“I don’t think so, sir.” This time Mahler felt the shortness of his answer. He remembered Coyle’s two columns on that whiteboard, one for each girl. The spontaneous memorials at the crime scenes: candles, construction paper hearts, stuffed bears. The news footage of Susan Hart’s father, a thick, doughy-faced man, climbing to the podium at the funeral, unfolding a single sheet of paper, looking out at the faces, and the first thing from his mouth a cry of pain like an animal sound.

Truro broke the silence. “How’s the new girl, Eden Somers?”

“All right. Little young. Seems spooked.”

“Spooked?”

“You know, frightened.”

“Of what?”

Mahler shrugged.

“There’s so much in the world today to be frightened of, isn’t there? Maybe she’s afraid of you, Eddie. You’ve got a pretty stern demeanor.” Truro smiled at his own remark. “Well, she impressed the heck out of me when I interviewed her. Smart, well spoken. Bit unusual, though, for you to recommend someone outside the department, wasn’t it?”

“Not unprecedented. I thought we might get a fresh perspective.”

“Her FBI work was in serial killings. You see a need for that on your team? We average fewer than five homicides a year.”

“Apparently, she knows how to analyze a crime. I think we can use that.”

“You’re not being cagey with me, are you, Eddie? Some hidden agenda?”

“No, sir.”

“You wonder why someone leaves a position like that to come to a small city police department?”

“Could be a lot of reasons. What’s important is she might be able to help us.”

Truro peered at Mahler. “Speaking of backgrounds, I saw in your file you graduated from Princeton, joined the Army Rangers. Came back home to become a police officer?”

“Yes, sir. A long time ago.”

“Princeton’s a fine school.”

“I believe so.”

“You find this work fulfilling?”

“It has its rewards.”

Truro frowned and considered the empty surface of his desk. Mahler wondered if he was supposed to leave.

Truro looked up again. “I remember what I was going to tell you. Last month, when you were out to our house, you mentioned the de Young Museum down in the city. Sunday, Jen and I saw the Goya exhibit there. Francisco Goya. Know who I’m talking about? Eighteenth-century Spanish painter?”

“I’ve seen his paintings.”

“I had, too. But not close up. One painting caught our attention. ‘Corral de locos.’ Yard with Lunatics, I think is how it translates. Dark cell with mentally ill patients. In the foreground, two male patients wrestling each other.”

Mahler nodded. Where the hell was this going?

“Anyway, we’re in front of this painting, and Jen starts talking about the light. Apparently, you can understand what eighteenth-century artists were trying to represent if you pay attention to the quality of the light on the canvas.”