring. This was where Melania had been devoured.

De Carli walked up to Teresa.

“We’ve had a call from Travenì, Superintendent. A group of kids showed up at A&E saying they’ve been attacked. They’re in shock.”

-38-

-38-

On the way to the village hospital, Teresa couldn’t speak. Her mouth was heavy with something that felt a lot like fear. The fear of being too late if the perpetrator decided to kill again. It was bound to happen, though it was difficult to predict when.

There had been an accident from which four boys had emerged virtually unscathed, blaming “some psycho.” One of the boys had been assaulted and claimed he’d been on the verge of dying; the stranger had apparently held him by the throat until he’d almost choked him—but then, for whatever reason, he’d let go. This young man’s name was David, and he was Hugo Knauss’s son.