The document concluded with a list of related journal articles in fields such as forensic linguistics, psychometrics, and psychopathology. That was followed by a list of professional books by heavily credentialed Ph.D. authors: The Sublimation of Rage, Sexual Repression and Violence, Family Structure and Societal Attitudes, Pathologies Fostered by Abuse, Societal Crusades as Expressions of Early Trauma, and, last on the list … Mission-Driven Serial Murder by Rebecca Holdenfield, Ph.D.

After staring for a long moment at that final familiar name, Gurney scrolled back to the beginning of the document and read the whole thing through one more time—doing his best to keep an open mind. It was difficult. The less-than-scientific conclusions wrapped in scientific language, and the overall academic smugness of the writing, triggered the same argumentative feelings in him that were triggered by every profile he read.

In his over two decades of homicide experience, he’d discovered that profiles were occasionally dead-on, occasionally dead wrong, but mostly a mixed bag. You never knew until the game was over whether you had a good one, and, of course, if the game never ended, you ended up never knowing.

But it wasn’t just the fallibility of profiles that bothered him. It was the failure of many of their creators and users to recognize that fallibility.

He wondered why he’d been so eager to read this one, why it couldn’t wait till later, seeing that he had so little faith in the art. Was it just the combative mood he was in? The desire to pick holes in something, to argue about something?

He shook his head, disgusted with himself. How many pointless questions could he come up with? How many angels could dance on the head of a pin?

He sat back and closed his eyes.

He opened them with a start.

The dashboard clock said it was 5:55 P.M. He looked down the street at the house where Meese lived. The sun was low in the sky, and the house was now in the shadow of the giant maple in front of it.

He got out of his car and walked the hundred yards or so to the house. He went to Meese’s door and listened. Some kind of techno music was playing. He knocked. There was no response. Again he knocked, again no response.

He took out his phone, blocked the ID, and called Meese’s number. To his surprise, it was picked up on the second ring.

“This is Robert.” The voice was smooth, actorish.

“Hello, Robert. This is Dave.”

“Dave?”

“We need to talk.”

“Sorry? Do I know you?” The voice had tightened a bit. “Hard to say, Robert. Maybe you know me, maybe you don’t. Why don’t you open your door and take a look at me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your door, Robert. I’m outside your door. Waiting.”

“I don’t understand. Who are you? Where do I know you from?”