“Eight in the case of the spider. Sixty to sixty-two for the millipedes-depending on sex.”

Riley nodded. “Are we still looking at the entomologists as our prime suspects?”

“They would seem to be the most likely, yes. Neither Roberto Quadros nor Nathan Vanderhoff has an alibi for the Harribold murder.”

“Serial killers usually escalate,” said Nick. “Two murders in less than a week? He’s already off and running.”

“True,” said Grissom. “And both killings-while different in circumstan ce and execution-required a fair bit of preparation. Anyone who goes to that much trouble isn’t going to be satisfied with only two; it’s likely he has several more scenarios ready and awaiting implementation.”

“This guy doesn’t sound like any serial I’ve ever heard of,” said Riley. “He doesn’t seem to be getting any sexual satisfaction out of it, and the targets don’t seem to have anything in common. One he did up close and personal, the other at a distance and almost at random.”

“I don’t think the victim matters to him at all,” said Grissom. “Paul Fairwick was killed by a gunshot and had an insect planted in his corpse-similar to the way certain wasps will paralyze spiders and lay eggs in their bodies. Keenan Harribold was lured to a rendezvous by an online imposter posing as a romantic interest-not so different from the way the Photuris insect lures fireflies to their doom by duplicating the flashing light of a receptive female.”

“Pixels and text instead of pheromones and mating displays,” murmured Riley. “But with the same eventual effect.”

“Professor Vanderhoff already pointed out the similarity between one high school attacking another and anthills waging war. Even the graffiti left at the scene was reminiscent of chemical traces used by colony insects to mark property. I think our killer is mor e fascinated by the process and the resulting consequences than the immediate result.”

Nick crossed his arms. “So the riot at Plain Ridge High was what he was actually after, and killing Harribold was just a means to that end?”

“All serial killers express a desire for control, Nick-even Jack the Ripper’s letters to the press were a way for him to influence the behavior of the entire citizenry of London. Our… ‘Bug Killer’ is simply demonstrating a more advanced knowledge of sociology.”

“In that case,” said Riley, “why was Paul Fairwick targeted? What kind of effect was the killer trying to create?”

“Perhaps we should ask Fairwick’s employer,” said Grissom. “The queen…”

It was several long minutes before an officer walked out of the barn and waved an all-clear to them.

“Let’s suit up,” said Catherine.

Both of them slipped into hazmat suits with respirators-though they skipped the body armor-then drove up to the barn and got out.

“Nobody home,” said Sergeant Loyola. He kept his mask on, though, and so did they. “Nothing cooking, either.”

“That’s a relief. No traps?”

“Couple tripwires, nothing fancy. Give my guys a minute to finish up and you can go in.”

Greg hefted his CSI case in one hand. “Anything we should know?”

“Yeah,” said Loyola. “If your air conditioner ever gets sick and vanishes, I think I know where it crawled off to die.”

They saw what he meant when they en tered the barn. A double-wide trailer was parked along one wall, beneath what was left of the roof; the rest of the floor space was taken up by a rusting pyramid of metal and plastic that reached to the rafters.

“Wow,” said Greg. “He wasn’t kidding. There must be hundreds here-maybe even a thousand. It’s like a temple to climate control.”

“Climate catastrophe, more like. Freon’s one of the chemicals used to make meth; they must have cracked open every one of these units to get at the leftovers.”

“Tweakers plus a gazillion AC-cooled rooms equals appliance graveyard,” said Greg. “It’s kinda cool, in a nonenvironmental, highly illegal way.”

They entered the double-wide. Most of the meth labs Catherine had seen were filthy: garbage strewn on the floor, every available surface crammed with dirty or broken glassware, open containers of chemicals everywhere.

This place was different.

A bulging plastic garbage bag sat in one corner, tied shut. It was the only evidence of trash in the place; every surface was clean, from countertops to tables to floor. Containers of chemicals had been lined up in cupboards like exotic spices. The sink was freshly scrubbed.

“Damn,” s aid Greg. “This is the best-kept illegal drug facility I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah. I think I’m starting to understand why Boz Melnyk stored his urine at home; someone thought it was too unhygienic to keep around.”

“So which one do you think is the clean freak?”

Catherine shrugged. “I wouldn’t apply that description to any of them. Let’s see if we can find out.”

They found a bedroom in the back, with nothing in it but a mattress on the floor. Greg pulled out his UV light and shone it over the bedding. “I’ve got definite evidence of sexual activity.”

“So someone liked to party as well as cook. If we can match DNA samples to Tyford or Molinez we can tie them to the whole operation.”

The bathroom was next. It was as clean as the rest of the place, but one particular detail caught Catherine’s eye. “Greg. Take a look at this.”

“Oh, ho. That is above and beyond,” he said.

“Not really. But it is the mark of a professional…”

Henry Stancroft was a wide, bullet-headed black man in a dark suit. He could have been mistaken for an ex-prizefighter, except for the spidery, almost delicate eyeglasses that perched halfway down his flat nose. The impassive, evaluating look he gave Grissom from behind his desk was that of a small-town sheriff staring down a rival from another county intruding on his turf.

“Yeah, no, it’s a real shame wh at happened to Paul,” he said. “You like anyone for it?”

“The investigation is ongoing,” said Grissom. “I was hoping maybe you might have some ideas.”

“Of someone who’d want to kill Paul?” He shook his head. “Honestly, that’s a tough one. Paul’s job was to grease the wheels, make sure everything ran smoothly for Her Highness. And he was real good at his job-had the gift of gab, know what I mean? Everybody liked him. Guy should have been a diplomat instead of a glorified gofer.”

“How about his employer? I understand Ms. Jordanson recently received some disturbing mail from a fan.”

Stancroft snorted. “Yeah, she gets some pretty weird stuff sent to her. You think Paul was killed by some wacko? Because he was close to her?”

“It’s a possibility. Do you still have the letters?”

“Of course. We keep a file on guys like that, just in case.” He got up, moved over to a filing cabinet against the wall, and pulled open a drawer. Stancroft’s office reminded Grissom of the lab; it had the same kind of open layout and lots of glass so the head of security could keep an eye on everything in his domain. But instead of white-coated lab technicians strolling past outside, it was burly pit bosses with earpieces and dark blue blazers.

“Here,” said Stancroft. He handed Grissom a manila folder. “Everything he sent her. You need exemplars for fingerprints, I can provide them-nobody’s touched those but me, Fairwick, and whoever sent them.”

“Thank you.”

Stancroft hesitated. “You used to work with Warrick Brown, right?”

Grissom blinked. “For a number of years, yes. Did you know him?”

“Yeah-a long time ago. We grew up in the same neighborhood. Got into some of the same trouble, even dated some of the same girls. We were never that close, but-I don’t know, I kind of kept track of him. We were sort of on parallel paths, you know? When I heard what happened-”

Stancroft broke off. Warrick Brown had died in the line of duty, shot by a rogue cop; he’d died in Grissom’s arms. “Wish I’d made more of an effort to get to know him, that’s all.”