“It’s either the killer from before, or we have a copycat on our hands.”

“This is no copycat.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The Roman numerals carved into the torsos of the vics was never made public.” He looks at me over the tops of his glasses, his expression telling me that should be obvious.

“The information could have leaked.”

“If that was the case, you would have seen it in the news.”

He’s right, but I say nothing.

He shakes his head. “The similarities are too striking. This is the same guy.”

“How do you explain the hiatus?”

“He changed locales. Look at the gap in numbering.” He studies me with those intense eyes. “Have you plugged any of this into VICAP?”

VICAP is the acronym for the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It’s a database that matches major crimes by detecting similar signature aspects and patterns of modus operandi. We both know I should have already done this. Tomasetti’s wondering why I didn’t.

“I was hoping you could help with that,” I say.

“I’ll get this signature plugged in right away.”

“I’ve got queries going in OHLEG as well,” I add.

“While we’re on the subject of resources, is there a specific reason why you didn’t contact the FBI?”

There’s no recrimination in the question. Just simple curiosity. As if I might have a good reason for not doing what I should have. Of course, I don’t. He’s backed me into a corner I can’t get out of unless I lie. “Some of the town council members were concerned about tourism. They didn’t want the national media involved.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of cop to buckle under that kind of pressure.”

Because I don’t want to dig this particular hole any deeper, I look down at the file. But my heart is pounding. I feel his eyes on me and I know he’s making judgments. About my competence. About me. “You got a theory on the hiatus?” I ask after a moment.

“The numbering suggests there are other victims we don’t know about.” He taps the folder with his finger. “This guy isn’t fucking with the cops, and I don’t believe he stopped killing. He doesn’t have that kind of control. I think for the last sixteen years, he’s killed somewhere else. Unless he was somehow incapacitated. Jail time. Hospitalization.”

I glance at the papers in front of him. He’s already filled two pages of the pad. His handwriting is slanted and small. “Have you begun a profile?”

“Preliminary.” He recites from memory. “He’s a white male between the age of thirty-five and fifty. He works full-time, but his schedule is flexible. He’s considered successful and is probably in a position of authority. He’s controlling and impulsive, but he controls his impulses to a degree. He’s married, but his relationship is troubled. May have teenaged or grown children. He’s considered a good father. His wife may or may not know he’s got a dark side. If she does, she doesn’t know the degree. She doesn’t know he kills. No one suspects him. He may be impotent and may take medication. Violence excites him a lot more than sex. He derives sexual gratification from inflicting pain. Torture is the overriding source of his compulsion. Killing is a secondary end result. It’s those final moments of life that really get him off.