Jack folded the morning newspapers-the Dunmore Daily, the Huntsville Times and the Decatur Daily-and dumped them into the wastebasket. Four days ago, after Father Brian’s charred body had been found at the park, a hotshot Huntsville Times reporter named Grant Sharpe had given the killer a particularly appropriate label, dubbing him the Fire and Brimstone Killer. The local and regional press had picked up on the title, and now even the folks at the sheriff’s department were using the phrase. So here they were, ninety-six hours after the priest’s horrific murder, without even one suspect, a fact that the press pointed out in bold headlines. Sharpe’s coverage of the case stated that the task force, comprised of members from both local and state law-enforcement agencies, had a serial killer on their hands and apparently weren’t equipped to deal with that type of case. The reporter had all but referred to the task-force members as a bunch of redneck yokels who couldn’t stick their finger up their ass with both hands.

The autopsy results weren’t in yet, but no one expected the findings to reveal anything more than the initial report had told them. Brian Myers had been doused with gasoline and set on fire. Possibly, the severe third-degree burns over most of his body hadn’t killed him. Not instantly. Shock had probably set in, and without immediate medical attention, the priest’s body had shut down. But even if he had been discovered quickly and rushed to the hospital, his odds wouldn’t have been good. After all, Mark Cantrell and Charles Randolph hadn’t survived.

Jack gathered up the crime-scene photos spread out before him and opened the file folder to replace them, but when he heard someone say his name, he laid everything down on his gray, metal desk. Glancing around the open office area-his desk was located on the left, near the windows-he saw one of his fellow officers talking to a stranger and pointing his way. The tall, lanky guy, dressed in casual yet obviously expensive slacks, shirt and jacket, smiled at the officer, thanked him and walked straight toward Jack. As he approached, Jack sized him up: mid-to-late thirties; about six-two; wavy, black hair in need of cutting; intelligent dark eyes; and an easy smile that projected self-confidence.

“Jackson Perdue?” the man asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Derek Lawrence.” The former FBI profiler offered his hand.

Jack shook hands with the guy. “I didn’t expect you to show up. I thought you’d just call or e-mail.”

“That was the original plan when Maleah first asked me to come in on this case. But once I received the information and went over it, I realized that I’d never seen a situation quite like this before. Your killer fascinates me.”

Jack looked Derek right in the eye. “Does he? Why is that?”

“He-or she-has chosen unlikely victims-clergymen. And his method is not only cruel and painfully violent, it sends a message, one that our killer wants the world to hear.”

Jack nodded. “Have a seat. I want to hear your theory.” Jack hitched his thumb in the general direction of the coffeemaker. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Jack pulled up an empty chair and placed it in front of his desk. The two men settled into their seats, the desk separating them, and then Jack asked, “What message is our killer sending?”

“You’ve probably already figured it out. Our killer is saying-no, he or she is screaming, ‘I hate you. I’m punishing you, and I want you to burn for your sins, for what you did to me.’”

Jack grunted. “So we’re dealing with a person who at some point in his or her life was somehow wronged by a clergyman, and now he’s killing that minister or priest over and over again?”

“That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

“Like you said, we figured that our killer hates preachers, but I don’t see how knowing this helps us catch the guy.”

“It doesn’t,” Derek said. “I’ve gone through ViCAP-the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data base-and come up with similar crimes, but none that are actual matches to your three Fire and Brimstone murders. Setting people on fire isn’t something new. And clergymen have been killed before. What we have to concentrate on is what makes these three crimes different and what links them together.”

“You’re the expert. You tell me.”

“Your killer doesn’t fall completely into either the organized or disorganized offender category, but that’s not unusual. An offender doesn’t always reflect all the crime-scene characteristics or personal characteristics of one or the other.”

“Look, you’re going to have to speak plain English to me,” Jack admitted. “I’m new at this. I’m an ex-soldier. My experience is limited. I’ve been with the sheriff’s department for only a few weeks.”

Derek eyed Jack speculatively. “I’m surprised the sheriff chose you to work on the task force.”

“The sheriff assigned the department’s cold cases to me, sort of a way to break me in, I guess. The Cantrell murder was one of those cases.”

“Even so, I’d have thought he’d put a more seasoned deputy on the task force. Do you feel as if you’re in over your head?”

“Maybe.” Jack shrugged. “Guess I’ll learn as I go. And I did bring in an expert to help us out, didn’t I?”

Derek chuckled. “Yes, so you did. That probably earned you a few brownie points with your boss.”

Jack grinned. “So tell me, Mr. Expert, all about how you can’t pigeonhole our killer.”

“Be glad to. It’s simple. The killer planned these murders, chose his victims in advance and personalized the victims, all characteristics of an organized killer. But on the other hand, he probably knew his victims or at least knew who they were. He left his victims in plain view at the scene of the crime, and with the use of gasoline and the Pocket Torch lighters left at the scene, the weapon couldn’t be hidden. Those are all characteristics of a disorganized killer.”

“A killer with a split personality?”

“Our killer is what we refer to as a ‘mixed personality,’ which is actually fairly common.”

“Are you saying that in trying to come up with a profile of our killer, you’ve struck out?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Derek grinned. “How about that cup of coffee?”

“Cream? Sugar?” Jack asked.

“Black.”

Jack got up, went to the coffeemaker and poured two Styrofoam cups three-fourths full of the strong, black brew. He returned to his desk, handed Derek one of the cups and sat back down.

After taking a couple of sips, Derek said, “We assume the same person killed the two ministers and the priest. Why?”

“All three victims were clergymen. All three lived within a fifty-mile radius of one another. All three were doused with gasoline and set on fire, using a torch lighter that enabled him to lock the flame before using it. And all three murders occurred within an eighteen-month time span.”

“It’s unlikely that the similarities of the murders were coincidental. So think about it. What other similarities were there?”

“So far, all the victims have been white. All have been between thirty and fifty years old, and all have been Christians.”

“Charles Randolph had been accused of stealing from his congregation. Had the other two committed any type of crime?” Derek asked.

“No. If they had, I’d have included that information in the files I sent you.”

“Hmm…Stealing is a sin, right? So what if the other two ministers didn’t commit crimes, but did commit sins?”

“And just how would we go about trying to discover what sins these men might have committed, if they actually did?”

“Talk to people who knew them.”

Jack tapped the manila folder on his desk. “That’s been done. Family and friends were interviewed extensively after each murder. Mark Cantrell was a saint according to everyone who knew him. His only weakness seems to have been his love for golf. And so far, Father Brian is coming across as damn near perfect.”