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man for the local authorities.”
    “I appreciate that,” Markham said.
    “And I’m not going to ask you how you caught Jackson Briggs, either.”
    Markham narrowed his eyes at him.
    “I read the report,” Schaap continued. “Still have no idea how you got turned on to him. But what I’m saying is I’m not going to try to get into your head about things. You keepwhat you want to yourself, but you don’t have to worry about me cock-blocking you if you want to bounce things off me, okay?”
    “Thanks,” Markham said, smiling.
    “May I ask you one thing about the Briggs case, though? A minor detail?”
    “Okay.”
    “Is it true what I read? That he came after you with a samurai sword?”
    “A ninja sword, I believe it was, but yes.”
    “Caught you in the arm and kept slashing at you even with four bullets in him?”
    “Three. The fourth was a head shot.”
    “He cut you bad?”
    “Not too bad. Got my jacket mostly—my left shoulder. Barely even a scar there now. Not much to brag about in the locker room.”
    “Was he your first kill?”
    “Yes.”
    “Feel fucked up?”
    “No,” Markham said simply. “Actually, it didn’t.”
    A heavy silence—Schaap’s brain spinning.
    “So what about our boy here in Raleigh?” he asked finally. “Anything other than the usual logistical groundwork that you want me to take care of?”
    “Yes,” Markham said. “I need to get back to the crime scenes.”
    “Tonight?”
    “I need to see them in the dark. And I could use your help—would like you to coordinate things with Cary PD. Tell them I’m going to stop by Donovan’s house, and that I’ll be at the baseball field around eleven or twelve. I’m going to work backwards; going to focus on Donovan tonight and Rodriguez and Guerrera tomorrow. But it’s important thatI’m not bothered. Maybe you can get a detail posted for me in case the press or some nosy locals are still sniffing around.”
    “Trying to see what things looked like from Vlad’s perspective?”
    “No. Tonight I’ll be trying to see things through the eyes of his victims.”

Chapter 7

    Doug Jennings, technical director of the Harriot University Department of Theatre and Dance, was furious—be-cause of what happened, sure, but more so because he might have to miss his son’s honor society ceremony. Stealing was one thing—but inconveniencing him? Well, that was going too far. One of these little fuckers had dicked him twice now, and
enough was enough
.
    “Keep in mind,” Jennings said, “George is taking valuable time out of his rehearsal so all of you, cast and crew, understand how serious this is.” His voice was tight; reverberated off the theater walls and came back to him like someone else’s. “Now, since it’s obvious that you didn’t believe me after our little talk at the beginning of the semester, George here wanted to say a few words so we’re all perfectly clear about what’s going to happen next.”
    As George Kiernan took his place at the foot of the stage, Jennings scanned the crowd. More than thirty students clumped together in the first four rows like a herd of frightened sheep. Jennings was breathing heavily; his bushy red beard damp with spittle, the perspiration beginning to poolbetween his flabby breasts and his big round belly. Whoever had stolen his belt sander was here tonight. He could feel it.
    “Doug and his crew,” Kiernan began, “busted their butts this week to get us onstage a day early, and now I have to take time out of rehearsal for this nonsense. In fact, in my twenty years as chair of the Department of Theatre and Dance, tonight is the first time I’ve ever had to take time out of a rehearsal for something like this,
period
.”
    Kiernan set down his notepad and leaned back against the stage—the tension-filled pause, the icy stare over his wire-rimmed spectacles as only George Kiernan could pull off. Jennings had witnessed his boss chew ass many times during his eleven-year tenure