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has nothing to do with it. Got a sicko chickenhawk who’s costing me a lot of sleep.”
    “A what?”
    “Chickenhawk. A pedophile. And, in this case, a pornographer.”
    Ben’s face crinkled. “Do I want to hear about this?”
    “Probably not. This perverted bastard has already snatched four little boys and he’s still at large, like a nightmare haunting every child in the city. You wouldn’t believe the disgusting things he does to these kids. It’d tear your heart out. This goes way beyond your run-of-the-mill pedophilia. We’re talking about a major-league pervert with a taste for violence. And torture.”
    “Do you have a description?”
    “Not yet. None of the kids was alive after this creep was done with them.”
    Ben’s throat suddenly felt dry. “How does he … get them?”
    “We don’t know how he picks his victims, but once he does, he grabs them, molests them, and makes them pose for dirty pictures. We found some photos in some homegrown magazines.”
    Mike opened his top desk drawer, then thought better of it. “Never mind. They’d make you sick. I guarantee it.”
    “Can’t you go after the publishers?”
    “Not anymore. Pornography’s become a cottage industry. Anyone with a computer and a desktop publishing program, or even a typewriter and a photocopier, can print pornographic magazines. They distribute the stuff through the mail, or fax machines. Even computer bulletin boards. Makes it damn near impossible to trace.”
    “How can you be sure the dirty pictures are connected to the child molestation and murders?”
    “I’m sure. Every single kid snatched to date has ended up in a magazine spread. That can’t be a coincidence. And even if it was, we’d still hunt these kiddie-porn creeps. The line between child-porn fan and child molester is thin and quickly crossed. Show me a guy who’s obsessed with these pictures, and I’ll show you a guy who’s probably going to act out his dreams someday with some poor little kid. He may be fantasizing, working up his courage, but mark my words, it will happen. These pictures feed it. They whet the appetite. They make it impossible to put these ideas out of their sick little minds.”
    Mike pressed a hand against his forehead. “This slime killed his first three playthings. His last victim ran out into the street and got creamed by a car on Memorial. We looked all around, but never found the pervert. We don’t know where the kid was running from. We think he might’ve jumped out of a car while it was stopped at a light. Probably trying to escape.” Mike shook his head. “He’s been in a deep coma since the accident. He’s not expected to—” Mike looked up suddenly.
    Ben gripped Mike’s shoulder. “Hang in there, pal.”
    Mike’s face twisted. “Yeah.”
    “Do you have any leads?”
    “Not to speak of. The last boy was wearing a red baseball cap when he disappeared. Wasn’t wearing it when the car hit him. What I wouldn’t give to find that cap in the trunk of some schmuck’s car.” He bit down on his toothpick. “And the odds of that are probably only about a hundred million to one.”
    “I’m sure you’ll catch him in time,” Ben said. “No one works harder than you.”
    “Yeah. But I want to get him before he ruins another little kid’s life. Or ends it.” He slapped the top of his desk. “But enough about my problems. How’s my favorite piano player turned pettifogger?”
    “Managing. As best I can, under the circumstances.”
    Ben had known Mike since their college days at the University of Oklahoma. They had been the best of friends—even roommates one year. In those days they played music gigs:—Ben on piano, Mike on guitar and vocals—in some of the Norman beer joints and pizza parlors. Everything was fine—until Mike fell in love with Julia, Ben’s younger sister.
    Once married, Mike canceled his plans for graduate school and began concocting one plan after another for earning enough money to