Gurney went to his computer and spent an hour wading through the online archives not only of the Union Leader but of other New England papers that had reported extensively on the Strangler’s crimes.

There had been five attacks in two months, all fatal. All the victims were women, and all had been strangled with white silk scarves, which were left knotted around their necks. The common factors among the victims were more circumstantial than personal. Three of the women had lived alone, and they had been killed in their homes. The two others worked late in isolated environments. One had been killed in an unlit parking area behind a crafts store she managed, the other in a similar area behind her own small flower shop. All five attacks occurred within a ten-mile radius of Hanover, home of Dartmouth College.

Although a sexual motive is often present in the serial strangulation of women, there were no signs of rape or other abuse. And the “victim profile” struck Gurney as odd. In fact, there really wasn’t any. The only physical factor the women appeared to have in common was that they were all fairly small. But they looked nothing alike. Their hairstyles and clothing styles were quite diverse. They represented a curious socioeconomic mix—a Dartmouth student (Larry Sterne’s girlfriend at the time), two shopkeepers, a part-time cafeteria aide in a local grammar school, and a psychiatrist. They ranged in age from twenty-one to seventy-one. The Dartmouth student was a blond WASP. The retired psychiatrist was a gray-haired African-American. Gurney had rarely seen such variation among the victims of a serial killer. It was hard to discern in these women the killer’s fixation—the obsession that had motivated him.

As he was pondering the peculiarities of the case, he heard the upstairs shower running. A little while after that, Kim appeared at the den doorway with a terribly anxious expression.

“Good morning,” said Gurney, closing down his computer search.

“I’m so sorry for getting you into this,” she said, close to tears.

“It’s what I used to do for a living.”

“When you did it for a living, no one burned down your barn.”

“We don’t know for sure that the barn has anything to do with the case. It might have been some—”

“Oh, my God,” she broke in, “what happened to your hand?”

“The arrow that I left on the sideboard—I leaned my hand on it in the dark last night.”

“Oh, my God,” she repeated, wincing.

Kyle appeared in the hallway behind her. “Morning, Dad, how are—” He stopped when he saw the bandage. “What happened?”

“Nothing much. Looks worse than it is. Want some breakfast?”

“He cut it on that nasty arrow thing,” said Kim.

“Jeez, that thing’s like a razor,” said Kyle.

Gurney stood up from his desk. “Come on,” he said, “we’ll have some eggs, toast, coffee.”