The earlier reports had been that a young resident of Queens, a woman clerk in a stylish boutique in SoHo, had been found dead in an access tunnel off the cellar. Well, Billy had thought, perplexed, it was hardly very stylish. Chinese crap, overpriced and meant for frothy-hair sluts from Jersey and mothers seared by the approach of middle age.

Initially Chloe’s name had not been released, pending notification of next of kin.

Hearing that, Billy had reflected: How sadistic can one cop be? To release the news that a young woman from Queens has been killed and not divulge the name? How many parents of kids living in that area had started making desperate phone calls?

Now, waiting for an update, all he got were commercials. Didn’t anyone care about poor Chloe Moore?

Chloe Moore, Chloe the whore …

He paced back and forth in front of his terrariums. White leaves, green leaves, red leaves, blue …

Then, as often happened when he looked over the plants who were his companions, he thought of Oleander.

And the Oleander Room.

Billy resented that that thought intruded but there was nothing to do about it. He could—

Ah, now the news. Finally.

A city council scandal, a minor train derailment, an economic report. Then, at last, a follow-up on Chloe Moore’s demise. Additional details were coughed up now, a bit of history. The facts suggested the attack was not sexual in nature. (Of course not; Billy was offended that the subject had even come up. The media. Despicable.) A rough description. So someone had spotted him near the manhole.

He listened as the story wound down.

Still nothing about tattooing. Nothing about poison.

That was typical, Billy knew. He’d read about police procedures in verifying confessions. The cops ask people taking credit for a crime certain unique details and, if they can’t answer, the supposed perpetrators are dismissed as crackpots (a surprising number of people confessed to crimes they hadn’t committed).

Nor had the story mentioned anything about the phrase ‘the second’.

But that would be a thorn in their sides, of course.

What on earth could the message be that their mysterious perp was sending?

The Modification Commandments required, however, that it would be impossible for the police to decipher his message from the first several victims.

He shut the radio off.

Billy yawned. Sleep soon. He checked email, sent some texts, received some, then two hums of the watches told him it was time to get some rest.

When he was through in the bathroom, where he cleaned the basin and toothbrush with bleach – banishing the DNA once more – he returned to his bed, flopping down in it. He tugged his Bible from under the pillow and propped it on his chest.