The reading was fascinating. Many of the files were on cases I was familiar with or had even had a part in. They were not files that had gathered dust. I got the distinct impression that the open cases were in endless rotation. From time to time McCaleb pulled them out and rethought the investigations, the suspects, the crime scenes, the possibilities. He made calls to investigators and lab people and even witnesses. All of this was clear because McCaleb's practice was to use the inside front flap of the file to write notes on the moves he made, meticulously dating these entries as well.

From these dates I could tell that McCaleb had been working many cases at once. And it was clear he still had a pipeline into the FBI and the Behavioral Sciences unit at Quantico. I spent a whole hour reading the fat file he had accumulated on the Poet, one of the more notorious if not embarrassing serial killer cases in the FBI annals. The Poet was a killer later revealed to be the FBI agent who had been heading the squad essentially hunting for himself. It was a scandal that had rocked the bureau and its vaunted Behavioral Sciences Section eight years before. The agent, Robert Backus, chose homicide detectives as his victims. He staged the killing scenes as suicides, leaving behind suicide notes containing verses from the poems of Edgar Allan Poe. He killed eight men across the country in a period of three years before a reporter discovered the false suicides and the manhunt began. Backus was revealed and shot by another agent in Los Angeles. At the time he was supposedly targeting a detective from the homicide table in the LAPD's Hollywood Division. That was my table. The target, Ed Thomas, was my colleague and that was my connection. I remember taking a very high personal interest in the Poet.

Now I was reading the inside story. Officially the case was closed by the bureau. But the unofficial word had always been that Backus had gotten away. After being shot Backus initially escaped into the storm-water tunnel system that ranged beneath Los Angeles. Six weeks later a body was found with a bullet hole in the right place but decomposition made a physical identification and fingerprint comparison impossible. Foraging animals-it was reported-had made off with parts of the body, including the lower mandible and the only teeth that could have been used for identification through dental records. Backus had also conveniently disappeared without leaving DNA exemplars behind. So they had the body with the bullet hole but nothing to compare it to. Or so they said. The bureau quickly announced that Backus was presumed dead and the file was closed, if only to bring a speedy end to the agency's humiliation at the hands of one of its own.

But the records McCaleb had accumulated since then confirmed that the folklore was true. Backus was still alive and out there. Somewhere. Four years earlier he had surfaced in Holland. According to confidential FBI bulletins provided by bureau sources to McCaleb, a killer took the lives of five men over a two-year period in Amsterdam. All the victims were foreign visitors who had disappeared after venturing into the city's red-light district. Each man was found strangled and floating in the Amstel River. What connected the killings to Backus were notes sent to local authorities in which the writer took credit for the killings and asked that the FBI be called into the case. The writer, according to the confidential reports, asked specifically for Agent Rachel Walling, the agent who had shot Robert Backus four years earlier. The police in Holland invited the FBI to take an unofficial look at the case. The sender had signed each letter as simply "The Poet." FBI handwriting analysis of the letter indicated-not conclusively-that the writer was not a killer trying to ride the notorious coattails of Robert Backus, but Backus himself.

Of course, by the time the bureau, local authorities and even Rachel Walling mobilized in Amsterdam, the killer was long gone. And Robert Backus had not been heard from again-at least as far as Terry McCaleb's sources knew.

I replaced the thick file in one of the boxes and moved on. I soon learned that McCaleb was not just working old cases. In fact, anything that caught his attention was subject to his focus and skills. There were dozens of files that contained only a single newspaper story and some notes jotted on the file flap. Some cases were high profile, others obscure. He put together a file of newspaper clips on the Laci Peterson case, the disap- pearance of a pregnant woman from Central California on Christmas Eve two years before. The case had garnered long-term media and public attention, particularly after her dismembered body was found in the bay where her husband had earlier told investigators he had been fishing when she disappeared. An entry on the file flap dated before the woman's body was found said, "Definitely Dead-in the water." Another note dated before her husband's arrest said, "There's another woman."

There was also a file with seemingly prescient notes on Elizabeth Smart, a child kidnapped in Utah who was found and returned after nearly a year. He correctly wrote "alive" under one of the newspaper photos of the young girl.

McCaleb also made an unofficial study of the Robert Blake case. The former film and television star was accused of murdering his wife in another headlining case. The notes in the file were intuitive and on point, ultimately borne out as correct as the case entered the courts.

I had to ask myself if it was possible that McCaleb had entered the notes in his files and predated them, using information from media accounts and making it appear that he was predicting case aspects or suspect traits from his own work when he wasn't. While anything was possible, it seemed entirely unrealistic to me to think McCaleb had done this. I could see no reason for him to commit such a quiet and self-defeating crime. I believed the work was real and was his.

One file that I found contained newspaper stories on the LAPD's new cold case squad. Noted on the flap were the names and cell numbers of four detectives assigned to the unit. Terry had obviously been able to cross the gulf between the LAPD and the FBI if he had their cell numbers. I knew detectives' cell numbers were not handed out to just anyone.

One of the four detectives I knew. Tim Marcia had spent time in Hollywood Division, including the homicide table. I knew it was late but cops expect to get late calls. I knew Marcia wouldn't mind. I took out my cell and called the number McCaleb had written next to his name on the file. Marcia answered immediately. I identified myself, got through the long-time-no-see pleasantries and explained that I was calling about Terry McCaleb. I didn't lie but I didn't say I was working a murder investigation. I said I was sorting through his files for his wife and came across Marcia's name and number. I was simply curious about what their relationship had been.

"Harry, you worked some cold cases in your time, right? That thing up at your house last year came out of a cold case, didn't it?"

"Right."

"Then you know how it goes. Sometimes you grasp at straws, you take any help you can get. Terry called me up one day and offered his services. Not on a specific case. I think he had seen a story in the Times about the unit and he basically said if I ever needed him to work a profile he was there for me. He was one of the good ones. I was really sorry to hear what happened. I wanted to get over to Catalina for the service but things sort of came up."

"Like they always do. Did you ever take him up on the offer to do a profile?" "Yeah, sort of. I know I did and a couple other of the guys here did, too. You know how it is. The department has no profiling to speak of and sometimes waiting on the bureau and Quantico can take months. Here was this guy who knew what he was doing and he didn't want anything back. He just wanted to work. So we used him. We bounced a few things off him."