"Female serial killers account for only 8% of all American serial killers, but American females account for 76% of all female serial killers worldwide." FBI Behavioral Unit statistics.

(H/C)

This is the first one to die.

Horatio stared at the note. Magnified, it still said the same thing, and if it was a lie, it was only by being an understatement. A cold finger of fear for Miami ran down his spine, and he forced himself to push the implications aside to focus fully on the evidence. Methodically, he teased out the details of anything else the note had to tell them.

Unfortunately, that wasn't much. The paper was available prepackaged at thousands of stores. The ink was equally common. Most interesting to Horatio, there were no fingerprints of any sort on the note. He stared at his own fingers in the latex gloves and flexed them. Handling a single sheet of paper, removing it from the packaging, and then writing a note with gloves on would be difficult unless the gloves were very thin and flexible, like his, probably bought specifically for the purpose. She had taken careful precautions, but she had still left a sample of her handwriting. He chased that trail mentally for a minute, coming up with a perp who had the monumental ego common to practically all murderers but who had read enough books to know to avoid fingerprints. The writing meant nothing, she thought, without a sample to compare it to, and she never planned to be caught. Maybe she even did not know how to type or had no access to a computer or typewriter. Prime of life, Charlene had said, and Horatio recognized already that she was a very organized killer. Organized serial killers plot, plan, and go carefully, taking steps to avoid detection. Disorganized killers take no such precautions, killing in a frenzy and usually leaving the body at the scene of the crime, escaping as much by luck as skill. Most organized killers appeared functional on the surface, with a job. She probably had a job, but whatever it was, Horatio doubted it involved typing or easy access to a computer or typewriter. She also probably had no home computer. These days, that certainly narrowed it down. Point to keep in mind to match with suspects.

Speed and Eric interrupted his thoughts, coming in and depositing their field kits on the layout table. Horatio looked up at them. "What did you get?" If they hadn't gotten anything at all, they hadn't done their jobs. Even book-reading perps left evidence.

Eric answered. "Slight leaks from the car. Probably the perp's car; they were right on the surface of the pavement. Hadn't been there long. It drove up the alley from the street and stopped there, sitting for a long time. We found the usual assorted alley junk, including three pennies, one nickel, an old broken comb, and a syringe. Printing those won't be fun. We also found a bit of plastic stuck to some tar or something. That was right where the passenger's door would have opened." Eric fished out a piece of one of those ubiquitous blue Wal-Mart bags, a slightly jagged piece. "He could have worn them around his feet, to keep from leaving trace from his shoes. Stepped in something spilled there while he was getting the body out of the car, jerked his foot free, and the bag tore and left a piece of plastic."

"Nice work. Except for one thing. This killer isn't a he."

Speed looked dubious. "A female serial killer? They're almost all male."

"The handwriting on the note was from a woman."

"Could be from a woman he knows."

Eric shook his head. "Do you know any woman who'd write that message for you and not get suspicious?"

"Well," Speed started, and Horatio cut in smoothly.

"Why don't you answer that, Eric? You have the most experience of us in that field."

Eric grinned, acknowledging the jab, but then seriously thought about it. "No."

"Besides," said Horatio, "the writing gave us other clues that the killer wrote it. Until proven otherwise, we're considering this one a female."

"Maybe she's trying to get revenge on men," Speed suggested, thinking of the mutilations.

Eric shuddered. "Glad I broke up with Rose months ago." The other two looked puzzled. "She drove a Volkswagen."

Speed nodded as the light dawned. "Top choice for cars among serial killers."

"Getting back to the evidence we have," Horatio reminded them, "nothing of interest on the note other than the handwriting. I think it suggests that she might not have easy access to a computer at work or home, though." Speed's expression abruptly reminded him of the day Horatio had commented on detection without cell phones. "So, here's what we do. Eric, work on processing the prints from that pay phone. I doubt that call was from the killer, but if the person who found the body has a record, he might be in the system. Speed, work on what you found in that alley. I'm going to go talk to Alexx. Keep me posted." He left, and Eric and Speed settled to work. Eric finally broke the silence.

"You're probably safe, man. Breeze rides a bike."

Speed almost smiled, picturing hauling a body around on a bike. "Yeah, I don't think I need to worry." His grin faded abruptly. "What if this killer really is trying to get revenge on men?"

Eric studied the pile of lifters and evidence envelopes. "Then we'd better solve this one quickly."

(H/C)

Alexx had respectfully covered the body with a sheet, and she pulled it back but did not totally remove it as they talked. "All of the hair was singed off. I think that might have been done with a cigarette lighter. It could have been one of those candle lighters, but the length would make it harder to do this much tight detail work. Something with a short flame that she could manipulate and hold easily, anyway. This took a lot of time, and the killer was being precise with it. She scorched the skin some, but she was trying to damage it as little as possible."

"Maybe she was setting the effect, making the deeper burns stand out more." Horatio was thinking out loud. "The time that took, though, almost reminds me of the patience of a bomber. She actually enjoys intricate work like that."

Alexx nodded. "This one scares me, Horatio." Like him, she was thinking of the city. "The deeper burns could have been done with the same tool with longer exposure time. That streak down the sternum goes third degree."

"Totally straight and centered, though," Horatio said. "Again, the attention to detail. It could be labeling him as first. Charlene said the killer was insisting that he was the first victim, even though he wasn't, to her mind. That could be a tally mark. I hope we don't see enough more to find out." Both of them shivered slightly in the cool autopsy bay, imagining bodies piling up with the killer's neatly labeled score on each, the count steadily rising.

Alexx gently replaced the sheet and unfolded a different section. "The burns into the testicles were third-degree, too. They were the deepest of all. Still precise, but she was enjoying that. She went way beyond just marking the skin."

Horatio considered it. "Perfect X's. She was trying to eliminate his maleness. The hair, the genitals. Did he fight her at all?"

Alexx shook her head. "Nothing under the nails. BAL was 0.130, though. He wasn't nonfunctional, but he wouldn't be on guard. Other than the gunshot, all injuries were postmortem. There's dual lividity, too. He was shot seated, then moved to his back later. I think she washed the body. No trace we could find, except for the feet." She uncovered the feet, revealing a few dark streaks. "I took samples of that and sent them up."

Horatio bent to inspect the feet more closely. "Looks like he was dragged along pavement, possibly when she was taking him out of the car." He backed up a step, measuring Alexx. "Did you have any trouble handling him, Alexx?"

"No, but I wasn't dumping him in an alley in the dark. Besides, practice makes perfect. I've moved more dead men than she has. He doesn't weigh all that much, though."

"She's small," Horatio stated definitely. "That's probably why she picked such a deserted alley, to give herself plenty of time to stage everything. She knew it would take her a while. Probably also explains the alcohol. She picked him up somewhere and got him drunk enough to relax. She doesn't want a physical fight. I'd be willing to bet the next victim, if there is one, will be a smallish male, possibly with black hair. Anything more on the gunshot wound?"

"The wound was direct contact, and the bullet ricocheted around in the cranium. I gave it to Calleigh. He last ate about three hours before his death, and I'd say he died at least 36 hours ago. Rigor has completely worn off." She picked up a hand, and the wrist flexed freely. "Factoring in the time we found the body, he died sometime night before last."

"How long do you think it would take to do the mutilations and wash the body?"

"Total guess, Horatio, but at least several hours. She wasn't in a hurry. Either she doesn't have a job or she didn't sleep."

"Or she had yesterday off." Horatio's cell phone rang. "Excuse me, Alexx. Horatio."

"Tripp." The gruff voice needed no identification. "I've got the next-of-kin on the victim."

"He's been dead since night before last, Tripp. Didn't they miss him?"

"Family was out of town. Wife is back now. Son is in college but coming home. You want to come talk to them?"

No, Horatio thought. He hated speaking to next of kin, but he rarely missed the opportunity. All deaths leave evidence, he thought. There was the physical evidence the CSIs used to convict, and then there was the living, wounded evidence in people's lives, the fighting to go on with a piece of their hearts ripped away. He wished he could heal their pain completely by closing a case, but he could at least start the process in the one way that he was uniquely qualified for, letting them know they were not alone. "On my way, Tripp." He pocketed the phone, his eyes distant. Alexx recognized the expression and gave him a sympathetic smile. He caught it and instantly snapped back to himself, refusing sympathy when others were in greater need of it. "Thank you, Alexx. See you later." He left the autopsy bay but hesitated slightly, then turned toward Ballistics.

(H/C)

Calleigh studied the bullet through the microscope. She kept turning it, looking for anything she had missed. His silent footsteps approaching behind her reverberated through her soul, and she turned to greet him. "Hey, Handsome. How's it going?"

"Not much from the paper. The boys found a few things at the scene, though. They're working on it. What about the bullet?"

"Pretty mangled, I'm afraid. It didn't have enough force to exit, but it bounced all around. It would be hard to get a 100% match to the gun from this." She hated admitting it, but it happened sometimes. Calleigh always took it personally, though.

Horatio grinned at her. "If you can't, I'm sure no one could."

She studied him. "Were you going to see the next of kin?"

"On my way now. I wanted to see how you were coming along with the bullet, though."

She removed it from the microscope and filed it carefully in a container. "I'm done here, Horatio. I'll go with you."

"You sure? I don't want to pull you away from what you should be doing."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "Come on, Horatio. Tripp's probably waiting for us."

He followed her meekly out the door of Ballistics. "Thank you, Calleigh."

"Anytime, Handsome." She accented the first word pointedly, and he reached out to touch her back, tracing his fingers lovingly down her spine. The next second, his touch was gone, but his presence wasn't. Together, they headed out to the garage.

(H/C)

Angelina Waters sat on her couch numbly, staring at a picture on the wall. She and her husband, together, happy. "I was visiting friends out of town. I called last night, but he liked to go out for a drink sometimes. He would get home late. I didn't think anything of it." She shivered. "He was probably already dead, wasn't he?"

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Waters." The infinite compassion in Horatio's tone reached through the darkness a bit, and she looked at him. "There's no way you could have known."

Tripp was sitting awkwardly on the very edge of an armchair. He hated these encounters as much as Horatio did, and he was glad his friend was there. Conveying sympathy wasn't one of Tripp's better skills. "Where did he like to go out for a drink?"

She made a small, helpless movement with her hands. "I don't know. It was something he did by himself. He said it was a guy thing, that everybody needed time." Out of long habit, her mind shied away from any suspicion. "He always came home. He never drove drunk, either. Always took a cab when he needed to." She looked up at them. "He was a good husband. He always came home eventually." Horatio and Calleigh looked at each other silently, mutually disagreeing with that definition of marriage, then quickly returned their full attention to her.

"Did he have any enemies that you know of, Mrs. Waters?" They had to ask, even though they thought it would be a dead end.

"No. Everyone loved him."

"What was his job?"

"He was an insurance agent." She gave the address of his office, and Tripp wrote it down, then stood up. They wouldn't get much useful information here. Maybe his office would be a better source. No man is flawless to his secretary.

Horatio had come to the same conclusion, but he leaned forward in his chair, establishing eye contact again. "I am sorry, Mrs. Waters." He shook her hand carefully, as if it were fragile, then stood. "We'll let you know when we catch the killer."

The three officers walked outside, shaking off the stifling shadows of the house and letting the sun warm them for a moment. "She didn't want to know anything about it," Calleigh said. "She's just mourning her image of him. She didn't really wonder who killed him."

"It's still mourning," Horatio replied.

Tripp shook his head. Dodging reality wasn't something he understood, either. "You comin' along with me to talk to the secretary, H?"

Horatio shook his head. "I think we'll go back to CSI and . . ." His voice trailed off as his annoyance switched on. Calleigh and Tripp followed his eyes to see the KMIA remote van pulling up. Horatio's tone was deadly when he spoke. "He's got another source somewhere in the department. He didn't get this address from the body haulers."

"Most large rocks have a few things crawling under 'em," Tripp grunted. "I'll call for backup. We can get somebody to stay here and keep him away from the widow."

Horatio turned to Calleigh. "Cal, will you go back to the house and stay with that poor woman while backup is coming? I'll hold him off."

Travis Fox, blinding media smile firmly pasted on, was heading toward them as his crew unpacked the camera. "Frank, Horatio, Calleigh, can I get a statement?"

Tripp took long enough to make sure that the cameras weren't switched on yet. "Go to hell," he said succinctly and stalked off toward his car.

Undaunted, Fox turned to Horatio. Calleigh touched her husband lightly on the arm, then melted away, retreating up the sidewalk to the house. Her ears were intently focused behind her, though, listening as long as she could. Fox's voice grated on her. As always, he used first names only, assuming a status that did not exist. "Horatio, what can you tell us? How is the investigation proceeding?"

As always when he was angry, Horatio's tone was even quieter. "I don't think a statement from me is necessary. I couldn't begin to top Detective Tripp's."

Calleigh was smiling as she reached for the doorbell.

(H/C)

Many fruitless hours later, Calleigh trudged up the sidewalk toward her own house. Tripp was tracking contacts the secretary had mentioned but with nothing useful yet. The CSIs were still working on the evidence. Calleigh had spent the entire afternoon with Mrs. Waters, who reminded her progressively of her mother, lost in her own world, believing only what she wanted to. Even if her husband was cheating on her, though, that didn't mean that his mistress had killed him. Probably, the killer had selected him for height, hair color, or simply opportunity. After reinforcements arrived, Horatio had gone back to CSI at Calleigh's insistence, since the Waters' son would be there soon. Actually, it had taken the son hours to arrive, by which point Calleigh was ready to tear her hair out. Then, she had to go by the grocery store on the way home. At least Horatio had promised to pick up Rosalind, so that was one stop she didn't have to make. Now, dragging herself up the sidewalk, Calleigh wondered just how many of the brain cells she had started that morning with had survived this day.

Like a breath of fresh air, music floated out of the house when she opened the door. She stood there for a minute, letting it wash over her soul and cleanse her of the debris of the day. Horatio looked across and smiled at her, and her answering smile reassured him. He was playing the piano with Rosalind sitting in his lap, securely framed by his arms. He reached the end of the piece and stopped. "Hi. Survive your afternoon?"

"Still checking, but I think so."

"I should have stayed." His tone was apologetic.

"No, you were needed back at CSI. You couldn't know it would be that long."

Rosalind suddenly reached out and banged both hands on the piano, sending crashing dissonance through the house. "Hey, Angel, quit it," Horatio said. He reached around her and started playing again, and she instantly pulled her hands away. She wasn't trying to make noise, simply protesting the fact that the music had stopped. She never touched the keyboard while he was playing.

"Any progress?" Calleigh asked, dumping her sacks on the table and pulling out the milk.

"Nothing definite. The clothes were washed, just like the body. This one is careful, Cal."

Calleigh shut the refrigerator and went back into the living room. "Not careful enough."

"Right. We'll get her. I hope it won't take long, though." He resolved the harmonies and stopped playing again. While Horatio was perfectly capable of doing several things at once and doing them well, he always preferred to give full focus to someone in a conversation. "Did you manage to get anything useful out of the wife?"

"No. He was the perfect husband."

"The perfect husband who went out drinking alone often and didn't get home until late." Rosalind reached out and started banging the keys again, and he closed his hands gently over hers. "Sorry, Rosalind. I'll play more for you later." He turned around on the bench so that the keyboard wasn't in front of them anymore, and Rosalind let out a quick squeal of protest. She didn't start crying – she rarely did – but her feelings were clear. "I need to help your mother put up the groceries and fix supper."

Calleigh smiled at both of them. "You know, I used to dream of hearing my husband call me 'your mother' when he was talking to my children." He smiled back at her, but then the smile flickered briefly. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering." He trailed off into silence.

"Wondering what?"

"Calleigh, do you ..." He hesitated again.

"Horatio, honestly, talking to you is like pulling teeth sometimes. What is it?"

"Do you want to have more children?" His blue eyes locked on hers, carefully watching for her reaction.

"Maybe someday, but not soon, if at all. Do you?" She could already read his answer, though. He had relaxed with hers.

"Maybe. I'm not sure." He looked down at Rosalind, and his arms tightened around her. "We've been through so much this year, and I just want to enjoy what I've got. Every day with the two of you is a blessing. I don't want anything more. I don't want to change it."

Calleigh came across to sit on the piano bench, and he slid over to make room for her, then leaned into her. "Horatio, I feel the same way. Believe me. Let's give ourselves time to catch our breath and enjoy life now. Maybe, someday, I'll want another child, but not right now. All I want is the two of you." She put an arm around him, squeezing him even closer against her, remembering almost losing both of them. Even with Horatio well and whole beside her, she would never forget the first part of this year.

He kissed the top of her head. "I just don't want to deny you something that would make you happy."

"You make me happy, Horatio. You and Rosalind. I've never been more happy in my life."

"Neither have I." He kissed her again, and the kiss quickly deepened until Rosalind interrupted it by starting to squirm. She'd long since gotten tired of watching her parents kiss and was quickly bored with it. Horatio laughed and stood up, hoisting her toward the ceiling, then pulling her back safely against him. "Like I told you this morning, Angel, someday, you'll understand it. Now, let's see about something to eat."

Calleigh stood herself and stretched the remaining kinks of stress out of her body. "Why don't you just play for her some more, Horatio? Play for both of us. I'll take care of cooking. I think this day could use some music, and it hasn't had much."

"That it hasn't," he agreed, his eyes going to the window, looking out toward the city. "I hope nothing happens tonight."

"There's a great line to say to your wife."

His attention jumped back to her instantly. "I didn't mean that."

"I know, you fool. Now play for your daughter." He sat back down at the piano, and Rosalind gave a delighted hum, then leaned back against him, perfectly still and not interfering, as his fingers started to draw the music out of the piano. Calleigh started unpacking the groceries, letting the melody flow over her. He had picked Pachelbel's Canon, and she followed the lyrical, peaceful, growing intricacy, where everything made sense and life was beautiful. Tomorrow would bring the case again, but tonight, as she worked in the kitchen, Calleigh found herself humming along, and the last of the stress of the day unknotted and fell harmlessly away from her.