Sawyer grunted in response.

The paper was still warm from the printer as he lifted it and narrowed his eyes, examining the files. The first victim: Sarah Beth Yount. Only twenty-one years old. A runaway turned of age on the lam. Throat slit in the forest off a trucker’s lane.

He looked at the second sheet of paper, studying this next picture. Erica Cline. Twenty-eight. Divorced, dealing with a rough custody hearing, by the looks of things. Sawyer winced, briefly grateful that he’d never had a kid of his own with his ex. What a mess that would have been. Even in the driver’s license photo, Erica had bags under her eyes.

Now she was inside a bag, somewhere kept cold, waiting for the autopsy.

He frowned at the thought, tapping a finger from one picture to the other. Both of them in their twenties, both of them within a twenty-mile radius of Seattle. One of them a hitchhiker, the other with a car. One of them from the right side of the tracks, another from under the tracks. No connection apparent at first glance. Different races, different appearances.

Truly victims of opportunity then.

“Lopez?” he said, calling over his shoulder.

The man didn’t reply right away, though Sawyer could see his reflection in the monitor on the desk next to him.

Sawyer waited a moment, and Lopez blinked first. “What?” snapped the detective.

“How late is that curfew?”

“In the area where we found the victims? Ten. What are you thinking, Tom?”

“Patrols?”

Lopez narrowed his eyes. “I don’t speak grunts and inflections. Patrols what?”

Sawyer turned now. “You guys sending additional patrols?”

Lopez crossed his arms over his neat outfit. “We’ll be patrolling the area. Yeah. Got an idea what this bastard looks like?”

Sawyer paused, glancing at the printed photos, picturing the crime scenes in his mind. Both of them women, both of them small, young. Both of them had trusted the killer enough to allow him close.

“Non-threatening appearance,” Sawyer murmured. “Under the age of fifty. Right-handed.”

“Middle child?” Lopez scoffed.

Sawyer shook his head, ignoring the sarcasm. “Don’t know yet.” He returned his attention to the files, frowning even more deeply as he did.

No sense telling the locals the obvious. No need getting them jittery for patrol.

But it was clear as writing on the wall.

Even with the local PD out in full force tonight, even with the curfew, eyes couldn’t be everywhere. Unless they got a lucky break, there was a good chance someone else would die tonight.

Sawyer got slowly to his feet. He hated desk work, hated desks on principle. He stared at the two printed sheets, glancing from one victim to the other, eyes narrowing.

“I’ll join the patrol,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll use the unmarked. Thanks, Faber,” he added, nodding at the sergeant where she stood off to the side beneath the flickering lights.

Nothing he could do just sitting around the precinct. Nothing he could do until they had more information. The killer was out there. Besides, it didn’t take much of an excuse to entice Sawyer away from a desk in a dingy office space.