“Tell us where you’ve been for the last two years,” Jack asked him without expression. “What cities, what states.” They knew exactly where he had been for the last six months, and Jack wanted to see if the suspect would tell them the truth. He did. He rattled off a list of towns and cities, in all the states they knew. “What have you been doing there?”

“Working. Visiting guys I knew in the joint. I’m not on parole. I can do what I want,” he said cockily. Jack nodded assent. They knew he had taken jobs as a laborer, unloading freight, and in one of the farm states, he had picked crops for a few weeks. His size was in his favor and always got him a job. It wasn’t in the favor of his victims and had cost them their lives. They knew that as well. Quentin looked arrogant, but there was no threat of violence in his demeanor, and he had had no history of it in prison or before that they knew of. Luke was said to be a peace-loving man, but would meet the challenge if attacked. He had been stabbed once, when trying to break up a fight between two rival gangs, but he had had no known gang associations and kept to himself.

Quentin was known to be a jogger in prison. He ran track, and jogged daily in the yard. And he had continued running once he got out. They had watched him in parks several times, and it was often where the victims were found, but they still couldn’t tie him to them. There were no witnesses to the crimes. The fact that he had run in the same park didn’t mean that they had died at his hands. There hadn’t been a single drop of sperm in any of the women, which meant that he had used a condom or had a disability of some kind, which maybe led him to rape. He was brilliant at what he did, if it was him.

Quentin was arrogant, but not a braggart. He waited for their questions and offered nothing else. He met their eyes, and from time to time glanced at the window where Alexa watched with a serious expression. Without realizing it, she had smoked half a dozen cigarettes by then.

“You know I didn’t do it,” Quentin said after a while, looking straight at Jack and laughing at him. His eyes had drifted past Charlie, dismissing him with a glance. “You guys just need someone to pin it on, to make you look good. You’re playing to the press.”

Jack decided to dispense with the amenities, as he met Quentin’s eyes. There was nothing there, neither guilt nor fear, nor even concern. The only thing he saw there was contempt. Luke was laughing at them, and thought they were fools. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, which suspects often did. The lights were hot. All the cops in the room were perspiring profusely, while Quentin looked cool. But they were wearing street clothes and bulletproof vests, he was in a thin jumpsuit, and totally at ease.

“There was blood in the dirt on your shoes,” Jack told him calmly.

“So what?” Quentin looked completely indifferent. “I run every day. I don’t look at the ground when I run. I run through dirt, dog shit, human excrement every day. I could have run through blood. It wasn’t on my hands.” And it wasn’t on his clothes. They had already gone through everything he owned. It was only in the dirt on his shoes. And he could have been telling the truth, although it was unlikely. “You can’t hold me forever. And if that’s all you’ve got, your charges won’t stick. You know that as well as I do. You’ll have to do better than that. You’re full of shit and you know it. The arrest is no good.”

“We’ll see. I wouldn’t count on that,” Jack said with a confidence he didn’t fully feel. They needed some hard evidence to use in the case. They’d had enough to arrest him, although not enough to convict him yet. Hopefully it would come, with a few more lucky breaks. They had good men on their team. Maybe another snitch would turn up, although Quentin didn’t look like a guy who talked. He was much, much smarter than that. And the forensic evidence they were waiting for would nail him.

The questioning went on for several hours, about where he’d been, what he’d done, who he knew, who he met, the women he’d gone out with, the hotels where he’d stayed. It checked out that he’d been in the cities where the women were killed, but so far there was nothing conclusive to tie him to the other girls. They were hanging by a slim thread, but it was good enough for now, and they were counting on the forensic lab to give them more with DNA.

“You’ve got to prove a hell of a lot more than that I ran in the same park.” But the blood and hair would do for now. Even Luke Quentin knew that.

They had never mentioned his passion for snuff films during the entire interrogation. They didn’t want to tip their hands yet. They had offered to have his public defender with him that morning, but Quentin said he didn’t care. He was not afraid of cops, and he thought public defenders were jokes, they were always young and innocent, and most of the guys they defended were convicted anyway. The fact that they were guilty was irrelevant to him. And the PD he’d been given was no better. She’d been in the public defender’s office for a year. He didn’t care. He figured it would never get to trial, and for lack of evidence, they’d have to let him go. They couldn’t prove a goddamn thing, and blood on his shoes wouldn’t be enough.

The blood from all four victims came from scratches they’d gotten on the ground when they’d been raped, or dragged away, one from a cut on a victim’s arm. The site of the bleeding hadn’t been the cause of death. They had been naked when he raped and killed them, and when they were found. He always took their clothes off and didn’t bother to dress them again once they were dead. The first two girls had been found in a shallow grave in the park, dug up by a dog. The other two had been dumped in the river, which was harder to pull off, but the killer had found a way, without being observed. The other bodies in the other states had been found disposed of in similarly casual ways, and some still hadn’t been found, but were almost surely dead. They had disappeared and never returned, often while jogging in the very early morning, or at night, in parks.

The killer seemed to like a pastoral setting for his trysts. One girl in the Midwest had disappeared off a farm, she was just eighteen, and her parents said she had a bad habit of hitchhiking into town, but they knew everyone for miles around. This time, clearly, a stranger had picked her up. They waited for months, hoping for news of her, and that she had run off with some handsome young guy, she was a bit of a wild thing, but a beautiful girl. They never heard from her again, and her body was found in a field when a bulldozer was moving dirt months later. And she had died just like the others, raped and strangled.

They interrogated him for three hours, and then sent him back to his cell. Quentin sauntered out of the room, without even a look back. He didn’t look in Alexa’s direction on the way out, and she was as tired as the police officers and detectives when they met in her office to discuss what they’d heard. He hadn’t given them anything, except confirmation of where he’d been, which they knew anyway, and a lot of names that would amount to nothing, just people he’d met along the way, had dinner with, worked for, or gone to bars with. He knew how to stay out of trouble, on the surface anyway. He had never been arrested since being released from prison. He had no history of drugs, except marijuana in prison. He liked tequila and cheap wine, but so did every kid in college, and they didn’t rape and strangle women. Drinking cheap booze wasn’t a crime, and those who knew him said he could hold his liquor, he wasn’t a sloppy drunk who got into bar fights. He was cold and calculating, kept his own counsel, and watched every move he made. He had during the interrogation too.

“We didn’t get much,” one of the younger cops said, looking discouraged.

“I didn’t expect to,” Jack said calmly. “He’s smarter than that. He’s not going to give us some slip or the lead we’ve been waiting for. We’re going to have to put this case together twig by twig and brick by brick and pebble by pebble, with grains of sand, like the three little pigs building their houses. He’s not going to make it easy for us. We’re going to have to do our jobs on this one, and work our asses off to nail him.” Alexa liked the image, and smiled as the others left the office.

“So what do you think?” she asked Jack candidly, when they were alone again. They were both aware that Quentin had no history of convictions for violent crimes before this. But after his last stint in prison, he had changed his MO, and Alexa was convinced that he had done it, as was the task force that had trailed and studied him for months.

“Honestly? I think he did it. My gut says he killed them all, maybe even more than we know about. But I think we’re going to have to work hard to get him. I think he’s guilty. All we have to do now is prove it, and then you can do your job.” Alexa nodded, she agreed with him. It was no slam dunk yet, but she wanted more than anything to get him, if he had done it, and she believed he had. Her instincts were the same as Jack’s, but Quentin was as slick as a greased marble, and it would be hard to catch him. He had all the earmarks of a sociopath, a man who could commit heinous crimes, and remain indifferent and unruffled. He clearly wasn’t frightened or remorseful. Maybe he would be later. “Want to share some lunch, guaranteed to give you indigestion?” Jack offered. “We can talk about the case, or not if you prefer. I still need to absorb what he told us this morning. Sometimes I pick something up later, when I think about it. It looks like nothing, but turns out to be a thread that’s tied to something else.” It was why he was good at what he did, he focused on every minute detail, and it always paid off in the end. It had on every case they’d worked on together. He was the best investigator they had, and she was the best assistant DA.