“Hi, Jack. You’re missing a real circus here. Over.”

“Perp’s out, will be for a while. How’s the search? Over.”

“No camcorders, no videotapes. Guy didn’t even have a TV that worked. No black gloves or hunting knives either, over.”

The killer in Diane Kork’s murder video wore black leather gloves and used a hunting knife.

“Anything at all, Herb?”

“They’re removing the thirteenth body now. Plus, there’s some weird stuff.”

“On this end too. When you’re done, pick me up.”

“I’ll be there soon. Out.”

I’d left Herb on the scene because Gary PD broke the Kork story, and there were now more reporters in this town than residents. So far the hospital had kept them out, which suited me fine. I’m sure Bains was already cultivating an aneurism about the fire last night. If he saw me on TV, his head would explode.

I went back to the waiting room and watched CNN. Two guys in disposable paper suits and air regulators hauled another body bag out of Kork’s house. The top graphic read Horror in Indiana, and the rolling caption along the bottom of the screen told how this was the home of Bud Kork, supposed father of Charles Kork, the infamous killer known as the Gingerbread Man.

The scene cut away to some footage from two years ago, the day we closed the Gingerbread Man case. My face came on, full screen, and I said something about justice being served.

The graphic flashed my name, Lieutenant Jack Daniels, in large letters, and then went on to explain how the event turned me into a television star on the series Fatal Autonomy.

I wondered if the superintendent watched CNN.

Mercifully, my big face was replaced with some awful tragedy happening in the Middle East. I buried my nose in a Woman’s World magazine and waited patiently for Benedict to arrive.

He did, twenty minutes later.

“There’s a horde of reporters out there, Jack. Maybe you want to take a back way out? Or wrap a sheet around your head?”

“Doesn’t matter now. I was just a sound bite on CNN, and they’ll replay it every forty minutes until this all blows over. Let’s just get out of here. It’s doubtful anyone will recognize me anyway.”

Herb and I stepped outside into a thick sea of reporters, cameras, and crews. Someone yelled, “It’s Jack Daniels!” and the mob closed in and swallowed us up, chattering and shoving.

“Lieutenant Daniels, did you make the arrest?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, have you spoken to Bud Kork?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, how does this compare to the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, you look like you’ve lost weight. Is it the stress?”

Herb tried to pull me through the throng of bodies, but the throng refused to budge. With no other options, I finally held up a hand and yelled, “I’d like to make a statement.”

Everyone shut up.

“I’m not in Gary because of Bud Kork. I was visiting the Blessed Mercy hospital to have elective surgery.”

“What kind of surgery?” eight or nine networks shouted.

“I was having my foot removed from a reporter’s ass. I don’t want to have surgery again so soon, so please let us through.”

They let us through. When we finally reached the car, Herb grinned at me.

“I’m guessing they won’t air that.”

“Who knows? Fox might. I don’t really care. My hand hurts, my lungs hurt, and we still have nothing at all on this case. And I smell like dead people. I just want to get home.”

Herb motored out of the parking lot and followed the signs to the expressway.

“We just took a very bad man off the streets, Jack. Should be happy about that.”

“He’s crazy. He’ll spend the rest of his life in some cushy institution, being scrutinized by ViCAT chuckleheads. He was doing a fine job punishing himself. We could have left him alone.”

“Punishing himself?”

I gave Herb the condensed version. He looked appropriately ill by the end of it.

“He cut off Little Willy?”

“Right at the root.”

“And the twins?”

“Lefty and Righty, both.”

Benedict shuddered. “Jesus. That’s who they belonged to. Cops found a set of genitals wrapped in foil, in the freezer.”

I made a mock-serious face. “Herb, you know what that is, don’t you?”

“No. What?”

“It’s a cocksicle.”

He didn’t laugh. Maybe my timing was off. Comedy is all about the timing.

“Guys don’t find castration funny, Jack.”

I nudged him with an elbow. “That’s because it’s like getting a lobotomy.”

“See? Not funny.”

But I still had more material.

“In a way, I kind of feel sorry for Bud. I mean, where does he put his hand when he’s watching TV?”

“Not all men grab themselves when they’re watching TV.”

“Or when they’re driving?”

Benedict looked down, noticed he was adjusting himself. He turned a shade of red normally seen on valentine cards.

“I wasn’t grabbing.”

“What were you doing? Frisking yourself?”

He went sheepish. “Just checking to make sure they were still there.”

Benedict merged onto the expressway. When his blush faded a bit, he changed the topic.

“We found some seriously awful things at Kork’s place. In the barn there was a locked wooden box, with tiny holes punched in it. When we opened it, the inside was covered in scratch marks. He kept people in there.”

I shuddered. “Jesus.”

“This guy’s a monster. Sort of makes sense why his son turned out the way he did. Can you imagine growing up in a house like that?”

“I don’t even want to try. It’s not my job to understand these kooks. It’s just my job to catch them.”

“Doesn’t understanding them make catching them easier?”

“Sure. Next time I see a guy who has sinner branded all over his chest, I’ll place him under arrest.”

“Want to hear the weirdest thing we found? In the bathroom. The bathtub. Filled to the top.”

I bit. “With what?”

“With urine. Kork must have been peeing in that tub for years.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Gets worse.” Herb made the Mr. Yuck face. “Next to the tub was a bar of soap and some piss-soaked towels. Apparently, he’s been taking baths.”

I massaged my temples. This had officially become too freaky for me to adequately process.

We spent the remainder of the ride trying to gross each other out, and by the time Herb dropped me off at home I’d decided to give up food forever.

Back in my apartment, Mr. Friskers ran away from me when I entered. Must have been the death smell. I checked for messages (none), and drew a bath into which I dumped every oil, salt, and soap I owned. I’d just climbed in, bubbles up to my ears, when the phone rang.

I let the machine get it.

“Jack, it’s Latham.”

I vaulted out of the tub, almost met my death slipping on the tile floor, and snatched up the phone, out of breath.

“Latham? Hi! I just got in.”

“Hi yourself. How are you doing?”

Stinky. Alone. Depressed. Freezing. “Great. I’m great. How about you?”

“Good. Job’s going well. I love the new condo. How’s your mom?”

“Still in a coma.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Can we get together?” I bit my lower lip. I was so cold, my knees were knocking together.

“Sure. That would be nice. The thing is, though, I’m seeing someone.”

If he’d cut my heart out of my chest with a cleaver it would have hurt less. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to sound upbeat.

“That’s great. What’s her name?”

“Maria.”

“Maria. Great. Great name. Is it serious?”

“We’ve been dating for a few months, and I just asked her to move in with me.”

Latham had asked me that same thing, but I turned him down, because I am the Queen of All Who Are Stupid.

“Well… that’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“I’d still like to see you, though. To catch up. Touch base.”

Screw me until I can’t stand up? Instead I said, “Yeah, that would be nice.”