Lynch looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“If this guy’s only twenty-five, there’s no way he could’ve been involved in the Confessional Murders. Not unless he started killing when he was fifteen, which most serial killers don’t.”

“You’re right,” Coletti said, bending down to get a closer look at the young man’s puffy hands. “But we already know our killer has helpers. Mr. Little here was obviously one of them.”

“But what kind of hold could he have on this kid that would make him want to kill all those people, then kill himself?” Mann asked.

“From the needle in the truck and the look of Mr. Little’s hands, I’d say drugs had something to do with it,” Coletti said. “He’s got lesions that I’d guess came from skin popping, and the puffiness is pretty common in IV drug users.”

“That’s what’s making it so hard to come up with a profile on the ringleader,” Smithson said.

“What, the drugs?” Coletti asked.

“No, the fact that he’s working with other people. Serial killers normally work alone. They don’t recruit people to work with them, and they don’t breed the kind of loyalty that would make someone kill for them. The only killer I know of who was able to do that was Charles Manson.”

Smithson stopped, and a smile spread across her face.

“What is it?” Lynch asked.

“I’ve got the profile,” she said. “We’re looking for a white male who’s a charismatic leader. He uses drugs and scripture to convince young people that they’re fighting evil in preparation for the apocalypse. The war he talks about is real to them, and the people they kill are merely a means to an end. That’s how Manson did it, and that’s how this guy’s doing it, too.”

She turned to Lynch. “I’ve gotta get back to headquarters and start going through some records. If we can narrow it down to two or three people, we can find him before his followers kill again.”

Just then, Mann’s radio crackled. He reached down and turned up the volume. “Person breaking in. Thirty-eight forty-two Midvale Avenue. The suspect is a white male wearing a black suit and hat. Use caution, the occupant is a 369.”

“That’s Sandy’s house!” Mann said, snatching off the latex gloves he was wearing and running toward the back of the church.

Coletti was right behind him.

The media were like hungry jackals when the two detectives emerged from the church. But even as the reporters nipped at their heels, trying to bring them down in the midst of the pack, the detectives ignored the shouted questions and pushed the microphones aside. Quickly, they jumped into Coletti’s car and hung a U-turn on Cecil B. Moore Avenue.