Berger listens without interruption. She has taken in what 1 am saying and seems to understand. As usual, she takes no notes. She asks, "Did he leave hair at your house?"

"I'm not sure what the police found."

"As much as he seems to shed, I would think he left hair at your house or certainly out in the snow in your yard when he was thrashing about."

"You would think so," I agree with her.

"I've been reading about werewolves." Berger leaps to the next topic. "Apparently, there have been people who really thought they were werewolves or tried all sorts of bizarre things to turn themselves into werewolves. Witchcraft, black magic. Satan worship. Biting. Drinking blood. Do you think it's possible Chandonne really believes he is a loup-garou? A werewolf? And maybe even wants to be one?"

"Thus not guilty by reason of insanity," I reply, and I have assumed all along this would be his defense.

"There was a Hungarian countess in the early sixteen hundreds, Elizabeth Bathory-Nadasdy, also known as the Blood Countess," Berger goes on. "She supposedly tortured and murdered some six hundred young women. Would bathe in their blood, believing it would keep her young and preserve her beauty. Familiar with the case?"

"Vaguely."

"As the story goes, this countess kept young women in her dungeon, fattened them up, would bleed them and bathe in their blood and then force other imprisoned women to lick all the blood off her body. Supposedly because towels were harsh on her skin. Rubbing blood in her skin, all over her body," she ponders. "Accounts of this have left out the obvious. I'd say there was a sexual component," she adds dryly. "Lust murders. Even if the perpetrator truly believed in the magical powers of blood, it's about power and sex. That's what it's about whether you're a beautiful countess or some genetic anomaly who grew up on the He Saint-Louis."

We turn on Canterbury Road, entering the wooded, wealthy neighborhood of Windsor Farms, where Diane Bray lived on the outer edge, her property separated by a wall from the noisy downtown expressway.

"I would give my right arm to know what's in the Chandonne library," Berger is saying. "Or better put, what sorts of things Chandonne's been reading over the years_aside from the histories and other erudite materials he says his father gave him, yada, yada, yada. For example, does he know about the Blood Countess? Was he rubbing blood all over his body in hopes it might magically heal him of his affliction?"

"We believe he was bathing in the Seine and then here in the James River" I reply. "Possibly for that reason. To be magically healed."

"Sort of a biblical thing."

"Maybe."

"He might read the Bible, too," she offers. "Was he influenced by the French serial killer Gilles Gamier, who killed little boys and ate them and bayed at the moon? There were a lot of so-called werewolves in France during the Middle Ages. Some thirty thousand people charged with it, can you imagine?" Berger has been doing a lot of research. This is evident. "And there's the other weird idea," she goes on. "In werewolf folklore it was believed if you were bitten by a werewolf, you would turn into one. Possible Chandonne was trying to turn his victims into werewolves? Maybe so he could find a bride of Frankenstein, a mate just like him?"

These unusual considerations begin to form a composite that is far more matter-of-fact and pedestrian than it might seem. Berger is simply anticipating what the defense is going to do in her case, and an obvious ploy is to distract the jury from the heinous nature of the crimes by preoccupying them with Chandonne's physical deformity and alleged mental illness and downright bizarreness. If the argument can be successfully made that he believes he is a paranormal creature, a werewolf, a monster, then it is highly unlikely the jury will find him guilty and sentence him to life in prison. It occurs to me that some people might even feel sorry for him.

"The silver-bullet defense." Berger alludes to the superstition that only a silver bullet can kill a werewolf. "We have a mountain of evidence, but then so did the prosecution in the O.J. case. The silver bullet for the defense will be that Chandonne is deranged and pitiful."

DIANE BRAY'S HOUSE is A WHITE CAPE COD WITH A gambrel roof, and although the police have secured and cleared the scene, the property has not returned to life. Not even Berger can enter without permission of the owner, or in this case, the person acting as custodian. We sit in the driveway and wait for Eric Bray, the brother, to appear with a key.

"You may have seen him at the memorial service." Berger reminds me that Eric Bray was the man carrying the urn containing his sister's cremains. "Tell me how you think Chan-donne got an experienced policewoman to open the door." Berger's attention flows far away from monsters in medieval France to the very real slaughterhouse before our eyes.

"That's a little wide of my boundaries, Ms. Berger. Maybe it's better if you restrict your questions to the bodies and what my findings are."

"There are no boundaries right now, only questions."

"Is this because you assume I may never be in court, at least not in New York, because I'm tainted?" I go ahead and open that door. "In fact, they don't get much more tainted than I am right this minute."

I pause to see if she knows. When she says nothing, I confront her. "Has Righter given you a hint that I may not prove very helpful to you? That I'm being investigated by a grand jury because he has this cockeyed notion that I had something to do with Bray's death?"

"I've been given more than a hint," she quietly replies as she stares out at Bray's dark house. "Marino and I have talked about it, too."

"So much for secret proceedings," I sardonically say.

"Well, the rule is, nothing that goes on inside the grand jury room can be discussed. Nothing's gone on yet. All that's happening is Righter is using a special grand jury as a tool for gaining access to everything he can. About you. Your phone bills. Your bank statements. What people have to say. You know how it works. I'm sure you've testified in your share of grand jury hearings."

She says all this as if it is routine. My indignation rises and spills over in words. "You know, I do have feelings," I say. "Maybe murder indictments are everyday matters to you, but they aren't to me. My integrity is the one thing I've got that I can't afford to lose. It's everything to me, and of all people to accuse of such a crime. Of all people! To even consider that I would do the very thing I fight against every waking minute of my life? Never. I don't abuse power. Never. I don't deliberately hurt people. Never. And I don't take this bullshit in stride, Ms. Berger. Nothing worse could happen to me. Nothing."

"Do you want my recommendation?" She looks at me.

"I'm always open for suggestions."

"First, the media's going to find out. You know that. I'd beat them to the draw and have a press conference. Right away. The good news is, you haven't been fired. You haven't lost the support of the people who have power over your professional life. A fucking miracle. Politicians are usually quick to run for cover, but the governor has a very high opinion of you. He doesn't believe you killed Diane Bray. If he makes a statement to that effect, then you should be all right, providing the special grand jury doesn't come back with a true bill, an indictment."

"Have you discussed any of this with Governor Mitchell?" I ask her.

"We've had contact in the past. We're acquainted. We worked a case together when he was AG."

"Yes, I know that." It also isn't what I asked.

Silence. She stares out at Bray's house. There are no lights on inside, and I point out that it was Chandonne's MO to unscrew the lightbulb over the porch or pull out the wires, and when his victim opened the door, he was hidden by darkness.