"How about we sit in your car?" Andy suggested because he didn't want Slipper inside his cluttered dining-room office with its research materials on Jamestown, Isle of Dogs, pirates, mummies, photographs of Popeye, and all the rest.

"Sure." Slipper shrugged, slightly puzzled. "What? You hiding a woman in there?"

"I wish," Andy replied. "Nope. It's just the place is a friggin' mess and I'd rather not be distracted at the moment. If you feel better coming inside, that's fine, of course. You can even search the place if you want."

"Hell, no, Andy," Slipper said. "Shit. I got no probable cause to search your house, even if you give me permission. Come on. Let's go sit in that piece of shit the city gives me to drive."

"I don't know what the hell is going on, Joe," Andy kept saying.

"Well, I do," Slipper answered as they climbed inside his old unmarked Ford LTD and shut the doors. "It certainly looks like our killer left this shit and is jerking us around. You know, I worked that fucking scene, and it's obvious to me the photo was taken before we got there. Not to mention, when we responded, there was no sign of her clothes, and we searched the entire island."

Andy was in turmoil. Did the killer somehow know that he was Trooper Truth? Is that why Trooper Truth was carved on the body and now evidence was left at

Andy's house? But how could anyone except Hammer possibly know the real identity of Trooper Truth? It made no sense, and Andy feared that if he openly discussed the situation with Slipper, the detective would tell other cops and Andy's literary career would be over and Hammer would be fired by the governor. Worst of all, Andy might become the prime suspect.

"Jesus Christ," he said with a frustrated sigh. "Joe, let me tell you right off, I had nothing to do with this case. 1 never heard of the victim until you called Hammer earlier today. I'd never seen the victim, and I sure as hell didn't murder her or anyone, if that's what you're even remotely entertaining, and I think we should be really honest with each other, Joe."

"Damn right we'll be honest," Slipper replied, staring out the windshield at the dark, empty street, and Andy could tell by Slipper's refusal to look him in the eye that the detective didn't know what to think and was, in fact, suspicious.

"Do you know anything about Trooper Truth?" Slipper asked.

"I know the name was carved on her body, because you told Hammer and she told me," Andy said. "Certainly, I know about Trooper Truth's website, just like everybody else does."

"You've read his shit?"

"Yes," Andy said. "And I can't see that there's anything in the content of those essays that might be somehow linked to Trish Thrash, do you?"

"Gotta agree with you there," Slipper confessed. "I mean, I don't see any connection between Jamestown, mummies, and all the rest, to what appears to be a blatant hate crime targeted at gay women. And I gotta admit, Andy," Slipper said, finally looking at him, "half the city cops always assumed you was gay, and you never have seemed to care or have a thing about gays."

"I don't," Andy replied sincerely. "I don't have a thing about anybody except bad people."

"Yeah, that's always been my impression." Slipper shook his head, mystified. "But why the hell would the killer leave this shit at your house, for Christ's sake? I'm wondering if it could be some person you've arrested before or somehow had contact with, maybe when you was working for the city? Is your address listed in the phone book?"

"No, Joe, it's not. Mind if I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Have you considered that maybe the Trooper Truth link isn't that the killer reads Trooper Truth but that maybe the victim did and somehow the killer found that out?"

"You know, I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you that I didn't think of that," Slipper said with interest and a spark of hope. "Damn good thought. I'll follow up on that right away, go back and talk some more with the people she worked with."

"Maybe with some of the people who played on the softball team that's on her T-shirt," Andy suggested. "What you might want to consider is not asking about Trooper Truth directly, because you don't want people knowing the detail about what was cut on her body, right?"

"Hell no. Only the killer and us and the M.E. know that. So we need to keep that to ourselves in case we ever get a suspect and he confesses to it, right?"

"Exactly, Joe."

"So how do you think I could find out about Trooper Truth without mentioning him directly?"

"How about this for an idea," Andy said. "Trooper Truth gets e-mail."

"He does?"

"Yes. It's right there on the website that you can contact whoever he or she is and so on. Why not send an e-mail to Trooper Truth and ask for his or her help? He-let's just go ahead and call him or her a he-can post something on his site and see if people who might have known Trish Thrash will respond."

"Like what?" Slipper scratched his chin. "What do we want him to put on his site?"

"Okay," Andy said, thinking. "Try this: The police are looking for anyone who knew Trish Thrash and might know her hobbies, passions, what she read, and if there was anything or anyone of late that she talked about a lot."

Slipper was taking notes and asked Andy to repeat the statement again.

"And I would add," Andy suggested, "that the informers don't have to identify themselves, otherwise some people won't feel comfortable stepping forward. And I'd offer a reward for any tip that leads to an arrest."

Slipper started the car engine and turned on his headlights while Unique crouched behind a tree in the dark, her molecules rearranged into invisibility and her Purpose throbbing as she imagined appearing at the blond cop's door one night.

"My car's broke down," the Nazi scripted. "Can I use the phone?"

The cop would let her inside, and when he turned his back for even a second, Unique would, as instructed, become invisible and slip up behind him, slashing his throat all the way through his windpipe so he couldn't scream and would drown in his own blood. Then, the Nazi said from her dark space, Unique would slash his pretty face, cut out his eyes and tongue, castrate him, carve a swastika on his belly, and photograph the fruits of her Purpose, as usual. Finally, she would take his clothes, which Unique would deliver to whomever the Nazi directed.

"I know you've already thought of this," Andy was diplomatically suggesting, "but I'd get the DNA lab to analyze the envelope, assuming the killer licked the flap, then have the profile run through the DNA database to see if we're lucky enough to get a cold hit. Also have the blood on the clothes checked for DNA. Sometimes the killer cuts himself. I'd also get Vander to do his thing with the Luma-Lite and Super Glue in hopes there are latent prints on the trash bag and the envelope and Polaroid, which he can then run through AFIS. Of course, get trace evidence to check for fibers, hairs, and whatever on the clothes in the bag, and before any of this is done, don't forget to let Doctor Scarpetta see everything."

"Yeah, yeah," Slipper said rather disdainfully, because he was trained in the old days and understood modern forensic science about as well as he did his VCR, which he still didn't know how to work. "I already was gonna do all that."