“Jesus.” Bell seems horrified by the mere suggestion.

“Write it all down,” Emma says. “We don’t know what might be useful.”

“So who are we looking for? A male suspect, eighteen to twenty-five, race unknown.”

“Statistically, he’s probably white.” Emma looks away. “Where does he get the ether?”

“They might’ve checked that already.” But Bell makes a note.

Emma chews her lip, feeling restless. “Cooper sent Betty to me this morning with Gutmunsson’s questionnaire. I want to look it over.”

Bell grunts, mulish. “We haven’t pulled all the details from the case file yet.”

“I want to see if anything matches up.” She takes out the blue pages from the stack of paperwork she arrived with.

“Have you looked at this yet?”

Emma shakes her head. “I haven’t had a chance. And I wanted to wait for you.”

The first two pages of answers are just repeated, flowery-script versions of Gutmunsson’s full name in green felt pen.

“I’m betting this guy really loves the sound of his own voice,” Bell grates.

Emma raises her eyebrows. “I won’t disagree with you there.”

There’s the occasional variation, where Gutmunsson’s written Why are the questions on these things always so puerile? and Television made me do it, but on the fourth page, the answers change.

Pennsylvania, Gutmunsson has written. Then a series of dot points.

“Two means he’s not getting what he needs with just one. Expect to see more of that.” Bell frowns. “That’s not telling us anything new. We know the perp has started doing more than one victim per event.”

“But this.” Emma touches the paper. “It’s a fine, sharp-edged, non-serrated blade, isn’t it. How could Gutmunsson know that? It’s not like he’s seen the autopsy reports.”

“He’s just being logical.” Bell sees her expression, clarifies. “The victims were slashed. The perp wasn’t sawing at them—to slash a jugular, he’d presumably want a clean cut. So, a thin, straight blade.”

“Okay. What about this one: Why do you think he removes the clothes and leaves the underwear?”

“That’s not an answer, that’s another question.” Bell relents. “Fine. Again I’m guessing the killer is being extra cautious—the clothes might pick up fibers or residue that he doesn’t want found.”

“Or maybe he gets a charge off making the victims more vulnerable.”

Bell’s gaze is weighted. “Do you think we’re dealing with a sadist?”

“We can tell from toxicology and the ligature abrasions that he killed them after the unconsciousness and analgesia from the ether wore off, so yes…” Emma sits back in her chair and rubs her neck, crooked at a tiring angle. “But I’m not a psychologist, and that’s not a diagnosis. I don’t know. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

“Okay, let’s move on. Cycle will shorten. I guess that stands to reason.”

“I’m sure we’ll find out. Next.”

Bell hesitates. “It’s his last answer.”

“And? What is it?” Emma leans forward to see, then wishes she hadn’t. She reads the answer aloud. “Let me know when he starts taking their hair.”