“Why, because I don’t go in for the macho poker face? Because I don’t act like I don’t care?”

“There’s professional behavior, and there’s unprofessional behavior. And unprofessional behavior-”

“Would be that crack you made the other day about my panties. In front of witnesses.”

Mike fell silent.

“Now, that was genuinely unprofessional. That could get you suspended for a month. But did I turn you in, even though I found your behavior grossly offensive and revolting? No, I didn’t. And you know why?” She leaned into his face. “Because I would never do such a crappy thing to my partner, that’s why. Even if he’s a total and utter asshole!”

“Excuse me. May I cut in?”

Mike ripped his eyes away from Baxter and saw, to his horror, Chief Blackwell standing not a foot away from them.

The other people in the canteen scattered. Show was over.

“Could I have the next dance?” Blackwell continued. “You two seem as if you may be ready for a break.”

Baxter backed off. Mike tugged at the edges of his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles.

“Morning, Chief.”

“And to you, Mr. Senior Homicide Investigator. Enjoying your early- morning caffeine?”

“Chief…”

“This isn’t working,” Baxter said bluntly, tossing her hair back. “Not at all.”

“So I see.” Blackwell looked at both of them. Mike could read the tension in his neck, his eyes. “I think it’s time we had a private conference. A little heart-to-heart. One-on-one.”

Mike nodded. “It’s always hard to be the new kid, Chief. Don’t be too tough on her.”

Blackwell brought his head around slowly. “Her? I’m having a private conversation with you, Major. In my office. Now.”

Ben could hardly restrain himself. “You know who killed the Faulkner family?”

“Of course,” Dr. Bennett said. “I mean, I don’t know his name. But I know who he was. And it was a him, by the way. I can guarantee it.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m a psychiatrist, remember? And I deal with a lot of sick miserable human beings. Frankly, Erin Faulkner was a pleasant change of pace from some of the cases I get, referred by prison or parole boards. Seriously deranged, dangerous individuals.”

“So getting back to the Faulkner case,” Christina said, “who was the killer?”

“The killer who almost wiped out the Faulkner family was what psychiatrists would classify as an organized nonsocial. I mean, when you think about it, the crime was really rather systematically executed. Even the eye removal was handled with consistency and efficiency. These people are usually relatively intelligent, decent looking, and well attuned to the feelings of others. Not just what they like, but what they don’t like. What scares them.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Very. Combine that with an active fantasy life that allows them to dream about their crimes well in advance-which results in them being well planned by the time they are actually conducted.”

“I see.”

“Some experts think all children are organized nonsocials-their world revolves around themselves. But at some point in their development, most learn to care about others, about the world outside. But not organized nonsocials. They never outgrow the ‘me’ stage. All they care about is what they need. They are the center of their universe. They think they are never wrong, that they never make mistakes.” She paused. “But of course they do, thank goodness. It’s the only reason some of these monsters are ever caught.”

“But-why?” Ben asked. “What would be this… organized nonsocial’s motivation?”

“That could vary,” Bennett explained. “Some of them simply like to inflict pain. They get a charge out of it-literally. Some delude themselves into believing they are scientists-conducting research into the levels of pain tolerance or some such horrid thing. For others, it’s purely a power trip; they do it because they can. And for some, it’s an intellectual challenge. What can I get away with? How long can I go without being caught?” Her eyes drifted to her butterfly wall. “And for some, it’s purely sexual. They have a preoccupation that society doesn’t condone-little girls, little boys, whatever.”

“Any common denominators?”

“Just one. People who commit crimes like this can’t help themselves. It’s not that they lack self-control or they’ve consciously decided to indulge themselves. They just can’t stop.”

“How horrible,” Christina said.

Bennett agreed. “Modern medicine has made some important strides. There are drugs now that can suppress some of the more malevolent urges. But it’s always a tricky thing. Drugs can be unreliable. And if the patient forgets to take his pill one day-”

“Another family is obliterated.”

“That’s possible, yes.”

“This may sound crazy,” Christina said, “but I have a theory that there was more than one person involved in the crime. That there was a second person present. A second person with… well, for want of a better word, a conscience. More than the principal killer, anyway. Does that fit with your theory?”

Bennett considered for a moment. “Well, it would be extremely unusual for an organized nonsocial to take a partner. He would want to do all the planning and killing himself. But I suppose I can’t totally eliminate the possibility of some kind of… procurer. Someone who didn’t participate in the killings but was still essential in some way. Someone who suggested the crime or facilitated it.”

“You expressed some doubts about Ray Goldman being the murderer,” Ben said.

“Well, he doesn’t really seem the organized nonsocial type, does he? I mean, I haven’t met him personally, but from what I’ve read, he was a high-functioning, professional, highly educated man with no apparent psychological problems.”

“Exactly,” Ben said. “That’s what I’ve been telling people for seven years. Would you be willing to take the stand and say that?”

“To be honest, I don’t care much for the expert-witness scene. It’s all a little tawdry, isn’t it?”

She’d get no argument from Ben, but he could still use a medical witness at that hearing next week. “I’m fighting for a man’s life here. I won’t ask you to say anything you’re not comfortable saying. Just tell it straight.”

Bennett pondered. “Well… I’ll think about it. But you must also remember-it’s not unheard of for an organized nonsocial to be able to disguise his illness. To hide his aberration. Lots of people knew Ted Bundy-and liked him. No one thought he was a killer. Until he’d knocked off about forty people.”

Ben nodded. A sobering thought.

“If there’s nothing else, Ben…” She smiled. “I hear a rare lepidoptera calling me.” She picked up her pins and stiletto.

“Of course.” He and Christina headed for the door. On first arrival, he had thought the butterfly business a rather unusual hobby. Maybe even a little sick. Killing the pretties. But after hearing about what she did, what she knew, what she dealt with on a regular basis-he could see why she enjoyed her butterflies. He could see why she needed them.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Chief Blackwell bellowed.

Mike drew himself back into the armchair. He felt about two feet tall. Like he’d been called into the vice principal’s office. “I can’t work with her, Chief. I just can’t.”

“You can if I say you can.”

“No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

Mike gripped the arms of the chair. “It’s impossible, sir. She’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of Sand Springs. She’s bullying and domineering. A real harpy.”

“Don’t start with the sexist remarks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No? I suppose you meant to say something about her panties?”

Mike closed his eyes. “I should’ve known she’d go running to you.”

“For your information, Major, she did not report the incident, although pursuant to departmental regulations, she should have. Happily, I got reports from about twelve other eyewitnesses who heard the whole thing. You’re the talk of the department.”