Neblin cocked his head. "I hadn't heard that."
"Nobody has," I said, "so keep it quiet. When the body came to the mortuary the kidney was missing—everything else looked like it had been shredded, but the kidney had been cut off pretty cleanly."
"And what about the second body?"
"He took the arm," I said, "and the abdomen was slashed but not gutted—most of the innards were still inside."
"And in the third he took a leg," said Neblin. "Interesting.
So the piled-up organs in the first attack were incidental—he's not ritualizing the killings, he's just taking body parts."
"That's exactly what I told Mom," I said, throwing up my hands.
"Right before she threw you out of the back room?"
I shrugged. "I guess it is a pretty creepy thing to say."
"What's interesting to me," said Neblin, "is the way he leaves the bodies—he doesn't take them or hide them, he just leaves them out for people to find. That usually means the serial killer is trying to make a statement, so that we'll see the body and get whatever message he's trying to make. But if what you say is true, then he's not displaying the bodies—he's just striking quickly and fading out, spending as little time with his kills as he can.
"But what does that mean?" I asked.
"For one thing," said Neblin, "he probably hates what he's doing." ;
"That makes a lot of sense,' I said, nodding. "I hadn't thought of that." I felt stupid for not having thought of it. Why hadn't it occurred to me that a killer might not enjoy killing?
"But he defaced the reporter's body," I said, "so he had some kind of motive there beyond just ending his life."
"With a serial killer," said Neblin, "the motive is very likely an emotional one: he was angry, or frustrated, or confused.
Don't make the mistake of thinking that sociopaths can't feel—they feel very keenly, they just don't know what to do with their emotions."
"You said he didn't like killing," I said, "but so far he's taken a souvenir from all three. That doesn't make sense—why does he take things from an event he doesn't want to remember?"
"That's a good one to ponder," said Neblin, jotting it down on his pad, "but now it's time for my question."
"All right," I said, sighing and looking back out the window. "Let's get it over with."
"Tell me what Rob Anders was doing right before you threatened to kill him."
"I didn't threaten to kill him."
"You talked about his death in a threatening manner," said Neblin. "Let's not split hairs."
"We were in the gym at school for the Halloween dance," I said, "and he was kind of bugging me—teasing me and knocking over my drink and things like that. So then when I was talking to someone, he came up and just really started making fun of me, and I knew the only two ways to get rid of him were to punch him or to scare him. I have a rule about not hurting people, so I scared him."
"You don't have a rule about threatening to kill people?"
"It hadn't come up yet," I said. "I have one now."
"Who were you talking to?"
"Why does that matter?"
"I'm just curious about whom you were you talking to."
"Some girl."
The monster behind the wall growled, low and rumbling.
Dr. Neblin cocked his head. "Does she have a name?"
"Brooke," I said, suddenly uncomfortable. "She's nobody. She's lived on my street for years."
"Is she cute?"
"She's a little young for you, Doctor."
"Let me rephrase that," he said, smiling. "Are you attracted to her?"
"I thought we were talking about Rob Anders," I said.
"Just curious," he said, making a note on his pad. "We're about done for the day anyway. Is there anything else you want to talk about?"
"I don't think so." I stared out the window; cars passed carefully between the buildings, like beetles in a maze. The Five Live News van crept slowly past headed east—out of town.
"Looks like he scared them off," said Neblin, following my gaze.
He was probably right. . . wait. That was it. That was the piece I'd been missing.
The killer scared them off.
"It's not a serial killer," I said suddenly.
"It's not?" asked Neblin.
"It's all wrong," I said, "it can't be. He didn't run away afterward— he displayed the corpse, just like you said, by smearing, that sludge all over him. He wasn't just trying to cover up the news, he was trying to scare them away. Don't you see? He had a reason!"
"And you think serial killers don't have reasons."
"They don't," I said. "Search through every criminal record you've got and you'll never find a serial killer who kills someone just because they're getting too close—most of them go out of their way to get more media coverage, not less. They love it. Half of them write letters to the press."
"Doesn't fame count as a reason?" ',