CHAPTER 2

             Carolyn Sullivan pulled her white Infiniti into an open parking slot at the government center complex, reaching into the backseat for her umbrella and briefcase. It was one of those days. It rained fif­teen minutes, then stopped, then a few hours later, started again. Wearing a white shirt, with her trademark silver cuff links, which had been in her family for over a hundred years, a black velvet vest secured around her waist with a patent leather belt, and a black skirt that grazed her knees, she stepped out into a puddle of water. "So much for the shoes," she said, glad they were inexpensive.

            A few yards away, she saw a tall, slender man dressed in a dark-colored parka coming from the back area of the jail where they released prisoners. Because his hood was up, she couldn't see his face. When he started walking briskly toward her, she worried he might be someone she'd handled who was bent on revenge. She quickly glanced over her shoulder to see if there was someone behind her. The man raised his head slightly and ran toward her.

            Slamming back against the car, Carolyn dropped her briefcase as she reached into her purse for her gun. Before she could get it out, the man seized her by the shoulders. "Damn you, Neil," she shouted at her brother, shoving him in the chest. "What in God's name are you doing? I almost shot you."

            The megawatt smile appeared and Carolyn's anger instantly dis­appeared. "I came to see you," he said. "And this is the treatment I get? Why are you so jumpy?"

            Neil was a handsome, successful artist. At six two, he had dark hair and expressive green eyes, a lanky frame, and strong but classic fea­tures. "I'm not jumpy," Carolyn said, retrieving her briefcase. "I work with criminals, in case you've forgotten. You never know when one's going to come after you. I have to be alert. Most of them hate me."

            "How could anyone hate you?" he said, draping an arm over her shoulder, then taking the umbrella from her so they could share it. "They've probably got the hots for you, sis. You're a good-looking woman, even if you are past your prime."

            Carolyn stomped on his toe, causing him to yelp. "That was a joke, I hope."

            "Jesus," he said, walking beside her as she headed toward the building. "Of course it was a joke. First you try to shoot me; then you try to cripple me. Where are we going, by the way? I'm starving. Don't they have a cafeteria or something in this place? I'll buy you breakfast."

            She stopped and stared at him. He generally worked all night and slept all day. He hadn't shaved, so she assumed he hadn't been to bed yet. "Is something wrong?"

"Sort of," Neil said. "Nothing major. I mean, I don't have a disease or anything. I wouldn't mind selling a few paintings, but that's not what I came to talk about."

            "Where's the new toy?"

            He laughed. "The Ferrari? Didn't I tell you? The woman's husband sued me. The car's been locked up in a warehouse for the past month. Her old man was having an affair with a younger woman, so she traded it for spite. The guy screwed himself because he put the car in his wife's name. Just because she traded it for four of my paint­ings didn't mean it wasn't legal. I was hoping they'd take the car back and give me the cash, but they released it to me yesterday. I didn't want to drive it in the rain. I'm still getting used to the way it han­dles."

            They ducked inside the building and Carolyn folded up her umbrella. "Look, Neil," she said, touching his arm, "I love you, but I don't have time to have breakfast. Traffic was terrible this morning and I'm running late. Can you call me tonight after the kids are in bed?"

            "Please, Carolyn," he said, turning serious. "I have to do something about Melody. "

            People were streaming past them. Carolyn pulled him into a cor­ner. "We talked about this the other day, Neil. I hate to say it, but you created this mess. You should have stopped seeing Melody when you got back together with Laurel."

            "I know. I know." He pushed the hood back on his parka and ran his hands through his thick black hair. "I'm in a bind here. I'm in love with Laurel. I've been wild about her since we were in high school. She finally divorced her husband. I'm meeting her for lunch today. I might ask her to marry me. Should I tell Melody the truth or make up some kind of story?"

            "Here's the deal," Carolyn said. "Listen closely because I need you to help me. Call John and Rebecca. They should be at the house no later than four. Tell Rebecca you're going to stop by and look at her drawings. You promised to help her if I enrolled her in art school. Since John got his driver's license, he isn't around as much. I should be home by eight. We can talk then."

            "I'm always taking care of your kids," he complained. "Can't you give me a few seconds of your time? I drove all the way down here."

            "Not now, honey," Carolyn said. "Brad called me at six o'clock this morning. Veronica went into labor last night and I have to finish one of her reports. It's a big case, Neil, that multiple murder, the one where the whole family was killed, including three small children. You must have heard about it."

            Neil was brooding. "I don't watch the news."

            "Okay, listen," she said, placing her palm in the center of his chest. "I promise I'll call you after my meeting." She looked at her watch, knowing she had to end their conversation. "I'm supposed to be at the jail interviewing the defendant right now. Are you going straight home? Have you slept yet?"

            "I'm not planning to go back to bed, if that's what you mean."

            Carolyn stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "You could make this decision by yourself, you know. In reality, you proba­bly should."

            His eyes were red with exhaustion. "You're my big sister. I never make a decision without you. I'm not a murderer or anything, but this is important. Don't you care? I'm about to ask someone to marry me. Laurel will be a part of our family. All I need is for you to help me figure how to handle the situation with Melody. What time will you be through with your interview?"

            "Before noon," Carolyn told him. "Go home, give this more thought; then when we talk, you'll have a better handle on everything. Once I hear the whole story, I'll give you my opinion. The sooner you let me do my job, the sooner we can talk."

            She waited until he walked off, then hurried off toward the entrance to the men's jail.

            Punching open the doors, Carolyn stepped up to a glass window. Her shoulder-length dark hair was pushed behind her left ear. The other side swung forward onto her cheek when she moved. Wearing a belt that accentuated her small waistline, she wasn't as thin as one of her brother's models, but she was also the mother of two teenagers. Most people thought she looked younger than her thirty-eight years.

            The Ventura County government center complex was similar to a small city. The courts, district attorney's and public defender's of­fices, as well as the records division, were all housed on the left side of a large open space. A bubbling fountain stood in the center, sur­rounded by concrete benches. To the right was the Correction Services Agency, the formal name for the probation department, as well as the sheriff's department, and the women's and men's jails. The general public assumed that the two structures were not connected, yet an underground tunnel was used to transport inmates back and forth to the courthouse.

            The jail was actually a pretrial detention facility, and as a result of housing over one thousand inmates with a rated capacity of 412, the fairly new facility had an infrastructure of a thirty-year-old building. Ten years ago, the county had erected another detention center, which was called the Todd Road jail, and was located in the city of Santa Paula. Todd Road was designed to hold over 750 sentenced male inmates. Only the minor or repeat offenders served their time in jail. Serious offenders were sentenced to prison.

            On the other side of the window, a dark-haired deputy named Joe Powell looked shocked when he read the prisoner's name on the inmate visitation request sheet. "You can't see Raphael Moreno. He's in solitary. Only two more days and we get rid of this piece of shit."

            Moreno had decapitated his disabled mother and murdered his twelve-year-old sister. Leaving their bodies in the house, he'd gone on a killing spree.

           His next victims were a family of five. The father had been a thirty-one-year-old real estate agent. The mother had been a stay-at-home mom who cared for the couple's three children. Moreno had en­tered through a rear window just after dark, lying in wait inside a closet in the baby's room.

            When the mother came in to put the six-month-old boy to bed, Moreno had gunned down her and the child, then shot and killed the father and the couple's other two children. The Ventura police had found all five bodies lined up military-style in the living room.

            The case had perplexed the authorities. Nothing was taken from the residence, and Moreno had as yet to provide them with a motive for the killings.

           "I have to see him," Carolyn said into the microphone. "And I have to see him immediately, Joe."

            "Listen," he told her, "all you investigators wait until the last minute to finish your work. The captain says we don't have to take it anymore. Besides, there's no way you can interview Moreno in a room. He's one of the most dangerous inmates we've ever had." He turned to a powerfully built black sergeant with a shiny shaved head. "Tell her what our pal Raphael did last night. She wants to play patty-cake with him."

            "He tried to kill three inmates," Bobby Kirsh said, leaning over Powell's houlder. "This is a mean son of a bitch. I know one when I see one. I've been on the job for twenty years. A little over a hundred and thirty pounds and he took down all three in a matter of minutes. No way you gonna get a face-to-face." He turned away, then tossed something into the bin. "Take a look at what he did before you end up like this guy."

            She picked up the photograph, horrified at what she saw—the bloodied face of a black man with his left eye missing from the socket. "What happened to his eye?"

            "Moreno snatched it out. Since we didn't find it, we assume he ate it.

            Maybe Bobby was right and Moreno was too dangerous. Collecting herself, she mustered up a stoic look, determined not to back down.

            The sergeant continued his litany, "We found the second guy with a shattered hand stuffed in his ass, his dislocated shoulder dangling like a dishrag." He grimaced. "I don't even want to tell you what he did to the third guy."

            "Put him in a room, Bobby," Carolyn said, scared but challenged. She wanted to break Moreno, now more than ever. "You know our reports are mandated by law. You also know how I work. Moreno has never cracked. He didn't say more than two words to his public defender. The DA negotiated a sentence of seven consecutive counts of second-degree murder. No death penalty. No life without parole. Moreno's only twenty years old. He might live another sixty years and kill dozens of people." She decided to try a personal appeal. "If he'd killed your family, wouldn't you want to know what makes him tick?"

            "Not this one," the older officer said. "When Moreno first came in, we placed bets on how long he'd last. I was sure the prisoners would turn him into dog meat within twenty-four hours. Jesus, he sliced off his mother's head and shot a six-month-old baby. Every cop in the county, on the street or inside, would blowtorch Moreno and call it a barbecue if they thought they could get away with it. Even my wife offered to take him out".

            "I understand," Carolyn said. "That's just talk, Bobby. Right now, I'm the only one who can do anything."

            "The three inmates he tangled with last night are bigger than me. You're good, Carolyn, but you're not going to get inside this maniac's head."

            The longer she stood there, the less chance she had of getting the information she needed. The only people who seemed to appreciate the role investigative probation officers played in the criminal justice system were judges. Probation officers did most of their work for them. They pulled the case together from arrest to conviction. Then they applied the laws as directed by the judicial counsel in San Francisco.

            Probation officers spent sleepless nights trying to decide what sentence should be administered. When the sentencing judge picked up the case file in the courtroom, his eyes swept over the probation officer who had handled it. Fifty years in prison, sure, no problem. The judge was only following the probation officer's recommenda­tion. No blood on his hands.

            "Our reports are reviewed at every parole hearing," Carolyn reminded the sergeant. "You want this guy back on the street? Put him in a room and I'll destroy him. He'll never taste freedom again."

            She heard the buzzer for the door and stepped inside. "How long?" she asked, storing her gun in a locker.

            "Give me ten," Bobby said to the other deputy.

            "Can't you set him up faster?"

            `Are you nuts, woman?" he told her. "I'm talking about ten men." He stared at her briefcase. "What's in there? Open it up."

            Carolyn's frustrations escalated. "I don't have to submit to a search. You saw me lock up my weapon." Scowling, she opened the brown leather satchel. "A yellow pad and three file folders. Satisfied?"

            Sergeant Kirsh reached into one of the compartments, pulling out a pair of panty hose, then dangling them in front of her face. "Good thing I looked, just for your sake. I thought you were smart, Carolyn," he said. "Moreno could strangle you with these things." He dropped them into her hand. "Put them in a locker or toss them. You're not taking them in with you."

            "Thanks, Bobby," she said, depositing the hose in the trash can. "I didn't know I had them. I keep an extra set of nylons in case I get a run.

            The sergeant put his meaty hands on his hips, tilting his head to

one side. "Sure you still want a face-to-face?"

            Carolyn let her eyes answer for her.

            Twenty minutes later, Carolyn sat two feet away from a sadistic killer in an eight-by-eight room. Her palms were sweating and her mind was racing. She turned sideways in her seat and read through the incident report from the night before, wanting to give him a chance to get used to her. A pungent scent drifted past her nostrils. She assumed it was his body odor. Masking her true feelings, she kept her expression pleasant and nonjudgmental.

            Raphael Moreno sat perfectly still, his head held high, his back straight. Fifteen minutes passed as Carolyn studied him out of the corner of her eye. He might be small, but his body was well devel­oped. His arms were laced with sinewy muscles, the kind you saw on farmworkers. His features were somewhat refined, almost handsome. He looked more like a native of South America than Mexico, possibly Argentina or Colombia. His skin was brown and thick. In several places, it appeared either badly chafed or discolored. He may have gotten the best of three inmates in last night's fight, but he hadn't walked away without injuries. His kidneys had been bruised and he had suf­fered a concussion. She suspected the three inmates had attempted to sodomize him. They had picked the wrong man. All three had been seriously injured.

            Although she was finished reading the report, Carolyn continued as if she were still preoccupied. It wasn't time yet to make eye contact. This was something he would have to earn. And the only way he could score points in the dangerous game she was about to play was to start talking.

            Entering into a negotiated disposition must have been a difficult decision for the DAs office, Carolyn thought. All things considered, she would have probably done the same. A diminutive twenty-year-old defendant who had never spoken and was depicted as mentally deficient by his attorney had the potential to generate sympathy in the eyes of the jury. Allowing him to plead guilty to seven counts of second-degree murder had saved the taxpayers a fortune. Even if they'd taken him to trial on first-degree murder charges, getting a conviction would have been difficult. They would have to prove premeditation and explosions of violence; even crimes as heinous as these were hard to portray as carefully planned acts. Other evidence could also surface during the trial. If the DA had taken him to trial and the case had ended in acquittal, Moreno could never be prose­cuted again. Even prisoners who couldn't read or write knew what double jeopardy meant.

            The DA had additional factors to consider. By refusing to testify or cooperate with his public defender, Moreno would have been de­clared incompetent to stand trial. When the state shrinks finally cleared him, the law still allowed him to plead not guilty by reason of insanity. The only period of consideration was the time and day the crimes occurred. It was a conundrum. As nonsensical as it sounded, a person had to be sane in order to stand before the court and plead insanity.

            Carolyn began to tap her heels on the yellowed linoleum flooring. The direction of his eyes shifted slightly, but he didn't move. With some criminals she could flirt and extract information no one had ever heard. Moreno was not one of them. If she hit the right nerve, he would talk. A study had shown that most violent male criminals had high levels of testosterone that produced uncontrollable sexual desires and murderous levels of anger. This had to be the case with Moreno. Except for the three men from the night before, she knew everyone had approached him in a cautious manner. To get him to talk, she was going to make him mad, cause him to lose control, then pray he didn't kill her. She'd successfully used this tactic with rapists and pedophiles, even ones who had killed their victims. If she could go up against scum like that, she could handle Moreno.

Removing her cell phone from the pocket of her skirt, she called Neil. "I'm sorry I couldn't talk this morning," she said. "Did you get your breakfast?"

            "What are you doing?"

            "Sitting across from an ugly deaf guy."

            Neil gasped, "The man who killed all those people? Should you be talking on the phone? Aren't you afraid he'll hurt you?"

"He's in chains.  Carolyn tossed her head back and laughed. "Besides, this guy couldn't find his way out of a paper bag, let alone hurt anyone. He's just a punk-ass kid. They say he's twenty, but he looks fifteen. He's a pretty boy, you know. He was sucking dicks for a living, then went nuts and started killing people. Did I tell you he sliced off his mother's head? He'll be dead twenty-four hours after he hits the joint. Cons hate creeps who kill kids."

            Moreno wasn't deaf, Carolyn decided. She could tell when someone was listening. Not only had he blinked several times, one corner of his mouth was curled in contempt. She knew it wasn't a natural ex­pression as the muscles had started to twitch. If he'd defended himself against three larger males in order not to be raped, her comments about him being a male prostitute must be making him fu­rious. He couldn't sit there like a statue forever, and pride was a big thing with Hispanic males. It was one thing to tune out the attorneys, doctors, or other inmates. Having an attractive woman ignore him had to be an insult to his masculinity. And she was ridiculing him to his face. If they'd been on the street, Carolyn was certain he would have either beaten her or killed her.

            "You're doing something stupid, aren't you?" Neil said, not accus­tomed to hearing his sister use such crude language. "Please don't tell me you're baiting a killer? I don't want to be on the phone when some lunatic goes after my sister."

            Carolyn said, "When nothing else works, you've got to use your mouth."

            Neil rambled on about his problems. Twenty-nine minutes passed. One of the jailers' faces appeared in the window. When Carolyn put her thumb up, he disappeared. Seeing a vein bulge in Moreno's neck, she bent over and pretended she was rummaging in her briefcase so she could peek under the table and verify he was still safely restrained. His hands were tiny, she thought, almost smaller than her own. Satisfied everything was okay, she saw an old package of gum in the side pocket of her briefcase and removed a stick. She placed it on her tongue, then let it linger before she pulled it into her mouth. Moreno licked his lips. In jail, even a piece of gum was a coveted item. Unlike prison, the jail didn't have a commissary. Unless a rela­tive or friend supplied him, a prisoner had nothing other than what was issued to him when he was booked.

            "Look, hon," she said, "I'm going to call you later like I said. I just had some time to kill and wanted to hear your voice. Have you been thinking about—"

            The phone suddenly popped out of Carolyn's hands. Moreno had used his feet to lift her chair several inches off the ground. Grabbing onto the edges of the seat to keep from toppling over, she looked for the phone but didn't see it. When she heard a crunching sound, she spun around, but by then, a tangled mess of metal and plastic was lying on the floor and Moreno was sitting exactly as he was before.

            His hands and feet were shackled, Carolyn thought, ready to bolt from the room. No one could move that fast, and it would take tremendous strength to crush a cell phone. Carolyn reached over to hit the button to call for help.

            No, she thought, pulling her hand back. She refused to give him the satisfaction. "Up against the wall!" she yelled, standing and kick­ing the table out of the way. "Do it now! Put your palms up where I can see them."

            Blood dripped onto his orange jumpsuit. A flap of skin had been torn off on one side of his hand, near his right thumb. Carolyn as­sumed it was from the handcuffs. His hint of a smile told her he was pleased with himself, Her eyes narrowed in anger. "I'll talk to anyone I want whenever I want, shithead," she snarled at him.

            Moreno looked up and smiled. He brushed up against her as he turned to the wall. He smelled clean, like Ivory soap or laundry de­tergent. The odor she had noticed when she'd first entered the room hadn't been Moreno. The scent that had repelled her earlier had been her own fear. Had Moreno sensed it?

            She jerked her head around. He had whispered something in her ear, but his voice had been too low to hear. In an awkward and dan­gerous way, they had broken the barrier and made a connection.

            Having heard the commotion, a blond-haired young jailer flung open the door, his baton out of its sheath. Another deputy was right behind him.

            "Get out!" Carolyn shouted, her voice booming out into the quadrant. Seeing the distress on the officers' faces, she said calmly, "I'm in charge here. Everything is fine. The prisoner and I are having a dis­cussion. I accidentally knocked the table over. Leave us alone now, please."

            "But he's bleeding," the blond deputy said, pointing to the spots of blood on Moreno's jumpsuit. "What happened? Are you okay? Sergeant Kirsh ..."

            "Tell Bobby not to worry," she said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder to nudge him out of the room. "If I need help, I'll let you know"

            The man shook his head and then retreated, locking the door behind him. Moreno was standing against the wall. Carolyn kicked her open briefcase toward him. "Now get on your hands and knees and pick up my damn phone before I make you eat every last piece of it," she said. "Put the pieces in there."

            She knew the risk she was taking, but she couldn't turn tail and run. The situation had turned into a battle of wills. If she allowed him to get the best of her, word would get out inside the jail. The next time she came inside to interview an offender, she might be chal­lenged again. The prisoners called her "the Angel of Death." Over the years, she had become something of a folk hero. The rumor was the pretty probation officer came to see you and a week or so later you disappeared. The men were too stupid to realize that the inmates she visited were scheduled to be sentenced, and the only thing that happened to them was they were shipped off to prison.

            Moreno scooped up the broken cell phone and dumped the de­bris in her briefcase. Carolyn picked it up and placed it by the door.

            She slid the plastic chair in front of him and righted the table. "Now we're going to sit down and talk like two civilized people. If you don't talk, I'm going to charge you with assaulting a peace offi­cer and drag your ass back in court. Then I'm going to tell the judge that you're not deaf, insane, or retarded. They'll revoke your plea agreement and retry you. This time, you'll receive the death penalty"

            "You can't throw that shit at me, ho," Moreno said, the voice that no one had heard finally surfacing.

            His voice was low and he slurred his words. Carolyn heard a slight Spanish accent. "Your life is a pretty big thing to gamble with, Raphael," she told him, softening her tactics now that he was talking. All I'm asking you to do is to answer a few questions."

            "It's over, man." He smirked. "Where you been? DA too chicken to try and get me killed. They can't change my deal. I ain't no idiot. A deal's a deal."

            "Why did you murder those people?" Carolyn asked, thinking round two had gone to Moreno. He was smart. He had called her bluff accurately. Once a plea agreement had been negotiated and ac­cepted, it could not be overturned. No matter what she learned, he could not be sentenced to more time in prison or put to death. "An explanation could go a long way when your case comes up for parole."

            “At least I ain't fuckin' my brother," Moreno said, smiling. "'Te bato, que de aquella ramfla traes."

Carolyn knew what he'd said—that she had a nice car. How did he know what her car looked like?

            "I thought some homey was gonna jump you this mornin' in the parkin' lot. Then I seen you rubbin' up against him. Get down and suck my dick, ho. If you suck your brother off, you can suck me. Do that and I tell you anything you want to know."

            The color drained from Carolyn's face. How had he known about Neil? His eyes were locked on her and she couldn't look away. His lids were hooded, and his pupils were dark and murky, as if she were staring into a frozen pool of dirty water.

            Hold the line, she told herself, pressing her back against the chair. He must have heard the other side of the conversation, then somehow put it together. There were no windows in solitary Then she remembered that he'd spent the night in the infirmary, which had windows overlooking the parking lot, as did at least 50 percent of the cells. Whoever had designed the complex had never given thought to the safety of the people who worked there. Ever since they had moved from the old courthouse on Poli Street, Carolyn had been ex­pecting something to happen. Now the most vile criminal she had ever met knew what kind of car she drove, and could share that information with his friends on the street or other inmates, both in jail and in prison. Had he memorized her license plate as well? Of course he had. His alertness and attention to detail were remarkable. She would have to get a new plate as soon as possible. He knew her, though, and would find her even if she came to work in a different car. Scores of violent offenders were serving lengthy prison sentences as a result of her investigations and recommendations. Everyone even­tually got out. She'd only handled one offender who had been exe­cuted.

            Her safety and that of her family had been compromised.

            If Moreno managed to escape or the jail released him by mistake, which had occurred on numerous occasions, he would come after her. What else had he learned from her call to Neil? She'd once had a probationer who'd trained himself to recognize numbers through the tones in the phone.

            Carolyn had finally met a criminal who truly frightened her.

            "Shit, man," Moreno said, "everyone wants me dead. Instead, I'm gonna be taking a nap on the state's dime. What's that about, huh?" This wasn't the kind of comment you'd expect from a man who'd gone crazy and went on a killing spree, Carolyn thought. Was he play­ing with her, or did he mean it?

            "Cops scared of me," he continued, his chains rattling under the table. "Cons scared of me. Everybody 'fraid. Next thing you know, they'll put one of those masks on me like that guy in the movie who ate people."

            "Let's talk about the people you murdered," she said. "I'm a pro­bation officer. I'm here to prepare a report for the court."

            She exhaled as understanding struck her. Had Moreno slaugh­tered the Hartfield family to make certain he ended up in prison? She forced herself to detach emotionally and analyze the case with the cool eye of a mathematician.

            Raphael Moreno may have traded certain death on the streets in exchange for the sanitized death he might meet after years on death row. Unless a killer was mentally deficient, which Moreno was as­suredly not, he would have made some attempt to avoid apprehen­sion. According to the arresting officer, Moreno had locked himself inside the trunk of Darren Hartfield's white Cadillac CTS parked inside the closed garage. An officer found him when he heard him kicking the trunk lid. By the time the other units arrived for backup, Moreno was cuffed and sitting quietly in the backseat of a squad car. The frenzy of violence had occurred only thirty minutes prior to his capture.

            "Who are you running from?" Carolyn asked him, forging ahead on her hunch.

            His jaw locked in anger. She watched as he contemplated whether to respond to her statement, or simply clam up again. He closed his eyes, but she could see them moving beneath his lids as if he were reading or watching a tennis match.

            "Do I look like I'm fuckin' runnin' from someone?"

            Carolyn jumped. Moreno's voice seemed several octaves deeper. Her fascination evaporated and her fear intensified. Something didn't add up. Killers generally followed a pattern, particularly when it came to weapons and manner of death. The pathologist believed the mother had been decapitated with a scalpel, although they had failed to lo­cate it on the property or on Moreno's person at the time he was ap­prehended.

            After murdering his mother, he had bound and gagged his sister, then later returned to crush her skull with a hammer. They believed the sister had been murdered the same day as the Hartfield family, who were killed execution-style with an AR 15 assault rifle on November 18. This weapon, too, had never been located. Rarely did they see a killer use such a diverse set of weapons and modes of death. At the onset of the investigation, the police had assumed there was more than one killer. Outside of the Hartfield family's, the only fingerprints located inside both premises were Moreno's.

            Several psychologists had analyzed the facts of the case. Their conclusion was that Moreno's mind had disintegrated after years of caring for his disabled mother and sister. After killing his own family, he had vented his rage at another family, who seemed to be living the American dream. Carolyn was certain they were wrong.

            She couldn't begin dictating the interview portion of the report until she forced Moreno to reveal himself. To achieve her goal, she would have to leave and return later.

            The one thing a person like Raphael Moreno couldn't stand was being controlled. She hoped what she was about to do next would enrage him. Getting a prisoner to talk was her greatest skill. Moreno had talked, even led her in a new direction, but he had failed to tell her anything about the murders. A question was circling in her mind, one that demanded an answer. She knew the police had agonized over the same thing. The difference was Moreno now knew he had nothing to lose. Carolyn just might walk away with a full confession.

            Standing, she pushed the buzzer to be released. She didn't speak, nor did she look at Moreno. When the door opened, she saw a sea of uniformed officers. Glancing back at Moreno, she saw the look of shock register on his face. He couldn't understand why she was walking out on him. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

            "Were there problems?" Bobby Kirsh asked as she strolled into the corridor.

            "Raphael and I got along just fine," Carolyn lied, seeing the pris­oner straining to hear what she was saying. "Really, Bobby," she con­tinued, "I don't know why everyone's making such a fuss."

            "Reynolds told me Moreno had some spots of blood on his clothes," he said. "Were they already there, or did something happen?"

            "I think he scraped his wrists on the cuffs," Carolyn said, then recalled that Moreno had an untreated bullet wound on his shoulder when he was arrested. The police had tried to find out who had shot him, but had got nowhere. With street thugs, scars from gunshots were like freckles. "It's nothing to be concerned about. I remember seeing him scratching his shoulder wound."

            Bobby gave her a suspicious look, but he didn't say anything.

            Once they made their way to the locker area, Carolyn faced him. "Leave him in the room. No matter what he does, don't move him. I'll come back after lunch. If anything happens, call me. If I'm not at my desk, tell them to page me."

         "Did he talk?" he asked, curious.

         "Yes," she answered, removing her gun from the locker and plac­ing it in her purse.

         "What did he say? Why did he kill those people? Is he a psycho? Did he talk about what happened last night? Most of the population is scared to death of him." He paused, waiting until Joe Powell turned away "They're freaked, man. Things like this don't happen. Yeah, guys get jumped every now and then. Not like they do in prison, of course. I mean, the majority of our inmates are serving time for minor of­fenses . . . tickets, thefts, burglaries, nonpayment of child support. The captain thinks the three men who almost got wiped tried to jump Moreno. The men swear he came after them."

"I'm strapped for time," Carolyn explained. "Moreno didn't talk about the murders, but I think I have a lead on some information. That's more progress than anyone else has made. Let me do my job, Bobby, and I'll let you do yours. As soon as I find out something, you'll be the first to know." She closed her briefcase with a clank.

            Bobby gestured toward her bag. "Don't you think you'd be safer if you carried your gun in a place where you could get your hands on it? Most of the people in your department wear shoulder holsters. I know you're going to law school and all. You won't make a very good lawyer if you're dead."

            Carolyn gave him a chastising look. 'A little melodramatic, don't you think?"

            "You're good people, okay?" Bobby said defensively. "Just trying to keep you from getting hurt."

            "I normally wear my gun," she told him. "I appreciate your concern taking my panty hose in there would have been a mistake." She started to leave, then turned back. "As a precaution, post some of your people outside the interview room. I assume he's as safe in there as where you had him earlier."

            "Well," he said, shrugging, "we're not a maximum-security prison. The glass is reinforced and the bars behind it are steel. I guess it won't do any harm to let him stew. He's safely contained."

            "Don't let this guy con you," Carolyn said in a hushed voice, won­dering if Moreno had stashed some of the metal pieces of the cell phone. Once she was through with him, she'd have him strip-searched. "He may bloody himself up or something to trick you into opening the door. Instruct your men not to go in there under any circumstances or they'll be risking their lives. No food, no water, no bathroom. I don't care what the rules say. Think you can find some officers will­ing to go the distance?"

            "Yeah," he said. "Sounds like you're scared of this one, Carolyn. I told you not to do a face-to-face. Shit, even I wouldn't let someone lock me in there alone with Moreno."

            "I haven't finished what I set out to do, Bobby," she told him, her face set with resolve. "I'll try to get back around noon. I might be afraid of him, but I'm not going to give up. Moreno may not be the only killer. He could have an accomplice who's still out there. The Hartfield family was killed with an AR-fifteen assault rifle. When he decapitated his mother, he used a scalpel and he smashed in his sis­ter's head with a hammer. I don't think he would kill with a gun. He has sensitive ears. He wouldn't like the noise."

            Bobby gave her a disbelieving look. `And you're going to get him to tell you who his accomplice was?"

Carolyn smiled. "Don't I always?"