Kathleen Creighton - Danger Signals

After that the briefing proceeded along pretty much normal lines. Reports: canvases had turned up no witnesses, autopsy results were roughly the same as with all the other victims; CSI had found no useful trace evidence on or near the victim. The remnants of Officer Williams's burned uniform were being processed for DNA, which would take a while-a lot longer than it did on TV forensics procedurals, for sure.

Family members and friends of the earlier victims were being re-interviewed to determine whether any of them ever had occasion to wear a uniform, on the job or off. Results so far: vic number three, the retired schoolteacher, had been working part-time as a crossing guard at a busy intersection near her house. Vic number two was a city bus driver, and yes, they wore uniforms. Vic number one, the former army private turned college student, had been supplementing her G.I. Bill working nights as a security guard at a popular downtown nightclub.

Wade nodded. '"Number five-that's the docent. Six, Officer Williams. We have anything for number four?"

"Working on it." Rudy the Italian muttered, thumbing through his notes.

Wade stared at the notes he'd scrawled on the board, and an old familiar tingle crawled up his backbone. There was something here. He was close, he knew it. If he could only… He wondered if Tierney might… Ah, hell. What was he doing? Using the woman as a crutch instead of depending on his own intelligence? She'd given him the uniform connection, what more did he want?

The uniform connection. He's timid, a mouse, Tierney said. He's most likely been abused by someone wearing a uniform. It represents oppression to him. What if…

He rapped a knuckle on the board where he'd written each victim's occupation involving a uniform, then jerked around to face the room.

"How 'bout this," he said, his voice strong and certain for the first time in a while-since this case had been handed to him. "Each of these victims would have been in a position to confront someone, cause them trouble, interfere with their plans, give them grief. Right? Maybe the bus driver won't let somebody on her bus because he doesn't have exact change. The museum docent…hell. I don't know, maybe she makes someone put out a cigarette, or chews him out for taking flash photos. You guys doing the interviews-go back and ask if they know if any of the victims reported trouble with anyone recently."

"Wait… Igot something here-" Rudy had been flipping frantically back through his notes. "Yeah…right here. First victim's mom mentioned something about an altercation at the club the weekend before she was killed. Some guy gave her a hard time because she wouldn't let him in."

Wade exhaled gustily. "Okay. Say, the club doorkeeper denies our killer entrance. Ticks him off. She was the first vic-that could have been the trigger." He snapped his fingers, his mind racing now, almost too fast for his mouth to keep pace. "Okay, Rudy, stay on those interviews. Ochoa and Washburn, go back through Officer Williams's traffic citations over the last few weeks. Eliminate everybody that doesn't fit the profile-that would be women, men with families-wives and kids. Anybody over fifty."

Martin Ochoa, who'd been busily scribbling notes, lifted his head. "So, we got a profile now? When did we come up with that?"

Ochoa's partner from Robbery-Homicide. Larry Washburn, nudged him and grinned. "I bet he got it from his crystal ball. Hey, Callahan, where is that crystal ball of yours today?"

Wade gave that the response it deserved, which was a stone-cold stare. "May I remind all of you comedians that Ms. Doyle is a civilian who has graciously volunteered her talents and time to help apprehend a killer? A killer who's killed six times. Anyone who wants to sit around here making cracks better hope there isn't a seventh."

At that point Nola Hoffman stuck her head in to remind Wade about the news conference about to commence, and at which his presence was requested. Meaning required.

"Be right down, Boss." Wade swore under his breath while Nola's high heels went tap-tapping off down the hallway, then turned back to his team. "Okay, you've got your work cut out for you. Let's focus on getting this guy before he kills again. We're looking for a young male, late twenties, early thirties, single, a loner, probably works some kind of menial job. Most likely a rep for not playing well with others. That's all-unless you plan on sitting around here on your asses all day."

Glowering, he headed off to join the mayor's news conference. Trying his best not to limp.

Wade's role in this as in all the other news conferences he'd been called upon to attend, was to stand at parade rest beside Nola. two steps behind and a little to one side of Chief Cutter and Alan Styles, and attempt to strike an attitude somewhere between alert and somber. The mayor would make his speech, then introduce Chief Cutter, who would bark out a quotable phrase or two, then waste no time in turning the microphone over to the chief of special cases. Styles would do most of the talking, including fielding questions from the news media.

Thus his mind was not exactly tuned in to the proceedings until he caught the end of a question from one of the network TV reporters that brought him back to front and center in a hurry.

"-true the department has been working with a psychic on this case?"

Chief Styles, naturally, declined to comment on "the details of an ongoing investigation," and pointed to a waving hand on the other side of the crowd.

The reporter, who hadn't earned her network stripes by being so easily brushed off, shouted over the babble, "Chief, we have reports from a reliable source that the psychic credited with helping solve the Yreka kidnapping last year has been seen both here and at the last two crime scenes. Care to comment on that?"

Styles, who'd never gotten the hang of out-and-out lying to the press, covered the mic with one hand while he bent his head to confer with Chief Cutter. Then he turned and looked at Nola, who jabbed Wade in the ribs with her elbow and growled. "Take it, Callahan."

He uttered one short, sharp cussword under his breath, then stepped up to the mic. Cleared his throat. "We always welcome any useful information from members of the community. Members of the media included."

That got a bit of a chuckle, and Wade was about to step back when a voice he knew, belonging to the regular police reporter for the Portland Oregonian, sang out, "Come on, Callahan, rumor says you've got your own personal crystal ball."

Ducking his head to the mic once more, Wade scowled at the crowd and snapped. "Wish I did. I'd sure as hell use it. We'll take help from anybody and anything if it'll help us catch this guy."

On that note, Chief Cutter stepped in and ended the news conference, although the clamor continued for several more minutes. Under its cover, Nola said dryly. "You shoulda been in politics, Callahan."

He was trying to think of a response to that when he felt his cell phone vibrating in its holster against his hip. He pulled it out, scowled at a number he didn't recognize, thumbed it on and barked, "Callahan." And heard a voice he did recognize, hushed and breathless.

"Wade, he's there. Right now. Somewhere close. I-"

"Hold on- who's here? You mean, here here-at this news conference? The killer?"

"No! At least…I haven't picked anything up. But I'm getting that Watcher again. Only he's…different. I don't know how to explain it, he's just as intense as before, but it feels different, somehow. Like it's a different person. And…before there was this exultation, this elation. Now I'm getting sadness. Really terrible sadness-like grief…"

Wade was only half listening, eyes sweeping the slowly dispersing crowd. The sun was in his eyes, having just broken through the morning overcast with all the intensity of a Portland summer day. It was only May, but it was going to be a warm one-humid, too. But damn. Nobody stood out. Nobody caught his attention. Nobody stared at him. or even lingered behind the rest of the horde.