Andy grunted. "Drummond won't call in the FBI, and you know how the chief feels about the officer in charge of an investigation making that decision."
"If we can't solve this, he'll have to," Jennifer objected.
"You don't know our Luke," Andy said sourly.
Jennifer rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, I do. I just keep hoping I'm wrong, that's all."
Scott made a rude noise not quite under his breath.
"I wouldn't mind being wrong about that," she told him mildly.
"Let's stick to business," Andy said. "Four victims. That's it for the year?"
"Well, we aren't sure about that." Jennifer traded looks with Scott and shrugged. "Files are missing, Andy."
"What the hell do you mean, missing?"
"I mean that from June-just after the fourth victim was killed-through the end of that year, there are no files. And the box is so packed it's hard to say if files have been removed or were never there."
"They had to be there, Jenn, at least in 1934. Crime doesn't just stop in June to take a vacation."
She shrugged again. "Well, they aren't there now. Jeez, how many times since then do you figure the file boxes have been moved around? This isn't the original site of the investigating station, and even this building has been rebuilt or remodeled at least three times. As the city grew, the districts multiplied; police records for Seattle are probably scattered over a dozen different buildings or more."
Scott sank down in Andy's visitor's chair and groaned. "I never thought… But you're right. Every station probably has file boxes in its basement or storage rooms."
"And none of it on computer," Jennifer reminded them. "It's taking all the manpower we can muster to get the modern records on computer for comparison; if the old stuff is ever part of the computerized record it won't be anytime soon."
Andy sat back in his chair and stared at the two sketches propped up against his lamp. "Two pretty conclusive matches," he said slowly, "and descriptions of two more that sound close enough to be strong maybes. Four victims closely matching our four victims. You know, guys… I'd really like to see the files for the rest of that year, maybe the year after."
Jennifer got it first. "In case there are more rape-murders. You think if there were more victims then-we'll have more now. And maybe a shot at identifying would-be victims?"
"Hell, I don't know." Andy scowled. "Even with sketches and photos we don't have much hope of finding look-alikes in a city this big. But more files may give us more information, and God knows we could use it, so I say we look for them."
"I just had a creepy thought," Jennifer said. "What if this bastard is just yanking our chains, copying old crimes or picking look-alike victims only as long as we don't catch on?"
"How could he know we'd caught on?" Scott objected.
"If we manage to identify a potential victim, say."
"One nightmare at a time," Andy told them. "You guys want to get on the phone and try to track down those missing files?"
The building where Hollis Templeton's bleeding body had been dumped wasn't precisely in the bad part of town, it was just somewhat isolated from the buildings nearest it and in very bad shape. Intended for demolition so that a modern new apartment complex could rise in its stead, it had stood empty for at least six or eight months.
Maggie got out of her car and stood on the curb, absently hugging her sketch pad to her breast as she waited for John to park his car and join her. It was chilly, a restless wind whining around like something lost and alone, and the overcast sky was allowing darkness to approach even earlier than usual.
Maggie hated this. She hated this lonely place, hated being here with darkness creeping ever closer. She hated the cold fear writhing in the pit of her stomach and the dread that made her skin feel prickly as though the nerves lay rawly exposed on the surface.
"Maggie?"
She started despite herself and tore her gaze from the broken rubble walkway leading to the building to find John standing beside her.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes, of course. Just… woolgathering. Where's your friend?"
"Well, since there's a rental car parked across the street, I'd say he's already here." He studied her face, not quite frowning but clearly bothered by what he saw. "Are you sure you want to go in there?"
"Want to? No. But I'm going in."
He smiled faintly. "Determination, or just plain stubbornness?"
"Is there a difference?" Maggie didn't wait for him to answer but walked steadily up the walkway to the building.
John walked beside her. "I've always thought so. Do you have a set pattern for going over crime scenes, or is every one different?"
"I suppose each is different. And this isn't really a crime scene, anyway. She was left here but not attacked here."
He paused with her just a few feet from the doorway and looked down at her. "But her attacker was here, if only long enough to leave her inside. Is that what you hope to pick up on… intuitively?"
As tense as she was, Maggie had to smile. "You really are uncomfortable discussing intuition, aren't you?"
"The way you and Quentin appear to use it-yes."
"I'm not psychic."
"Sure about that?"
Before Maggie could answer, a tall blond man appeared suddenly in the doorway and offered a cheerful greeting.
"I hope somebody brought a flashlight. Because unless we're damned quick in here, we're going to end up in the dark."
"I thought they taught you to always be prepared," John said.
"That's the Boy Scouts. I wasn't a Boy Scout. Wasn't a marine either."
John didn't question the latter statement, just sighed and said he had several flashlights in his car.
"I knew you would. That's why I didn't bring any."
"Don't start with me. Maggie, this is Quentin Hayes, who claims to know things before they happen." There was no scorn in his voice, merely a sort of amused mockery, and he left her to make what she would of the introduction while he returned to his car for the flashlights.
"So you're a seer?" she asked.
"Not in the true sense of the word, meaning one who sees. I don't, actually. No visions." He shrugged. "I just know things. Sort of the way most people tune in to memory or bits of information they've learned. The difference is that when I tune in, it's often to the knowledge of something that hasn't happened yet."
"That must be unsettling."
"It took some getting used to." He eyed her thoughtfully. "I hear they call what you do nothing short of magical."
"That's not what I call it."
"Oh? What do you call it?"
"An ability I've practiced nearly half my life to perfect. I happen to be able to draw. I also happen to be able to listen to people describe what they've seen and then draw it. Nothing magical about that." It was virtually automatic by now, this reasonable explanation of her abilities.
"When you put it like that," Quentin said affably, "it does sound perfectly normal, doesn't it?"
"Only because it is."
John returned to them then, handing out flashlights. "Quentin, how long have you been here?"
"Half an hour, maybe a little longer. I went upstairs for a bit, following the path she took when she dragged herself out of here."
Maggie said, "It's still visible, isn't it? The blood." She gripped the flashlight tightly with one hand and held her sketch pad close with the other.
Quentin looked at her, and for just an instant she felt as if he'd reached over and touched her physically with a warm hand-even though he hadn't moved. But the moment passed, and he nodded, sober now.
"I'm afraid so, at least in places. Dried and brown now, but still there. Those of us with vivid imaginations-or something more-can even smell it. I'm sorry, Maggie."
She wasn't certain if he was expressing sympathy or apologizing for something, and she decided not to ask. Instead, she said, "I want to see where he left her."