“Dr. Court.” He held out his hand and found hers soft and small, but firm enough. “I appreciate you coming.”

No, she wasn’t quite convinced he did, but she had worked around such things before. “I hope I can help.”

“Please, sit down.”

She started to shrug out of her coat, and felt hands on her arms. Taking a quick look over her shoulder, she saw Ben behind her. “Nice coat, Doctor.” His fingers brushed over the lining as he slipped it from her. “Fifty-minute hours must be profitable.”

“Nothing’s more fun than soaking patients,” she said in the same undertone, then turned away from him. Arrogant jerk, she thought, and took her seat.

“Dr. Court might like some coffee,” Ed put in. Always easily amused, he grinned over at his partner. “She got kind of wet coming in.”

Seeing the gleam in Ed’s eyes, Tess couldn’t help but grin back. “I’d love some coffee. Black.”

Harris glanced over at the dregs in the pot on his hot plate, then reached for his phone. “Roderick, get some coffee in here. Four-no three,” he corrected as he glanced at Ed.

“If there’s any hot water…” Ed reached in his pocket and drew out an herbal tea bag.

“And a cup of hot water,” Harris said, his lips twisting into something like a smile. “Yeah, for Jackson. Dr. Court…” Harris didn’t know what had amused her, but had a feeling it had something to do with his two men. They had better get down to business. “We’ll be grateful for any help you can give us. And you’ll have our full cooperation.” This was said with a glance, a telling one, at Ben. “You’ve been briefed on what we need?”

Tess thought of her two-hour meeting with the mayor, and the stacks of paperwork she’d taken home from his office. Brief, she mused, had nothing to do with it.

“Yes. You need a psychological profile on the killer known as the Priest. You’ll want an educated, expert opinion as to why he kills, and to his style of killing. You want me to tell you who he is, emotionally. How he thinks, how he feels. With the facts I have, and those you’ll give me, its possible to give an opinion… an opinion,” she stressed, “on how and why and who he is, psychologically. With that you may be a step closer to stopping him.”

So she didn’t promise miracles. It helped Harris to relax. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ben watching her steadily, one finger idly stroking down her raincoat. “Sit down, Paris,” he said mildly. “The mayor gave you some data?” he asked the psychiatrist.

“A bit. I started on it last night.”

“You’ll want to take a look at these reports as well.” Taking a folder from his desk, Harris passed it to her.

“Thank you.” Tess pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from her bag and opened the folder.

A shrink, Ben thought again as he studied her profile. She looked like she should be leading cheers at a varsity game. Or sipping cognac at the Mayflower. He wasn’t certain why both images seemed to suit her, but they did. It was the image of mind doctor that didn’t. Psychiatrists were tall and thin and pale, with calm eyes, calm voices, calm hands.

He remembered the psychiatrist his brother had seen for three years after returning from ‘Nam. Josh had gone away a young, fresh-faced idealist. He’d come back haunted and belligerent. The psychiatrist had helped. Or so it had seemed, so everyone had said, Josh included. Until he’d taken his service revolver and ended whatever chances he’d had.

The psychiatrist had called it Delayed Stress Syndrome. Until then Ben hadn’t known just how much he hated labels.

Roderick brought in the coffee and managed not to look annoyed at being delegated gofer.

“You bring in the Dors kids?” Harris asked him.

“I was on my way.”

“Paris and Jackson’ll brief you and Lowenstein and Bigsby in the morning after roll call.” He dismissed him with a nod as he dumped three teaspoons of sugar in his cup. Across the room Ed winced.

Tess accepted her cup with a murmur and never looked up. “Should I assume that the murderer has more than average strength?”

Ben took out a cigarette and studied it. “Why?”

Tess pushed her glasses down on her nose in a trick she remembered from a professor in college. It was meant to demoralize. “Other than the marks of strangulation, there weren’t any bruises, any signs of violence, no torn clothing or signs of struggle.”

Ignoring his coffee, Ben drew on the cigarette. “None of the victims were particularly hefty. Barbara Clayton was the biggest at five-four and a hundred and twenty.”

“Terror and adrenaline bring on surges of strength,” she countered. “Your assumption from the reports is that he takes them by surprise, from behind.”

“We assume that from the angle and location of the bruises.”

“I think I follow that,” she said briskly, and pushed her glasses up again. It wasn’t easy to demoralize a clod. “None of the victims was able to scratch his face or there’d have been cells of flesh under their nails. Have I got that right?” Before he could answer, she turned pointedly to Ed. “So, he’s smart enough to want to avoid questionable marks. It doesn’t appear he kills sporadically, but plans in an orderly, even logical fashion. Their clothing,” she went on. “Was it disturbed, buttons undone, seams torn, shoes kicked off?”

Ed shook his head, admiring the way she dove into details. “No, ma’am. All three were neat as a pin.”

“And the murder weapon, the amice?”

“Folded across the chest.”

“A tidy psychotic,” Ben put in.

Tess merely lifted a brow. “You’re quick to diagnose, Detective Paris. But rather than tidy, I’d use the word reverent.”

By holding up a single ringer, Harris stopped Ben’s retort. “Could you explain that, Doctor?”

“I can’t give you a thorough profile without some more study, Captain, but I think I can give you a general outline. The killer’s obviously deeply religious, and I’d guess trained traditionally.”

“So you’re going for the priest angle?”

Again she turned to Ben. “The man may have been in a religious order at one time, or simply have a fascination, even a fear of the authority of the Church. His use of the amice is a symbol, to himself, to us, even to his victims. It might be used in a rebellious way, but I’d rule that out by the notes. Since all three victims were of the same age group, it tends to indicate that they represent some important female figure in his life. A mother, a wife, lover, sister. Someone who was or is intimate on an emotional level. My feeling is this figure failed him in some way, through the Church.”

“A sin?” Ben blew out a stream of smoke.

He might’ve been a clod, she mused, but he wasn’t stupid. “The definition of a sin varies,” she said coolly. “But yes, a sin in his eyes, probably a sexual one.”

He hated the calm, impersonal analysis. “So he’s punishing her through other women?”

She heard the derision in his voice, and closed the folder. “No, he’s saving them.”

Ben opened his mouth again, then shut it. It made a horrible kind of sense.

“That’s the one aspect I find absolutely clear,” Tess said as she turned back to Harris. “It’s in the notes, all of them. The man’s put himself in the role of savior. From the lack of violence, I’d say he has no wish to punish. If it were revenge, he’d be brutal, cruel, and he’d want them to be aware of what was going to happen to them. Instead, he kills them as quickly as possible, then tidies their clothes, crosses the amice in a gesture of reverence, and leaves a note stating that they’re saved.”

Taking off her glasses, she twirled them by the eyepiece. “He doesn’t rape them. More than likely he’s impotent with women, but more important, a sexual assault would be a sin. Possibly, probably, he derives some sort of sexual release from the killing, but more a spiritual one.”

“A religious fanatic,” Harris mused.

“Inwardly,” Tess told him. “Outwardly he probably functions normally for long periods of times. The murders are spaced weeks apart, so it would appear he has a level of control. He could very well hold down a normal job, socialize, attend church.”