I inspected the photographs one at a time. The first few centered on Esther. She lay on her back, one arm stretched over her head, the other at her side. Her left leg was bent at an awkward angle; her right was straight. She was wearing a nightshirt that covered her to her knees and was barefoot. The nightshirt was white, but its top half was drenched with blood. More blood stained the floor around her head. Some of her long black hair was matted to the floor with it. The source of the blood was a gaping wound that ran across her throat. But that wasn't the extent of her injuries.

Her face had been slashed and cut numerous times. Not an inch of it appeared to have been spared. Her cheeks were scored, her nose gouged, her forehead crisscrossed with lacerations. But that wasn't the worst of the damage. That had been inflicted on her eyes. Both had been stabbed, leaving eye sockets that were saucers of blood and gore.

Reuben had been right. This was gruesome.

The second batch of photographs showed Willie Ackerland lying on his back in a crib. The crib stood by the bed in which Esther must have slept in. One of Willie's stubby hands protruded from between the wooden bars of the crib, his fingers clenched in a tiny fist. He was wearing a white shirt and dark pants. His hair was golden. The blanket that had covered him in his sleep had been twisted and cast aside to the end of the crib. He had been stabbed through the chest several times and his face had received a similar treatment to that of Esther's. His eyes had also been stabbed out. I doubted Henrietta herself would have recognized him. There was much less blood in the crib than around Esther's body. Probably the result of the initial stab wound finding Willie's heart.

I set the photographs down and leaned back in the chair. Intense anger gripped me and I noticed my fingers were clenching and unclenching of their own volition. A low growl escaped my throat. I couldn't remain seated. I stood and looked out the window. A crow was perched on the windowsill. It one-eyed me, tilting its head, as if considering my worth. Then it squawked twice, flapped its wings, and flew away.

I stuck my hands in my pants pockets and paced the small office. Four strides was all it took to reach from one wall to the other. I felt like hurling something at the wall, but figured the racket would draw curious policemen to the office, and I might be made to leave before I finished with the report.

This was no regular murder, and the man I was pursuing was no ordinary killer. This was brutal, depraved, and immensely evil. Whoever did this had a purpose beyond killing. A dark purpose.