"Probably right about that. If you look at the pattern, you can see the stakes go up. Violence escalates. The stretch between crimes starts getting shorter and shorter until he killed Cathy Lee. For that one, he only served seventeen years on a life sentence so he's still lucking out. If I were her parents, I'd be pissed as hell." I said.

"What else do we have?" Dolan pulled a battered notebook from his jacket pocket and began to leaf through the pages. He clicked his ballpoint pen. "Frankie's cellmates. Turns out there were twelve altogether, but half the last known addresses are incorrect. We got two in state prison and one serving time in a federal prison camp in Yankton, South Dakota. I know the whereabouts of three for sure: Lorenzo Rickman, Pudgie Clifton, and John Luchek."

Stacey said, "Scratch Luchek. He was killed in a two-car accident in 1975. Drunk hit him head on."

"Right. That's the information I have." Dolan drew a line through the name. "Rickman's out on parole. Word has it he's been a real good boy of late, working as an auto mechanic at a place out in Colgate. I got the name here somewhere. Stacey'll stop by Monday to have a chat with him. Which leaves Clifton, who's currently at the tail end of ninety days on a misdemeanor possession. I picked up mug shots on all these guys in case you need something to refresh people's memories. I mixed in some unrelated photos so we can't be accused of biasing the witnesses – assuming we find a few."

"Let's be optimistic. It doesn't cost anything," Stacey said.

Dolan passed one pack of photos to me and one to Stacey, who said, "We'll let Kinsey talk to Pudgie. He's the type who'd respond to her: feminine wiles."

"Like I got some."

"Don't underestimate yourself."

Dolan said, "That leaves Frankie."

"You and I can draw straws, but let's hold off on that until we contact the other two." Stacey winced and then stood up abruptly, saying, "Shit! Hang, on a sec."

Dolan said, "What's wrong?"

Stacey groaned, then sucked in air through his teeth, his face tense. "Damn back's seizing up. Jeez, that hurts. Pain's shooting all the way down my leg."

"What's the doctor say?"

"How do I know? This ain't Death at my door. I told you – I pulled a muscle. I can't call the oncologist for every little thing." He leaned' sideways, stretching. After a moment, he stood upright, taking a long, slow, deep breath.

"Better?"

"Much. Sorry to interrupt. Damn thing caught me by surprise."

"Would you quit the self-diagnosis and call the guy?"

"The doctor's a woman, you sexist prick. You ought to give some serious thought to the assumptions you make."