Chapter 7

Cartier, June 12

The next morning she had Richard drop her at a clothing store while he took the Cougar for an oil change.  As soon as he drove away, she went next door to make a credit card purchase she could ill afford and then hurried back to the clothing store to wait for him.  She was picking through a sale rack of sweaters when she saw Mic standing near the entrance.  Clinging to him was a girl whose wavy brown hair fell to the small of her back.  Her abbreviated tank top lacked several inches reaching the pants riding low on her hips.  Jill judged her at no more than eighteen.

Retreating further into the store so that they wouldn't see her, she put a rack of pantsuits between them and herself.  The girl was examining a tray of scarves when Mic slid his hand to her bare midriff.  She covered it with her own and arched back into him, closing her eyes at his touch.  When he slid his hand higher, she twisted away, finally becoming embarrassed. 

It is about time, thought Jill.

Mic was having none of it.  He spun her back around and drew her to him.  When he kissed her she melted into his embrace.  Then he slid his hands down her narrow waist and over the flare of her hips.  He cupped her buttocks, pulled her against him, and then looked directly into Jill's eyes and winked.

The girl shook her head and put her hands to his chest, trying to extricate herself, but he took her by the nape of her neck and kissed her playfully on the tip of her nose, then on her cheek, then at the corner of her mouth.  She tilted back, offering him her parted lips.  Instead of kissing her, he leaned back to watch her face as his hand moved up under her blouse.

"Don't!" she whispered harshly, trying to twist away.

"You don't want me to quit," he said, grasping her wrists and pinning them behind her.

"Please Mic!"

He pulled her roughly to him.  This time when she struggled he released her abruptly and she stumbled backward, nearly upsetting a rack of skirts.  Mic took no notice as she left the store.  Instead he walked slowly toward Jill.  Her eyes frantically swept the store.  No one seemed to have noticed, and no one was near.  She tried to stem the rising panic by telling herself that he couldn't do anything to her in such a public place.  He advanced on her with a smug smile, pleased with himself and enjoying the moment.

"She'll be back, Jill," he said softly, almost whispering.  "Know why?"

He had obviously staged the scene because of her, but she was determined not to play his sick game.

"I'll tell you why," he continued.  "You women like that little unpredictable thing I have.  You don't know exactly what I might do to you, and that's a real rush.  You really get off on it, don't you?"

She had been unconsciously retreating.  Now her back was against the wall and racks of clothes hemmed her in.

"I know a secret," he said in a conspiratorial tone.  "When I was feeling up Denise, you felt my hands on you, didn't you?"

Jill forced herself to breath evenly.  "If you touch me, I will scream," she said as calmly as she could manage.

He laughed.

"Moan maybe," he said softly. 

Jill flinched away as he reached to brush her cheek.

"You want it," he said, shifting his gaze to her blouse.  "Admit it."

Jill tried to keep from breathing deeply.

"They all come back to me, Jill," he said, his smile fading to a stare.  "And they all end up doing exactly what I want."

"Leave us alone, Mic," she said, trying to sound unintimidated.

"Us?  Oh yeah, I noticed the ring."

He hooked a finger into the top of her blouse before she realized what was happening.  He tugged gently as if he were about to pull it down or rip it open.  The insolent vulgarity paralyzed her.  Before she could recover enough to knock his hand away, he let the fabric slip from his fingertip and stepped back.

"I'd like to attend your wedding, but things are a little tense between me and Ricky.  You might be able to soothe things, if you know what I mean."

Her mind wouldn't work well enough for her to think of an appropriate reply.  For a moment she thought he would hit her with his fist as he had the boy in the parking lot.

"Tell you what," he said.  "You just give me a call if I can do anything for you."

Without waiting for her to reply, he turned and strolled from the store.

Jill took a deep breath and closed her eyes in relief.

I should have spit in his face, she thought angrily.

She sat chewing her lip on the way back to the apartment, trying to understand why Mic had abandoned his pretense of friendship.

"What's wrong?" asked Richard.

"I was just thinking."

"Yeah.  Something's really bothering you.  Want to talk about it?"

"If I tell you, then you must promise that you will do nothing until we agree that it is the right thing to do."

"He did something, didn't he?" he asked in alarm.

"Promise."

"Okay," he said quickly.

"No," she replied.  "You must promise first."

"I said Okay."

"And I know what this Okay means."

"All right.  I promise.  Now tell me."

Studying his reactions carefully, she gave him a greatly expurgated account of what had happened.

"Did he touch you?"

"No," she said, which was a blatant lie except in the most literal sense.

Richard drove in silence clenching and unclenching his jaw, knuckles white on the wheel, as he wondered what was coming next from Mic.  When he pulled to the curb in front of the house he finally spoke.

"Go in and call Marta," he said calmly.  "If she's home tell her we're coming over."

Jill made no move to comply.

"Give me the car keys first," she said.

"You're trying to protect me from myself," he said, turning off the ignition and handing over the keys.  "You go call her.  I just need to sit here and think.  Honestly, I wasn't going to go anywhere."

"If you do anything without consulting with me then there is no reason for me to stay," she said as she got out of the car.  "You understand this, do you not?"

"I understand."

He needed more than time to think and he needed advice, but his first priority was Jill's safety.  By the time she got back to the car, Richard had decided what he wanted to do.

"She was at home, and she said we should come over."

"Do you think you could convince her to go with us if we took a long weekend out of town?" he asked as soon as they were on the road.

"Why?"

"I don't want him bothering her to find out where we are.  He did that when we were on Bonne Femme."

Involving Marta might be a mistake, but Mic's escalating and unpredictable behavior made Richard suspect that she was already in danger.  Taking her along was the only way he knew to insure her safety.

Besides, he reasoned, just because he can't find any of us doesn't mean he'll know we're together.

"Where will we go?" asked Jill, relieved that Richard hadn't insisted on confronting Mic immediately.

"To visit Kevin."

"The friend you wrote of in the note?"

"Yes, and there's a lady in South Bend I'd like to talk too---if she'll see me.  Doctor Laurel Senter.  She's a psychologist."

"Your psychiatrist?"

"I don't have a psychiatrist.  She did a workshop when I was with the sheriff's department.  Great lecturer."

"What was her topic?" asked Jill apprehensively.

"The Pathology of Stranger Homicide, an exposition of a monograph of the same title."

"Stranger homicide?"

"An old term for serial killings."

It sounded unreal to her, verging on the ridiculous.  People didn't encounter serial killers in real life.  Then again people didn't get abducted in real life either, and if they did, they certainly didn't move in with their abductors or go on vacations with them.

"Mic is just a bully," she said without conviction.

"He's a sociopath," he said.  "He's all about him---all about his own gratification regardless of what it does to others."

"It is difficult to believe," she said.  "I can believe some of it I think, but killing?"

"Rose Ford is gone, Jill.  I know he's at the bottom of that."

They drove in silence for a moment.

"Jill, I'll admit that we don't know what he is, if anything.  But what we do know is disturbing:  his love of violence, his fascination with death, his attitude toward women."

"I do not know about this fascination with death, but I saw how much he enjoyed beating that young man."  She examined her experiences with Mic, remembering things she should have taken note of long before she did.  "He does not like women, but he understands how to manipulate them.  I was a fool to stay with him as long as I did."

Richard was reluctant to say anything.

"I hate him," she said softly.

He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her.  In profile her small jaw was set, as she looked straight ahead.

"I want the pistol," she said.  "I need it when I am alone.  I will shoot him if I must defend myself."

Richard knew the pistol would provide nothing but reassurance.  Mic would never be afraid of Jill even if she were armed and determined because he would not believe that any woman could get the best of him.  He would be right.  Jill would hesitate because that's what people do who aren't psychopaths.

"Why do you wish to speak to this psychiatrist?" she asked suddenly.

"Psychologist," he corrected.  "Doctor Senter might help me anticipate his actions."

"It is we who need to anticipate him, not only you," she said.  "And why are we going to see your friend, Kevin?"

"To keep the two of you out of harm's way, until I can . . . until we can think of what to do next.  Besides, I'd like you to meet Kevin, and I'd like to thank him for helping me."

It took a moment for the last part of his explanation to sink in.

"He mailed the card for you," she said softly.  "He helped you kidnap me!"

"No.  It's not like that.  He mailed the postcard," he said.  "But he didn't know anything about you or what I was doing."

"How could he not know that you were doing something wrong."

"He trusted me."

"Then he is a fool."

"No.  He told me right off that if I committed a crime he'd go straight to the police and tell them what I asked him to do.  He made a joke about me having him set up an alibi.  I assured him that I just didn't want Mic to know where I was going."

"Would he have really gone to the police?"

"He'd turn me in."

"You made him an accomplice.  What would have happened if you were arrested and they found out that he had helped you?"

"I would never have let it come to that.  If you turned me in, I would have confessed everything.  No way would I let Kevin take any of the blame."

Jill wondered what sort of man would trust Richard enough to jeopardize his own freedom.  She also had trusted Richard, but only his intentions, not his judgment.

"How could he trust you enough to do such a thing?"

"You find out who you can trust in combat.  We were in Somalia together."

"And the psychiatrist in---where is it?"

"South Bend, and she's a behavioral psychologist."

"And you think she will help you understand the way Mic thinks?"

"If she doesn't just think I'm imagining things."

Until today Jill had thought so too.

"He enjoyed terrifying me," she said.  "Why would he do that?  I did nothing to him."

"I think he did it because I told JR about him and Rose Ford."

Jill saw again the glint in Mic's eyes when he had her trapped at the back of the store.

"When I was feeling up Denise, you felt my hands on you, didn't you?" she heard him say.

"No, Richard.  This was about me today."

She fingered her ring nervously as she thought about it.

"What's that?" he asked, as he noticed the small diamond.

"Camouflage," she said, raising her chin.  "It is to deceive Marta.  I explained moving in with you by telling her that we are engaged.  I bought it today.  We will talk of it no more."

"You could just tell her the truth."

"No, Richard.  I cannot.  All this is incomprehensible.  Even now I am not certain that I know what is happening.  All I know is that I am afraid of him, and I am not afraid of you.  That I am . . . cooperating with you should be enough for you."

"It is."

"It is a charade, Richard.  Nothing more.  More will never be possible."

June 13

Richard drove on through the long night, fighting intermittent rain showers, slogging through two intense thunderstorms, and making terrible time.  Jill promised to keep him company, but fell asleep around three.  He glimpsed Marta in the rearview sleeping in the corner of the backseat.  He regretted widening the circle, but Marta was probably already in it, and Kevin could take care of himself once alerted.  He was removing Marta from Mic's reach while they were out of town because he suspected that she would become a target when his designs on Jill were frustrated.  But he was only guessing, which was why he needed to talk to Doctor Senter.

Flashes of lightening still lit the sky and deep, muted thunder rolled in waves covering the road noise, evoking memory of another rainstorm in a place not far enough away.

Not tonight.  I've got enough to worry about, he tried to tell his subconscious.  Why speculate on the condition of man's collective soul, if there is such a thing?

Richard set his jaw and drove on, dodging gloomy thoughts and morose regrets.  Finally, he settled on daydreaming his way through the interview with Laurel Senter, and his upcoming conversation with Kevin.

Covington, Indiana

At six-thirty Richard pulled up the driveway, steering around windfalls of small branches the storm had brought down.  He had tried to call a half hour earlier, but his cell phone had no service.  Kevin, wearing faded khaki dockers, a white tee shirt, and scuffed running shoes stood on the carport of a blonde brick ranch-style house.  When he ran down the window, a moist, chill breeze made his gritty eyes water.

"Hell of a night, huh?" asked Kevin.

"Rain and wind most of the way down," said Richard, suppressing a yawn.

Jill straightened at the sound of his voice.

"Come on in.  Margie's got breakfast started," said Kevin as Richard got out.  "We can bring in your stuff later. 

Jill came around the car, followed by Marta.

Kevin smiled his enigmatic smile as he extended his hand.

"Hi, I'm Kevin."

"I am Jill and this is my friend, Marta.  It is my pleasure to meet you, Kevin."

She felt like a child shaking hands with an adult.  His hand enveloped hers.  He was tall and muscular, but too heavy.  She made a quick estimate of one hundred and thirty kilos.

"The pleasure is mine," he replied, his blue eyes twinkling brightly.  His voice was large man gentle.

"Nice to meet you too, ma'am," he said offering Marta his hand.  "I hope you're all hungry.  Margie started cooking as soon as you pulled in the drive."

Kevin's sister, a trim woman in her early thirties, mothered them through breakfast.  She was a recent widow, having lost her truck driver husband two years earlier when his Kenworth piled up with over fifty other vehicles in a fog-bound valley in eastern Tennessee.  Like her husband, Kevin was an independent trucker, and the young widow ran a sort of base camp for her younger brother.  It gave them both a home life of sorts.

After breakfast Jill and Marta insisted on helping Margie with the dishes, which she reluctantly allowed, although obviously pleased to have the company.  Richard and Kevin walked out to the back yard and sat at a picnic table.  Kevin slid a cigarette out of its pack and began the ritual of tamping it on the side of his zippo before lighting up.

"Margie wants me to quit," he explained.  "So I compromise by not smoking in the house."

"Kind of missing the point, don't you think?" said Richard.

The gentle chiding elicited only the noncommittal shrug of an addicted smoker.

"Willie Boy know you're here?" asked Kevin.

"I don't confide in him."

"He came down in May right after I got back from a run to California.  Just drove up one day and asked if I knew where you were.  Said he needed to find you to make amends for a fight you two had over a girl.  Said you'd both been drinking and things were said that shouldn't have been."

"More or less true only I wasn't drinking.  I already told you about it."

Kevin exhaled a plume of smoke.

"I told him I hadn't seen you in over a year, but he didn't believe me."  He looked speculatively at Richard.  "You know you kind of led me to believe this with the girl was some kind of good Samaritan thing, but it's not like that, is it?"

"We're engaged."

Richard's lack of emotion puzzled him, but he didn't ask the question it brought to mind.  His code of manly conduct didn't emphasize a true confessions variety of sensitivity.  Men might skim such things; they didn't dive in.

"Why did you bring the other girl along?"

"She's Jill's best friend, and I didn't know what he might do while we were gone."

"So what's he done to spook you like this?"

"He might have killed a woman in Cartier.  A woman named Rose Ford disappeared while Jill and I were out of town.  Until I told a friend of mine in the sheriff's department about it, no one knew that Mic had been seeing her.  After JR questioned him---I mean the very next day---he cornered Jill and scared the hell out of her.  Earlier he beat the hell out of this kid in front of the girls."

"Bar fight?"

"Parking lot.  And he didn't even know the boy.  He cornered Jill in a clothing store yesterday.  I don't know what he said or did because she won't tell me all of it."

"That sounds like our boy," said Kevin, flicking the cigarette away and rubbing his chin.  "You say this woman disappeared.  Any idea how many missing persons there are in this country?"

"Yeah.  I looked it up on the Internet.  There's enough that the police wouldn't get anything else done if they tried looking for all of them."

"Richard," said Kevin carefully.  "You know it is possible that he really didn't do anything to that woman.  And maybe the rest of it is just him trying to get back at you for stealing his girl and then setting the cops on him."

He saw Richard grimace.

"Hey, buddy.  If a friend can't tell you the truth, who can?"

"I thought the last time we talked you agreed that he was capable of it."

"That was in the Mog," said Kevin, obviously struggling to consider the possibility.  "This is different."

"What's the difference?  If he murdered that girl we found him with after the firefight then he could do it here.  She was black and we were in a war zone, but murder is murder, isn't it?"

Kevin considered it as he shook another cigarette from the pack and lit up.

"We heard him make a racist joke about the dead girl.  We didn't see him do anything."

"We saw plenty.  He liked looking at bodies, especially female bodies."

"So he's a sick, callous bastard.  Everyone was callous over there but you."

"None of the rest of us acted like he did," Richard insisted.

"And yet you hang out with the guy."  Kevin nodded solemnly before continuing.  "So let's get to the nut-cutting.  Why are you here?"

"I need advice for now.  Later, I may need a favor."

"I'm not going to help you do anything crazy, Richard."

"All I want is for you to look after Jill if something happens to me."

"Like getting arrested?"

"Or getting dead."

Kevin looked at him sharply, and then shook his head.

"Stop being so melodramatic."

"I'm serious.  I need to know that you'll see to her safety if something happens to me."

"Okay.  I promise," said Kevin quickly.

It was disappointing that his friend didn't take him seriously, but Richard knew Kevin would keep his promise anyway.  He pushed up from the picnic table.

"I need to make a call up to South Bend, and for some reason I don't seem to have cell phone service here.  Can I run up your long distance bill?"

"Call anyone you like.  Just don't leave me any nine hundred number charges," cracked Kevin.  "It would be hard to explain to Margie."

A little after noon Richard finally convinced a secretary to put his call through to Senter, who only reluctantly agreed to give him a few minutes the following day.  The afternoon gave way to salutary idleness approaching normality.  Kevin, a natural raconteur, entertained the girls with humorous stories that ran from the wry to the absurd, while Margie played hostess.  They enjoyed her cookies and talked deep into the night when the time to retire made Margie seek for the proper words to ask about the sleeping arrangements.  Kevin, however, solved the delicate problem with his usual cut-to-the-nub approach.

"There are only three bedrooms," he said.  "So who gets these and the couch?"

"That would be me," said Richard, raising his hand.

"Semper fi, old buddy," said Kevin, tossing the bedclothes to him.  "Jill, you and Marta bunk in the bedroom at the end of the hall."

Jill lingered after the rest went down the hallway to their respective bedrooms.

"Is something wrong?" asked Richard.

She shook her head and sat down on the couch beside him..

"I like your friend," she said.

"Kevin's a good guy.  He's going to take care of you if something happens to me."

"Do not let anything happen, Richard."

"I don't intend to."

When she didn't respond, he looked at her quizzically.

"You're sure there's not something wrong?"

"I am trying to act appropriately.  We are supposed to be engaged, are we not?  How would it appear if we did not take time to say goodnight?"

"Right.  Well goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Richard.  Thank you for trying to care of me.  I have never had that before except, of course, for my Aunt Mirabelle---and that is only when I am a child."

 

South Bend, June 14

Jill suggested that she and Marta search county and local law enforcement websites as well as online newspaper morgues.  She thought that Mic's hometown newspaper might be available on the Internet, but she cautioned him not to expect much.  Research had taught her that most newspaper morgues consisted of poorly organized stacks of incomplete back issues.  The smaller the town the more likely it was that they had yet to be converted to microfiche much less to computer file.

Doctor Laurel Senter's dark brown eyes appraised him coolly.  Conservatively dressed in a gray suit sans jewelry, she exuded the air of competence and confidence he remembered.  The curve of her jaw clenched slightly just below the ends of her straight blond hair as her small hand grasped his firmly.

"I don't mean to be rude Mr. Carter," she said brusquely, "But tell me why I should speak with you?"

"I need to understand a man I suspect of a series of crimes."

Still standing, she let the silence drag a beat.

"Your deputy friend tells me that you are not with the department.  This is an unofficial investigation?"

"Yes," he said.

He caught her none-too-subtle look of annoyance.

"But a woman this man had a relationship with is missing.  I think he killed her, and I think there may be others."

"You think you've discovered a serial killer," she said with mild exasperation.

"I didn't say that."

"Mr. Carter, it's more than likely that you are the victim of an overactive imagination.  Believe me, it happens all the time."

"Dr. Senter, I need the benefit of your knowledge.  I do appreciate you taking time to see me, and you don't need to worry about me pestering you."  Fearing that she was about to dismiss him, he hurried on.  "When I attended your presentation last summer in Chicago, I got the impression that you have a passion for sharing your insights."

"I don't encourage amateur sleuthing.  To do so would be unethical.

Fearing that she was coming to the end of her patience, he hurried on.  "But I need to know---"

"You've seen too many movies, Mr. Carter," she sighed.  "I'm getting to hate the term profiler.  I'm a psychologist, not a fortune teller, and despite what you've read, neither I nor anyone else can tell you a lot about the personality of a person based on someone else's impressions of him, especially if that individual is as biased as I fear you may be."

"I know that ma'am.  But I've had some training in investigation, admittedly not enough, and if you'll bear with me a moment, I'd like to tell you about him.  I'll skip the impressions and relate only the things I've personally seen and heard."

"Sit," she said in exasperation.  "I guess I can give you a few minutes."

As objectively and succinctly as he could, Richard told her about Mic's interrogation in Somalia, about his molesting the dead girl, and about his humiliating treatment of Rose Ford.  Senter listened intently without interrupting.

"If what you have described is based in reality rather than fantasy, then this man's behavior is disturbing.  But I fear you've contracted a rather common first year psychology student malady---I call it jumping to diagnosis."

"Ma'am, this guy's actions aren't inkblots into which I have projected a meaning.  What I've told you is actual, concrete, observations.  I saw him torture a girl in Somalia.  I saw him molest another girl's body.  Let's stick with those things and leave my suspicions aside."

She smiled, but only briefly.

"Okay.  Where to start?  Those two incidents are sexual in nature.  What do you know about the motivation of sex offenders?"

"That it's not about sex, it's about power, right?"

"Wrong," she said grimly.  "It's about sex and power.  It's about sexual frustration and generalized hatred for women.  An inability to form healthy relationships sometimes leads to a lust for violent, forceful sex.  Mostly it's about ego, about compensating for feelings of insignificance.  They think they are important but that no one recognizes them as important.  Each person they destroy makes them feel more powerful for a time, but doesn't solve the underlying feeling.  That makes them more destructive.  They feed on their destruction, and constantly fantasize about doing it better."

She frowned in concentration before continuing.

"The sadism and necrophilia are classic behaviors.  They tell us that he needs complete control.  He humiliates, terrorizes, and inflicts pain to prove to himself that he is powerful.  Perhaps he's even taking vengeance.  The cliché---that he hates his mother, is not out of the realm of possibility.  The necrophilia suggests a preference for post mortem sex."

"Why?"

"It makes him feel supremely powerful.  Remember, he needs to control her.  How much more under his control could she be than when he has turned her into a mere vessel?"

"But she's no longer even a person," he said.

"She never was."

"Thank God such men are rare," he said.

"Not so rare, Mr. Carter.  When Berlin fell at the end of the Second World War, Russian soldiers hunted down and raped German women for days.  Japanese soldiers did the same thing in Nanking.  Do you really think Russians and the Japanese are so very different from other men?  Rape has always been common during war.  They are enemy women, you see.  So it is justified."

"Most men wouldn't do that," he objected.

"True.  Most are normal in that they can control their behavior, even if they can't control their urges."

"You think most men are tempted to do those things?"

She shrugged.

"I'm not a man, but from what I've seen, I think many are."

Noticing his dubious expression, she continued.

"I volunteer to help the victims of abusive relationships.  You would not believe how common they are.  Few men actually beat their wives and girlfriends, but many intimidate and verbally abuse them.  This is grossly underreported.  Although these things are but pale shadows of the sexual predator they share a common thread.  They do it to make themselves feel powerful.  So," she said, rising to signal the end of the meeting.  "If what you told me is true, then this man bares watching.  The urge is there even if he has never acted it out.  Tell your friend the deputy that."

"Wait.  There's one other thing in I saw in Somalia," he said.  "I didn't tell you before because it didn't involve an action that I witnessed.  It was in the nature of a scene I found him in."

"Go on, but make it quick," she said, sitting again.

"We went looking for him after a firefight, and found him sitting in a doorway smoking.  Not five feet away was the bound body of another woman.  She was strangled with an electric cord."

"Well it was a savage place, wasn't it?" she said.  "Rival militias fighting for control.  Perhaps it was an execution."

"That's what he said at the time, but it wasn't.  Executions were by bullet behind the ear---beheading if they really wanted to make a point."

"Describe the scene then," she said.

"It was a trashed building, abandoned, and looted.  She was fully clothed . . . on her side . . . angled toward the door . . . ankles and wrists tied together at the small of her back . . . insulated wire twisted . . . embedded in her neck."

He paused, feeling sick.

"Tell me about the ligatures.  How was she restrained?  Be specific, especially about the knots."

"Nylon?  I think it might have been parachute cord," he said, forcing himself to recall the details.  "The wrists and ankles were tied separately, then wound together with several loops binding them into a . . . I remember thinking that the pale palms and soles looked like a grotesque bouquet.  That sounds awful, doesn't it?"

"The mind seeks images to explain things that are beyond our normal experience.  You have a vivid imagination," she said distractedly, her mind obviously more on the scene than Richard's feelings.  "And the garrote---you said insulated wire?"

"Yes."

He cleared his throat.  "It was . . . uh . . . twisted like a tourniquet . . . a broken chair leg was used.  He stood behind her to do it."

"Yes, of course.  She would have been on her knees," said Senter, her voice clinical.  "Near the door.  He wanted to see her better.  So we don't know if there was a sexual assault, but the crime was definitely sexual in nature.  There were elements of ritual and a displayed body.  Fully clothed, you say?"

When he nodded, Senter frowned in concentration.

"Where was this man you suspect?"

"Sitting in the doorway not five feet away from her . . . smoking a cigarette as if nothing had happened."

"Facing her?"

"No, sitting sideways so that he could watch the street and also see her."

"An assumption," she said dismissively.  "Mr. Carter, if you suspected him at the time---"

"I didn't.  It's not the sort of thing you would suspect, is it?  I mean it doesn't seem like the sort of thing someone you know could do."

"Why, after all this time, do you suspect him now?"

"Because of what he's doing."

Senter shifted in her chair.

"Now you're ready to tell me what this is really about?"

"I need to anticipate him so that I can stop him."

"I think we're through here, Mr. Carter.  I consult with professionals, people who are emotionally detached from the person or crime they are investigating.  You are neither.  The only reason I even agreed to see you is because I think we owe the boys like you who we send in harms way."

"Doctor Senter.  I need something besides my ignorance and fear."

"You are trying to protect someone," she said.  "That's obvious.  It's also obvious that it is a woman.  Is this some sort of male competition?"

"Not on my part," he said.

"Shell down the corn, Mr. Carter.  Fill me in on the personal aspect of this whole thing."

Richard told her about Jill's violent breakup with Mic, about the subsequent fight and threat, the beating in the parking lot, and what Jill had told him of the incident in the clothing store.  Afterward, she sat looking at him skeptically.

"That's it?"

"You don't find his behavior disturbing?"

"Of course.  If I accept what you say, but you are obviously emotionally involved, and I suspect that you are exaggerating.  It wouldn't be the first time.  Since the term ‘serial killer' became a household word, you would not believe the number of tips the police receive about them from perfectly sincere and well-meaning citizens."

"Bear with me a moment, Dr. Senter," he said.  "The original term was stranger killers, because strangers are the preferred targets, right?"

"You can't go killing a series of people you have personal connections to or you'll get caught," she said.

"Right.  They're too smart for that."

"Don't give them too much credit," she said.  "The myth about criminal genius is just that.  Popular drama tends to depict the typical serial killer as extremely bright.  Some are, but most fall in the lower range of normal intelligence.  They get away with multiple murders because they move around and have no connection with their victims.  They're more wary than smart."

"Wouldn't intimidating people they know be atypical?"

"Very.  Although a first victim often is someone they know.  That's why finding the first victim is so important for the investigator."

"I think his first victim may have been a high school classmate, and the last one was a female acquaintance, which, from what I understand would make him atypical.  What I need to know is if it is totally unprecedented for one of these people to specialize in people he knows?  And he likes to intimidate people.  Is that consistent behavior for the type?"

She shifted in her chair, and inclined her head the way a teacher might.

"Well, first I'll point out that a normal person's actions aren't always consistent.  Secondly, intimidation is abuse.  It is control in the extreme, psychological rather than physical, but these guys are all about the psychological because they live in their imagination.  The most serious objection to your idea, however, is that it strays so far from the norm.  A stranger killer well into his career invariably chooses victims almost at random.  He gets better at the job with experience.  He makes less mistakes, becomes more sophisticated.  Usually it is only in the initial stages that there is a personal connection."

"What attracts them to a particular victim?"

"Often there is a type they're looking for:  petite blondes, tall brunettes, timid women.  Other than that, it's random.  They troll for candidates and strike when they find a vulnerability."

Jill and Rose had nothing in common that he could think of.

"If he knows the intended target is on to him shouldn't that make him seek a different victim?"

"It should."

"Well, this guy's not going away.  In fact he's getting more threatening."

"Doesn't that make you doubt your diagnosis?"

"Maybe.  But tell me, could one of these men ever satisfy himself with purely psychological terror?"

She considered the idea a moment.

"An interesting question.  Instinctively I would say no, unless, of course, he were in the initial stages of his career.  On the other hand, it would be arrogant to think we've seen every variation.  They often lead public lives that seem quite normal: loving husband and father, nice neighbor, good co-worker.  So, they are capable of leading split lives.  Some are seriously motivated and quite accomplished in both of their lives.  So I don't see why one of these guys, even if he's well into his career, couldn't also engage in the sort of behavior you describe, not as a substitute for his normal activity, but as a parallel enterprise just because it is part of his personality."

She paused for a moment and frowned in concentration.

"The motive would have to be a strong one for him to spare the time and concentration to plan and execute something like that . . . something to do with his ego."

Senter had become intrigued with the possibility.  It was something she hadn't considered, and she was enough of an academic to pursue it.

"He would have to escalate the intimidation in order to gain sufficient satisfaction, and then the pressure for him to handle it in his normal way could override caution," she said distantly.  "It could easily spin out of his control."

‘Cassville, Missouri' had produced nothing of value.  The query for ‘Barry County' produced a menu of county office websites, none of which contained helpful information.  Jill did, however, discover the name of the local paper.  Unfortunately the daily had no on-line resources.  After printing out the addresses of the county offices and that of the newspaper, she logged off.

"Are you through?" asked Marta.

"Not yet," she said as she called up a list of Missouri newspapers.

"What are you trying to find?"

"Newspaper accounts of a crime Mic may have committed when he was boy," she said.  "Richard thinks that Mic is capable of . . . more than just beating someone up."

"You do not have to find evidence of that," said Marta.  "I have seen how jealous and angry he is.  In my country, men often kill each other because of honor.  I don't mean it is a common thing or happens every day or anything like that.  But to kill a man over a woman, it happens."

"We need the evidence because Richard wants the police to investigate Mic.  If that happens, Mic may leave us alone."

She logged into a Springfield paper and pulled up thumbnails from the morgue for the years 1987 to 1990.

"Mic always is angry," said Marta.  "He came to my house when you and Richard are away.  He thinks I lie when say I do not know where you are."

"Stay away from him," Jill said, distractedly as she typed in her credit card number and ordered two articles downloaded.

"Jill, why did you not tell me before you and Richard went away?"

"You received an e-mail," said Jill, technically avoiding a lie.

"Yes.  It is not like you.  I know that you are . . . private?  You do not say personal things.  I expect you to call me, and when you do not I say, ‘This is not like my friend, Jill.'"

"There is nothing to tell, Marta.  I got . . . involved with Richard, and Mic was still bothering me, so we decided to go away for a while until . . . I was sure and . . ."

Jill trailed off, not knowing how to end her complicated lie.  She printed out one of the thumbnails.

"Yes.  And now you are sure because you are going to marry him."

Jill pretended not to recognize her friend's implicit request to fill in the blanks for her.

"Let us see what we find in West Virginia," she said, trying to avoid the subject.

"What is it that you are not sure of when you go away?" Marta persisted.

Jill found the county in which Glenville was located, and logged onto its website.  It was obvious that Marta was intent on getting answers.

"I was not sure how I felt about him," said Jill, truthfully.

"I worried about you, because you go away with him so quickly.  When I receive the e-mail that you go away with him, I say, ‘this is very strange.  A naïve young girl goes away with a man, not my friend, Jill.'  But your message says I am wrong.  So it must be so."

Jill printed out the addresses of the county offices, and then called up the website of the Charleston newspaper.

"I would have contacted you, but we did not want to let Mic know where we were, so we decided not to contact anyone.  Actually, it was impossible.  There were no phones out . . . in the desert."

"It is difficult to believe."

"What is?" asked Jill, feigning disinterest, but afraid that her clumsy lie was unraveling.

"That you do not see it from the beginning that he is in love with you.  I see the way he looks at you, but you do not notice.  He is the nice guy, but you like el macho.  You are my friend so I do not say nothing, but I think it is a shame."

"I was blind."

It struck her that it was the first truthful thing she had said.

"So.  Cuando es la boda?  Do you and Richard marry before Alberto and me?"

"We have not discussed a wedding---I mean the date," stammered Jill.

"Can you go to the desk and pick up our printouts while I finish up here?" she asked, hoping the task would distract Marta from the fictional engagement.

Senter had confirmed his initial intuitive assessment:  Mic would continue his game, whatever it was, until forced to abandon it by fear of getting caught.

"Doctor," he said, getting to his feet.  "You've been very generous with your time.  Thanks for seeing me."

She grasped his extended hand and held it firmly.

"That was my choice, but listen to me carefully, young man.  What we've discussed today is only theoretical.  You need to maintain a clear distinction between what you know and what you only suspect.  Now, I'm writing up notes on our meeting today.  Before you leave I want the name of this man we've been discussing theoretically."

"William McCulloch Boyd."

"Very well.  If anything suddenly happens to Mr. Boyd, I will share everything that was said here today with the appropriate authorities.  Do you understand?"

"I wouldn't expect anything else, ma'am.  Don't worry.  I have no intentions of taking the law into my own hands."

"There's no such thing.  When you take it into your own hands, it stops being the law."

They met in the lobby of the library just after five.  The drive back to Covington would take a couple of hours, so they hit a fast food place.  Jill and Marta shared one side of a booth, corralling the contents of their pita pockets while Richard ate a more sensibly crafted burger.

"How was the interview?" asked Jill.

"Dr. Senter is an interesting lady," he said vaguely.  "It was good of her to see me."

"I could not get copies of news articles from Cassville," she said.  "The nearest online newspaper was from Springfield.  The account gives little information that you did not already have.  In West Virginia, the Charleston paper has a regular column in its weekend edition called Around the State.  I found two references to Glenville, but I don't know how useful they are.  We made copies."

Jill took neatly folded sheets of paper from her purse and handed them to him.  He scanned the articles from Missouri and shuffled them to the bottom of the stack to read the Glenville articles.  The first, dated three years ago, concerned the discovery of what the paper called a rolling meth lab, a van containing anhydrous ammonia and cases of a non-prescription sinus drug along with jury-rigged chemistry equipment.  He slipped it to the back and read the second, dated six months later than the first, the story of the murder-suicide of a Glenville doctor and his wife.  Details were sketchy, consisting only of the names, and the implication that jealousy had precipitated the violence.  He refolded them, hiding his disappointment, and handed them back.

"Any missing persons cases or unsolved murders that made state news?"

"Yes, but none mentioned this Glenville," she said.  "I should have written them down.  It is the first rule of research."

"You did great for the amount of time you had.  I'll take a closer look later if you can access them when we get home."

"Richard, you know that police reports are available online?"

"Actual reports or summaries?"

"I am not sure, but you may also obtain the complete criminal record of any person in the country all the way back to 1928, but there is a fee and one must provide the name and social security number of the person one wishes to know about."

"From online detective agencies?"

"Yes.  They will also gather all the public records on a person, but it takes them two to three weeks.  They also can gather all the police reports for a city or county for an extended time span, but this is expensive I think."

"Can you find that site again?"

"A child can find it," she said as she rewrapped the remains of her pita and placed it on the tray preparatory to leaving.

He gathered the food litter and dumped it on the way out.

"Did you read the article about the doctor in Glenville?" she asked.

"The murder-suicide?  I scanned it."

"He left a suicide note accusing his wife of a liaison.  Isn't that odd?"

"I'm not following you," he said.

"If he loves her so much that he kills himself afterwards, then how could he bring himself to kill her?"

Murder-suicide was a poor fit for men compelled to violence against women, so Richard couldn't see how it had any relevance to their research.

"It's probably about him, not her," he said.  "It's hideously selfish.  So is suicide to a lesser extent."

"Maybe he killed her because she betrayed him," she ventured.  "Then perhaps he cannot live with his guilt."

"Maybe he just couldn't live with the prospect of jail," he said, handing her the keys.  "Can you drive us back?  I'm beat.  I think I'll just lay in the back seat and rest."

The old Cougar rode smoothly, only the road noise betraying its advanced age as Jill cruised slightly above the speed limit to match the pace of traffic.  She steered south through the darkening day while Richard slept and Marta looked at the Indiana countryside.

"This is a large country," said Jill.  "In Europe we would already have passed through several towns.  There is still so much space here."

"And like a garden.  One sees all these fields of maize," responded Marta.  "Everything is so green like parts of my country.  We have much space also.  Pero hay mucho que no sirve para nada.  Come se dice?  Much is not worth nothing, like the land you and Richard visit on your . . . vacation."

Never comfortable with lying to her friend, Jill now thought it was time to give Marta a slightly more truthful account, omitting the fact that she had been abducted of course.

"About that trip," she began.  "We actually didn't . . . "

"What time is it?" interrupted Richard suddenly.  "And where are we?"

"It's nearly eight-thirty," said Jill.  "We just passed the exit to Jonesboro."

"Good, we'll be at Kevin's by a little after dark."

"How long is that?" asked Marta.

"About an hour," he answered.

"Can we stop at the next service station?" she asked.

Richard got out to take over the driving while Marta was in the restroom.

"Jill.  I don't think it would be a good idea to tell Marta about Bonne Femme."

"You were only pretending to sleep!  You were listening all the time," she whispered accusingly.

"I actually just woke up about the time you were going to tell her."

"I do not like lies, Richard.  Yours or mine."

"I understand that.  But let's not draw her into this anymore than she already is.  So far Mic has only been interested in her because she's your friend.  He doesn't seem to care about her one way or the other, and we want to keep it that way, don't we?  What she doesn't know, she can't tell him.  If he finds out that she knows things about us, well it can't be good for us or her.  He can't know about Bonne Femme in case---"

"It does not matter," she interrupted.  "I told you before.  I will not go back there."

She saw Marta coming from the station.

"I will not tell her, Richard."

The evening sky featured bright stars among scattered mares' tails joined by a full yellow moon around ten.  A mild damp breeze sifted northward promising another spate of showers.  They conversed on the patio until eleven without mentioning Mic.  When the women went inside Kevin lit a cigar and offered one, which Richard declined.

"Did you find out anything today?" asked Kevin.

"Nothing that changes things.  He'll continue to write the script until I find a way to turn it around."

"Turn it around?"

"I've got to scare him.  He'll never be afraid of me though.  He'll have to worry about the situation vis-a-vis the law."

"You're right.  He won't be afraid of you," agreed Kevin.

"He ought to be.  I came close to killing him that night.  I had a broken bottle pressed against his throat.  I tell you, I almost finished it."

Kevin studied him through tendrils of cigar smoke.

"You didn't because you couldn't.  Your brain's not wired that way," he said.

"I wasn't much of a Marine, was I?"

"You were as good as any of us," said Kevin without hesitation.  "And a hell of lot better than he was."

"I was scared every time we stepped on the streets."

"Everyone was but that freak.  You always did what you had to do."

"I killed that kid."

"That again!  I told you before.  It could have been any of us.  Except for luck, or fate, or the will of God, you could be as dead as that kid is.  And he did try to kill you.  Don't forget that.  In a situation like that you react, you don't think."

Richard knew that it was true, but words couldn't penetrate to the festering spot inside him.  He wished he could redact the past, spin out a justifiable a version, or just something with which he could live.

They sat in silence while the moon rose high enough to lose its golden hue, and the canvas chairs became dank with dew.

"Kevin, she knows how much the boy has messed up my head, and that's the reason I can't tell her the rest of it.  I mean I think she's got a right to know but I don't think I can tell her.  I don't know if it would be a good idea to completely confide in her.  I believe I know what he's up to, but I . . . could be wrong.  I can't prove a bit of it.  And I need to because that's the only way to end it."

"Let's be real here," said Kevin.  "Your job is to take care of that woman in there, and if you don't I'm going to be mad because I really like her."  He sucked on his cigar before continuing.  "Let's forget the preemptive nonsense because we both know you ain't got that in you.  You need to dig up something on him to get the law to end this for you.  In the meantime protect her.  If I can indulge in military metaphor, it'll be like walking point:  keep your eyes open and expect the worst all the time."

Richard smiled.  "I said the same thing to Jill the other day."

Jill had gone out the front to get the purse she had left in the car, and had decided to go around by the patio to say goodnight to Richard in order to maintain the fiction of their engagement. 

"She hates the military metaphors," she heard Richard say.

That she was the subject of their conversation made her hesitate in the shadows to listen.

"Richard, protecting her is going to be easier than getting the cops to look at him seriously.  Besides scaring her and making vague threats that only you know about, what's he done besides hang around and make you nervous?"

"The only real violence has been initiated by me when I cold-cocked him with a beer bottle the night he threatened to kill her."

"All this stuff is just your word against his---and hers of course, but that won't mean much to the law because she loves you.  JR wouldn't even believe you if you two weren't friends.  An objective cop would just think it's two guys getting crosswise over a girl.  I'll bet even JR suspects as much."

"You believe me, don't you?"

Kevin hesitated, and Jill held her breath, fearing what he might say.

"I know you," he said.  "And what I know of that crazy bastard makes me believe you aren't just making it up."

He shifted before continuing.

"I've been thinking while you were gone today, and it occurred to me that the biggest mistake you could make would be to let him provoke you into doing something that would get your sorry ass thrown in jail.  If that happens call me first, and then your lawyer."

"That's not going to happen."

"Don't let it.  And as long as I'm giving advice concerning unlikely occurrences---and I'm dead serious about this---you have to be ready---really ready when something comes down.  You can't freeze like you did when the kid swung down on you.  Nobody gets that lucky twice."

"I won't have any second thoughts," said Richard firmly.

"I'm not worried about your second thoughts.  I'm worried about your first ones," said Kevin with a laugh.  "Some people get in trouble because they don't ever think of the consequences.  You have this annoying habit of trying to weigh all the consequences before you do anything.  If he does anything, you better think the worst is happening."

"That's what I'm doing."

"No.  You're still hoping for the best---thinking he might just go away and leave you two alone.  It's okay to hope for the best as long as you expect the worst.  It's like facing a power pitcher with a good change-up.  Sure, he might strike you out with a slow one, but the only way to defend yourself is to look for the heater.  You can always adjust to the off speed pitch.  You go looking for the slow one, you ain't got a chance to catch up to the fastball."

Richard smiled, imagining what Jill would make the baseball analogy.  Seeing the smile, Jill was appalled that they were joking about having to kill another human being.

"When Mic comes at you," said Kevin seriously.  "You finish it this time."

"Kill him, you mean?"

"If he's got a weapon."

"I can't believe we're actually discussing this," said Richard.

"Look.  If you're right about him . . . well you can't do anything preemptive, but you've got to finish it when he makes a move."

Kevin exhaled a lung full of smoke in exasperation.  It hung in the still night air between them.

"We're not conspiring, Richard.  We're looking at contingencies.  You know as well as I do that you never have time to think things through when it comes down.  A mission never works out the way you plan.  You have to be ready to react appropriately when it happens.  How many times did we see it on patrol?  You plan this.  You plan that.  But the bad guy has plans of his own.  All you can do is be ready."

"How can you always be ready?  You know it's not like that."

"I know.  But say you wake up at night and he's in your place or something---you got a gun?"

Richard nodded.

"Then you shoot him and worry about his intentions later."

"What if I misjudge the situation?"

"Too bad for him.  He's the aggressor, not you.  You didn't start this game."

"I can't believe we're discussing this."

Kevin scowled.

"If he killed that girl in the Mog like you think, then he could kill yours too.  If that's where this is leading then you have to finish it.  I'm not telling you to go after him---just the opposite.  But be ready and react if the time comes."

Jill pulled back, missing what Richard said next.  Her mind whirled as she went back in by the front door.  What bothered her most was the sprinkling of humor mixed into their macabre conversation.  Then the reality hit her:  Richard and Kevin had killed men, and men had tried to kill them.  She tried to imagine how that could change a person.  On Bonne Femme she had been prepared to kill in her own defense.  She remembered holding the pistol on Richard, determined to pull the trigger if she had to.

So how different am I? she wondered.  He hesitated and I hesitated.

She lay awake, thinking that perhaps she wasn't so very different after all.  Kevin's advice to Richard seemed realistic---horribly realistic.  It appalled her.  Of course, she should return to France, or, at the very least, get away and stay away from both Richard and Mic.  But going back to Brittany would be wasting the savings her aunt had sacrificed to send her to school in the United States.  She couldn't afford to transfer to a different college or even move into campus housing.  Mic frightened her too much to even think about living alone again, and she had already determined not to endanger Marta by moving in with her.  Jill had been through the checklist before.  The option she had chosen was to accept Richard's offer and hope that he was as sincere as he seemed to be.  Now she wasn't sure.

What came as a shock to her was that the thought of completely breaking free from Richard was unthinkable.  That made no sense.

Cartier, June 15

"I'm taking a sabbatical until this is over," said Richard once they were on the road.  "I'd like you to go with me down to Missouri and then maybe later out to West Virginia."

"I have already enrolled for the second summer semester," Jill said.  "And I must be back for the fall semester or I will lose my visa."

The Cougar shifted oddly, or perhaps it was just the rough road.

"We shouldn't be gone that long," he said distractedly as he concentrated on the feel of the car.

Jill had her own preoccupation.

Later he noticed a slight hesitation whenever he accelerated from stops, but they made it back to Cartier okay, so he passed it off as nothing more than condensation in the fuel line.  They had just stopped at a traffic light after having dropped Marta at her apartment.  When the light changed he gave it gas.  The motor raced, but the car refused to move.  He shifted from drive into first gear and it lurched forward.

"Just what I need," he said disgustedly.  "The transmission is going out."

"How much will it cost to repair?" asked Jill.

"Too much.  Maybe I can get a loan until I reenroll and get my next check."

"I have money," she said.  "You may pay me back."

"That's for your tuition," he said.  "I think I can work something out."

He drove home in first gear.  While he made phone calls Jill picked through his scant supply of canned foods to see what she could put together for the evening meal.  She found only potatoes, instant milk, two cans of tuna, and one of minced clams.  In the refrigerator she found a single kosher dill, packets of fast food mayonnaise, and a very stale loaf of bread.  Richard came into the kitchen surprised to see mugs of chowder and tuna salad on toast waiting for him.

"Where did you come up with that?" he asked

"I depleted the entire food supply," she said as they sat.

He took a bite.  "Well you did a heck of job.  It's delicious."

In the light of what she had overheard, the contrast in their moods bothered her.  Danger had come from nowhere, and now nothing was as it should be.  She was trapped, but he seemed buoyant, almost happy with the turmoil and peril.  Was it just because she was with him, or was it also that this was like combat---like the only world in which he could function comfortably?  It occurred to her that, although he hadn't orchestrated it, her dreams were falling apart while his were coming true.

She could have rid herself of him as soon as they had come back from the island, but she had chosen not to.  Yet it was the situation she resented, not Richard.  He had turned her life upside down through desperation.  Hadn't Mic's actions validated his concern?  It all seemed like some convoluted dream, vivid yet unreal.

"I found a guy who quoted me a reasonable price for fixing the car," he said.

"I walked to campus from my apartment.  I can walk from here until the car is repaired."

"Too far.  I'll see about a loaner, but the guy's moonlighting, so I doubt he will have one."

"I will adapt," she said resolutely.

He jumped up from the table.  "You may not have to.  I just thought of something," he called over his shoulder as he hurried into the living room.

She heard him talking for several minutes, and then he came back in.

"We're set.  Aunt Wanda said she thinks Uncle Bill's old car still runs.  They're going to bring it over tomorrow if it does.  He's out fishing, but she said she'd have him call back when he gets home.  They've had it parked by the road for over a year with a for sale sign, but haven't had any takers because Uncle Bill insists on cash."

When she didn't respond it brought him up short.  Thinking back on it, he realized that she had spoken very little on the way back from Covington.  He had been so preoccupied with the behavior of the Cougar that he hadn't noticed.

"Something's wrong," he said.

She stirred her soup absently.  "Yes.  I . . . I overheard you and Kevin last night."

"You mean when we were all out on the patio?"

"No.  Later," she said.  "I went to the car for my purse and . . . you were talking about Mic and what you would do."

He wondered how much she had heard, and how much she had understood.

"He believes you," she said.

Remembering some of the things they had said, he closed his eyes.  They had said things neither would have said had they not been alone.

"That was just talk---hypothetical."

She shook her head vehemently.

"No.  He also believes that . . . that Mic intends to kill me?  But how can that be?  And why?  Why me?  What did I do?"

"I don't know why he's the way he is," he said.  "All I know is that I'm not going to let anything happen to you.  If we can get an investigation going---I mean if we get the authorities interested in him, then he may forget about you and just run.  He'll be out of here before you know it."

The phone rang.  When he went to answer it, Jill stared after him, wondering how things could have gotten so crazy so quickly.  Looking at it objectively, she must be insane to trust Richard, yet she did.  For the first time in her life she felt the need for protection.  Being introspective by nature, she wondered if having grown up without male relatives had something to do with it.

Nothing I have done is irrevocable, she reminded herself.  I can commit myself to this arrangement without committing myself to him.  This is only temporary.

She decided to worry about severing ties with Richard when the time came.  For now, she needed him.  If that was manipulative, she hadn't orchestrated the relationship.  He had.

"Uncle Bill says the car runs fine.  In fact they're bringing it over right now.  I'll introduce you."

"No," she said.  "It is . . . awkward letting everyone think that we are . . . together.  Maybe no one thinks like that anymore, but it makes me uncomfortable."

"I respect that," he said.  "And besides, there's no use making things more complicated than they already are."

Jill watched through the curtains as Richard gestured toward the Cougar, explaining the problem to the elderly man who had emerging from an overly large sedan.  Richard went to a silver SUV next to it and leaned in to hug the woman at the wheel.  A few minutes later, she got out and came around to the passenger side.  The old man took the wheel.  Richard stayed at the street waving until they turned the corner.

When he came back in he held the car keys up triumphantly.

"Great to have family you can . . ."

He stopped in mid-sentence, remembering that Jill had only a frail old aunt that she could call family.

"They seem to care a great deal about you."

"Uncle Bill was my buddy when I was growing up.  They wanted me to come out for dinner, but I put them off."

"You may go if you wish," she said.  "I will be all right."

"No.  I don't want Mic to know about them.  Uncle Bill is my mother's brother, so he's not named Carter.  I doubt that Mic will learn about them as long as I stay away."

"Did you buy the car?"

"No.  They're just lending it until mine is fixed."

"What if Mic looks up the license plate numbers?  Can he discover who the owner is?"

"Yeah, but why would he do that?"

"I do not know, but I think he might.  He is obsessive."

June 16

Norman Ginoccio threw out the crust of his breakfast sandwich while waiting for the slowly moving train to clear the crossing.  He still had nearly twenty minutes to get to work so the delay didn't irk him as much as usual.  Stifling a yawn, he glanced down into the weeds, and knew immediately what it was.  Not that there was any doubt, but he popped the door and ran down the bank to make sure.  A dozen feet was close enough.  "Damn!" he kept repeating as he scrambled back up to his truck.  He punched it in incorrectly the first two times, but finally got the 911 operator.

They were on the way out the door when JR called.

"Richard, can you come down to the coroner's office?  I need you to identify a body."

Immediately he thought that it might be his Uncle Bill or his Aunt Wanda.  Then he thought of Kevin, but dismissed it because he was in Covington.  Jill saw his reaction.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Who?" she heard him ask.  "Why me?  She's got family."

Jill gripped his arm.  "Is it Marta?" she gasped.

He put his hand over the phone and shook his head.  "It's Rose Ford."

"JR, how's she . . . identifiable after all this time?"

Jill watched him nod at the answer.  "I'll be there as soon as I drop Jill off at the college."

He turned off the phone.

"JR says that her sister refuses to do it.  He compared her to a photograph and he's pretty sure though," he explained.  "The crazy thing is the coroner thinks she's been frozen."

Shocked, Jill neither commented nor asked questions, which left him to guess at the impact of the news.  On the way down to the car she finally spoke.

"Frozen?"

"That's what he said.  I don't know the details."

"That's her," said Richard.  "I remember that mole at the corner of her eye."

"I can't understand the sister," growled JR.  "Since you're only a casual acquaintance, we'll have to confirm it with dental records."

"Do you have a cause of death?"

"Not official.  But look at the discoloration.  That's ligature strangulation.  There's some on her wrists too, and a big bruise on the small of her back.  From the position we found her in, it looks like he kept her in a freezer.  Then he just dumped her by the road for some reason.  Makes establishing a precise time of death impossible, but the coroner tells me they can estimate how long before she was put in the freezer if any decomp had begun, and he can give a very rough estimate of how long she was kept frozen, like a topside number.  The only thing he'll say right now is that it appears she was dumped sometime last night."

"Well at least we know who did it," murmured Richard.

"Boyd?" said JR, shaking his head.  "I don't see how.  His place consisted of two rooms and a bath.  There wasn't a freezer, and he sure didn't keep her in a rented meat locker."

"Maybe you missed it," he suggested.

"We'll look at him if our main suspect doesn't pan out."

"You've got another suspect?"

"A registered sex offender lives a half mile up Bonham Road from the dump site.  We're trying for a warrant, but I doubt we have probable cause.  Guess what one of deputies spotted on his carport?  A freezer."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Sometimes you get lucky," said JR, pointing at a spot on the forehead of the corpse.  "See that?  When he took her out a piece of skin stuck to something in the freezer.  We recover that and it's a DNA lock."

The collapse of his theory hit Richard like a punch to the stomach.  It wasn't just that if Mic hadn't killed Rose Ford then the authorities had no reason to look into Mic's activities.  Richard had been so sure that now he wondered what else he could have been wrong about.  Most alarmingly, Jill might return to thinking that he had made everything up.

"Get your warrant and nail him, JR."

He dreaded telling her.  Rose's disappearance was probably the only thing making her believe that he knew what he was doing.  While waiting for her at the college, he went to the library and got on the Internet.  By law, convicted sex offenders had to register with the police, and their addresses were a matter of public record, but many local jurisdictions were loathe to publish them because of the obvious trouble it could engender.  A simple search for "sex criminal addresses," however, led him immediately to a nationwide site that made it their business to keep and publish an updated list of "perverts in our midst."

Choosing Michigan, he selected the appropriate quadrant of a state map, selected Cartier, and scrolled down the resulting list until he found an address on Bonham Road.  The offender was one Terrence Holmes.  A summary of his crimes informed the wary that he had been convicted of using his position as a "youth counselor" to take advantage of underage girls and engaging in illicit consensual sex.  He also had been convicted for the attempted abduction of an underage girl.  The details were damning, but Richard found himself reading between the obviously slanted lines.  Holmes was, no doubt, despicable, but there was no record of a violent assault.

Look what you're doing, he told himself in disgust.  You're trying to find a way to defend this pedophile so that you can continue to say that Mic did it.

"Was it Rose Ford?" asked Jill, coming up behind him.

"Yes.  But that's not all," he said as he logged off.  "When we get to the car and I'll fill you in."

Jill saw that he was distraught and imagined that he had something graphic to tell her about the body.  She hoped he would spare her that, but nevertheless she asked as soon as she had buckled in.

"They're making an arrest," he said.  "But it's not Mic."

"Someone else?  I thought . . . I mean you were so sure.  If he didn't then . . ."

"It looks like I was wrong."

"Yes," she said.  "He is violent, but perhaps not as violent as you imagine.  Maybe he is just a bully and . . . "

"Likes to push women around and scare the hell out of them?  Maybe he isn't really dangerous?  No.  I was sure about him even before Rose disappeared.  Maybe this guy did kill her, but it doesn't change what I think about Mic.  But I can see where you would change your mind."

Jill could understand Richard's disappointment more than her own.  That Mic wasn't a murderer should relieve her, and it did to an extent, but she realized that the news of an imminent arrest also troubled her because of Richard.  She wanted him to be right.

"Who is this new suspect?" she asked.

"A registered sex offender by the name of Holmes.  He served time for statutory rape and the attempted kidnapping of a minor."

"He was an acquaintance?"

"I don't know, but he lives near where they found the body and he has a record of sex crimes.  She'd been frozen and he has a freezer on his carport."

"Is that not what is called ‘circumstantial evidence?'"

"Yes.  I'm sure they'll find more if they get the search warrant they're trying for.  JR hopes to find a frozen piece of her skin for a DNA match."

"If he did it then I am glad they have caught him," she said.  "But I must know more about this."

As soon as they were home, she went to the computer.  "What is this suspect's name?"

"Terrence Holmes.  But I already looked him up on a sex-offender watch site."

"Those are very subjective.  Let us check news stories first," she said as she began her search.

Half an hour later Jill finally finished her thorough examination of each site mentioning the Terrence Holmes.

"He was only eighteen at the time of the statutory rape," she said.  "I know that is legally an adult, but it seems that what he did was to convince his girlfriend to run away with him.  And, of course, they had a sexual relationship."

"An illegal sexual relationship, Jill.  She was only fifteen."

"There is no mention of violence, only of an illicit relationship.  I do not defend him, but he has no history of misogyny."

"They suppressed the details to protect the girl," he said dispiritedly.  "That's the way it's done with juveniles.  His lawyer probably plea bargained it down to statutory rape."

"Perhaps he did this, but perhaps not.  Even if he did, you are not wrong about Mic.  He has great hatred for women.  Neither the stories nor the charges for this man make him a good suspect."

"I was wrong," he said.

"I do not understand you, Richard.  You do all these things because you are so sure, and then this happens and suddenly it is as if you do not know anything.  Let me tell you what I know.  The potential is there---for Mic I mean.  He may not have killed this poor woman, or that girl in Missouri, or anyone else for that matter.  But I believe that he could.  He made me believe that, Richard, not you."

"I know he could," he said.  "But now they're going to close the case on Rose and forget about him.  I've ruined what little credibility I had even with JR."

"We cut him loose, Richard," said JR.  "That freezer wasn't operable.  Would you believe he had rigged the thing up as a smoker?"

"A what?"

"He cured meat in it.  It didn't even have a compressor, and he doesn't have another freezer either."

"Has he ever been picked up on anything but the initial charge with that girl?"

"No.  I guess we were just overoptimistic.  Right now, we don't have a clue as to who killed the Ford woman and dumped her out there.  I went to Boyd's place again, using the line that I came to tell him that we had found her body.  Guess what?"

"Still no freezer."

"Not a sign that there ever was one.  There doesn't even appear to be space for one.  So we're back to square one, I guess."

Richard was slightly encouraged that Mic was apparently still on the suspect list.

"Thanks for telling me, JR," he said.

"It's not the only reason I called.  The boss wants a statement from you."

"About Rose Ford?  Don't tell me that I'm a suspect."

"I think the correct term is person of interest.  Don't get ticked off at me.  You did it to yourself when you came forward with the story that she and Boyd were a thing."

"They were."

"We confirmed that, but you're a person of interest anyway.  We can either do it at your place tonight, or down at the office tomorrow.  How do you want it?"

Jill tried to cut the statement short as soon as JR arrived.

"Richard was with me when the Ford woman disappeared.  We returned from our trip on the ninth of this month."

"And you've been together all the time since?"

"We went to a friend's house in Indiana.  His name is Kevin Lucas.  We were there from Saturday morning until yesterday afternoon.  My friend Marta Florez was with us also.  We also had difficulty with the car.  Richard's aunt and uncle brought another one here for him late yesterday.  Then we were here together last night, so he could have had nothing to do with that poor woman."

JR looked at Richard for confirmation.  Richard nodded.

"Okay," he said.  "You two each write that out, date and sign it, and I'm on my way.  Oh.  I'll need the name and address of your friend, Richard, and yours too, ma'am.  And don't help each other with your statements.  Fact is I should have separated you and taken separate ones.  Richard, why don't you do it here in the living room and Jill, you do it at the kitchen table."

"I'd just as soon you don't bother my aunt and uncle, JR." said Richard.

"I can't promise that, Richard.  I'll need to have a look at your car.  Where is it?"

Richard gave him the name of his shade tree mechanic.

"Why did he want to see your car?" Jill asked as soon as JR was gone.

"He has to check out my explanation for its absence, and make sure it isn't just being cleaned up.  Someone transported a body and dumped it.  I'm a person of interest."

The phone rang, and Richard answered.

"Richard, this is JR.  When I get to your mechanic's place, I'm going to need to take your trunk liner.  They may decide to process it for evidence and they may not, but I think it would be best for everyone concerned if I took it now rather than later.  You got a problem with that?"

"No.  Just don't lose it."

"It'll be safe in the evidence locker as soon as I can get it bagged and tagged."

Over the next two months they settled into the routine of summer classes.  At first Jill constantly wondered which of them Mic was stalking, but when the summer ended without further incident, she nearly became convinced that Mic had lost interest and moved on to something or someone else.  Richard remained edgy because he knew Mic.  But then again, no one really knew Mic.