Auggie speaks up. “You might check with the county tax collector on that. Maybe bankruptcy court.”

“Okay.” Sliding into a chair, she scribbles furiously. “Got it.”

“This is a priority.” I address Mona. “Give what you have to Sheriff Detrick.” I glance at the sheriff. “Can the sheriff’s office start checking these properties?”

“Absolutely,” he replies.

T.J. starts to raise his hand, realizes the gesture is juvenile and quickly lowers it. “Chief, have you thought about bringing in a profiler?”

I look at Tomasetti. His poker face reveals nothing about what he is thinking or feeling. I find myself wishing I could read him.

“I’m working on a profile now,” he responds. “I should have something by the end of the day.”

I glance down at my notes. Throats are cleared and boots shuffle restlessly against the floor as I describe the instrument of torture Doc Coblentz found inside the second victim.

“There’s a photo of it in the file. It looked homemade. Like maybe this guy made it in his garage or shop. He may have some electrical knowledge.”

Detrick leans back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me intently. “We gotta get this sick son of a bitch, people. I think everyone in this room knows he ain’t going to stop now that he’s got a taste for it.”

I look at Detrick. “We could use extra patrols in the area.”

“You got it.”

I turn my attention back to the group. “I’ve called a press conference for this evening,” I say. “Six o’clock at the school auditorium. You should be there.”

I scan the faces. “One more thing I want to impress upon everyone in this room. We are not releasing the fact that this killer carved Roman numerals onto the abdomens of both victims. Do not discuss anything we’ve talked about today. Not with your wife or girlfriend or boyfriend or your dog. Is everyone clear on that?”

I see vigorous nods from all in the room. Satisfied I got my point across, I step away from the podium. “Let’s go to work.”

CHAPTER 17

I arrive at the high school with two minutes to spare. I’d hoped to avoid the media, but I’m too late. Several news vehicles are camped out in the rear lot near the bus-loading zone. Even in the dim light of the sodium vapor street-lamp, I recognize the ProNews 16 van.

I park in a faculty space and head toward a lesser-used side door. To my relief, it’s unlocked. The hallway is warm and smells of paper dust and some industrial-strength cleaner that’s supposed to smell like pine but doesn’t. The auditorium lies straight ahead. I hear the crowd before I see it. Trepidation presses into me when I spot the television crew from Columbus dragging in reflective lights and camera gear.

I duck into a secondary hall that will take me to the rear of the auditorium. I see Detrick standing outside the stage doors, staring down at a small spiral notebook. An actor memorizing his lines minutes before curtain on opening night.