PROLOGUE

December 24th

Christmas Eve

11:55 P.M.

The night hummed, electric with unbridled human energy. An inky black, moonless sky made a perfect backdrop for multi-colored light displays and gaudy plastic arrangements of false holly, pine trees, and religious figurines. Nervous wisps of gauzy snow clouds insinuated themselves across the velvet backdrop; their insubstantial fingers tenuously touching the strobe-like flashes, reflecting and magnifying them. Combined with raucously loud music and the voices of people jostling each other along the streets and in the stores, the chaotic lightshow of festivities turned the street into a parody of a 1970s discotheque.

It was Christmas Eve and death stalked the living on this holiday night.

 One tall figure, bundled tightly in a heavy woolen overcoat and slouch hat, watched the party out of the corner of his eye as he blended with the shadows in a deserted alleyway. But the real cause of his celebration existed on the other side of the window he jealously guarded.

The sensory intrusion of merry-making reverberated through and around the man, a shadow within a shadow, deafening and jagged inside his skull. He ignored it. The window showcasing an old style 1930s ballroom, like a spectacular 3D movie, captured and ensnared his imagination. Within his world, this window, the only window to exist, he focused all his attention on her, the one face shining in a room full of dull, faceless people.

A full instrument band filled the room with cheerful, but seductive, music. She swayed with the crowd, her delicate long-fingered hand grasping the neck of a champagne bottle. Confetti and ribbons from packages littered her thick curly hair as it came loose from a pair of fragile filigree combs that earlier held it on top of her head. He loved to watch her hair cascading down to her small waist. He reached out a hand toward the frosty glass of the window; impulsively wanting to stroke it that mane of silken hair as it tumbled over her porcelain shoulders. A golden strapless dress clung to her curves, imbuing her perfect body with the aura of a priceless work of art. The dress shimmered as she laughed and kissed the men surrounding her on the dance floor, under the large bundle of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. He watched her move away from her admirers only to bend over and kiss a lone middle-aged man sitting at the bar who beckoned to her. 

When her breasts threatened to escape from her the tight, strapless dress she wore, the watcher's painful erection pushed against the hard brick wall of the alleyway. Blood pounded in his ears, his hands shook harder, and his breath fogged up the windowpane as he panted in anticipation. His world hyper-focused on her and her alone.

Moist, pink lips formed a smile then erupted into a delighted laugh when the pesky drunk at the bar grabbed her arm.  She distracted him by pointing at the big screen television mounted above the bar. It showed the giant Christmas tree in front of the White House as it came alive with lights, showcasing the multitude of ornaments and glittering tinsel it carried. A split screen showed an even larger and gaudier tree being lit in Times Square, eternally heralding another year of good will, peace and the promise of new hopes and revived dreams. It officially became Christmas Day.

She drunkenly swayed away from the drunk's grasp again and turned to talk to the man standing pressed tightly behind. When he leaned forward, rubbing his hand over the satin of her hip and whispering in her ear, her face diffused with intense anger. Her elegant, ring-clad hand snapped up to slap him then stopped, as if an invisible wall had prevented her from making contact with the man sneering up at her. Sagging, she let her arm drop limply to her side and turned away, a defeated, worn look sinking into her beautiful face, momentarily aging it. She turned and fled.

Squeezing through the crowd, her tall, voluptuous body made slow progress toward the room beyond. She disappeared into the connecting room and out of the watcher's view. Shuddering with anxiety and breathless expectancy he waited. His gaze alternated between the window and the street; knowing she'd appear in one or the other. His breath caught in anticipation of seeing her without the coldness of glass between them. While he huddled inside a long wool coat, crouched within the alley, the crowds on the sidewalks became noisier and their actions more blatantly sexual or violent. Their smells and noises angered him, awakening a sense of violation inside his gut that railed against the very presence in this world of such human vermin. This moment belonged to him… and to her.

Young, uncaring and mindlessly self-indulgent, men and women often ducked into the alleyway where he now stood motionless in the shadows. They groped, gyrated and moaned against each other; rutting in the alley like animals. Drunk beyond all self-control, they rarely took long and often left with most of their clothes open or missing, leaving naked bodies exposed to public view. Although deeply repulsed, he liked to watch. Sometimes he followed them when they left. But tonight was for her… only for her.

Tonight, the dream would bring her to him. He'd waited and watched, just like the dream told him to, and now, she would be his. His hands oozed sweat worse than ever and his body shook so violently he was ready to explode. He pulled sweaty leather gloves off and rubbed the moisture from his hands; roughly swiping them over the soft wool collar while subconsciously pulling at it, partially hiding his face. Nervously tucking the gloves into a pocket, he licked dry lips and waited for her, like an impatient teenager on a first date.  The thought of finally showing himself to this vision of pure angelic womanhood set panic scurrying around his belly. Frantically putting the gloves back on, he pulled his hat lower to hide his eyes His gaze swiftly shifted from the doorway to the building, to the street and back to the filth of the alleyway, like a caged animal ready to gnaw his way to freedom. His gaze locked onto the pattern of the brickwork he stood upon, forcing him to notice that snow was falling again.

After what seemed like eons, she stepped out of the building with a white fur wrapped tightly around her body and the dim overhead neon light emphasizing the pale golden cascade of her hair. She stood under the awning, slowly turning her head to the right and left, cornflower eyes searching for a taxi and giving him a private show of her classic beauty as her profile turned to accommodate his admiring gaze.

She's so clean, so pure and she's mine.

He vibrated with anticipation and licked his lips again. He could smell the heavy musk of her perfume.

Shalimar.

Clinging to the staircase handrail for support, her body shivered with the cold. How he longed to warm her. 

Soon…soon.

He poised himself at the mouth of the alley ready to follow whichever way she went. She cursed loudly, realizing the taxis were wisely staying away from the downtown area tonight, then shivered again. The harsh cold seemed to make up her mind for her. Shakily making her way down the stairs on thin-strapped high heels, her hand slid down the rail. He held his breath, hoping she wouldn't fall on the icy concrete. She made it to the sidewalk, turned right and slowly moved down the street away from the alley. The watcher stepped out and turned to see if any of the loud party-makers clogging the street noticed his presence. He grinned.

Soon she will be mine. The grin widened into a leer.

Soon. The leer widened into a twisted snarl.

He hungrily riveted his gaze on her retreating back and followed. He knew her destination. A cozy apartment three blocks away.

Soon.

CHAPTER ONE

December 25th

Christmas Morning

7 A.M.

The ear-splitting, high-pitched warble of a morgue van siren, amplified as it careened against claustrophobic brick walls flanking the alleyway, sounded like harpies screeching into Jake Daniel's ears. The aspirin he chewed did nothing to ease the sensation of bones imploding behind bloodshot blue eyes; eyes he feared were now a ghastly shade of purple. The aspirin did, however, add nicely to the rancid flavors saturating his mouth; tastes inspired by odors wafting up from the mound of garbage and the nude body propped in the middle of it, like a perverse offering to the god of waste. The resulting sensory overload sent Jake's stomach lurching like a runaway racehorse galloping up and down uneven sand dunes. Jake steadied himself against the rough brick wall with one hand and held the other over his eyes, hoping the dull winter sun would disintegrate before he uncovered them.

            "Rough Christmas Eve at the Stumble Inn Jake? Or dreading your 40th birthday?"

The sound of a woman's mocking voice broke the spell; his instinctive reaction of withdrawal and objectivity. It enabled him to remain apart from the scene he'd learned to hate long ago and many murders past. He dropped the hand covering his eyes and stared at the youthful face of his childhood friend, Martine Joyner. He couldn't help but compare her fresh-faced beauty to the mangled mess of stiffening body she knelt beside. A lurch in his stomach alerted him to his situation again. He subconsciously rubbed at the thick, black moustache he stubbornly kept, in spite of FBI regulations.

"That's not for another three days and that's not why I feel like shit Marti," he replied while rubbing his eyes.

"No, wait. Don't tell me. The bodies are finally getting to you. I know this one is getting to me." Marti reached down and brushed loose snow off what was left of the corpse's face. Marti's long fingers, sensibly manicured, were careful to avoid the crisscross slashes marring the woman's features, leaving only the nose and patches of the cheeks intact. Mocking the dead woman's beauty, faint freckles sprinkled across her nose, standing out against the paleness of the skin left on either side. The contrast was grisly, like a china doll sporting faint rusty splatters of dried blood across its flawless porcelain finish.

"Can the sick humor, will you? I'm in no mood today," Jake growled.

Marti glanced up at him. "Sorry Jake. Want to tell me what's eating you this morning?"

Jake felt like exploding but he suppressed it, replacing the part of himself that cared with the hardened cop of his past days in San Francisco. "The fucking brass won't give me any support here. Because of the last agent's report, they aren't convinced we have a serial killer on our hands." His gaze locked onto hers, deliberately obliterating any images crowding to get inside his mind when he desperately wanted to keep them out for a few minutes. "Oh, they're willing to let me rot here on my own but they refuse to get me any backup and the local suits have their hackles up because I'm here. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Same old shit," he grumbled, aware he was sounding harsh and unfeeling in the presence of a dead woman who didn't deserve to die the way she did.

"You have several victims, with the same signature on the kills and they don't think there's a serial killer loose here? What kind of morons are running the Bureau these days?" Marti's exasperation and frustration matched Jake's.

"Shit. Forget it Marti. I have a job to do even if I do have to do it on my own." Jake ran a hand through his black hair, encouraging the curls he battled into straightness every morning to return with a vengeance. "She…" he indicated the body lying among days old garbage, "…is more important than the fucking politics we jokingly call law enforcement these days." Jake pushed everything but the job at hand out of his head and concentrated on this newest crime scene.

"You're right, no matter what, we owe it to people like her to do what we can Jake," Marti murmured while she balanced precariously on the balls of her feet, squatting next to the body and trying to keep her slacks out of the garbage and snow around the hems.

            "Why in the hell did he leave this one like this?" Jake shook his head, wondering, not for the first time, what kind of mind thought up such grotesque scenarios. Without being aware he was doing it, he turned his body, trying to match the woman's twisted posture, and trying to force understanding into it somehow. "Look at this. She's on her knees like she's praying. Her backside is up in the air but her chest is flat on the ground with both arms outstretched like…I don't know what. Her head is twisted around like he wanted her to watch what he was doing to her. " Jake straightened and shook his head again. "I don't understand this stuff. Fifteen years I've been doing this and I've studied probably over a hundred cases. But, no matter how many books I read on the subject or how many killings I investigate, they still don't make sense."

            Marti inspected the body closer than when she first arrived, breathless and eager to try her hand at profiling a serial killer.  For the first time, the full impact of what she was seeing hit her like a freight train. She turned pale, swayed and rapidly blinked her eyes.

When Jake noticed the strained look on her face, he added, "Are you gonna throw up? If you are, don't do it around the body. Russell will have our heads if you contaminate his crime scene." He groaned, pulled a pair of gloves out of his coat pocket and tossed them at her. "Damn it, Marti. I asked you to use gloves! And, don't tromp all over the place either." Jake knew the evidence crews and cameramen had already done their work and had retreated back to their offices to write up paperwork. He thought if he pushed Marti, she'd at least try to hurry instead of risking what little respectability he had left with the local Chief of Police.

            "I'm not going to throw up. I've had enough medical training with my psychology classes to look at this stuff without blowing chunks." Marti ignored the gloves lying at her feet, took a deep breath and steadied herself. "I'll be okay." Anger flashed across her elegantly strong face, startling Jake with its suddenness and its intensity. But then her words sent another, more intimately known emotion through him, guilt.  "You're just changing the subject anyway. We were talking about your growth as a sensitive human being. Caring about the bodies you have to put names to and how you deal with it. Remember?" Marti took a deep breath, let it out slowly and murmured, "You're right, though, I care, and you just get drunk and screw your ex-girlfriend. Then the rest of us have to put up with a giant attack of 'next morning guilt', foul smells and an even fouler temper." She stared up at him with a pinched look of inner pain around her deep brown eyes.

            Jake flinched inwardly at the look and covered his own distress by breaking the lock of her gaze to look up and down the alleyway. "Will you hurry up? If the Chief hears I've allowed you on a crime scene again he'll have my ass. Besides, Russell's people are almost here to pick the body up and take it to the morgue." He cocked his head, listening to the sound of the siren become almost deafening.  Jake knew it was struggling to break through a crowd of 'rubber-neckers' clogging the street. He waved a hand toward the body that should be covered with a sheet but now lay exposed to the weather and expelled a breath of irritated frustration. "The sooner we get his autopsy report, the sooner I'll be shed of Russell again."

Jake blocked out the look in Marti's eyes and turned to stare at the rapidly enlarging crowd of people at the end of the alleyway. Members of Jake's team, Brian Denton, a rookie agent, and Cameron Parker, an Australian born detective, on loan for the express purpose of learning American law enforcement procedures, stood inside the ever-present yellow crime scene tape, holding back the also ever-present media ghouls as they jostled each other. The crowd strained forward, hoping to get a peek at another victim of what the media had dubbed The Holiday Killer. Both policemen were built like football players but they still had a hard time holding back the sheer weight of people pressing forward. Thankfully, not one news reporter or cameraman felt inclined to rush the line for a change. Jake smiled. He liked it when something went right, even a tiny something.

Russell, the local coroner and a guy who had made Jake's job harder than it should be, stood at the mouth of the alley alternating between talking to Brian and straining his skinny neck above the crowd, waiting for the meat wagon to arrive. Jake was glad he was down there and not in his face, as usual.

            Marti's voice once again disturbed his detachment. "Oh, Chief Hartigan doesn't want your ass, Jake, he wants mine. That's why he gives you such a hard time and refuses to hire me. The burr up his ass is the fact that Sonoma County isn't exactly a popular retreat for the rich of San Francisco. I think he feels personally cheated out of the money and prestige, and he's trying to make up for it by making those he views as underlings feel just as bad as he does."

            "Look, is this some kind of long, drawn out torture you're trying to pull on me here? I do you a favor, let you come down to 'take a peek', as you put it, and now you're taking your sweet time, jawing, asking dumb questions and generally being a giant pain in the ass. So, I repeat, will…you…please…hurry…up?" Jake snarled every word out through gritted teeth.

She shrugged off his anger, took a notebook from her purse and started writing in a neat, uniform hand, belying her inner turmoil and frustration. "Any idea who she might be? Did they find identification on her or near the body?"

            "No I.D., no clothes, no extraneous evidence, no footprints or fingerprints, no idea, only the same things he left in and on the others… and those haven't told us very much," Jake answered with rifle-shot speed.

            Her head snapped up from the notebook. "Just the facts, ma'am, huh? Sometimes you're a cold-blooded bastard, Jake." She went back to taking notes.

Jake, his blue eyes fixed on the cold body of a once beautiful blonde, while his mind was busy elsewhere, mentally disconnected from the scene and ignored Marti's remarks. After a long pause, he whispered to the wind. "I really do care."

He shuddered inwardly at the injuries he was forced to note, catalogue and try to understand: her left eye rested on the back of her head, tied by its optic nerve onto a lock of her long blonde hair to secure it in place. The rest of her face lay in ruins, so badly cut up it was almost unrecognizable. Her body had been ignored, except for the vivid red signature mark of the killer on her backside--- the shape of a set of lips drawn on with lipstick. She'd been murdered and left nude for the rats and feral cats to feast upon.   Jake hid his large, square hands inside his overcoat pockets, not just for warmth, but also to still their shaking. " I need to catch this sick fuck and I need to do it soon."

Marti reached out and gently touched the lipstick 'kiss' on the corpse. "You poor thing. What kind of monster could do this and still think he's human?"

"Dammit Marti! I told you not to touch anything!" Jake barked at her.

She rose to her feet and inspected her hand. She had a smudge of lipstick on her finger. "Sorry, Jake. It just gets to me sometimes," Marti mumbled. She looked up into his troubled face. Her fingers reached toward him, then jerked back. "Oops, can't get this stuff on you, can we?" Marti tried to make light of her near lapse in self-control.

Jake pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her finger off and tucked the cloth back into his overcoat. "Thanks." She watched Jake continue to stare at the body. "It does get to you too, doesn't it? Is that why you drink so much Jake?"

"Yeah, it still does," he mumbled. "Hell, it would get to any sane person."

Marti lightly touched his rough unshaven cheek and moved to push back the ragged gray-streaked black hair tousled by icy wind. Checking the impulse, she replied with a crisp business-like tone, "For such a big man, you have a soft core, Jake. Next thing I know, you'll become down right human. Here I thought the FBI trained all their agents to mutate into machines as soon as possible. I don't know if our friendship can take the strain."  

He snorted, turned, squinted into the gray sky, scowling at the thick dirty clouds that spelled more bad weather, then grimaced when she moved away and squatted beside the body again. It made his knees ache just watching her. "If our friendship can survive a childhood in the city and partying through the 60s together, it can survive anything." He pushed away from the wall and watched Marti's delicate fingers as she alternated between pausing while studying the woman's ruined face, scanning the surrounding area and writing in a small notebook.

            "Chauvinist." There was no emotion in the automatic reply she made to his jibes. She brushed wisps of chestnut hair away from her eyes, almost dislodging the beret on top of her head. "Damn this snow. Since when do we get snow in this part of northern California? That's three years in a row we've had this crap on Christmas Day The whole damned world is turned ass up, including our lady here." Marti pointed at the red lips painted on the woman's butt then drew a reproduction of it into her notebook, along with notations about its color and size. " That reminds me, when are you gonna take me to Jamaica? Every time I do you a favor, you promise but you never come through. This time, I think I'm gonna hold you to it. So, when?"

            "When I'm allowed to do something besides log in more bodies our boy leaves behind, is when. In the meantime, I keep track, follow what clues I get, hope he makes a big mistake or dies."

            Marti sniffed derisively. "Sure and then you'll take on another case and I'll be out a trip again." She inspected his tall, long-legged body and remarked, "Besides, you look enough like Tom Selleck to be his twin. I want to see you in shorts and a tropical shirt just once so I can die a happy woman."

            "Very funny Joyner," he snapped, while a smile crept onto his face, showcasing the deep dimples on his cheeks and almost, but not quite, straight white teeth.

            "Hey Magnum, how come this lady is still surrounded by garbage? I thought the forensics guys took everything, just in case any of it was left by the perp," Marti asked.

            Jake eyed the mounds of trash littering the entire narrow alley. The distaste on his face mixed with an even deeper disgust at the local cop's laziness. "The local suits don't want to waste the taxpayers money by having their cops picking up the trash. Seems they decided that there's too much here and it's not worth their while to haul it all in and go through it."

            Marti smiled, in spite of the scowl on his face. "Uh oh. I smell the chief's money trap again."

           "Are you gonna be finished soon? It's damned cold out here and I've been on short sleep for four days now. I'm tired of using my half gallon bottle of Drakar Noire to make up for a shower and right now I could hug a bed with the sheer joy of just seeing it. Besides, as usual, we're getting nowhere fast here."  He knew his tone reflected the fatigue and frustration he felt but he didn't care this morning.

            Her piercing gaze scrutinized him, searching for sincerity, then softened with affection. "Hold onto your jockstrap, Jake. There might be good news yet. There are things here I want to take my time over. I'm wondering…" After a brief foray into her inner mind, Marti's gaze returned to him, analyzing and measuring. "Are you still obsessing with these killings? Not sleeping again? I can come over and…"

Her look of pity triggered a strong impulse in Jake. He badly wanted to punch the brick wall. Instead, he gritted his teeth. "I'm not obsessing. I'm doing my job. This has been going on for too long. This bastard almost ruined a good field agent's career when he couldn't crack it and the Behavioral Sciences Unit profiler says he can't help any further than he has without new information. Now, I have everybody but the Daughters of the American Revolution on my ass. We're still no closer to stopping this bastard than the first agent and his team was last year. This perp is playing with us; he's playing with me. I know he is."  Jake rubbed a shaky hand over the stubble on his chin, badly wanting a cigarette, but determined to beat the craving.

"Maybe, maybe not. Look, Jake, when your partner was killed last year, it knocked you down but not out of the game. You have to have some faith in yourself again."

Jake shot her a look of pure pain. "Jerry got killed by a serial killer because I let my guard down. If it wasn't for me, he'd still be alive." His shoulders became rigid with anger. "After…after that, I thought they'd keep me behind a desk and I wanted it that way. When they sent me here to take over, I didn't want to come but I did. So, I will do the job and do my best to catch this sick bastard but…" His face softened a bit. "…that won't stop me from wishing I didn't have to do this again."

She stood up, arched her back and stretched her tall frame until her eyes finally reached a level with his chin. "Look, I know how you feel. The FBI has a reputation of being the hotshots of the law enforcement field. You have a lot of pressure on you, true, but until that asshole of a police chief lightens up and allows some room for outside help, you probably won't get far with killers like this one. Hell, he even fought having the BSU do a profile on these killings to begin with. Remember? Now, you're stuck with settling for me, hoping I'll spot something your guy can use to crack it. You're doing all you can, J.D." She tucked her hair back up into the knot under her beret, wishing she could think of something to make him realize just how wrong about himself he was. "Look, I'm convinced the original profile didn't help because you didn't have all the evidence. Once we have all the information, I know you'll catch him, Jake. It's inevitable."

Jake dropped back into his official persona with a clipped, impersonal voice. "The bastard always strikes on a holiday and, even knowing that he will, we can't anticipate him. None of it makes sense to me. He started with Valentine's Day last year, not New Years, but over a month into the year. Why that long and why that day? Why did he wait?" Jake screwed up his forehead, wondering again why the killer took such a late start.  Jake had spent hours trying to think like the killer, get into his mind and figure out what made him tick. Knowing he didn't have that kind of talent, Jake mentally shrugged, frustrated at his lack of understanding.

"Good question," Marti replied, studying the intense look on Jake's face. "Can you give me a quick rundown now or do you want me to wait for the files?" She patiently waited while he hesitated then recited what he knew about the string of killings now haunting him.

Jake's mind turned inward, cataloguing what he knew of the killer. "He cut out the woman's heart and tore it into pieces. He stops until April first, when he pulls out a woman's brain and leaves it in a port-a-potty next to her. Some April Fool's joke, huh?" His face twisted with disgust. "Then, for reasons we don't understand, he stops until September. We thought he left, was arrested or died. God, if only that had been true!" He took a deep breath and continued. "On Labor Day he took the next victim's uterus, on Halloween night he took off the soles of a woman's feet.  Thanksgiving night, he trussed up a body with twine and chopped off her head, and now this one. All holidays and all the killings laid out like scenes in a play. Why? What the hell kind of fruitcake does these things?" Jake's look of disgust and loathing altered his rugged face into pure rage for a fleeting moment.

"The kind, like all the rest, who has a sick, personal reason for what he does. It fulfills some need of his. I just wish your Chief could see the necessity for having a psychologist on staff now. The cheap, Victorian-minded bastard!" Marti blushed at her use of a word she normally didn't use.

 "You know, Chief Hartigan lumps your profession right up there with psychics but I know you, and I know how you work. God, Marti, I'm hoping you can help me find him…and finally stop him. I haven't been able to get anywhere with this investigation for the last four months and my job is on the line if I don't do something soon. The Bureau sent me here to keep the investigation going, not because they have any real faith it'll be solved. That, and I think my boss wanted me out of the city and his hair. The first agent got nowhere, the profile didn't help, and we have no real suspects or evidence. I didn't know where else to turn." His hands clenched into hard balls of frustrated nervous energy as he spoke. "So, I thought, 'what the hell? It couldn't hurt.' And I called you. I just hope you can find something, anything, we can send back to the BSU so we can nail this guy before he kills again."

"I know…and I will help but I need help from you too, Jake. I need to study the case files: the autopsy reports, the evidence reports, see the photos of the crime scenes and everything else you have.  Can you get me a copy of them today? I want to go over them tonight, or as soon as possible. Without more background information, I can't even start to put together this killer's motives. I can tell you some things now but they'll just be educated guesses. If it makes you feel any better, I can tell you these killings are deliberate, methodical and well planned out. He's no out-of-control hack and slash nutcase, in spite of these malicious wounds. Everything he does and how he does it, is for a reason, planned ahead and well thought out. We just have to figure out what his reasons and goals are.  He's organized, intelligent and knowledgeable about human anatomy. He's also very dangerous, not just because he kills so coldly and brutally but because he enjoys it. He's getting creative, adding props of his own, changing the crime scene around, trying to impress or confuse you. No, he's not insane; he's very, very focused and aware. This guy hasn't lost it yet and he'll continue until he either does lose it or you catch him."

"I know. They never quit until they have to. Well, just get this finished up. Until you're officially on the payroll as a police expert, I have to take the axe with Chief Hartigan if we're caught here. Not everyone thinks what you do is real helpful, you know. "

Unaffected, Marti ignored the insult. He always showed bad temper when he talked about these particular killings, which was almost never. She'd heard this budget argument before, too many times to rise to the occasion. What she did flinch at, were the baiting comments about her lack of expertise as a forensic psychologist. "I won't be long. Russell's guys are finished with the official forensics so I can take my time for a change. I intend to take full advantage of it." She bent her head back over the notebook and resumed writing.

"I'm sure you will. I'm all for attention to details, Marti, but you overdo it. You…"

            A noise at the end of the alley caught Jake's attention. His head whipped up and, instinctively, his hand found and caressed the familiar snub-nosed .38 tucked under his left armpit. Marti kept on writing.

Russell Frasier, his face a study in suppressed excitement, pushed through the onlookers, the police line and past Brian. Jake groaned inwardly, wishing Brian and Cameron could keep the guy out. As far as Jake was concerned Russell belonged with the pain-in-the-ass onlookers and reporters, in spite of his official position as Coroner. Russell came striding up the alley. His long jean-clad legs brought him in front of, and into, Jake's face in record time. "My guys are here…finally. Are you and the beauteous Marti finished here?" Russell smirked while he eyed Marti's backside. "What a piece." He sighed in exaggerated lust. "I just can't say no to her when she wants to come and play with the bodies." Russell thrust his face into Jake's personal space and added, "Too bad she don't want your body, huh, big shot?"

            In no mood for pranks, Jake grabbed Russell's denim jacket and pushed him backward. "Russell, do you have to always be in my face?"

            Stepping back and thrusting his red-blonde beard into Jake's chin, Russ grinned, obviously enjoying the rise he was getting from Jake. "Yeah, I do. Mr. 'Jack' Daniels, Mr. bigshot Federal Agent. I just adore you big boy; you and that big old gun of yours. Give me a kiss." He puckered up his thick lips and made smooching noises, much to Jake's disgust.

            Pushing Russell away more forcefully, Jake stepped back at the same time. "Knock it off, you jackass. Where did you get your training in being a professional? Someday, someone is going to think you're not kidding. I hope I'm around to see what they do to you when it happens." Jake snorted, this time at Russell's look of twisted rage that quickly turned into a mask of hurt pride.

The look on Russell's face transformed again, from feigned hurt to disdain. "You wish, buddy."  He pulled himself up to his full five foot six inches and stated in an ultra professional tone. "Okay, Jake, Marti. Time's up. I have to get the body to the morgue. It can't wait any longer. This weather is already going to be a problem fixing time of death without leaving it lying here any longer."

He glanced around Jake's wide shoulders and noted Marti's absorption in her note taking. "Marti, I hope you honored your promise not to touch the body or anything else here. You contaminate the scene and I won't be responsible for your professional standing anymore, or your personal safety in my presence."  He shrugged when she ignored him and turned back to Jake. "I still can't figure out how she can analyze a killer's mind by just looking over the victims. Can you?"

His gray-eyed gaze searched Jake's tired face. "By the way, what happened to you? Did you have another marathon party at The Stumble Inn with the luscious Roxy?" He chuckled at the sour look of contempt and long-suffering Jake bestowed upon him. Jake stuffed his hands back into his pockets and stared, stone-faced, at the crowd. He pointedly ignored Russell's feeble attempts to engage him in a heated exchange, something he practiced at every chance.

Marti shot a greeting in the general direction of Russell's voice, her hands still busily scratching out notes. "Hi, Russ. You can take her now. I'm through." Her intrusion saved Jake from having to answer Russell's embarrassing questions about Roxanne. "I know you can't send it to me but can you get a full report on this one to Jake as soon as you're finished with her? From what Jake tells me, this one looks just like the others but I want to compare with his information. Okay?"

Russell unleashed his big-toothed smile on her as she approached. "Sure, my favorite brainy broad. How's it going Marti? You still working for that snobby shrink dude in the city? Or have you finally seen the light and want to work for the common people like Jake and I do?"

"She's trying to get the Bureau to recognize what she does as valid investigative work. Until she does, she can't officially be here, Russ, but you already knew that." Russell's smug look of triumph alerted Jake to the trap he'd fallen into. His voice took on an angry tone. " Can you please get on with it? I want to go get some breakfast, have a shower and get some sleep. I've had enough bullshit for the day and it's only nine a.m."  His voice, edged heavily with exasperation, ended with sarcasm. 

Distracted by a movement, Jake's gaze scanned the growing crowd of news people straining to see down into the alley; hoping for a chance to get a gruesome shot for the evening news. "Damned morbid ghouls," he mumbled, watching Brian use his enormous shoulders to block a persistent cameraman. Cameron, almost as burly as Brian, held the other side of the line with ease. Between the two of them, a skinny toddler couldn't squeeze through. Grunting with satisfaction, Jake continued to ignore Russell and watch the swelling crowd.

Russell raised bushy, fiery red eyebrows, first at Jake then Marti.  He shrugged and flipped back a stringy ponytail of the same copper-colored hair. He noticed Marti watching and smiled again. "Can we get back to the business at hand? Marti, you say she looks just like the others? At first glance she looked that way to me too. Brutally raped, killed by strangulation, no bruises except to her face, washed squeaky clean, then the kiss drawn on her ass with his special brand of bright red lipstick. Same stuff with each one, other than his specialty holiday trimmings." He grinned at what he thought was clever way of putting it. When Jake and Marti frowned at him, he shrugged and adopted a serious face. "Then I found some subtle differences. Disturbing stuff. But I need to get to my lab and make sure."

"What did you find? What differences? How come you didn't say something right away?" Jake swung violently around and grabbed the front of Russell's jacket again. He leaned over and shouted into Russell's startled face. "Are you holding back evidence? Talk, Russell. What did you find?" His big hands began to twist the fabric until it was tight around Russell's throat.

"Dammit, Jake, let go of me," Russell gasped. "Enough is enough. I know you're having a major ego crisis and a dead partner and wife adds to your wounded pride but you have no right to treat me like this. Let…go…of…me…now!" Russell's normally confident and smirking face, now twisted into angry lines as he glared at Jake's white knuckles brutalizing his jacket and shirt.

"Is this a private dance or can I cut in?" Brian's carefully neutral, smiling face inserted itself between them, along with a wide shoulder, pushing them apart. He raised one thick eyebrow and patiently waited for a response. When Jake finally let go of Russell's jacket, Brian continued, "Well, now that's worked out, does anybody want to tell me why the two of you are acting like pit bulls? Why are two professionals playing a pissing contest at a crime scene?"

Marti, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and a strained look on her face, joined in. "I'd like an answer to that question too."

"Nice imitation of Chief Hartigan. Who's watching the line, Brian?" Russell asked, peering down the alleyway and nonchalantly acting as if nothing unusual was happening otherwise.

            "Cameron and a uniformed cop that just showed up. Hey! Don't change the subject. What's going on here? I've seen you guys elbow deep in dead bodies and worse but I've never seen either one of you lose it like this. So…?"

"Let it go, Brian. It's personal. It has nothing to do with this case. Just let it go. Okay?" Jake grated.

Russell smirked at Jake, made a rude noise, turned and walked hurriedly back down the alley. Waving his arm high in the air, he beckoned for two waiting ambulance attendants to come in and finally retrieve the body. They pushed past Cameron and carefully picked their way through the garbage and snow with a stretcher held overhead.

"He's right, Brian. Let it go. This isn't the time. Jake is tired and Russell is up to his old sweet obnoxious tricks at the wrong time of the day." Watching the stretcher approach, Marti hugged the wall. She looked the knot of silent men up and down and shook her head at them.  "Well, fellas it's been great fun but I'm cold and I have work to do. Both coffee and computer beckon. Later." She gave Jake's stomach a small affectionate punch and Brian a tiny kiss on the cheek then turned to leave.

Jake's cellular phone buzzed. The sound stopped Marti in her tracks. She turned around, an eyebrow cocked, and waited impatiently to see whom the call was for. She badly needed some coffee and hoped it wasn't William Robert trying to find her again. Or, worse, she hoped it wasn't something that would keep Jake from getting some sleep, like another body donated by the same killer. When a string of four-letter words erupted from his haggard face, she knew it was worse.

"Brian, when Russell's people have removed the body, take Cameron and canvass the neighborhood. See if anybody saw anything last night. Check everything! And I do mean everything! Russell, get your people moving. We have another body in the park. Marti, you coming?" Jake barked out orders and questions like a drill sergeant.

"I'm coming too." Russell shouted, waving his people on toward the van waiting at the mouth of the alley. "You guys get her to the morgue and tell Amanda to set her up for later. Then tell her to grab a new kit and meet us at the park with a full team."

"Looks like it's a parade, Jake. I hate to say it but maybe, with this many killings, something is finally popping on this thing. I certainly hope so anyway," Brian remarked, then walked toward Cameron, who still held the news crews and spectators at bay.

"Not a parade, a fucking circus…or a funeral procession." Jake murmured and headed for his car.