But those were rational arguments, and there was little rationality in the anger he felt. Anger at the pompous control freak who purportedly would refuse to see him, at Holdenfield for being too wrapped up in her own priorities to intercede, at the whole arrogant FBI culture.

His mind was reeling with bits and pieces of Holdenfield’s lecture, her pattern-resonance concept of serial murder, the Good Shepherd profile, the sawed stair tread, Robby Meese’s insistence that Kim Corazon was dangerously unhinged, the bizarre Max Clinter, the repellent Rudy Getz, the goddamn red-feathered arrow in the garden. But amid all the confusion, his thoughts kept returning to that stinging jab: You must be joking.

What response would he have preferred? Of course he’ll meet with you. With your amazing NYPD reputation, how could Agent Trout not want to meet with you?

Christ! Was he that pathetically dependent on his reputation? On having his star-detective position in the world of law enforcement acknowledged? Whenever it was publicly acknowledged, it had made him uncomfortable. But now having it ignored was worse. Which led to another disturbing question:

Who was he without that position, without that reputation?

Just another guy whose career had run its course? Just another guy who didn’t know who the hell he was because the power structure that had given him his identity also had the power to ignore him? Just another sad ex-cop, sitting on the sidelines, dreaming of the days when his life had made sense, hoping to be called back into the game?

Good God, what self-pitying bullshit!

Enough!

I’m a detective. Perhaps I always was, and in one way or another I always will be. That’s a fact of my life—independent of the details of my paycheck or chain of command. I have a set of talents that make me what I am. The exercise of those talents is what matters—not the opinion of Rebecca Holdenfield, or Agent Trout, or anyone else. My self-esteem—my grip on life—depends on my own behavior, not on the reactions of a psychobabbling profiler or some bureaucratic fed I’ve never met.

He grabbed hold of this assertion, using it to steady himself, even as he sensed something excessive in its tone. He felt sure, however, that any level of conviction was better than none. And he realized that if he were to maintain his balance, like a man on a bicycle, he needed momentum. He needed to do something.

He took out his cell phone, accessed his e-mail, and once again opened the series of incident reports Hardwick had sent him.

Scrolling through them, he recalled that the real-estate agent—the one with the movie-star name—had been only a few miles from her home in Barkham Dell when she became the Good Shepherd’s fourth victim.