A/N: This story has a T rating for some adult language and a few gruesome images. The serial killer is based on two actual serial killers, and there was just no way around some of it. I tried to keep things fairly clinical and not too graphic - nothing you couldn't get from Network television, but different people have different tolerances. Read at your own risk.

Chapter 3

Don slapped the travel mug absently down on his work surface and turned on the computer. While it booted up he shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the seatback, dropping into the chair and hitting the button for email.

"Hey."

He didn't have to look up to know it was Megan. "Hey." He selected an email and opened it, scanning. "Looks like Colby is still worshipping the porcelain god, so we're down a man today. I don't see anything from David, so either he's here somewhere, or he's on his way. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Pretty good."

"Good." Don leaned back in the chair to look up at her. "You do look good."

"Ouch." Megan pulled up her own chair. "Wish I could return the compliment."

Don nodded tersely. "You know, it's amazing how many people seem to think that's an appropriate morning greeting."

Megan smiled. "Sorry."

"Uh huh. So how come you're so chipper? You had the same lunch we did."

"But I stuck to steamed vegetables and white rice," she pointed out virtuously. "You guys had all that fried stuff and it was probably the oil that was rancid. There's a lot to be said for a clean diet."

"Yeah, like that it sucks all the joy out of eating." Don turned back to his computer, nudging the travel mug toward her. "Here's a donation to your 'clean diet'."

Megan lifted the lid and sniffed. "Peppermint tea. This would be really good for your stomach, you know."

"Now you sound like my dad." He clicked his tongue in disgust as he scrolled through the emails, then closed them resignedly. "You hear anything on the DNA test?"

"Not yet."

Don nodded, rubbing absently at his forehead. "I had a call from the LAPD on the way in," he said at last.

Megan waited, eyeing him intently.

"There's been another one. We have an appointment to see the ME in an hour. Wainwright's at the crime scene. He'll meet us there."

Megan slumped. "But we had him under surveillance!"

"Yeah, well, looks like he slipped his leash. We knew he was slick - he's been slipping us for twenty years."

Megan winced. "You're sure it was him?"

"Oh, yeah." Don smiled bitterly. "He left us a nice note. It's on its way over by messenger."

Megan hesitated. "We're moving as fast as we can, Don."

"Yeah, well. Looks like that's not fast enough."

"We're closer than we've been in twenty years - it's just a matter of time now. That's got to count for something."

"I'll pass that on to the surviving family."

"Don."

Something in her voice stopped him short and he pulled in a breath. "Don't - do the therapy thing right now, okay, Megan?"

The pause between them hummed with tension. "I know what would make you feel better," Megan offered finally.

At her tone, Don's eyes narrowed cautiously. "What?"

"Some nice peppermint tea."

Don snorted a laugh. "You're just wanna see me barf, like Colby."

Megan pursed her lips, considering. "I don't know - his record would be pretty hard to beat."

Don half smiled.

Megan smiled back, but her eyes were grave now. "We can only do what we can do. We're doing that. We're close. We'll stop him."

Don met her gaze, and after a minute he gave a brief nod. "We'd better."

000

There was always an unnatural chill pervading the morgue, but today Don thought it was notably more pronounced and he wished he'd snagged his suit jacket on the way out. He crossed his arms over his chest and fought the desire to chafe them vigorously instead. To distract himself from his discomfort, he rested his eyes on the sheet draped table. The lumpon itstruck him as painfully small, and after a second he dropped his eyes from there as well and sought out the ME. "So. What have we got?"

"Nine-year-old Caucasian female." The ME reached over to twitch back the sheet, but Don caught at her sleeve.

"Nine - ?" he repeated incredulously.

"That's right. They didn't tell you…?"

"They told me we had another victim - same MO - that's about all. Nine years old. What - ?"

The ME glanced at her clipboard. "Karen McGuire, nine years old, latchkey kid, apparently."

Don swore under his breath. "He said that in his last note - that the next one could be a latchkey kid. What's the address?"

"355 Larkin…"

Don glanced at Megan. "Recognize it?"

Megan shook her head.

"Me neither. But if it's in a nearby neighborhood, he could be onto us and making sure we know it - doing it right under our noses - damn it!" Don pressed his lips together and tried to get himself in hand. "What's a nine year old doing home alone anyway? Isn't twelve the youngest legal age for that?"

The ME shrugged. "Single Mom. She was only supposed to be alone for a few hours while her mother finished her shift - lots of single parents don't have any stop-gap measures for emergencies and are stuck improvising."

Don paced away from the table. Damn again. One lousy mistake, and this. Sometimes no mistake at all, and this. Enough to make any parent lose their mind.

He didn't know how anybody had the guts to have a kid today. He noticed that Megan and the ME were watching him, waiting, and shook himself.

"Okay. Show us what we've got."

The ME hesitated, then proffered a small tin. "Better use this first."

Don rubbed a dab of the gel under his nose then passed the tin to Megan. The ME pulled down the sheet.

The menthol didn't completely mask the pungent odor of charred flesh that filled the room at the release of the sheet, mixing oddly with a faint overlay of formaldehyde, and for a second Don wished he had passed on the boiled egg earlier that morning. He tried to focus on the task at hand, his eyes skimming the corpse, groping for professional detachment.

"Cause of death?"

"A combination of asphyxiation and shock."

"Asphyxiation. Strangled? Smothered?"

"Hung. The shock was probably from the burns."

Don scrubbed at his eyes. Professional detachment seemed slow to kick in today. "So - same MO as the others. He didn't wait for her to die…?"

The ME shook her head.

Don took a breath. "Any sign of sexual assault?" He looked at the corpse again, noting the damage. "Or can't you tell?"

"Burns are only external. And no, no sign of any of that kind of damage. There's some residue on her skirt, though. So I can give you some DNA if you can get something to match."

"Yeah. We're waiting on some DNA info." The sickly sweet odor of burned tissue was becoming oppressive, shimmering in the air. "What about defensive wounds?"

"Now, that was hard to tell." The ME indicated one hand, then the other. "Any surface bruising has been burned away, but I don't see any signs of deeper bruising in the tissue underneath. Any remaining scrapings under the nails are inconclusive so far, though I may be able to tell more about that later." She lifted one of the hands and Don stared at the small, blackened fingers, curling mutely inward toward the shriveled palm.

Yeah, well, that was no surprise. How could a little nine-year-old girl begin to defend herself against a full grown man? Especially one that was so cunning - so insidious? She didn't have a chance. He tried to remember being nine. What had he been doing? Baseball, probably. Little League.

"Most of the victims don't show defensive wounds." That was Megan now. "We figure he appears as someone they trust, then takes them by surprise. He might be dressed as a repairman or a clergyman…"

"Though at that age, he could still get away with the 'help me look for my lost puppy' gambit." Don tugged a little at his tie to loosen it. Even though a chill still sat on his skin, the air in the room seemed to have turned hot and dense.

Yeah, it had been baseball in those days - definitely. That, and adjusting to the idea that his four-year-old brother, who could still barely talk clearly, had suddenly created such a fuss in their lives. He remembered a lot of waiting on hall benches, slapping his ball into his glove and swinging his legs, trying to catch a glimpse of the outdoors and wondering when they'd be done with all this testing/doctor/exam stuff so he could get back out there. His mother would poke her head out occasionally to check on him and give him a smile. Or he'd hear her on the phone in low-toned arguments with his dad…'somebody has to take Donnie to baseball practice, Alan, and I can't be in two places at once'…she'd see him look up at the sound of his name and would smile reassuringly again before turning her back to finish the conversation. He remembered a vague sense that nobody was quite sure what to do with him.

Karen McGuire had probably felt that way too, despite the fact that her mother had also most likely tried to defuse it. Kids could always tell when their parents were struggling on their account, no matter how hard they tried to hide it. Probably Karen had done what he had - reinvented the rules a little - like it didn't count if you didn't get caught going outside, or it didn't count if you only went outside for just a minute. Made her a prime target for some deviant like Twilliger - for anyone who might offer her a little extra attention. Kids were so damn vulnerable - how did you even begin to protect them?

"Don…?"

He glanced over at Megan in surprise. She and the ME were both looking at him as if he should have an answer to something they had been saying - had maybe been saying for a long time. He searched his mind to see if there was even a trace of the conversation there, came away blank. Well, how was anybody supposed to think, when it was so damn hot in here…?

"Don, are you all right?" Megan's voice sounded weirdly far away.

No, Megan, I actually seem to be having a tough time getting a grip today - don't really know what's up with me…

The ME said something he couldn't quite make out and lowered the small hand to the table again. Rigor already fading, the tiny grasp dropped open and for a wild second, Don almost thought she was reaching out to him. He swallowed.

"Don." Megan's voice was firmer this time, her hand on his arm.

He opened his mouth to answer, immediately knew that was the wrong way to go and closed it again, firmly. Oh, boy.

Without a word, he spun on his heel and stiff-armed his way through the morgue door.

TBC