“Thank you,” I said, accepting the reports. My fingers were trembling as I dialed the number for the victim’s boss when there was no next of kin.

“Jim’s,” a tired voice said after the third ring.

My greeting froze in my throat. I recognized his voice. It was the announcer at Cincinnati’s illegal rat fights. Heart pounding, I hung up, missing the button the first time. I stared at the wall. The room had gone silent.

“Glenn?” I said, my throat tight. I turned to see him surrounded by three officers, all looking at me.

“Yeah?”

My hands shook as I extended the report across the small space. “Will you look at the crime scene photos for me?”

His face blank, he took it. I turned to his wall of sticky notes, listening to the pages turn. Feet shuffled. “What am I looking for?” he asked.

I swallowed hard. “Rat cages?” I asked.

“Oh my God,” someone whispered. “How did she know?”

I swallowed again. I couldn’t seem to stop. “Thanks.”

With motions slow and deliberate, I took the report and stuck it to the bulletin board. My handwriting was shaky as I wrote “T availability” and stuck it on the pages. The report said he had been a bouncer at a dance club, but if he was one of Dr. Anders’s students, he had been skilled with ley lines and was more likely the head of security at Jim’s rat fights.

I reached for the fifth packet with a grim feeling. It was Trent—I knew it was Trent—but the horror of what he had done was killing any joy I might find in it.

I felt the men behind me watching as I leafed through the report, recalling that the fifth victim, found three weeks ago, had died the same way as the first. A call to her tearful mother told me she had met Trent in a specialty bookstore last month. She remembered because her daughter had been surprised that such a young, important man was interested in collectable, pre-Turn fairy-tale anthologies. After confirming that her daughter had been employed in a security subscription firm, I gave her my condolences and hung up.

The background murmurs of the excited men added to my numb state. I carefully wrote my big T, making sure the lines were clear and straight. I stuck it beside the copy of the woman’s work ID picture. She had been young, with straight blond hair to her shoulders and a pretty, oval face. Just out of college. The memory of the picture I had seen of the first woman on the gurney flashed into my mind. I felt the blood drain from me. Cold and light-headed, I stood.

The men’s conversations stopped as if I had rung a bell. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” I whispered, my mouth dry.

“Turn left. Go to the back of the room.”