In two of the three folders they had found something more than scanty case notes. They had found sketches of the victims, sketches the police had used in identifying the women, again because their faces had been so badly battered-obvious in the grainy crime-scene photos. One of the sketches was rather inexpertly done and had not, in fact, helped the police to identify the dead woman; she had gone nameless to a pauper's grave.

But the second sketch was a good one and had been backed up later once she was identified by a photograph. The victim had been the daughter of a local businessman, and not only had her reputation been spotless but she had apparently been attacked not twenty yards from her own back door-in the best part of town. Her name was Marianne Trask.

And according to the sketch, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Hollis Templeton. The same medium-brown hair and strong, attractive features, same oval face, same slender neck.

"Not identical," Jennifer noted. "But damned close. And if you read the descriptions of the other victims, even without sketches to go by, they sound a lot like Christina Walsh and Ellen Randall. Coincidence? I guess it could be."

"It's arguable," Andy said. "Four women attacked, and each case matches up with one of ours-at least as far as the description of the victim is concerned. But there are differences."

"Yeah. All the 1934 victims died within hours." Jennifer sighed and reached into her pocket for a cinnamon-flavored toothpick; she'd recently quit smoking and claimed chewing the toothpicks soothed her oral fixation. It was a mark of the respect in which she was held by the men that not one of them had ventured a lewd response. At least not out loud.

"That's not all," Andy said. "There's no mention in the case files of any of them being blinded."

Scott offered, "That could be our guy's own personal twist. I mean, maybe he's trying to find look-alike victims but making damned sure they can't look at him."

"In 1934," Jennifer pointed out, "leaving them for dead did the trick, so that killer didn't have to worry about his victims even trying to identify him."

"Why doesn't our guy kill his victims?" Scott asked, directing the question to Jennifer. "He goes to such pains to blind them; wouldn't killing them outright be a hell of a lot easier?"

"Why ask me?" She shifted the toothpick to the other side of her mouth and added, "If I had to guess, I'd say he just hasn't been quite ready-so far-to cross the line into outright murder. But I'm no expert, and if you want my opinion that's what we need on this case. Our shrink's good, but she's no profiler."

Andy grunted. "Drummond won't call in the FBI, and you know how the chief feels about the officer in charge of an investigation making that decision."

"If we can't solve this, he'll have to," Jennifer objected.

"You don't know our Luke," Andy said sourly.

Jennifer rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, I do. I just keep hoping I'm wrong, that's all."

Scott made a rude noise not quite under his breath.

"I wouldn't mind being wrong about that," she told him mildly.

"Let's stick to business," Andy said. "Four victims. That's it for the year?"

"Well, we aren't sure about that." Jennifer traded looks with Scott and shrugged. "Files are missing, Andy."

"What the hell do you mean, missing?"

"I mean that from June-just after the fourth victim was killed-through the end of that year, there are no files. And the box is so packed it's hard to say if files have been removed or were never there."

"They had to be there, Jenn, at least in 1934. Crime doesn't just stop in June to take a vacation."

She shrugged again. "Well, they aren't there now. Jeez, how many times since then do you figure the file boxes have been moved around? This isn't the original site of the investigating station, and even this building has been rebuilt or remodeled at least three times. As the city grew, the districts multiplied; police records for Seattle are probably scattered over a dozen different buildings or more."

Scott sank down in Andy's visitor's chair and groaned. "I never thought… But you're right. Every station probably has file boxes in its basement or storage rooms."

"And none of it on computer," Jennifer reminded them. "It's taking all the manpower we can muster to get the modern records on computer for comparison; if the old stuff is ever part of the computerized record it won't be anytime soon."

Andy sat back in his chair and stared at the two sketches propped up against his lamp. "Two pretty conclusive matches," he said slowly, "and descriptions of two more that sound close enough to be strong maybes. Four victims closely matching our four victims. You know, guys… I'd really like to see the files for the rest of that year, maybe the year after."

Jennifer got it first. "In case there are more rape-murders. You think if there were more victims then-we'll have more now. And maybe a shot at identifying would-be victims?"

"Hell, I don't know." Andy scowled. "Even with sketches and photos we don't have much hope of finding look-alikes in a city this big. But more files may give us more information, and God knows we could use it, so I say we look for them."

"I just had a creepy thought," Jennifer said. "What if this bastard is just yanking our chains, copying old crimes or picking look-alike victims only as long as we don't catch on?"

"How could he know we'd caught on?" Scott objected.

"If we manage to identify a potential victim, say."

"One nightmare at a time," Andy told them. "You guys want to get on the phone and try to track down those missing files?"

The building where Hollis Templeton's bleeding body had been dumped wasn't precisely in the bad part of town, it was just somewhat isolated from the buildings nearest it and in very bad shape. Intended for demolition so that a modern new apartment complex could rise in its stead, it had stood empty for at least six or eight months.

Maggie got out of her car and stood on the curb, absently hugging her sketch pad to her breast as she waited for John to park his car and join her. It was chilly, a restless wind whining around like something lost and alone, and the overcast sky was allowing darkness to approach even earlier than usual.

Maggie hated this. She hated this lonely place, hated being here with darkness creeping ever closer. She hated the cold fear writhing in the pit of her stomach and the dread that made her skin feel prickly as though the nerves lay rawly exposed on the surface.

"Maggie?"

She started despite herself and tore her gaze from the broken rubble walkway leading to the building to find John standing beside her.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded quickly. "Yes, of course. Just… woolgathering. Where's your friend?"

"Well, since there's a rental car parked across the street, I'd say he's already here." He studied her face, not quite frowning but clearly bothered by what he saw. "Are you sure you want to go in there?"

"Want to? No. But I'm going in."

He smiled faintly. "Determination, or just plain stubbornness?"

"Is there a difference?" Maggie didn't wait for him to answer but walked steadily up the walkway to the building.

John walked beside her. "I've always thought so. Do you have a set pattern for going over crime scenes, or is every one different?"

"I suppose each is different. And this isn't really a crime scene, anyway. She was left here but not attacked here."

He paused with her just a few feet from the doorway and looked down at her. "But her attacker was here, if only long enough to leave her inside. Is that what you hope to pick up on… intuitively?"

As tense as she was, Maggie had to smile. "You really are uncomfortable discussing intuition, aren't you?"

"The way you and Quentin appear to use it-yes."