No one answered.

In that instant of dark silence that must have seemed an eternity, she realized there was someone inside the house and it wasn't Matt.

Panicking, she flicked on the bedside lamp so she could see to dial the phone.

By the time she'd stabbed out 911, the killer had gotten to her. He jerked the phone line from the wall before she had a chance to cry out for help.

Maybe he grabbed the receiver out of her hand. Maybe he yelled at her or she began to plead with him. He'd been interrupted, momentarily knocked off guard.

He was enraged. He may have struck her. This may be when he fractured her ribs, and as she cowered in stunned pain he wildly looked around. The lamp was on. He could see everything inside the bedroom. He could see the survival knife on her desk.

Her murder was preventable. It could have been stopped! Had the call been given a priority one, had it immediately been dispatched over the air, an officer would have responded within minutes. He would have noticed the bedroom light was on-the killer couldn't see to cut cords and tie up his victim in the dark. The officer might have gotten out of his car and heard something. If nothing else, had he taken the time to shine his light over the back of her house, the removed window screen, the picnic bench, the open window would have been noticed. The killer's ritual took time. The police might have been able to get inside before he killed her! My mouth was so dry I had to take several sips of coffee before I could ask, "How many people know this?"

Boltz replied, "No one's talking about it, Kay. Not even Sergeant Marino knows. Or at least it's doubtful he does. He wasn't on duty when the call was broadcast. He was contacted at home after a uniform man had already arrived at the scene. The word's out in the department. Those cops aware of what happened are not to discuss the matter with anyone."

I knew what that meant. Loose lips would send the guy back to traffic or stick him behind a desk in the uniform room.

"The only reason we're apprising you of this unfortunate situation" - Amburgey carefully chose his words - "is because you need the background in order to understand the steps we feel compelled to take."

I sat tensely, looking hard at him. The point of all this was about to be made.

"I had a conversation with Dr. Spiro Fortosis last night, the forensic psychiatrist who has been good enough to share his insights with us. I've discussed the cases with the FBI. It's the opinion of the people who are experts in profiling this type of killer that publicity exacerbates the problem. This type of killer gets off on it. He gets excited, hyper, when he reads about what he's done. It pushes him into overdrive."

"We can't curtail the freedom of the press," I bluntly reminded him. "We have no control over what reporters print."

"We do." Amburgey was gazing out the window. "They can't print much if we don't give them much. Unfortunately, we've given them a lot." A pause. "Or at least someone has."

I wasn't sure where Amburgey was going but the road signs definitely pointed in my direction.

He continued, "The sensational details - the leaks - we've already discussed have resulted in graphic, grisly stories, banner headlines. It's the expert opinion of Dr. Fortosis this may be what prompted the killer to strike again so soon. The publicity excites him, puts him under incredible stress. The urge peaks again and he has to find release in selecting another victim. As you know, there was only a week between the slayings of Cecile Tyler and Lori Petersen-"

"Have you talked to Benton Wesley about this?" I interrupted.

"Didn't have to. Talked to Susling, one of his colleagues at the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico. He's well known in the field, has published quite a lot on the subject."

Thank God. I couldn't endure knowing Wesley had just been sitting in my conference room several hours before and had made no mention of what I was now being told. He would be just as incensed as I was, I thought. The commissioner was wedging his foot in the investigation. He was going around me, around Wesley, around Marino, and taking matters into his own hands.

"The probability that sensational publicity, which has been ignited by loose talk, by leaks," Amburgey went on, "the fact the city may be liable because of the 911 mishap, means we have to take serious measures, Dr. Scarpetta. All information dispensed to the public, from this point forward, will be channeled through Norm or Bill, as far as the police end of it goes. And nothing will be coming from your office unless it is released by me. Are we clear?"

There had never been a problem with my office before, and he knew it. We had never solicited publicity, and I'd always been circumspect when releasing information to the press.

What would the reporters - what would anybody - think when they were told they were being referred to the commissioner for information that historically had come from my agency? In the forty-two-year history of the Virginia medical examiner system, this had never happened. By gagging me it would appear I'd been relieved of my authority because I couldn't be trusted.

I looked around. No one would meet my eyes. Boltz's jaw was firmly set as he absently studied his coffee cup. He refused to grant me so much as a reassuring smile.

Amburgey began perusing his notes again. "The worst offender is Abby Turnbull, which isn't anything new. She doesn't win prizes for being passive."

This to me: "Are you two acquainted?"

"She rarely gets past my secretary."

"I see."

He casually flipped another page.

"She's dangerous," Tanner volunteered. "The Times is part of one of the biggest chains in the country. They have their own wire service."

"Well, there's no question that Miss Turnbull is the one doing the damage. All the other reporters are simply reprinting her scoops and kicking the stuff around on the air," Boltz slowly commented. "What we've got to find out is where the hell she's getting the goods."

This to me: "We'd be wise to consider all channels. Who else, for example, has access to your records, Kay?"

"Copies are sent to the CA and to the police," I replied evenly-he and Tanner were the CA and the police.

"What about the families of the victims?"

"So far I've gotten no requests from the women's families, and in cases such as these I most likely would refer the relative to your office."

"What about insurance companies?"

"If requested. But after the second homicide I instructed my clerks to refrain from sending out any reports, except to your office and to the police. The reports are provisional. I've been stalling for as long as possible to keep them out of circulation."

Tanner asked, "Anybody else? What about Vital Statistics? Didn't they used to keep your data on their mainframe, requiring you to send them copies of all your CME-1's and autopsy reports?"

Startled, I didn't respond right away. Tanner certainly had done his homework. There was no reason he should have been privy to such a mundane housekeeping concern.

"We stopped sending VS any paper reports after we became computerized," I told him. "They'll get data from us eventually. When they begin working on their annual report-" Tanner interrupted with a suggestion that had the impact of a pointed gun.

"Well, that leaves your computer."

He began idly swirling the coffee in his Styrofoam cup. "I assume you have very restricted access to the data base."