We were whisked by police escort from the private airfield outside Portland to the Governor Hotel in the center of town. The Governor was an old restored Western, and this was the worst thing that had ever happened there.

While Molinari conferred with the head of the regional FBI office, I got up to date with Hannah Wood, a local homicide inspector, and her partner, Rob Stone.

Molinari gave me time to go over the crime scene, which was definitely grisly. Clearly Propp had let his assailant in. The economist had been shot three times—twice in the chest and a clean-through to the head, the bullet lodging in the floor. But Propp had also been slashed several times, probably with a serrated knife that still lay on the floor.

“Crime team dug this out.” Hannah showed me a bag containing a flattened 9mm bullet. A large gaff hook in a

Baggie was also being held for us.

“Prints?” I asked.

“Partials off the inside doorknob. Probably Propp’s. The Swiss consulate’s contacted Propp’s family back home,” Hannah said. “He had dinner with a friend scheduled last night, then a seven A.M. flight to Vancouver. Other than that, no calls or visitors.”

I put on a pair of gloves, flipped open the briefcase on Propp’s bed, and shuffled through his notes. A few books were scattered about, mostly academic stuff.

I went into the bathroom. Propp’s toilet case was laid out on the counter. Not much else to go on. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.

“Be easier if you could tell us what we’re looking for, Lieutenant,” Stone said.

I couldn’t. The name August Spies hadn’t been released yet. I focused on prints of the crime scene photos that were taped to the mirror. It was an ugly, horrible scene. Blood everywhere. Then the warning: MAI.

The murderers were doing their homework, I was thinking. They wanted a soapbox. They had it. So where the hell was the speech?

“Listen, Lieutenant,” Hannah said uncomfortably, “it’s not too hard to figure out what you and the deputy director are doing up here. That horrible stuff going on in San Francisco? This is connected, isn’t it?”

Before I could answer, Molinari came in with Special Agent Thompson. “Seen enough?” he asked me.

“If there are no objections, sir”—the FBI man pulled out his cell phone—“I’ll advise the anti-terror desk in Quantico that the killer is on the move.”

“You okay with that, Lieutenant?” Molinari looked toward me.

I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”

The FBI man shot me a double take. “Run that by me again, Lieutenant?”

“I think you should wait.” I gave weight to each word. “I don’t think this murder is related to the others. I’m almost sure of it now.”

The room above might have just crashed through our ceiling, the way the FBI man blinked. To his credit, Molinari didn’t react one way or the other. He seemed ready to hear what I had to say.

“You are aware of what Gerhard Propp did for a living? And why he was in this country in the first place?” Special Agent Thompson asked.

“I’m aware,” I answered.

“And where he was scheduled to present next week?”

“I was briefed,” I said. “Just like you were.”

Thompson aimed a smug smile toward Molinari. “So this is some other homicidal maniac who just happens to be tar

getting the G-8?” “Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly what I think.” Thompson laughed and flipped open his phone. He

started to punch in his speed dial.

Molinari held his arm. “I’d like to hear what the lieutenant has to say.”

“Okay … The first thing is, this crime scene is completely different from the others. One, this perp is probably male; that’s clear from the force used to knock Propp to the ground. But that’s not what I’m referring to. It’s the physical condition of the body.

“The first two murders were detached.” I pointed to the crime scene photo taped to the mirror. “This is emotional. Personal. Look at the cuts. The killer defaced the body. He used a handgun and a knife.”

“You’re saying there’s a difference between blowing someone up, or pouring Dra? no down their throat, and this?” Thompson said.

“Have you ever pulled a trigger on the job, Special Agent?”

He shrugged, but his face went red. “No … So?”

I took down the photo of Propp’s body. “Could you do this?”

The FBI man seemed to hesitate.

“Different killers, different temperaments,” Molinari cut in. “This one could be a sadistic maniac.”

“All right, then there’s the timing. The message yesterday indicated that there would be another victim every three days. That’d be Sunday. Too soon.”

“More likely, the guy was available,” the FBI man said. “You can’t be saying you’re holding a terrorist killer to his word?”

“I’m saying precisely that,” I said. “I’ve been around pattern killers enough to understand them. There’s a bond they make with us. If we can’t take them at their word, why would we believe any of their messages? How would we confirm it’s the same group behind their actions? They have to have total credibility.”

Thompson looked to Molinari for help. Molinari’s eyes were on me. “You’ve still got the floor, Lieutenant.”

“The most important thing,” I said, “there’s no signature. Both San Francisco killings were signed. He wants us to know it’s him. You almost have to admire the ingenuity. A knapsack posing as a secondary bomb left outside the town house. Bengosian’s own business form stuffed in his mouth.”

I shrugged at Molinari. “You can get every Ph.D. or forensic expert in the FBI or the National Security Council up here for all I care … but you brought me here. And I’m telling you, this ain’t him.”

“I’m ready to make that call.” The FBI man nodded to Molinari, completely ignoring everything I’d just said. That really burned me.

“I just want to be clear, Lieutenant,” Molinari said, focusing on me. “You think there’s another killer, a copycat, at work here.”

“It could be a copycat. It could be some sort of splinter group, too. Believe me, I wish I could say it was murder number three, because now we’re left with a bigger problem.”

“I don’t understand.” The deputy director finally blinked.

“If it isn’t the same killer,” I said, “then the terror has started to spread. I think that’s exactly what’s happened.”

Molinari nodded slowly. “I’m going to advise the Bureau, Agent Thompson, to treat these cases as independent actions. At least for the time being.”

Agent Thompson sighed.

“In the meantime, we still have a murder to solve. The man’s dead here,” the deputy director snapped. He looked around the room, his gaze ending up on Thompson. “Anyone have a problem with that?”

“No, sir,” Thompson said, flipping his phone back into his jacket pocket.

I was stunned. Molinari had backed me up. Even Hannah Wood mooned her eyes in his direction.

We spent the rest of the day at the FBI regional office in Portland. We interviewed the person Propp was meeting in Vancouver and his economist friend at Portland State. Molinari also brought me in on two calls back to senior investigators at his home office in D.C., backing up my theory that this was a copycat crime and that the terror might be spreading.

About five, it dawned on me that I couldn’t stay up there much longer. There were a couple of fairly prominent cases that needed my attention back home. Brenda informed me there was a Southwest flight back to San Francisco at 6:30.

I knocked on the gray, carpet-covered cubicle Molinari was using for an office. “If you don’t need me up here anymore, I thought I’d head home. It was fun being ‘Fed for a Day.’”

Molinari smiled. “Look, I was hoping you might stay a couple of hours. Have dinner with me.”