She didn't have to say the rest. They all knew. Not all prison newsletters were really about journalism and not all were reputable. In the sixties, information was smuggled into prisons in packs of cigarettes. When the drug problem grew too big, however, correction departments across the country cracked down on all contraband by universally banning outside packages, including ones bearing tobacco products. Prisoners were allowed to receive only money, which they could then use to purchase cigarettes from the prison commissary. While it was unknown if this policy truly limited the drug problem, it did cut off the information flow.

Which brought the underground information network into the nineties and the miracles of constitutionally protected free speech. Prisons got computers, complete with desktop publishing software, and prison newsletters sprang up across the country. While some were small, many garnered national distribution. And the coded ad was born. Got some information you want to disseminate? Disguise it as a request for a pen pal, and pay five, ten, one hundred bucks to bring your message to the masses. Financially constrained? Some Web sites would now run pen pal ads and even build personal Web sites for inmates, free of charge. Just because you murdered eight people doesn't mean you shouldn't have a voice in society. Or a pretty blond writing correspondent named Candi.

"A lot of these newsletters probably didn't require much in the way of payment," Quincy filled in for Glenda. "And most of them probably did destroy the original letter of request, as a matter of protocol."

"Prison Legal News is a good one," she offered. "We can focus our efforts there."

"Good." Everett nodded approvingly.

"I can call the phone company," Jackson volunteered. "See if Verizon has had any breaches of security lately. You know, that they'll admit to."

Everett nodded again, looking pleased. Quincy, however, rubbed his temples. "I doubt you'll find the original letter and envelope," he said quietly. "And even if we do, there won't be any DNA evidence. There won't be fingerprints. Nobody takes the time to think of such an elaborate ruse, then forgets something as simple as fingerprints on the envelope and saliva on the seal. Whoever we're looking for, he's smarter than that."

"You think it's personal," Glenda said.

Quincy gave her a look. "What kind of stranger would bother?"

"We got another strategy," Montgomery spoke up. He threw out baldly, "Monitor the grave."

"No!" Immediately, Quincy was out of his chair.

"It's standard procedure – " Montgomery began.

"Fuck procedure!" Quincy told him coldly, the second time in as many days he'd been driven to swear. "It's my daughter. You are not using my daughter!"

Montgomery lumbered to his feet. His eyes were small and dark in the folds of his face. They reminded Quincy of the eyes of a bird, and he suddenly wondered if this was how he, too, appeared to victims' families.

Not as a man, but as some bird of prey, swooping down after the kill.

"You said Sanchez implied he knew where your daughter was buried," Montgomery said flatly.

"I was wrong."

"Wrong my ass. He knew. Which means the UNSUB thought to look up where your daughter was buried, which means he's been considering her grave for quite some time. Guy's gotta know by now we'll be watching your house. So if he wants to feel close to you… have a private little laugh…"

"I do not want cameras at my daughter's grave. I do not give permission!"

But Glenda was nodding now, Jackson, as well. Quincy turned slowly toward Everett. The SAC's face was kind, sympathetic. But he was nodding, too.

Time spun away from Quincy. He was remembering an afternoon he hadn't thought of in years. At the state fair, Mandy and Kimberly in tow. Father-daughter day, he'd promised them, and taken them on as many rides as their young stomachs could handle. Then, right after buying them cotton candy, he'd turned and seen a man snapping photo after photo of children on the kiddy rides.

He remembered the smile fading from his face, a chill seeping into his body. He watched a pedophile capture rolls of film of laughing little children and all he could think was that his girls were only a few feet away. His sweet, beautiful, healthy littlegirls with their mother's striking dark blond hair.

He had spoken to them urgently, angrily. Look at that man, he had instructed them, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. Know what he is, he had told them. And don't be afraid to run.

Kimberly had nodded solemnly, absorbing his words with fierce concentration. Mandy, however, had started to cry. Weeks later, she still had nightmares about a man in a smelly overcoat who came with a camera to take her away.

"No," he said hoarsely now. "I won't allow cameras. Try and I swear I'll move Mandy's grave."

The other agents were looking at him curiously. Everett said, "Maybe it's time to think about taking a few sick days…"

"I'm fine!" Quincy tried again, but his voice still sounded odd, not like him. He sounded desperate, he realized. He sounded like a desperate father. And then he had a strange thought. It came to him as instinct, something he understood better than truth. This is what the stalker wanted. The UNSUB had set up this first wave of attack not just to make his identity harder to pinpoint, but to have some fun. To identify Quincy 's deepest wound and rip at it savagely.

Quincy licked his lips and sought once more for control. "Listen to me. This is not about my daughter. The UNSUB could care less about my daughter. He gave out that information just to get a cheap thrill."

"So you know who it is then?" Glenda Rodman seemed intent on pinning him down.

"No, I don't know who it is. I'm simply theorizing based upon the company I keep."

"In other words, you don't know shit," Montgomery declared.

"Agent, you are not turning my daughter's grave into some obscene stakeout."

"Why?" Montgomery pushed. "It's not like it's something you haven't asked of other families."

"You son of a bitch – "

" Quincy!" Everett interrupted sharply. Quincy stilled as they all drew up short. He was slightly surprised to find that his hand was raised in midair, his index finger jabbing at Montgomery as if he would do the man harm.

"I know this is difficult," the SAC said quietly, "but you're still a federal agent, Quincy, and breaches of security are a threat to all of us. Take a few days. The case team will monitor your house and apprise you of any new developments. In the meantime, you can make yourself comfortable in a nearby hotel or perhaps take a visit to see family."

"Sir, listen to me – "

"Agent, how long has it been since you've slept?"

Quincy fell silent. He knew he had bags beneath his eyes, he knew he had lost weight. When Mandy had died, he had told himself that he was too smart to let it eat away at him. He'd lied.

The other agents were still staring at them. He could read their judgments on their faces. Quincy's losing it. Quincy 's strung too tight. Told you he shouldn't have returned to work so soon after the funeral…

The FBI and animals in the wild, he thought: all culled the weak from their herd.

"I'll… I'll find a hotel," he said brusquely. "I just need to pack a few things."

"Excellent. Glenda, you and Albert will be in charge of setting up surveillance of Quincy 's house."

Glenda nodded. "Ill send you daily reports," she offered Quincy, her tone even, but her eyes kind.

"I'd appreciate that," he said stiffly.

"We're on top of things," Everett concluded firmly, and nodded at the group. "You'll see, Quincy. It'll be all right."

Quincy simply shook his head. He walked back to his office in silence. He watched the play of stale fluorescent light over industrial-cream cinder block. He wondered again what kind of man chose a job that denied him daylight.