Glock rattles off the address of a downtrodden apartment complex on the west side of town.

“He ever work at the slaughterhouse?” I ask.

“HR says no.”

“See if he’s got a juvie rec. I’ll pay him a visit.”

Glock looks mildly concerned. “Alone?”

“We don’t have the manpower to work in teams.”

“Chief, with all due respect, this guy seems to have problems with women in places of authority.”

“Yeah, well, I have my .38 to back me up in case he mistakes me for the weaker sex.”

Skid gives a raucous laugh.

Impatient, I tap my pen against my notes. “What about Donny Beck?” I ask Glock.

“Squeaky clean.”

“Go talk to his friends and family. I’ll rattle his cage a little. See if he has an alibi.”

He gives me a thumbs-up.

I transfer my attention to Skid, who’s slumped in his chair like a sleepdeprived tenth grader in study hall. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair looks like it hasn’t been washed for a couple of days. He hasn’t shaved. He straightens when I address him. “I want you to finish interviewing the rest of the people at the bar. And I want background reports on the Horners.”

“You think they—”

“No,” I cut in. “But we leave no stone unturned.”

Skid nods.

“Lois and Mona can help you guys type up your reports,” I say. “Document everything.”

I contemplate my team. All three men are good cops, but only two are experienced. I have a good bit of experience myself. But mine is mostly limited to patrol. I worked a total of four homicides during my stint in Columbus. God help us is all I can think.

“Recap.” I lean back in my chair. “People of interest?”

“Scott Brower,” Glock says.

“The three condom guys,” Skid adds.

“Donny Beck,” I say.

T.J. pipes up. “The Slaughterhouse Killer.”

If I totally dismiss the old case, I risk appearing incompetent. “I pulled the file,” I say. “Doc Coblentz is sending the complete autopsy reports. I’d like for each of you to familiarize yourself with the details of the case.”

Glock nibbles the cap of his pen. “Let’s say it is the Slaughterhouse guy. What’s up with the lapse in activity? And wasn’t the Roman numeral IX carved into the last victim?”

“So what happened to ten through twenty-two?” Skid asks no one in particular.

“Maybe he’s been a busy boy somewhere else,” Glock surmises.

“Or he wants the cops to think that,” T.J. offers.

I cut in before the conversation takes a turn I don’t want it to take. “I’ve got some database queries going for similar crimes. If he changed locales and used the same signature, we’ll get a hit.”

“He could have been arrested on some unrelated charge,” Skid puts in. “Went to jail, did his time, and was recently released.”

I meet his gaze. “Follow up on that. Check with DRC.” DRC is the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Corrections. I hate wasting his time on a ruse, but I have no choice. “Get a list of names for all male inmates released in the last six months, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five years of age.”