“We aim to please, Doctor.”

Birdy motioned for her to sit, and Kendall obliged. “I know. I’m glad you came over. I have something for you. Lord knows you could use it.”

The last sentence wasn’t meant as a dig, and Birdy regretted how it came out. “You know what I mean. We all could use a break.”

Kendall nodded. “You can say that again. Have you got something for us?”

Birdy folded back the metal clasp of a manila envelope and pulled out a four-page report, most of which was boilerplate and protocol.

“About those paint specks.”

Kendall scooted forward on the chair. “You’ve got something, haven’t you?”

“Nothing as definitive as you’d like, I’m sure, but something yes. Lab results came back this morning. Not only did the ladies in Olympia-with an assist from the feds’ lab-confirm the chemical makeup and date of the paint-1940, prewar-they determined that the outer surface of the paint indicated some wear.”

“‘Some wear?’”

“That’s right,” Birdy said, drumming her fingernail on the report. “It appears that the object inserted into our victim was likely a household item: eggbeater, rolling pin, potato masher.”

Kendall didn’t say anything, and Birdy filled the silence with more information.

“The postmortem damage to her vagina fits the kind of shallow penetration of a painted dowel pin-you know, four inches or so. Whoever raped her after death used some kind of old kitchenware. I’m about sure of it.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“That’s your question to answer, but the truth is, Kendall, we never really know what triggers the darkest and the unthinkable. The killer could have picked up a rolling pin because it was handy or because using one in such a vile way held some meaning for him.”

“Like he hated his mother,” Kendall said.

Birdy put the report back in the envelope. “That’s one possibility, I suppose.”

“Obvious as it is.”

“Right. Remember the murders in Spokane ten years ago? I know this is a bit before your time. They called him the Grandma Killer?”

Kendall searched her memory. “Yes,” she said. “I think he killed four women, all elderly.”

“Yes,” she said. “The media-and my colleagues in law enforcement-were all but certain he was targeting older ladies because of some anger against them or some sexual compulsion. A classic rage killer.”

Kendall was unsure where the conversation was going, and the look on her face signaled the pathologist to wrap it up.

Which she did.

“Point being, the killer wasn’t targeting older women because he was attracted to them. They were simply random picks based on opportunity. They’d spent months profiling a killer they thought had a granny complex for nothing.”

“He was just lazy, right?”

Birdy nodded. “That’s right. So what I’m getting at is, I don’t think that our Kitsap Cutter has anything against his mother per se. I think we’ve got a man who is an opportunist and is looking for women he can control, defile, and do with as he pleases. And there’s one more thing. I’m all but certain that our killer has an accomplice.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Some alleles were picked off the paint chips. They don’t match each other. They come from more than one person.”

“Is the Cutter a killing team?”

“That’s my guess. Of course, it might merely mean there was trace from the grandma who owned the old rolling pin. DNA, like fingerprints, is not time/date stamped.”

Kendall Stark parked her child-fingerprinted SUV in the lot behind Bay Street in an oil-stained lot that looked out over Sinclair inlet at the Navy ships across the water in Bremerton. The Olympic Mountains, rugged and bare of snow, were an awe-inspiring backdrop. She glanced at the moored ships, gray and enormous, like whales lazing, and then proceeded to one of the antique stores that lined much of Port Orchard’s downtown thoroughfare. She was on the hunt for classic kitchenware, items that had once lovingly helped to prepare meals, but now had been used for the unthinkable.

Most stores had “a little of this, a little of that,” but one seemed the most likely place to learn more. It was Kitchen Klassics, a hole-in-the-wall shop, just steps away from the library, a popular tavern, and a bail bondsman’s office that were the three busiest places on the main drag of town.

Adam Canfield, a man who wore a cardigan and a bow tie every day of the year, nodded at Kendall as she came inside, ringing the bell. He set down his supersized mug of black tea and lit up with recognition.

“Hi, detective,” he said, brushing back a lock of prematurely salt and pepper hair that hung foppishly fringed on his suntanned brow.

Kendall had known him since high school when they worked on a production of Brigadoon. She’d been Fiona; he was a set decorator.

“Adam, I’m on a mission, and I think you’re the one to help.”

“A case.” He raised an eyebrow. “The case?” he asked, without saying the obvious.

She smiled at Adam. He was complete gossip, but an effective one when it came to feigning confidence. He should have been an actor.

“I can’t talk about the specifics,” she said. “But I’m hoping you can help.”

He moved his tea aside and leaned on the glass case that served as a counter, his elbows sliding a little.

“I’m here for you,” he said.

Kendall described the color, size, and age of a particular kitchen item.

“I’m thinking a handle on a cook’s tool.”

Adam resisted the urge to offer up some kind of innuendo. “Red or red with a white underglaze?” he asked.

She pondered the lab’s report. “Yes, there was a white underglaze.”

“Good, that makes it more interesting,” he said. “And more valuable. Follow me.”

Adam led Kendall between rows of old appliances and dining sets to a large locked case. Inside were crocks loaded with rolling pins, potato peelers, and tools with purposes unknown to the Kitsap County investigator. Adam unlocked the case and reached for a rolling pin with cherry red handles.

“Made only one year, 1938, in Germany,” he said, giving dough roller a spin as he handed it over.

Kendall stopped the whirling pin. “What happened?”

“Company went TU,” he said. “The war, Jewish company, Germany.”

Kendall rotated the pin. The dowel was not stationary like some rolling pins, but inside ball bearings turned the cylinder. It glided over pastry like a vintage Ferrari, smooth and with style.

“I see,” she said.

“Retails for about $400. You can have it for $375.”

Kendall handed it back. “Thanks, Adam. But I’m more interested in who else might have wanted one of these.”

He locked the case. “I’ve sold a couple since I’ve been in this location. Highly collectible, this stuff. Few people appreciate something so simple, so rare. “

“How are your records?”

Adam grinned. “They suck, but I could do some digging.”

A while later, Adam Canfield was on the phone. Kendall was sitting in her office with Josh Anderson going over the minutes of the last task force meeting, taking their lumps and wishing they’d been able to put an end to the Kitsap Cutter case before things had spun out of control.

Even more so.

“Hi, Kendall, er Detective,” he said, correcting himself.

“Hi, Adam,” she said, “have you got some good news for me?”

“I don’t know if it’s good news. But it is news. I dug through the files. God, I wish I made enough dough to hire a full-time bookkeeper. It isn’t easy being in retail, you know.”

“I’m sure, Adam. What did you find out?”

“Three names: Katrina Dodson, Melody Castile, and Veronica-she likes to be called Ronni-Milton. All of them have purchased something in that old line I showed you.”

She wrote down the names. Something seemed so vague, and she asked him about it.