But when I close my eyes, I see Amanda Horner’s brutalized body. I see the bruises at her ankles. The black gleam of blood in the snow. Ligature marks that cut all the way to the bone. I see the anguish in her parents’ eyes. I feel a different kind of anguish in my own heart.

Turning on my computer, I pull the “Slaughterhouse Murders” file from my drawer and set it in front of me. I grab a legal pad and as the computer boots, I jot the things I want to review with my officers.

Assignments. T.J.—condoms? Glock—footwear imprints? Tire-tread imprints? Mona—abandoned properties. Me—similar crimes. Background checks—Connie Spencer. Donny Beck. People at the bar. Suspect list.

My hand pauses. I think of the killer. I ponder his mind-set, and I write.

Motive. Means. Opportunity. Why does he kill? Sexual gratification. Sexual sadist. Where does he kill? A place he feels safe—remote, i.e., no gag. Not worried about victim’s screams. Basement? Soundproof room? Abandoned property?

I think of opportunity and wonder if he has a job, and I write:

Does he work?

A knock interrupts my thoughts. “It’s open.”

The door opens a few inches and a hand clutching a paper bag from Ellis’s Burger Palace appears.

“I come bearing gifts.”

“In that case come in.”

T.J. enters and approaches my desk. “Hamburger with pickles, hold the onions. Large fries and a Diet Coke.”

The aroma elicits a grumble from my stomach. I smile as I reach for the bag. “If you weren’t already engaged, I’d ask you to marry me.”

“Sustenance, Chief. You gotta eat.” But he blushes.

Behind him, Glock appears holding four biggie coffees in a cardboard carrying tray. “I got the caffeine.”

I unpack my lunch as Skid drags in a folding chair. I steal a few bites of the hamburger as the men take their seats. “We’ve gotta catch this guy,” I begin.

Glock sets his coffee on the edge of my desk. “So is it the same guy from before or not?”

I shake my head. “We can’t operate under that assumption.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to limit ourselves.” I don’t believe that. But I can’t reveal that the murderer from the early nineties is dead—if that is the case. I hate it, but I have no choice but to lie to my team. “We could have a copycat.”

“That’d be pretty fuckin’ strange,” Skid says between bites.

“The one thing we can assume is that we probably have a serial murderer on our hands. This was no crime of passion. He was organized. Deliberate.”

The room goes so quiet I hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

“So you think he’s going to kill again?” T.J. asks.

“That’s what he does. He kills. He’s good at it. He likes it.” I sip my Coke. “And it’ll happen right here in Painters Mill unless he moves on to another town.”

“Or we get him first,” Glock adds.

I set my drink on my desk. “We’ve got to pull out all the stops, guys. That means mandatory overtime.”