They saw me coming and looked as frightened as I felt inside. I must have been quite a sight. I remembered that I’d fallen once or twice inside the zoo. I probably looked like a madman, maybe even like a killer. There was blood on my hands and who knew where else.

I reached for my wallet, shook it open to expose my detective’s shield.

“Police. What’s happened here?” I shouted. “I’m a police detective. My name is Alex Cross.”

“Somebody has been murdered, Detective,” one of the doormen finally said. “This way. Please.”

I followed the doorman down the steeply sloped concrete driveway leading into the garage.

“It’s a woman,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’s gone. I called nine-one-one.”

“Oh, God,” I gasped out loud. My stomach clutched. Patsy Hampton’s Jeep was tucked back in a corner space. The door of the Jeep was open, and light spilled outside.

I felt terrible fear, pain, and shock as I hurried around the door. Patsy Hampton was sprawled across the front seat. I could tell she was probably dead.

“We have her.” This was what the message meant. Jesus God, no. They murdered Patsy Hampton. They told me to back off. For God’s sake, no.

Her bare legs were twisted and pinned under the steering wheel. Her upper body was crumpled over at almost a right angle. Patsy’s head was thrown back and lay partly off the seat, on the passenger’s side. Her blond hair was matted with blood. Her vacant blue eyes stared up at me.

Patsy was wearing a white knit sport shirt. There were deep lacerations around her throat; bright-red blood was still oozing from the wound. She was naked below the waist. I didn’t see any other clothes anywhere. She might have been raped.

I suspected that she’d been strangled with some kind of wire, and that she’d been dead for only a few minutes. A rope or garotte had been used in some of the Jane Doe murders. The Weasel liked to use his hands, to work close to his victims, possibly to watch and feel their pain — maybe even while he was sexually assaulting them.

I saw what looked like paint chips around the deep, ugly neck wounds. Paint chips?

Something else seemed very strange to me: the Jeep’s radio had been partly dislodged, but left behind. I didn’t understand why the radio had been tampered with, but it didn’t seem important right now.

I leaned back out of the Jeep. “Is anyone else hurt? Have you checked?”

The doorman shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I’ll go look.”

Sirens finally screeched inside the garage. I saw red and blue lights flashing and whirling against the ceiling and walls. Some of the tenants had made it into the garage as well. Why did they have to come and gape at this terrible crime?