He picked up the album and returned to the living room. Sitting on the couch, he leafed through the album’s plastic pages. As a teenager, his wife had never wanted for work. Every exhibit and attraction on the Boardwalk had wanted her to be “their girl” each summer. Her stunning looks had always drawn a crowd.

The pictures made him laugh, and he felt his mood lifting. One was of Lois wearing a rubber lobster outfit. That was the job for the fresh Maine lobster exhibit. Another showed her dressed in a giant bagel. Goldfarb’s bagels. No matter how ridiculous the costume, her smile always looked genuine.

Halfway through the album, he came to pictures of Lois in bathing suits. There were over a dozen, both one-pieces and bikinis. He remembered the job vividly: A company called Candy Swimsuits out of California. Lois had done five shows a day, and been hit on by every hot-blooded male on the Boardwalk. It had been an unbearable summer.

The bathing suits ended, and he stared at a photograph of her coming down a runway in a mini-skirt, her hair ironed straight. The photograph had a date stenciled in the right hand corner. 7-15-65. He vaguely remembered the job. Booked by an agent out of New York. Great pay, only Lois had hated it, and quit after the first day.

He flipped the page. The next photograph was from the same job. This time, Lois wore wide bell bottoms, a denim shirt with flower embroidery, and love beads. He felt himself shudder. His wife was dressed like a 1960's hippie.

He shut his eyes, and from memory dredged up the slides Fuller and Romero had shown of the Dresser’s victims, the pictures as fresh as the day he’d seen them. Each victim had been dressed in hippie clothes. He saw each outfit clearly, then opened his eyes, and stared at the outfits Lois was wearing in the album. They were the same.

He took a deep breath. Was he seeing too much into this, like Banko had claimed, his mind making connections that weren’t there? Or was there a link between Lois’s modeling job that summer and the Dresser’s victims? There was only one way to find out, and he jumped off the couch, the album clutched to his chest.

He hated waking his wife so late at night, but saw no other choice. Sitting on her side of the bed, he turned on the bedside table lamp, and gently shook her.

“Hi…” she said sleepily.

“Wake up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Her head had sunk deep into her pillow, and she murmured “Of course.” and drifted back into dreamworld. Valentine shook her a little harder, and his wife’s eyes snapped open. She sat bolt upright, stared at the bedside clock, then at him.

“It’s two-thirty. What’s wrong?”

“I need to ask you some questions.”

“You’re scaring me, Tony. What’s the matter?”

The album was sitting on his lap. He opened it to the section of her doing the modeling job in the hippie clothes, and began flipping the pages.

“Do you remember this job?”

Lois stared at the photographs. “Sure. Summer of Love. That crummy agent out New York talked me into taking it. I hated every minute of it.”

“Why?”

Lois was wide awake now, and gave him a strange look. “Tony, what’s wrong?”

“Please, answer me.”

“Oh, God, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t like the clothes. They were supposed to be hippie clothes, but they were just garbage.”

“Was there anything else? Did anyone hit on you?”

“There were always people hitting on me. And you were always telling them to shove off.”

“Was there anyone in particular on this job? Someone who bothered you? Think hard.”

His wife gave him an exasperated look. “Come to mention it, there was. A weird guy who worked backstage wouldn’t stop bothering me. He barged into the dressing room when I was half-naked, and I threw him out.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“No. Now, please tell me why you woke me up at this godawful hour.”

Valentine took his wife’s hands, and held them. “The Dresser is dressing up prostitutes in hippie clothes, and then killing them. While I was looking through this album, I realized how much each of his victims looked like you. Same height, same weight, same hair color, and all of them had dark complexions, and were very pretty. Whoever that guy was, I think he’s the same killer.”

The words were slow to sink in. When they did, his wife’s face turned to horror, and she grabbed the bedcovers, and pulled them up around her.

“Oh, my god, Tony. Oh, my god.”

Chapter 50

Valentine and Lois were sitting in the waiting area outside Banko’s office when the sergeant arrived at work the next morning. Banko scowled, and Valentine guessed that his superior thought they were there to beg for his job back.

Banko ushered them into his office. Sabina had fixed coffee, and Banko acted surprised when they both declined his offer of a cup.

“So what do I owe the pleasure?” Banko asked.

Valentine had the photo album under his arm. Placing it on the desk, he flipped it open it to the Summer of Love pictures. Banko flashed a benevolent smile.

“I didn’t know your wife modeled,” he said pleasantly.

Lois’s eyes welled up with tears. Valentine pointed at the first picture of the set and said, “Look at the clothes my wife is wearing.”

Banko took out his bifocals, and fitted them on his nose. Valentine turned the page to another photograph of his wife on a runway. Then, a third page was shown.

“So?” the sergeant said.

“The Dresser is dressing his victims up in hippie clothes, and killing them. His victims all look like my wife. My wife remembers a guy at this job who was stalking her. I think he’s our killer.”

Banko pulled the album closer and ran through the pages. Picking up his phone, he called Sabina in the next room. “Get me the murder book on our serial killer.” Hanging up, he continued to look at the photographs while gulping down his cup of coffee. After ten seconds had elapsed, he rose from his desk, went to his door and opened it.

“Hurry,” he told his secretary.

It was a painful coincidence that the murder book was the same color as the photo album. Painful because Lois Valentine was suffering through this experience of having to see the victims dressed like her, and nothing Banko could do would make it any easier for her. The victims’ clothes in the murder book matched her clothes in the album, right down to the jewelry. The killer had recreated her for his own sick pleasure.

Banko closed the two books. Then he stood up, and came around the desk. His face had a look that Valentine didn’t recognize; soft, and full of compassion. Banko stopped in front of his wife, and gently took her hands with both his own.

“May I call you Lois?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“Lois, I’m going to ask you to do something that’s probably going to be painful.”

“What’s that?”

“We have the victims’ clothes downstairs in the evidence room in the basement. I’d like to have you look at them.”

Her voice broke. “Is that… necessary?”

“You said you don’t remember much about the modeling job. Or the man who was stalking you.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I understand. Maybe seeing the clothes will jog your memory, and you’ll remember this guy’s name, or something he said to you.”

“And then you can catch him,” Lois said.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Banko said.

“Okay. I’ll take a look at them.”

The cop on duty in the evidence room was named Dave Gordon, although everyone called him The Kid. The Kid was wearing on his shirt a jelly doughnut he’d just eaten, and looked embarrassed as hell when the three of them came through the door.