“But you refused to take Joe off the case,” Mike persisted. “Why?”

  “I began to realize that I'm still a cop, Mr. Boyer. Or whatever in the hell your name and real occupation may be. Or family lineage,” he added.

  Mike smiled. “Let's just say you wear a badge, Roberts. You're certainly not much of a cop.”

  Sheriff Roberts shrugged his indifference as to what Boyer thought.

  “For the good of this department, and of Morrison County,” Mike said, “I think you should resign.”

  The officers of the task force looked at Sheriff Roberts, as did Williams, Perkins, and Greene. The large room was abnormally quiet.

  “And if I do submit my resignation?” Roberts asked.

  “No charges brought,” Boyer said. “And the press will never know what transpired in this room, this night. That's for the good of this department. Personally, I'd like to see you sent to prison.”

  That stung Roberts. He jerked his head up. “I don't believe you have any charges to bring!” he challenged.

  “Try me,” the man from Jeff City countered.

  Roberts sighed, seeming to shrink in his clothing. “I've been a cop all my life,” he said. “Since I was twenty-one years old. I made one mistake in all those years, and don't believe for a minute it hasn't haunted me.” He looked around the room, at his officers. They turned their eyes away from him. Roberts smiled, a bitter smile. "May I

  go to my office and type out my resignation?"

  “By all means, Roberts,” Mike said. “Please do.”

  Three minutes after Sheriff T. L. Roberts walked slowly out of the War Room, Roberts, fifty-years-old, a widower, sat in his chair, removed a .357 magnum from a desk drawer, and blew off half his head.

  “The story released to the press is that the pressures of the job got to him,” Mike said. He sat with Joe, Erica, Williams, and DA Harold. They were alone in the War Room.

  “How about the other officers in the task force?” Joe asked.

  “I've spoken with them,” Mike shook his head. “They're pretty well disgusted with the entire matter. They'll keep their mouths shut long enough. Rumors will surface, in time. But they will be just that. Rumors.”

  Joe, Erica, Williams, and DA Harold all looked at one another.

  “Don't worry,” Mike assured them. "By the time I get through with this, and the killer rapist is caught, a rumor is all it will be.

  “What can anyone prove?” He smiled. "Roberts is dead. I can prove Jordan paid off the Evans family, bought their silence. That money is taking care of the elder Evans in a mental institution. I can prove Roberts had a bank account of more than one hundred thousand dollars under an assumed name, in Kansas City. The interest from that money was fed into another bank account in St. Louis. It's a dummy corporation, set up by Jordan's legal beagles. And I can prove that solid, thereby causing Jordan a great deal of grief, maybe even prison time.

  “No,” Mike shook his head, “I believe—I know—Jordan and the other elder members of the money crowd in Morrison County will back off from this case, now letting the chips fall where they may. You're free to pursue your theory, Joe, and it's a good one. Paul Evans is your killer rapist.”

  “There will have to be an acting sheriff appointed,” the DA reminded them.

  “Word I get is that Joe can have it if he wants the job,” Mike said.

  To the surprise of no one, Joe flatly refused the job. “I don't want it. I'm a cop, not a politician. I'm opposed to electing law enforcement people, and my views on the subject are widely known. Law enforcement personnel should be chosen because of their ability to do a job, not because they're popular with the people. And my views will never change. I think Peterson in public affairs would make a good sheriff.”

  Mike smiled. “Peterson was the second choice, I believe, although I think you'd make a fine sheriff, Joe.”

  Joe shook his head, and the matter was ended.

  “I always thought T.L. was arrow straight,” DA Harold said. “This comes as a real shocker to me.”

  “The real pity is,” Mike said, “as far as I can discover, he was straight. Roberts made only one mistake, and that was a quarter of a century ago. But he couldn't get away from it. The ramifications of that one mistake kept mushrooming on him. The money people of this county continued to hold that one illegal act over his head. That's why Howard Jordan and some of his buddies never came before a judge for their many screw-ups as young men. Jordan and his cronies kept Roberts as sheriff of Morrison County for years, with only token opposition. When this case popped up, the pressures on all of them—Roberts, especially—must have been fierce.”

  “But it wasn't just the elder Jordan?” Erica questioned.

  “Oh, no! Not at all,” Mike answered. “All of them were in on this point—and I can prove that. But what's the point?” He rose from his chair and stretched, his suit coat opening. The butt of an automatic was visible, in leather, attached to his belt. “You've got a free hand, now, Joe. When Peterson goes in as sheriff, he will be advised to leave you alone. And I assure you, he will.”

  Joe looked up at the man. “Mike, I've never really got it straight. Just who do you represent in this state?”

  The youngish man with the old eyes smiled. “Lots of people would like to know that, Joe. For now, let's just say my department attempts to keep the eyes of justice blindfolded. In a legal manner, of course.”

  “How do I get in touch with you, Mike? Should I ever feel the need.”

  That smile again. “You don't, Joe. But I usually know what's going on around the state. I pop up at the oddest times.”

  The task force working on the Graduation Murders agreed to keep their mouths shut about Roberts. They felt it was the best thing. Not to protect Sheriff Roberts—although many of the men and women on the Morrison County Sheriff's Department still like the memory of the man—but to protect the integrity of the department.

  They became a quiet shadow force within the community. In teams, working 'round the clock, utilizing modern computers and old-fashioned legwork, with Doctor Greene staying on, assisting them however and whenever he could, the task force began the job of elimination of suspects.

  They began working on checking carefully those men—and women—who were new in the community; who had arrived over the past two years, then four years, finally working up to an eight-year period.

  And they drew a blank on every name. Everyone checked out perfectly.

  Using the tire impressions picked up behind the Barnett house, and those found just outside the park area, the teams worked on matching the impressions. Here again, they drew a blank. No two impressions matched.

  It was a frustrating and tiring three days for the men and women of the task force. A time for the killer to strike; knowing he would, praying he wouldn't, but hoping all the while that when he did strike again, he would leave a solid clue for them to pounce upon.

  Aimee Stagg, still feeling a bit foolish (but also experiencing no small amount of pride) from her performance of a few nights past, stepped out of her back door to pick some wildflowers to decorate the din-ner table for the evening meal. She walked into the field behind their house, as she did every spring and summer, when the weather was good, and had done so for more than two years.

  A pretty girl, and—were it not for her perpetually pouting mouth—a beautiful girl. Tall and blonde, with full, high breasts and hips that held promise for any male eye that gazed upon them. They did, often, and Aimee knew it.

  In love with her ass, one man crudely put it.

  In the pocket of the jeans, which she filled out nicely, and tighdy, she carried the .22 caliber pistol her father had bought for her. She felt safe enough with the gun. They had practiced for two hours a day for the past five days, and Aimee had taken to the weapon with a natural eye for shooting. She could hit the target from twenty-five feet away—not often in the bull's-eye, but she did hit the target, somewhere, every time she fired.

  On this Saturday, she walked farther into the field, close to the dark wooded area she had been warned to stay away from. She hummed a Madonna song as she gathered a brightly colored fistful of wildflowers. The small revolver was a comforting weight in her back pocket.

  She did not notice the shadow just behind her and to her right, following her in the darkness of the woods. Did not hear the man's heavy, drunken breathing. Could not see his eyes as they caressed her, undressed her, and took her.

  Aimee noticed some particularly beautiful flowers blooming just at the wood's edge. She looked around her, could see nothing to alarm her, and stepped close to the woods to gather the flowers. An arm shot out, the heavy forearm clamping around her neck, pulling her into the gloom of the timber, choking off an outcry. The wildflowers scattered their multicolors on the grass and moss and dead twigs in the woods. She felt her blouse ripped from her, her bra torn open, young breasts swinging free, hard hands touching her skin, squeezing her, bruising her flesh. She tried to reach the pistol in her jeans, but the hammer caught in the denim just as a hard fist slammed into her stomach, doubling her over in pain. The fist struck her on the jaw, and Aimee's world spun in madly revolving colors of purple and red and black.

  “Don't fight me, baby,” a voice drifted through her pain and confusion. “I gotta have you. I just gotta have you. Don't fight me, and I'll make it feel good for you.”

  Her jeans and panties were ripped from her. Hard fingers explored her.

  She came back to full reality as hardness tore into her, hurting her. A hand over her mouth prevented her from screaming. She opened her eyes, waited for the fog to blow away, and her eyes widened in painful shock as she recognized the man between her spread-apart legs.

  She bit hard into the palm of his hand, bringing a grunt of pain as he momentarily jerked his hand from her mouth and sharp teeth.

  “You!” she gasped. “Mr… !”

  Her head exploded in pain as his fist slammed into her jaw. Through her spinning world, she heard his voice. “I don't want to hurt you. I just want you for a little while. Don't fight me and this will feel good. Doesn't this feel good, baby?”

  He stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth, eased his thickness from her, and drove in.

  Aimee endured his grunting and panting until she regained her strength and then tried to claw at his eyes. He hit her again with his fist, stunning her. She again tried to claw his eyes, and he clamped a big hand over her throat, choking her until her world darkened.

  “Are you going to behave?” he asked, his breath stinking on her face.

  She nodded, and he released his choking hold.

  She gasped for air, and allowed him to continue the rape without resistance. She lay still, refusing to show any sign of emotion as he hunched on her.

  “Come on, baby!” he urged her. “Show a little life. Move your ass a little bit. You can't tell me you don't like it. That's a lotta cock I'm puttin' in you.”

  She pressed the side of her face against the cool earth and grass and refused to reply. Her only response was a small trickle of tears running down her bruised face.

  He finished in a hot gush of fluid and crawled to his knees between her outstretched legs. He studied her for a moment, and then, with a strangely gentle hand, caressed a breast.

  “Gonna tell your daddy on me, aren't you, Aimee?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she sobbed. “I won't tell him. Just let me go. Please?”

  “I wish I could, honey. I really wish I could.” Then he reached for her throat.

  “It's not the same man,” Doctor Greene said, looking down at the body of Aimee Stagg. Her neck had been broken, her head twisted at a peculiar angle. “This is a case of pure, textbook rape. He may have broken her neck when she screamed, or he might have killed her because he knew she would tell what happened. But it is not the same man.”

  “Two rapists to deal with?” Erica asked. Isn't one more than enough?"

  “Tragedy has a way of bringing out all the crud,” Joe reminded her, adding, “unfortunately.”

  Erica was silent for a moment, then said, “They have now all been touched. Every member of the Elite Eleven. I would say that it was over except for Doctor Greene maintaining this was not done by our killer.”

  “Garden variety rape,” Doctor Greene rose from his squat beside the body of Aimee.

  The police photographer finished his unpleasant work, loaded up his cameras, and started to walk away. He stopped, turning around. “I wish you guys would hurry up and catch this nut,” he said. “I'm tired of taking pictures of pretty young girls—all dead!” He walked away.

  “Almost in our own backyard.” Jude Sugg's words drifted to Joe, Erica, and Doctor Greene. The father had tears in his eyes. Since the property belonged to the Stagg family, Joe had seen no way, short of force, to keep the family from the death scene, ugly as it was.

  Joe walked to the man's side and took his arm, gently easing him away from the sight of the dead girl's blanket-covered body.

  “Jude,” he said, knowing he should keep his mouth shut, but prepared to blunder ahead nonetheless, “this was not the work of Paul Evans.”

  Jude Stagg's mouth opened and closed several times. His face reddened and he gulped for air, momentarily losing control of himself. “Wh—you—you've known all along that—” Then he found his composure and shut up.

  Joe met the man's eyes in an unwavering gaze. “I've known all along that—what, Jude?”

  Jude shook his head as iron composure grew stronger in him. “I—I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant Davis. Paul Evans?” He shook his head, pursing his lips. “I'm not familiar with that name. No, not at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must see to my wife.”

  Joe sensed movement by his side and looked at Erica. “Lying son of a bitch!” he said in a low voice.

  “He just lost his only daughter, Joe,” she gently reminded him. “Can't you ease off just a little?”

  Joe watched Jude Stagg walk across the meadow to his house. “Aw, Erica, what's to be gained, now, by them maintaining their high-and-mighty show of innocence? It's a sham and you know it—they know it, we all know it. Since this rash of killings and rapes began, they've met at one or the other's home … how many times? Five, six, at least. That we know of. They've got to know that now that Sheriff Roberts is dead, their cover of protection is gone. Are the rich so pompous and arrogant they believe all others to be stupid?”

  “In many instances, yes, Joe, I believe they do,” she responded quietly.

  Joe looked at the woman. “Then I feel sorry for them.”

  She returned his steady gaze. “Perhaps for most of them, yes, you do, Joe. But these around here, the Hill Section group, you hate them. Just be careful your hate doesn't consume you, honey.”

  Acting Sheriff Peterson walked up to them. “Joe? Open the gates and let the press in. The public has a right to know.” He added, sarcastically, “You know?”

  “I heard that,” Joe replied.

  PAUL

  Sunday afternoon.

  Marsha Kennedy and young Dan Hartman made it a baker's dozen for Paul. Paul danced around his basement as he forced the older woman and the teenage boy to perform acts of the ugliest depravity, while

  Paul's “sister” cheered them on. She shrieked obscenities at them and trilled her joy when her “brother” mounted the woman, forcing muted howls of pain from her. The depravity continued into early evening, and then Paul began his acts of torture, with knives and chains. When the woman and the boy had been reduced to babbling bags of idiocy, from more pain than a human could possibly bear, he killed them and stuffed their bodies in a basement storage room, leaving them to rot.

  Paul prayed that night, prayed to God for salvation and a lessening of his evil mission here on earth. He prayed while his “sister” laughed at him, saying her “brother” looked so silly on his knees in the bedroom. Then he beat her, and she loved him all the more for the beating. After the beating, as he lay sobbing on the carpet in the bedroom, in the house on the outskirts of town, the “sister” took the “brother” in her arms, and they made love.

  Later that evening, Paul went to visit the home of a sick friend, to give comfort and aid, and to offer up a small prayer for the suffering in this world.

  “The state police is sending in more men to help us,” Erica said. “As it stands now, we're overwhelmed with helpful citizens and their tips.”

  “How many tips have we received so far?” Joe asked.

  “Over a thousand. The highway cops will work on those. Or as many as they can, that is.” She opened a folder and placed it on their common desk in Joe's office.

  “Something?” he inquired.

  “Maybe,” she tapped the open folder. “I have it narrowed down to eight people. These eight. Here, you read the summations, see what you think. I'll go get us some coffee.”

  Sipping hot, strong coffee out of a mug labeled MIGHTYJOE DAVIS, SUPER DUPER INVESTIGATOR (the label was put there by an unknown officer, months back) Joe's eyes widened as he read the last page, the report on the last name of the eight. “Jesus, Erica!”

  “Everything fits in my mind. The man is perfect, I believe. He's the one I'd put my money on.”

  Joe shook his head suspiciously. “We have to go easy on this one—all you've got is supposition, not fact.”

  She smiled. “Now who's being cautious?”

  Her smile was returned. Joe put his hand on the curve of her hip and felt sudden desire surge through him at the touch. And something else, as well: he knew, for the first time in his life, he had fallen in love, and he rather enjoyed the sensation he had read and heard so much about, but, until now had never experienced. He had searched his mind, his heart, and he was certain.

  “Something on your mind?” Erica teased him.

  Joe's expression turned serious, and then he smiled, faintly. Erica had told him once that when he tried to look especially serious he reminded her of a basset hound who had just been caught pee-peeing on the floor.

  “Erica, in the midst of all this tragedy in our community, all the confusion and fear, I have something to tell you…”