He went back to the list of attachments and selected the Common Elements document—the factors linking the six homicides. He was pleased to see one page with thirteen concise points.

1. Attacks occurred on consecutive weekends, between March 18 and April 1, 2000.

2. Attacks occurred within 2-hour window, 9:11 P.M. to 11:10 P.M.

3. Attacks occurred within a 200-mile-by-50-mile rectangle extending across central New York into Massachusetts.

4. Attacks occurred on leftward road curves with good forward visibility.

5. Moderate vehicle speeds (46–58 mph) at time of gunshot.

6. Little to no traffic, no known witnesses, no known surveillance cameras, no nearby commercial or residential structures.

7. Attacks occurred on secondary rural roads linking major highways with upscale communities.

8. Victims’ vehicles: late-model black Mercedeses, super-luxury class (MSRP range $82,400 to $162,7600).

9. Single shot to the driver’s head, massive brain damage, relatively instant fatality.

10. Estimated shooter-to-victim distance in each instance: 6–12 feet.

11. All recovered rounds Action Express .50 caliber—unique to Desert Eagle handgun.

12. Plastic animals from popular child’s play set deposited at crime scenes. Order of appearance: lion, giraffe, leopard, zebra, monkey, elephant.

13. Driver-victim male in 5 of 6 attacks.

Almost every item on the list raised a question or two in Gurney’s mind. He closed Common Elements and opened Pre-Autopsy Vic Pics—grimacing at the thought of what he’d be looking at. There were twelve photographs, two of each victim: one taken in the vehicle at the crime scene and one taken full-face on the autopsy table.

Gurney gritted his teeth and proceeded through the horror gallery of photos. He was reminded again that cops and ER personnel share the dubious privilege of knowing something that 99 percent of the population never will: what a large hollow-point bullet can do to a human head. It can reduce it to something appallingly, nauseatingly ridiculous. It can reshape a skull into a shattered helmet, a scalp into a crazy hat askew on the forehead. It can rearrange a face into a mockery of humor or surprise. Bend it into a comic-book expression of idiocy or outrage. Or blast it away completely—leaving only a pulpy terrain of brains and holes and teeth.

Gurney closed the photo file, quit the e-mail program, and picked up his coffee. It was cold. He took a few sips anyway, then put it aside and called Hardwick.

“Fuck’s up now, Sherlock?”

“Thanks for the data. That was quick.”

“Right. What do you want now?”

“I called to thank you.”

“Bullshit. What do you want?”

“I want whatever isn’t written down.”

“You seem to think I know more than I do.”

“I’ve never met anyone who’s got a better memory than you. Shit just seems to stick in your brain, Jack. It may be your greatest talent.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, can you please paint me a quick picture of the victims, maybe where they were coming from when they were shot?”