Cass spoke up for the first time. “Most serial killers only stop because they die or go to prison. Moving away doesn’t usually stop them from killing.”

“I guess if there’d been a serial killer someplace else with the same MO you’d have heard about it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If he’d gone on another spree like he did here, it would have made the papers, but we may not have seen those papers out here,” Denver said.

“Twenty-some years ago, there wasn’t any way to track something like that,” Cassie noted. “No national data banks, no central records.”

The chief nodded. “You’re right. Chances are, he just moved on. Now, the young woman found in the marsh… do we know who she is?”

“Not yet. There was no ID, no wallet,” Cass said.

Denver stared at her.

“Chief?” She waved her hand in front of his face.

“No ID at all?” he asked.

“None. Why?”

“Just coincidentally, the Bayside Strangler always took his victims’ wallets,” he replied. “Of course, not knowing if this woman had a wallet on her at the time, we don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

“That’s a pretty odd coincidence,” Spencer pointed out.

“She might not have carried ID. I can’t tell you how many times my own daughter has gone out and left her purse or her wallet right there on the kitchen counter.”

“Still-” Spencer began, but Denver cut him off.

“We’re not going to connect the dots just yet, Detective. Understand?” Denver shrugged. “As tempting as it is. It’s more likely that someone is trying to throw us off.”

“Yes, but-”

“Let’s focus on our victim, shall we? Start checking the missing persons reports, statewide. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find, in the end, that we’ve got a guy who’s killed his wife or girlfriend and has enough knowledge of the Bayside Strangler to try to muddy the waters. It was no secret that the Strangler had sent Wainwright taunting notes. Anyone could have remembered that. And the fact that the victims’ IDs were stolen, well, maybe this guy figures if he takes the wallet, he sends the letter, everyone will assume there’s a copycat Strangler out there and take the heat off him. Let’s not automatically buy in to that, all right? I wanted you to be aware of what we dealt with before, but let’s not assume. Let’s start by finding out who our victim is.

“Put your focus on her,” Denver repeated, “so that we can find her killer.”

“But we can compare the evidence, right?” Spencer asked as he stood. “The old to whatever new forensics comes up with?”

“Back then, fingerprints were the best you could hope for, and unfortunately, this guy didn’t leave any. None that we found, anyway. Thank God, investigative techniques have come a long way since then, but we don’t have anything to compare.”

Spencer scratched behind his right ear. “All those crime scenes and no evidence? Hard to believe.”

“Today, a good CSI can get prints off a victim’s skin. Scrapings from under the nails. Fibers and hair. They can test trace found at the scene. Dirt found on carpets, all sorts of things. Back then, the techniques were not quite as sophisticated. DNA was just a glimmer in the eyes of a few scientists twenty-six years ago.” Denver seemed distracted for a moment, then said, “I was a rookie here in 1979. I worked that case. I have to admit, seeing that body this morning took me right back. It’s uncanny…”

“Then, you remember those cases firsthand,” Spencer said.

“Like it was yesterday. The first victim here in Bowers Inlet was a thirty-four-year-old woman named Alicia Coors. She disappeared from her home and was found the next morning on one of the dunes down past Thirty-sixth Street. And that was just the beginning. Every few days, there’d be another, somewhere in the area. All women about the same age-late-twenties to mid-thirties. All were sexually assaulted and found dumped in one of the marshes. Cause of death in each case, manual strangulation. All left posed in the same manner.”

“How were they left?” Spencer asked.

“Pretty much the way that woman was left this morning.”

“Why would he do that?” Spencer scratched behind his ear.

“That’s a question a profiler might be able to answer. Unfortunately, back then, there were no profilers.” The chief shrugged. “I don’t know what motivated him then, and I don’t know what’s motivating someone now. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions. So let’s just follow the evidence and hope it leads to the truth.”

He stood up, a clear indication that the meeting had concluded.

“Spencer, I want you checking missing persons immediately.”

“On my way.” Spencer got up and headed out the door.

“Anything in particular for me?” Cass asked.

“Yes. I’d like a word with you.” He pointed to the door and said, “Close it.”

Cass did as she was told, then turned to face the chief.

“Are you going to be all right with this?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Seriously, Cass, if it’s going to be a problem for you…”

“It’s not going to be a problem.” Cass was beginning to bristle.

Denver sighed. “I’m asking because I’m concerned about what you might have felt, looking at that body today…”

“She wasn’t my first dead body, Chief,” Cass told him softly. “She won’t be my last.”

“I’m aware there have been others. But this one… I just wasn’t sure if this might not be… troubling for you.”

“Of course it troubles me, but not in the way you might think.” She smiled at him with true affection, grateful for his kindness, understanding where he was going with this. “I appreciate that you… remember. And that you care enough to ask. But I’m fine. I have to be. This is my job.”

He nodded. “I’m going to have to take your word for it. Give the county CSI team a call and see if they have anything yet.”

She started for the door, then turned and said softly, “You know, Chief, I didn’t see her that day. I never saw her body.”

“I’m sorry I brought it up, Cass. I really am. It’s just that…” He shook his head, not certain that he could put into words what he wanted to say.

“It’s okay. Thanks, Chief.” She walked through the door and closed it behind her.

Denver rose and walked to the window and watched a pair of catbirds as they diligently built their nest in the tangle of rosebushes not ten feet away.

“I didn’t see her that day. I never saw her body…”

Denver wished he could say the same. When he’d seen the young woman’s body this morning, he’d had one of the first true déjà vu moments of his entire life.

And even now, in his mind’s eye, he could still see the body of Jenny Burke, lying on her back on the floor of her bedroom, her hair spilled around her like a dark halo, her eyes open but unseeing. For just a moment, back there in the marsh this morning, it had been Jenny’s face he’d seen. It had been the hair, he told himself. It was just all that long dark hair, and the way the arms had been positioned.

Of course, that was where the similarities between the two situations ended. The crimes-and the crime scenes-had been totally different. And Jenny had not been sexually assaulted.

And, he reminded himself, Jenny’s killer had been found hiding in the garage, covered with Bob Burke’s blood. He’d been arrested, tried, convicted. The Strangler, on the other hand, had never been identified.

It had just been the hair, Denver told himself again, that had reminded him of Jenny. All that long dark hair, spread out over the rock, had, just for a split second, brought back that day. For just a moment, he’d been a rookie again, standing in the doorway looking at the first dead body he’d ever seen. That it had been the body of a woman he’d known had marked his baptism with that much more fire.

He’d hated to bring it up to Cass, but he’d needed to put it on the table. Had he overreacted? Maybe so.

Oh, hell, of course he had. He had forgotten that Cass had never made it to her mother’s bedroom before the killer had turned on her. She wouldn’t have known the way the body had lain, the way the hair had fanned out.