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pulled out two pairs of white plastic shoe protectors.  He passed a pair to Jordache, who slipped them over his brogues.  They weren’t intended to shield the shiny black leather from the blood and filth but to protect the crime scene from contamination.  Following Kostakis, Jordache stepped carefully over the body and ascended the stairs, which had the discomforting distinction of being both sticky and slippery.  As they reached the limit of the light supplied by the lamps, Kostakis pointed to a pile of men’s clothes on the top step.  “Seems the killer drugged him, carried him into the stairwell and up this flight of stairs.  After changing him into women’s underwear, the killer left Vega’s own clothes here, cut his throat and pushed him down the stairs and crouched over the corpse.  “The body’s been staged.  It didn’t fall like this.  The killer came down the stairs and rearranged Vega’s arms and legs to fit some preordained pattern.”
    Jordache frowned impatiently.  “Why did you call me, Phil?”
    Kostakis reached down with gloved hands and turned Vega’s head so the face became visible.  “Because of this.”  Jordache’s eyes were drawn initially to the deep vicious gash on Vega’s throat.  The killer was so powerful his knife had virtually severed the head with what appeared to be a single slice.  Then Jordache registered the bloodstained sheet of paper stapled to Vega’s forehead, obscuring his face.  A two-line message had been written on the paper in colored marker pen, each capital letter a different color:
    SERVE THE DEMON
SAVE THE ANGEL
    Why had the killer invested precious time doing that? Jordache wondered.
    “We don’t know what the message means yet,” Kostakis said.  “But look at what it’s written on.”  Jordache peered closer at the soiled paper and finally understood why Kostakis had called him.  “See what I mean about sensitive?”
    Jordache mentally raced through the implications.  “Yes, Phil, I see what you mean.”  He instantly thought of Nathan Fox and wondered what the psychiatrist would make of it.
    “What do you want to do, Chief?”
    “I want to find the bastard who did this, that’s what I want to do.”
    “But do we tell—”
    “Nope.  We tell no one.  Not yet.  Think about it, Phil.  What good would it do?”  He thought of the message, wondering what it might mean.  “We got to be real careful about this.  With all the media attention the only connection could be in the killer’s sick mind.  I figure we keep this quiet for now and focus on what we do best:  examine the crime scene evidence for clues and motive — anything that explains what’s going on in the killer’s mind — and look for witnesses.  Someone must have seen something.”
    Kostakis nodded.  “But what do you think, Chief?  Off the record?”
    Despite his recent meal and current surroundings, Jordache had a sudden, irrational craving for the comfort of a cholesterol-rich cheeseburger.  “Off the record, Phil, I don’t know.  But I got a bad feeling we’re going to find out soon enough.”

 
    Chapter 10
     
    Oblivious to events unfolding across town, Jane Doe slumbered in her bed at Tranquil Waters.  She had declined the 10mg of diazepam and 50mg of chlorpromazine prescribed to help her sleep.  Her encounter with Fox had calmed her and she felt more comfortable in her new room, especially after moving the bed into the center.
    When sleep came, however, the fragmented recurring nightmares that had plagued her since losing her memory returned:  crazed horses, nostrils flared in panic, galloping in ever-decreasing circles; a giant eye staring down at her from a high tower; a faceless figure — a man and yet somehow inhuman — chasing her frantically through the rooms of a silent hotel occupied only by the dead.
    Hours from dawn, just as her malevolent pursuer reached out to grip her shoulder and drag her back from whence he came, she awoke