He poured three fingers into a plastic glass and chugged half while his laptop booted. It was too late to call Harry Graves, his contact at CASMIRC, the FBI’s Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resources Center, so he drafted an e-mail instead and made a mental note to touch base with him first thing in the morning. He poured a second glass of Chivas as he navigated the FBI’s Web site. VICAP wasn’t web-based, but he could access the forty-six page questionnaire online. Finding a signature match was a long shot, but sometimes long shots paid off. If a similar crime had occurred anywhere in the United States—and had been entered into VICAP—they might catch a break.

It took him an hour to fill out the form. Once the inquiry was sent, he opened the Slaughter house Killer file and began to read. He scribbled notes and tried to lose himself in his work, something that used to come with the ease of breathing. No more. Some days there was no escape from the dark places his mind chose to dwell.

John didn’t take in the details of the murders with the keen and unbiased eye of the cop he’d once been, but with the abject horror of a man intimately acquainted with violent death. His past wasn’t the only thing on his mind tonight. More than once he found his thoughts straying to Kate Burkholder. He’d worked with a lot of cops over the years. A female chief of police was rare, especially in a small town. An Amish cop was unheard of. Maybe that was why he found her so damn interesting.

She was low-key—a trait he’d learned to appreciate when it came to women cops. She was attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way. Dark brown hair cut short. Eyes the color of a mink coat. A pale complexion that made for a striking contrast. An athletic build. A nice mouth. John didn’t have anything against female cops, but he’d known enough of them over the years to know that, like their male counterparts, most were bad relationship material. Not that he was in the market. He was as fucked up as a man could be and still be walking around. From all appearances, Kate was too smart to get tangled up with a head case.

He’d just shut down the laptop when the phone rang. He caught it on the second ring with a rough, “Yeah.”

“Agent Tomasetti?”

Surprise rolled through him when he recognized the mayor’s voice. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to be calling so late. Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“Good. Good.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a development I wanted to discuss.”

“I’m listening.”

“I had a very . . . disturbing meeting with David Troyers this eve ning. He’s the elder Amish bishop.”

John wondered what the hell this had to do with him. “Go on.”

“Apparently, someone left an anonymous note on the bishop’s door.”