“What, then?” Gabriel rose from his seat to prowl. “Revenge, certainly. Rage at those who show you mercy. He’s also deeply jealous of your mind. Envious, in fact. Look at the obits he sent you, versus the ones he hid. It’s taken us three hours to find the victims. And only because we had to weed through so many files. Once you had the files, you instantly recognized the words.”

“He’s smart, too.” The famulus connection had been tricky, made harder because of the shipping tool. “I didn’t know what a fid was. He knew, and all the other words.”

“It took him ten days to kill after Mr. Johnson. Time to research. He was ready to kill again, but he didn’t know the words. He’s very intelligent, but not a genius.”

“Not a freak,” scoffed Erin as she glanced at the names and dates on the conference table. “And perhaps not a he.” The announcement stopped Gabriel.

“A woman did this?” He lifted the crime scene photo of Burleigh Singleton. “He was six two. Julian Harris was just under six feet.”

“I’m not saying the killer is a woman. Traditionally, yes, serial killers are male. But when the motive is revenge or jealousy, the killer targets the same type of victim. Aileen Wuornos chose johns. John Wayne Gacy strangled young men because he thought they represented the inadequacies his father saw in him. Ted Bundy killed women who resembled his fiancée—women with long brown hair. At the most superficial level, serial killers attack the vulnerable. Children or women are their prey.”

“He or she is killing men and women.”

“The crimes are not sexual for the killer. He kills quickly. No torture, no perversions.”

“And that sounds like a woman to you?” asked a dubious Gabriel.

“The murders are clinical, almost dispassionate, except for Julian. He could be a she.”

“Damn.” Gabriel flipped the cover of the manila folder shut and stretched cramped arms to push away from the low table. He got to his feet, his bones stiff, his stomach growling. He could practically hear the gears turning in her brain. Gears that he doubted ever shut off.

Outside the single narrow window, evening had succumbed to a deep violet midnight, long past Sylvie’s deadline. Though she didn’t say it, Gabriel could tell that the normally gruff Detective Iberville had been impressed by Erin’s care with Lindy. But a murderer was prowling the streets of New Orleans. He glanced over at Erin, but his companion didn’t seem to notice or care. Hunched shoulders hovered below her ears, and he understood the concentration. She was determined to find a clue to the person’s identity, a predictor for his next act.