“Hopefully no damn body parts,” Sampson said, and grimaced. It was typical cop humor, and so automatic that I didn’t give it a second thought. “Body parts are always popping up in these cases, Alex. I don’t want to see it. I like feet attached to ankles, heads attached to necks, even if all the parts happen to be dead.”

Sampson searched around the front seat of the cab with latex-gloved hands. “Papers in here. Candy and gum wrappers, too. Why not call in a favor from Kyle Craig? Get the FBI boys over here.”

“Actually, I talked to Kyle last night,” I said. “The Bureau’s been involved for some time. He’ll help out if we say the word.”

Sampson tossed me a pair of gloves, and I examined the cab’s backseat. I saw what could be bloodstains in the fabric of the seat cushion. The stains would be easy enough to check out.

John and I finally climbed upstairs into the apartment above the garage. It was dusty, grimy, without much furniture. Eerie and unpleasant on the eyes. It didn’t look as if anyone lived there, but if someone did, he was really weird. The landlady had said as much.

The kitchen was mostly empty. An expensive juicer was the only personal indulgence. Not a low-end model — expensive. I took out my handkerchief and opened the refrigerator. There was nothing in it but bottled water and some aging fruit. The fruit was rotting, and I hated to think of what else we might find here in the apartment.

“Health nut,” Sampson offered.

“Nut, anyway,” I said. “There’s a sense of animal fear in here. He gets very tense, excited, when he comes to this place.”

“Yeah,” Sampson said. “I know the feeling.”

We entered the bedroom, which was furnished with only a small cot, a couple of stuffed chairs, nothing else. The sense of fear was here, too.

I opened the closet door, and what I saw stopped me dead. There was a pair of khaki pants, a blue chambray shirt, a blue blazer — and something else.

“John, come here,” I called. “John!”

“Oh, shit. Do I have to? Not more bodies.”

“Just come here. It’s him. This is the Weasel’s place. I’m sure of it. It’s worse than a body.”

I opened the closet door wider and let Sampson see what I’d found there.

“Shit,” he groaned. “Goddamn it, Alex.”

Someone had put up pictures. Half a dozen black-and-white photographs were taped to the wall of the closet. It wasn’t a killer’s shrine; it was meant to be found.

There were pictures of Nana, Damon, Jannie, me, and Christine. Christine almost seemed to be smiling at the camera, that incredible smile of hers, those big, welcoming eyes.