Not only were both the crime scenes in the Caldwell and Springer homicides nearly identical, down to the way the victims were found hog-tied and naked near their neatly stacked clothes, but the same kind of heavy-duty Christmas ribbon had been found at each scene. The ribbon of choice was red, with wires running through it. This detail had been hidden from the press and public until Donovan Caldwell’s trial, of course, when all of the evidence had been presented. The differences in the ribbon, Bentz figured, was one of the reasons that the prosecution did not try Caldwell for both sets of murders at the same time, as it wasn’t an exact match. Very close, but not from the same “batch.” And the DA hadn’t wanted to give the defense any discrepancies that might weaken the charges against Caldwell. They only needed the killer to be found guilty of one set of murders to get him off the streets.

Bentz’s chair groaned in protest as he leaned back and sorted through some of the images on file, stopping at a series of photos of the victims, their naked bodies bruised with ligature marks that indicated how they’d been held captive before they died.

“Sick son of a bitch,” he said, and felt his stomach turn just as it did when he first visited a crime scene and saw the victims. It was literally a gut reaction, one he couldn’t control, and had been the cause of many a sneering joke from Brinkman.

“What’s wrong, Bentz? Can’t keep your cornflakes down this morning?” Brinkman had asked at one scene where the victim’s head was nearly severed and Bentz’s stomach had roiled. Watching Bentz turn green, Brinkman had smirked and smoked a cigarette. At another gruesome crime scene where a domestic dispute had turned deadly and both husband and wife lay dead in their blood-soaked bed, their flesh turning fetid from the days of summer heat, their bodies bloated, Bentz had fought to keep the contents of his stomach down. But Brinkman had waltzed in, noticed that Bentz was struggling, and said, “Smells great in here, doesn’t it? Makes me want a ham sandwich. How ’bout you, Bentz? Or is your system too delicate for it?”

“Jerk,” Bentz said to himself. He studied the bodies and listened with half an ear to Midnight Confessions as once more Dr. Sam gave out advice over the airwaves. Somewhere, Bentz was certain, Father John was also listening intently. Bentz was so caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice his wife step into the room.

“Rick?”

He glanced up.

Olivia was standing on the other side of the desk. In her arms was their daughter, Ginny, all of eight months, with what little hair she had sticking up as if she’d just put her finger in a light socket.