We stood there in our trenchcoats and snapbrim hats, daring the rain to get at us, two men from another time, staring at a man totally out of time. The forensics team hadn’t arrived yet, but one uniform was on the landing outside and another at the bottom of the stairs at the street.

The captain of the Homicide Division worked days, of course, but I’d called him at home, knowing if I didn’t somebody else would. Everybody at the PD knew who among the brass was personally handling the murders that the newspapers had not realized constituted a single story yet, since the small detail of victims with caved-in chests continued to be withheld.

“This will get out,” I said. “Four kills with the same distinctive MO. Four kills tied to each other in various ways.”

“Jasmine Jordan isn’t.”

He was staring at the dead man. We were maybe four feet from the body’s bare feet.

“Not yet she isn’t,” I said. “But three victims definitely are—Kraft, Shannon, and now the Italian Stallion here. And you and I both know the Jordan broad is somewhere in the mix.”

Neither of us said anything for a while.

Rather dryly, Pat commented, “The papers will say we have a serial killer on the loose. Another Son of Sam.”

“Will they be wrong?” I gestured at the flesh-and-blood pile of evidence before us. “Just because some thread connects the murders doesn’t make this less the act of a homicidal maniac.”

His laugh was short and had little to do with the normal reasons for laughter. “The FBI would disagree with you. They define a serial killer as someone who commits at least three murders over more than a month…with an emotional cooling off period in between. No traditional motive but a deviant sexual aspect.”

“You say tomato.”

The gray-blue eyes looked at me now. “Mass murderer is closer. Anyway, who are you to talk? You make Jack the Ripper look like a piker.”

“Hey, I’m just a good citizen, helping keep the city clean.” I shrugged. “So he’s not a serial killer, technically – but he is a cold-blooded bastard, removing people who know too much about him.”

Those eyes narrowed. “You mean, your client. Vincent Colby.”