When Craig rang the doorbell again, he saw someone peer at him through the glass panel beside the door. The door opened and a handsome young man stared at him.

“I got your pizza.”

“I didn’t order no pizza.”

Craig tried to look past him into the apartment and could see Boxerbaum through the open drapes at the rear glass doors.

“It’s the address I got. For William Milligan. That your name?”

“No”.

“Somebody from here phoned the order,” Craig said. “Who are you?”

“This is my friend’s apartment.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“He ain’t here right now.” He spoke in a dull, halting voice.

“Weil, where is he? Somebody ordered this pizza. Bill Milligan. This address.”

“I don’t know. The people next door know him. Maybe they can tell ya, or maybe they ordered it.”

“Would you show me?”

The young man nodded, walked to the door a few steps across from his own, knocked, and waited a few seconds and knocked again. There was no answer.

Craig dropped the pizza box, pulled his gun and pressed it into the back of the suspect’s head. “Freeze! I know you’re Milligan!” He snapped handcuffs on him.

The young man looked dazed. “What’s this for? I didn’t do nothing.”

Craig jabbed the gun between his shoulder blades, pulling Milligans long hair as if yanking on reins. “Lets get back inside.”

As Craig pushed him into the apartment, the other SWAT officers stormed in around him, guns leveled. Boxerbaum and Kleberg came around front to join them.

Nikki Miller had the I.D. picture out, showing a mole on Milligans neck. “He’s got the mole. Same face. Its him.”

They put Milligan in the red chair, and she noticed he stared straight ahead with a dazed, trancelike expression. Sergeant Dempsey bent and looked under the chair. “Here’s the gun,” he said, sliding it out with a pencil. “Nine-millimeter magnum. Smith and Wesson.”

A SWAT officer turned over the seat of the brown chair in front of the TV set and started to pick up a bullet clip and a plastic bag with ammunition, but Dempsey stopped him. ‘Hold it. We’ve got an arrest warrant, not a search warrant.” He turned to Milligan. “You want to let us go ahead and search?”

Milligan just stared blankly.

Kleberg, knowing he didn’t need a search warrant to check whether anyone else was in the other rooms, wandered into the bedroom and saw the brown jogging suit on the unmade bed. The place was a mess, laundry strewn all over the floor. He glanced inside the open walk-in closet, and there on the shelf neatly stacked, were credit cards belonging to Donna West and Carrie Dryer. Even scraps of paper taken from the women. The brown-tinted sunglasses and a wallet lay on the dresser.

He went to tell Boxerbaum what he’d seen, and found him in a dinette that had been converted into an artist’s studio.

“Look at this.” Boxerbaum pointed to a large painting of what seemed to be a queen or an eighteenth-century aristocratic lady dressed in a blue gown with lace trim, sitting beside a piano and holding sheet music. The detail was amazing, it was signed “Milligan.”