In one she was wearing almost exactly what she wore now. She smiled at the camera, thumbs tucked into her front jeans pockets. In another she wore a sleek, form-fitting red dress. Her hair tumbled across one eye. In the third, she sat in a chair, book open in her lap. She wore a prim skirt and white blouse and looked at the camera over her round, rimmed glasses.
"Nice photographs," he said. "Jeffrey like them?"
She didn't answer.
"Adam Yunkin," he said. "What can you tell me about him?"
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I'm going to ask you to pack some things and come with me so Adam Yunkin won't come here and find you."
"Why would he?"
"Because we think he may have killed the other three people in your therapy group, the one run by Paul Sunderland."
She shook her head, trying to clear it, trying to absorb what she had been told. "But…"
"It looks like he's going after people in the group. You're the only one left." He didn't add that by "one" he meant "sexual offender."
"No," she said.
"I'm afraid it's true," Flack said.
"No," she said. "I mean I'm not the last one. There's another one."
"Another one?"
"Yes," she said. "Another sexual offender. Paul Sunderland. He was arrested twice when he was twenty for allegedly molesting an eight-year-old boy. He wasn't charged or convicted."
"How do you know this?" asked Flack.
"He told us," she said.
"He's a psychologist. He couldn't- "
"He's a psychologist," she said, "but he's also a predator like the others. He doesn't have a license anymore. The others felt comfortable with a fellow offender, someone who knew how they felt. Join-ing the group was not mandatory. It was uncomfortable, but my lawyer said I should do it. I'm not a sexual predator, Detective."
"You're not?"
"No," she said. "I had a relationship with a fully developed young man. I didn't hurt Jeffrey and he was more than happy to be with me. As soon as he's old enough, we plan to be married and I'll work while he goes to school. Does that sound like a predator to you?"
"I don't make the laws," said Flack.
"Maybe you should," she said dreamily. "Maybe you should."
Flack flipped open his phone and speed-dialed Mac Taylor.
Outside a clap of thunder could be heard in the distance.
At least, thought Flack, the rain had stopped.
"Officer Maddie Woods, Brooklyn," Maddie said when she finally got put through to Danny Messer.
She had asked who was in charge of the Alvin Havel murder. The first person she talked to said she should call back tomorrow. The whole department was out dealing with looters, small disasters; assaults; the aftermath of an assault by nature.
Maddie hadn't given up. She pushed.
Finally she got Danny.
"Polish is all he talks," she said. "But we found a translator."
"And?" asked Danny.
"He says his son was diddling one of his students," Maddie said.
"He say which one?"
"Doesn't know," she said. "He says he tried to talk his son into stopping. Dark story. He says his son threatened the kid with a failing grade. She wasn't a virgin and Alvin was a good-looking man, but that was his father speaking. You know what I mean. Was he?"
"Good looking?" said Danny, imagining the dead man with his face in a pool of blood on his desk and red pencils sticking out of his neck and eye. "Not the last time I saw him. Does Havel's wife know her husband was having an affair with a student?"
"Waclaw, the dad, doesn't know," said Maddie. "Want me to talk to her, see what she knows?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"She know her husband's dead?"
"Yes."
"I'll take Waclaw home and talk to the widow."
"Thanks, Woods."
"Nothing," she said. "It gives me an excuse to get out of this office and see the damage. I'll call you if I find anything."
"Anything," said Danny.
"Right down to the victim's shoe size," she said.
A row of thick, empty glass containers that looked like test tubes with flat bottoms were lined up in the storeroom at the back of the chemistry lab. The containers were empty, waiting for an experiment that might never take place.
Danny and Lindsay began by lifting every container from the shelf and inpsecting it with their ALS units. Less than ten minutes later Lindsay held up something that looked like a clear, thick-walled peanut butter jar with a heavy base.
"This could be it," she said.
Danny moved over to look. Turning the light on the jar they saw the telltale dark dots that signaled blood. Small. The killer probably thought he'd wiped off all the blood. He was wrong.
Holding the jar at the bottom, Lindsay unscrewed the top and inserted her fingers inside. She turned the jar upside down and they both examined it. The bottom was rough, chipped, with traces of blood.
"Used the jar like a hammer," she said.
"Some glass had to get on whoever drove that pencil in his eye," Danny said.
"Maybe even blood," Lindsay said.
"Get that back to the lab," Danny said. "See what you can find. I'll bring the representatives of the future of our country back for tea, cookies and more conversation."
"Anything else we should be looking for? If there is I'd like to find it before I have to make another trip."
Danny stepped out of the storeroom and stood next to Lindsay, who had placed the jar in a evidence bag and marked the time, date and location on the label.
"We spend half our time just driving from scene to scene and to the lab," Danny said. "That's a fact. There was a study. Mileage was checked. Travel time was checked. Half our time."
"That's a fact?" she said.
"That's a fact," Danny said, deadpan. "Would I lie to you, Montana?"
"Never," she said.
"That's why our evidence kits keep getting bigger and bigger," he said. "So we can run more tests in the field and don't have to do as much moving evidence to the lab."
"And I thought it was about new forensic technology," she said.
"We live and learn, Montana."
"I'm enlightened," she said. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," he said. "Give me a call if you find something."
"It's been bad for Keith," the woman said into the phone.
"He and Adam were close," Mac heard a man say on an extension.
Both Eve and Duncan Yunkin sounded as if they were at least seventy. Mac knew that they were both fifty-three, but it had been a hard fifty-three years.
"If Keith were here when Adam- " she began.
"He couldn't have been," said Duncan. "He was out of his mind for more than a month. The leg."
"The leg," Eve Yunkin said. "Shattered."
"They cut it off," said Duncan.
"How did it happen?" asked Mac.
"He was working in Africa," she said. "Security work for Klentine Oil. They're British."
"He was a mercenary, plain and simple," said Duncan.
"His Jeep turned over," Eve said.
"He ran into a wall," Duncan said impatiently.
"Spent four months- "
"Five, almost six," he said.
"In rehabilitation. When he got out, there was some trouble."
"Trouble? He beat up three men in a bar," said Duncan. "Almost killed two of them. He said they were homosexuals who tried to pick him up. He went to prison for it. One year."
"Do you know where your son is?" asked Mac.
"Adam is dead and buried," said Duncan Yunkin. "Dead and buried. He killed himself."
Mac could hear the man's wife sobbing.
"I meant Keith," said Mac.
"Who knows? We haven't heard from him in more than nine months."
"Eleven months and one week," his wife said.