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FIVE

Detective Mayeux’s warning understated the tension level. The bare police conference room reminds me of nothing so much as a room full of lead vocalists. Egos bumping against each other like tethered balloons as their owners strike practiced poses, unaware of any agenda but their own. Four men in business suits sit in a protective phalanx at the far end of a rectangular table. They might as well be wearing lapel tags that read “FBI.” The New Orleans police chief, an enormous black man, sports a starched white duty shirt that strains under his bulk. Four stars adorn the blue boards on each hamlike shoulder.

To the right of the chief sits a rail of a guy who has to be Mayeux’s partner. He looks like lukewarm hell. Eyes like quarter slots on a Coke machine, hands quivering with the irregular tremor that signals serious sleep deprivation. I know the symptoms well. There is a busty Hispanic secretary beside him. Her left ear is cocked toward the chief, but her eyes stay on the young FBI agents.

“Gentlemen,” says Detective Mayeux, “Mr. Harper Cole.”

Mayeux is telling me names, but they don’t find a permanent memory address. Three of the FBI agents wear blue suits, the fourth charcoal gray. Does this mean he’s in charge? He’s clearly the oldest, yet he wears his graying hair longer than the others. Mayeux speaks his name softly, giving it unintended emphasis.

Arthur Lenz. Doctor Arthur Lenz.

Of course. Lenz is the shrink.

Whenever I meet interesting strangers, I find myself casting them as stand-ins for the stars of my memory. Sometimes I meet an Edmond O’Brien or a George Sanders, maybe a Robert Ryan. I remember those guys from when I was a kid staying up late with my dad, watching Channel 4 out of New Orleans. So it’s a habit, trying to slot strangers into the celluloid templates in my head. Some people are just extras, like Mayeux’s partner and the secretary. But every once in a while I meet the genuine article. Someone who doesn’t just remind me of, say, Fredric March, he could be the man.

Doctor Lenz might be the genuine article. He is physically tall—this is obvious even though he is seated—and yet … he is limited. Like an actor who never made the jump to the big screen. Perpetually middle-aged, WASP or WASP wannabe, expensive suit, heavy on control. His charisma is undeniable, but somehow he finishes out more TV than film.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows the introductions, one of the blue-suited FBI men—Baxter, I think—gives the police chief an annoyed glance. Then he looks me in the eye and says, “Good morning, Mr. Cole,” giving the “mister” that special and contemptuous stress that military men reserve for civilians. “I’m Special Agent Daniel Baxter.”

I didn’t notice Baxter at first because sizewise he blends with the other two blue-suits. But I see him now. And I get the feeling he’s hiding. In the Biblical sense, as in hiding his light under a bushel. He’s got weight behind his dark eyes, but he’s not a leading man. He’s a tough-as-nails sergeant from a black-and-white war movie, thrust into command by the death of his lieutenant.

As if summoned to life by Agent Baxter’s words, the police chief greets me in a startling James Earl Jones basso. “Mr. Cole, I’m Chief Sidney Tobin. I thank you for coming down so early today. Needless to say, we’re all very interested in whatever you might have to say about these murders. You have our undivided attention.”

Detective Mayeux sits, offering me the chair at the head of the table as he does, but I remain standing. I am six feet and one inch tall, 195 pounds, and I know my size gives me a psychological edge when I choose to use it. Today I figure I need any edge I can get.

“Before I say anything,” I begin, “there is one very important thing I didn’t tell Detective Mayeux on the phone.”

“What’s that?” rumbles the chief.

“I’m pretty sure I know who killed those women.”

Astonished silence blankets the room. Dr. Lenz breaks the impasse. “You have a name, Mr. Cole?”

“And an address.”

“Christ!” cries Mayeux. “Give it to me.”

I open my briefcase and remove a single sheet of paper. From it I read: “David M. Strobekker. That’s S-T-R-O-B-E-K-K-E-R. 1402 Moorland Avenue, Edina, Minnesota. It’s a suburb of Minneapolis.”

“What else you know about this guy?” barks Mayeux’s partner.

“He has a checking account at the Norwest Bank in Minneapolis. That’s all I know for sure.”

“Run it through the computer, Mike,” commands the chief. “Right now.”

“I can access the Bureau computers by phone,” one of the younger FBI men tells Mayeux, who shoots me a furious glance on his way out.

“I could be sued for giving you that name,” I tell them.

“Let us worry about that,” says Baxter.

“The FBI will provide lawyers to defend me in a civil case?”

Arthur Lenz’s face shows a trace of bemusement.

“Let’s stick to these murders,” says the police chief. “Tell us how you came to know those six names and why you suspected the women might be in trouble.”

The door opens and closes behind me. Mayeux reclaims his chair on the right side of the table. “Kiesha’s checking on Strobekker, Chief.”

“Stop me if I say something you don’t understand,” I tell them.

The two younger FBI agents smirk at this, but I’m fairly certain they’ll soon be strafing me with stupid questions.

“I work for a company called EROS,” I say slowly. “That’s an acronym—E-R-O-S—which stands for Erotic Realtime Online Stimulation.” Seeing a couple of leers, I ignore the mythological connection and push on. “We’re an online service that caters to a wide range of clients interested in human sexuality. EROS is a New York–based corporation legally chartered in the State of Delaware—”

“Who owns it?” interrupts Baxter.

“A widow named Jan Krislov.”

“What?”

From the sick look on Daniel Baxter’s face, I can see that he’s familiar with Jan Krislov in some capacity. A flash of instinct tells me it’s her fierce championship of electronic privacy rights.

“Please continue, Mr. Cole,” instructs Chief Tobin.

“Anyone in the continental US can have full online access to EROS twenty-four hours a day. We also have European subscribers who reach us through the Internet. There are three levels of forum traffic, which people access under aliases—code names—that insure complete anonymity. Level One is the most diverse. Clients use it to discuss all sorts of sexual topics, from psychology to medical problems to privacy issues.”

“Jan fucking Krislov,” mutters Baxter.

I take a breath. Hearing no questions, I focus on Mayeux and continue. “Level Two is the first of the two fantasy forums. In Level Two clients write about their fantasies, correspond with each other through forum messages and email, or sometimes just eavesdrop on the fantasies of other subscribers. The exchanges can be group or, if a client prefers, he or she can switch down to one-on-one contact, completely private. We call that a private room. There are also files available at all times from the online library. Popular exchanges from past sessions, stuff like that.”

“Stroke files,” says Mayeux’s partner, opening his red eyes in a glare of challenge. “Right? They’re not talking to anybody realtime, so their hands are free. Jack-off time, right?”

The man is crude, but not far off the mark. “That’s probably a fair assessment.”

“What about Level Three?” asks Doctor Lenz, his eyes alight with fascination.

“Level Three …” I often stumble here when explaining EROS to anyone outside the company. I never know quite how to describe Level Three. To be honest, I don’t monitor it that much. At least I didn’t until I began to have my suspicions about the “missing” women. Most Level Three traffic is nocturnal, and thus Miles’s gig. That’s another reason I allowed him to persuade me to put off acting for as long as I did.

“Level Three,” I say again, “is what you might call the major league of sexual forums. The dialogues are pretty heavy, basically no-holds-barred. Don’t get the wrong idea—it’s not kiddy porn or anything, but—”

“It’s hot,” Dr. Lenz finishes.

“Pretty hot, yeah. Until three weeks ago we didn’t even allow transmission of graphic images, but believe me, words alone are powerful enough. We’re talking bondage, S and M, homoerotic sex, you name it. Straight sex too, of course.”

“How much does it cost to join EROS?” asks Baxter.

“A thousand dollars to join—”

Mayeux whistles long and low.

“—plus five hundred a month flat fee after that, with various payment arrangements. For women it’s three hundred a month. EROS has 1–800 access numbers, so nobody has any long-distance charges to worry about.”

“All the women but Wheat were in their twenties,” says Baxter. “Where did they get that kind of money?”

“Inherited it,” I reply. “A lot of rich girls on EROS. We get a lot of trophy wives too. They marry money—old money—fake orgasms at night, and log onto EROS during the day. It’s safer than adultery, especially in the age of AIDS.”

“Karin Wheat was a member of this EROS thing?” Chief Tobin interrupts.

“Yes. For about three months now.”

“And those other women? All of them were members?”

“Right. Most of them had been subscribing for more than a year at the time they dropped off the net.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘dropped off?’” Lenz asks.

“Just a minute, Doctor,” says Chief Tobin, reasserting the temporary supremacy he enjoys in his headquarters. “Mr. Cole, you mean to tell me all these murder victims were members of this super-expensive computer club or whatever it is, and no homicide cop in L.A. or San Francisco or Houston or Portland or the other places managed to link these crimes with billing receipts from your company?”

“I can explain that.” I pause, realizing I’m more interested in asking questions than answering them. “Honestly, I’m more surprised by the fact that the murders weren’t linked before now by physical evidence. No offense, but isn’t that what you guys do?”

“Goddamn,” growls Mayeux’s partner.

“Plenty of reasons for that,” injects one of the FBI agents.

“Different weapon in every case,” says his blue-suited cousin. “Forensic evidence indicating multiple perps.”

“Multiple perps at the same scene,” adds the first agent.

“Which is rare,” says Baxter, glaring at the younger men. “Highly unusual.”

“We’re still getting in evidence reports, Chief,” says Mayeux, “but the M.O. does seem to have varied a great deal in almost every case.”

“As did the signature,” says Baxter.

“The killer left notes?” I ask.

Baxter shakes his head. “‘Signature’ is the offender’s behavior at the crime scene.” He looks at me closely, as if judging whether to continue. “Behavior beyond that strictly necessary to commit the crime. Individualized behavior.”

“Oh.”

“There is no signature in these cases,” Dr. Lenz says imperiously. “It’s all staging. But the trophies in California varied not an iota.”

“Trophies?” I echo. “What kind of trophies?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Mayeux’s partner asks, pointing an index finger at my chest.

The room goes silent, and in that instant I feel the first ripple of real fear in my chest. “Am I a suspect in this case?”

Several looks are exchanged, none directed at me.

“Do I need to call an attorney?”

Finally Baxter breaks the silence. “Mr. Cole, I’m going to go out on a limb here. I am not merely a special agent. I’m the chief of the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit. We profile and help the police hunt violent serial offenders, whether they’re killers, rapists, arsonists, bombers, or kidnappers. When crimes of this nature are committed, the individual who reports any of them is always considered a suspect. Serial offenders frequently report their own crimes as part of an attempt to avoid being found out, or to gain enjoyment by assisting in an investigation of themselves. In this case you’ve reported all the crimes. When I was apprised of this situation last night, the Unit began an exhaustive check of your background, including all your movements during the past two years. It sounds drastic, but it’s standard procedure.”

Baxter glances at his watch, which he wears with the face inside the wrist, military style. “Dr. Lenz and I have spent the past few hours putting together a preliminary profile of the offender in these murders. And frankly, it’s one of the most difficult jobs we’ve ever undertaken. At this point I won’t say why, but Dr. Lenz believes that you are probably not the killer in this case. I concur. I’m not saying you couldn’t be involved in some way—it would be irresponsible of me to rule you out—but I’m willing to proceed today on the assumption that you are what you claim to be—a Good Samaritan coming forward in an attempt to see justice done. Obviously, other women’s lives are at risk as we speak. An atmosphere of cooperation is the best thing for all of us at this point. If you wish to consult an attorney, that is your right, but at this time no one here”—Baxter fires a sharp glance at the New Orleans police officers—“intends to charge you with any crime.”

When he finishes, no one speaks. Everyone but Baxter and Lenz seems to be looking at his shoes. I may be making the worst mistake of my life, but I decide to trust Baxter, at least to the extent of not calling an attorney.

“What kind of trophies?” I ask again.

“An unusual one,” Baxter says thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s a taxidermist,” cracks Mayeux’s partner, winking at Mayeux.

“Make a note of that, Maria,” says Chief Tobin, and watches the brunette pounce on her notepad.

“Taxidermists do not mount glands,” Dr. Lenz says scornfully.

“Houston P.D. says he took the whole goddamn head,” snaps Mayeux, unwilling to tolerate the psychiatrist’s superior tone. “And that’s what he did here.”

I am looking for a place to sit down, but no one notices. I whisper, “Someone cut off Karin Wheat’s head?”

“That’s classified information,” says Baxter.

Mayeux snorts at the spook-speak.

“That is not accurate, Mr. Cole,” corrects Chief Tobin. “Someone did cut off Ms Wheat’s head, but that information is not classified. Still, I would strongly suggest that you keep the knowledge to yourself.” The chief shoots me a very clear look: If you fuck up my investigation in any way, I will hound you to a pauper’s grave. “Now,” he says, his gentle bass voice filling the conference room like soft light. “What about my question? Credit card receipts from EROS, canceled checks, phone bills, and suchlike? Why didn’t this link the crimes?”

“Chief,” says Baxter, “despite our best efforts to familiarize city police departments with our VICAP program, we still have a pretty poor compliance rate. Not nearly enough officers take the time to fill out their violent offender profiles and send them in. This EROS connection is exactly the kind of thing that slips through the cracks. I wouldn’t be surprised if homicide detectives in one or more of the involved departments have just such a receipt in an evidence drawer somewhere, but have no idea that detectives in any other cities have the same thing.”

“All our fault, as usual,” grumbles Mayeux’s partner.

“Five of these six cases were sent in to VICAP,” says Mayeux, giving his partner covering fire. “But they weren’t linked. No EROS connection showed up. All had computers in their homes, but nothing related to EROS on their drives. Why not?”

“Well,” I say, finally regaining sufficient composure to rejoin the conversation. “As long as the killer wasn’t rushed, he could erase the EROS software from the victims’ computers and take away any manuals they had. Although it would take a real wizard to wipe every trace from the hard disks. You might have one of your people look into that.”

Baxter gives me a wry smile. “No traces so far.”

“Karin Wheat paid EROS with her Visa card,” says Mayeux. “I checked as soon as you told me she was a member.”

“She’ll be the only one that did,” I tell him.

“How do you know that?” asks Dr. Lenz, his heavy-lidded eyes probing mine.

“Because every other woman—victim, I mean—had set up her account on the blind-draft account system.”

“What’s that?” asks the chief. “A direct bank draft?”

“Yes, but not the kind you imagine. A lot of EROS subscribers—particularly women—are married, and don’t want their spouses to know they’re online with us. Some log on only from their workplace. Others from home, but only when their husbands are away. Ms Krislov makes every effort to ensure that any woman who wants to connect with us has the ability to do so without stigma. To facilitate this, she came up with the ‘blind draft’ policy. If a woman doesn’t want her husband to know she’s online—or vice versa—we advise the user to set up a checking account at a bank not used by the spouse—an out-of-town bank, if possible—and use a PO box as her address. We then arrange to draft this secret account directly for payment of the monthly fee.”

“Son of a bitch,” says Mayeux’s partner.

“Every one of the murdered women was on a secret account?” Mayeux asks.

“Except Karin Wheat.”

“But three of them weren’t married,” Mayeux points out. “Who were they hiding from? Boyfriends?”

“Or girlfriends,” says Dr. Lenz.

“What about phone bills?” asks Mayeux. “Wouldn’t connect-time show up on the phone bills of all the victims?”

“It’s an 800 number, remember?”

“Shit. So after they were killed, their secret accounts eventually dropped to zero?”

“Eventually is exactly why I got suspicious. EROS isn’t like CompuServe or America Online, where you might lose interest but keep paying the nine ninety-five per month, thinking you’ll get back into it. We’re talking three to five hundred bucks a month. EROS users may be wealthy, but when they get bored they close those direct-draft accounts.”

“And the murdered women didn’t,” says Mayeux.

“Right. And two particular women—the third and fourth victims—were very active online. Then poof, one day they were gone. But their bank drafts kept coming in. That didn’t fit the pattern. I’m not saying it had never happened before—it had. That’s why I didn’t call the police immediately. But the longer the accounts stayed active without the women showing up online, the more uncomfortable I got. I started probing the accounting program to see how many blind-draft clients were paying regularly but not logging onto the system. There were about fifty, enough to make me think I might be paranoid. And enough for the company to decide not to investigate. But then I remembered that victims three and four had talked to this Strobekker guy a lot. So I started watching for him. Then I started printing out his exchanges. I also asked about him in private email. That’s how I came up with the names of the first and second victims. And while I was doing that, he was setting up and killing five and six. He was also talking to at least twenty other women during this period as well.”

“Doesn’t the company try to contact people when their accounts drop to zero?” Mayeux asks. “In case it was just an oversight?”

“No. It’s understood by both parties that if a blind-draft account has insufficient funds for even a single payment, the company assumes the client no longer desires its services, and access is immediately terminated.”

“I don’t buy that,” says Mayeux’s partner. “I don’t believe any company would kiss off that kind of bread without making sure the client wanted to quit.”

How can I explain this to them? “Jan Krislov is the sole owner of EROS. And whether you believe it or not, she’s not in it for the money.”

“Oh, I believe it,” mutters Baxter.

“Then why does she charge so damn much for the service?” Mayeux’s partner asks doggedly.

A faint smile crosses Arthur Lenz’s patrician face. This alone draws all eyes to him. “The high fee functions as a crude screening system,” he says softly. “Correct, Mr. Cole?”

“What kind of screening system?” asks Mayeux’s partner.

Lenz answers for me. “By charging an exorbitant rate, Ms Krislov ensures that her online environment is accessible only to those who have attained a certain position in life.”

“Flawed system,” says Mayeux. “It assumes rich people aren’t assholes.”

“I said it was crude,” Lenz admits. “But I imagine it works fairly well.”

“It works perfectly,” I say, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “Because there are other constraints on membership.”

Curiosity flares in Lenz’s eyes. “Such as?”

“EROS is open to any woman who can pay the fee, but any man who wants to join has to submit a writing sample for evaluation.”

“Who evaluates the sample?”

“Jan Krislov.”

“What are the criteria?”

Unable to resist, I point at Mayeux’s partner. “He wouldn’t make the cut.”

Mayeux lays an arm across his partner’s chest and asks, “How many people belong to this thing?”

“Five thousand. Half of them male, half female. The numerical relation is strictly maintained.”

“Gays allowed?” Lenz asks.

“Encouraged. And contained within that ratio.”

Mayeux shakes his head. “You’re telling us this Krislov woman has personally evaluated twenty-five hundred writing samples from men writing about sex?”

“Personally approved twenty-five hundred samples. She’s evaluated a lot more than that. There’s a waiting list of twenty-eight hundred men at this moment.”

“So Jan Krislov sits up at night reading her own personal Penthouse letters,” Baxter says in a gloating voice. “I know some senators who’ll eat that up.”

“Probably beats watching Leno,” pipes up the local FBI agent. “For a woman, I mean,” he adds hastily.

Dr. Lenz leans forward in his chair. “I doubt these samples are as crude as you assume. Are they, Mr. Cole?”

“No. There are some gifted people on EROS.”

Mayeux’s partner snorts.

“To wit, Karin Wheat,” says Lenz.

“One more thing,” I add. “Not all the men on EROS are wealthy. Certain men have submitted writing samples that impressed Ms Krislov so much that she gives them access free of charge. Sort of a scholarship program. She says it improves the overall experience for the women.”

The secretary nods her head in a gesture I read as Right on, girl.

“I’d be very interested in studying some of these online exchanges,” Lenz says. “You have some in that briefcase?”

“Yes.”

Baxter asks, “Does anything stand out in your mind that these women had in common?”

I pause for a moment. “Most of them spent a lot of time in Level Two—my level. Their fantasies were fairly conventional, by which I mean they involved more romance than sex. They could get kinky, but they weren’t sickos. No torture or revolting bodily substances. The truth is, I don’t know anything about these women in real life. Only their fantasies.”

“Their fantasies may be the most important thing about them,” says Lenz.

“Maybe,” I allow, “but that’s not the sense I got. I’m not sure why. What did they have in common in real life?”

“None of your goddamn business,” snaps Mayeux’s partner.

“I see. Well, I guess that’s my position too.”

Dr. Lenz inclines his head toward Baxter, who says, “All the victims were under twenty-six years old except Karin Wheat, who was forty-seven. All were college educated, all Caucasian except one, who was Indian.”

“Native American?” asks Chief Tobin.

“Indian Indian,” says Mayeux’s partner, tapping a file on the table. “Dot on the fucking forehead.”

“I don’t recall an Indian name,” I say, almost to myself.

“Pinky Millstein,” says Baxter. “Maiden name Jathar. Married to a litigation attorney who traveled a lot. There was also an Indian hair found at one of the other crime scenes. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Well … one of Strobekker’s aliases is Shiva. That’s Indian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Dr. Lenz says softly. “Shiva the Destroyer. What are his other aliases?”

“Prometheus. Hermes.”

The psychiatrist remains impassive. “What about the victims? Does anything come to mind that links their online code names?”

“Not that I could see.”

“What else stands out in your mind?” asks Baxter.

“Strobekker himself. No matter what alias he uses, his style is unmistakable.”

“How so?”

“He’s very literate, for one thing. Intuitive, as well. One minute he’s writing extemporaneous poetry, the next he cuts right to the bone with some insight into a woman’s character, almost as though he can answer whatever question is in her mind before she asks it. But the strangest thing is this: he must be the best damned typist in the world. Lightning fast, and he never makes a mistake.”

“Never?” Lenz asks, leaning forward.

“Not in the first eighty-five percent of contact.”

“What do you mean?”

“With the sixth victim, and with Karin Wheat, I realized that Strobekker began making typographic errors—just like anyone else—a few days before each woman dropped offline. When I went back and studied my printouts of the killer-victim exchanges, I saw that the typos began at about the eighty-five percent point in each relationship. Of course, I didn’t know anyone was being killed.”

“You sound like you’ve distilled this thing down to a science,” says Baxter.

“I work with numbers.”

“Running this sex thing?” asks Mayeux.

I chuckle bitterly. “No, I got into EROS for fun. You believe that? I earn my living trading futures.”

My audience stares as if I’ve announced that I am an alchemist.

“In a dink farmhouse in the Mississippi Delta?” asks one of the young FBI agents. “Who are your clients? Farmers hedging their crops?”

“I only have one client.”

“Who?” Mayeux asks suspiciously.

“Himself,” says Arthur Lenz.

Dr. Lenz is obviously the alchemist here. “That’s right. I only trade my own account.”

“You some kind of millionaire?” asks Mayeux’s partner. “A goddamn gentleman farmer or something?”

“Keep a civil tongue, Poché,” snaps the chief.

“I do all right.”

“What about the final fifteen percent of contact?” Lenz asks, plainly irritated by the squabbling.

“He makes mistakes. About as many as anyone else. And his typing gets slower. A lot slower.”

“Maybe he starts jacking off with one hand as he gets closer to the time of the hit,” suggests Poché.

The chief frowns but lets that pass.

Dr. Lenz strikes a pose of intense meditation as the door behind me opens swiftly. I turn and see a black woman in her twenties holding a computer printout in her hand. There is handwriting scrawled across it in blue ink.

“What is it, Kiesha?” asks the chief.

“We traced Strobekker, David M.”

A cumulative catching of breath in the conference room. “Rap sheet?” Mayeux asks tentatively.

“No.”

“Minnesota DMV?”

“No citations. Had one car—a Mercedes—but the plate expired last year.”

“So who is the guy?”

“An accountant for a glitzy firm in Minneapolis, Minnesota.”

I realize that Kiesha is trying to communicate something to Chief Tobin through eye contact alone. Despite her telepathic urgency, she is unsuccessful.

“What is it, dear?” asks Arthur Lenz, as though he has known the woman since childhood.

“He’s dead,” she says, almost as if against her will. “David M. Strobekker was beaten to death in an alley in Minneapolis eleven months ago.”

A hot tingle races across my forearms.

“Holy shit,” says Mayeux. “What are we dealing with here?”

Daniel Baxter points a finger as thick as a Colt Python barrel at Kiesha. “Details?”

“Minneapolis homicide says it looked like a mugging gone bad. Strobekker was single, probably homosexual. He was slumming on a bad stretch of Hennepin Avenue. His skull was so pulped his boss couldn’t recognize his face.”

Dr. Lenz emits a small sound of what I can only interpret as pleasure.

“Positive ID?” asks Mayeux.

“Dental records and a thumbprint,” Kiesha replies. “His company kept thumbprint files; don’t ask me why. But it was Strobekker for sure.”

“Not for sure,” I say, surprised to hear my own voice.

“Why not?” Baxter asks sharply.

“Well … say Strobekker is the killer. Say he decided to fake his own death so that he’d never be suspected in later crimes. He takes a thumbprint from a wino, puts that in his own personnel file, then kills the wino and pulps his face.”

“What about the dental records?” asks Baxter.

I shrug. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

“You watch too many movies.”

“I must see the body immediately,” Lenz says to Baxter, his eyes still on me.

“Jeff, call the Minneapolis field office,” orders Baxter. “We want a judge who’ll give us an exhumation order ASAP. Then call the airport and book the first flight up there.”

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“A pineal gland, among other things,” says Lenz, watching me closely. “Ever heard of it?”

I shake my head while I memorize the term. My knowledge of anatomy is limited, but my wife’s is encyclopedic.

“The two women who died in California were linked because a pathologist from San Francisco happened to mention an unsolved homicide case to a colleague at a convention. A woman had been murdered by strangulation, then had both eyes removed and wooden stakes driven through the sockets. When the pathologist sectioned the brain, he found that the points of both stakes terminated in the third ventricle of the brain—a little too perfectly for him. Stranger still, he found that part of the pineal gland was missing, which the stakes would not account for. The colleague who heard this—a pathologist from Los Angeles—had an unsolved homicide that was completely different in almost every respect. A woman had been beaten to death with a claw hammer, probably by someone she knew. Her brain sustained horrific damage. But this did not explain why much of her pineal gland was gone. This chance conversation ultimately linked the crimes. Then the police promptly charged down the wrong track and decided they were dealing with cult murders.”