Quickly he covered the hole he'd dug, burying what he'd taken from the scene. The condom and bloody plastic bags would keep until he could come back and dispose of them properly. He should have stopped on his way back to dispose of them, but he'd been paranoid, constantly watching his rearview mirror.

His caution had been unnecessary. Nobody had followed him. Nobody had seen him. Penny Hill's car was now abandoned, its license plates and VIN tags removed. He'd moved it far enough off the deserted road to keep it from being found for a while. He knew he'd left nothing behind, but one could never be too careful. One hair could convict him.

Of course, they'd have to catch him first. And that, they'd never do.

He'd been careful. He'd been skillful. He'd been ruthless.

He smiled as he gave the earth a good stamp with his foot. She'd suffered. He could still hear Penny Hill's moans. Unfortunately they'd been muffled by the gag in her mouth, but that had been a necessary evil. But the gag hadn't hidden the hollowed, glazed look in her eyes when he'd finished with her. And she'd known exactly why. That made it all the sweeter.

He stopped abruptly, one hand gripping the shovel handle. Shit. He'd forgotten the briefcase. Penny Hill's briefcase was still in the backseat of her car. He made himself calm down. It was okay. He'd go back and get the briefcase when he could. He'd hidden the car well enough that nobody would bother it before then.

He looked up at the night sky. There were still hours before dawn. He could get a little sleep before his day officially began.

The boy watched at the window, his heart in his throat. He was there, again. Burying something, again. He should tell. He should. But he was so afraid. He could only watch as he finished, covering his hiding place once more. His imagination conjured all kinds of hideous pictures of what he'd just buried. But the reality of what he'd do if he told was every bit as bad. This the boy knew for sure.

Tuesday, November 28, 7:55 a.m.

She looked tired. It was Reed's first thought as he stopped in the doorway of the homicide bullpen, one hand clutching a pair of boots. Mitchell sat back in her chair, her scuffed boots propped up on her desk, her attention focused on a thick file in her lap.

Her eyes flew up when he let the heavy boots drop to her desk. She eyed them, then looked up with a half smile. "It's not even Christmas yet. I'm touched, Solliday "

He extended his hand and saw true appreciation light her face. "Now you're talking." She set the file on her desk and took one of the Styrofoam cups from his carton.

"It's real coffee," he said. "Not like that sludge over there in your pot."

"Yeah, but the caffeine concentration in the sludge is enough to keep us going for days." Warily she looked up at him, a plastic cream packet in her hand. "You want me to put the cream in yours, or are we going to insult each other again?"

He chuckled. "I take mine black." He looked down at the folder on her desk. "Roger Burnette's case files?"

"Not his files from Records. I requested those yesterday, but our clerk hasn't brought them up yet. These are Burnette's own notes. He was waiting when I got here this morning. Names, addresses, dates of anybody whose Wheaties he's pissed in the last few years. I think it helped him to feel like he was doing something."

"And?"

She grimaced. "Everybody in here had a grudge."

"So you're back to Caitlin being the tool to her father's payback."

She added cream to her coffee and snapped the lid back into place. "I don't know. I do know that Penny Hill was a social worker. She's probably taken a lot of kids from a lot of homes over the years. Disrupted a lot of lives, from a certain point of view. I think it will be interesting to cross reference Roger Burnette's cases with Penny Hill's. See if anybody hated them both."

"Did Roger Burnette know Penny Hill?"

"No. I was so hoping he did, but he'd never heard her name." She swung her feet to the floor. "Now it's time for morning meeting. I asked Jack and the ME to come." She grabbed the file and her coffee. "I also asked our psychologist to stop by. His name is Miles Westphalen. I filled him in. I've worked with Miles before. He's good."

Before Reed could say a word she was off down a side hallway, motioning him to follow. ^4 shrink, was all he could think. Oh joy.

A large table dominated the center of Spinnelli's conference room. Spinnelli himself sat at one end, flanked on either side by Jack linger from CSU and Sam Barrington from the ME's office. And older man sat next to Jack. He would be the shrink.

Spinnelli searched their faces, and winced. "You two get any sleep at all?"

"Not much," Mitchell said. She smiled warmly at the shrink. "Hey, Miles. Thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant. Reed Solliday from OFI. Reed, Dr. Miles Westphalen."

Reed shook the old man's hand, keeping his face blank. He hated most shrinks, Hated the way they tried to read your mind. The way they turned everything into a question. He especially hated the way they blamed propensity for evil on upbringing. He laid odds that Westphalen would have this arsonist reduced to a poor soul with no father and an abusive mother before the meeting was over.

Westphalen sat back, mildly amused. "Lieutenant Solliday, it's nice to meet you. But don't worry, I won't read your mind. Not before my first cup of coffee, anyway."

Reed's jaw tightened as Mitchell took the chair next to Westphalen. "Leave him alone, Miles," she chided wearily. "He's had a long night. We both have. Sit, Solliday. Please." She looked over at Barrington. "Have you had a chance to check her out?"

"Only a cursory look," Barrington answered as Reed sat next to Mitchell. "But I'm willing to bet I find something else on the body other than gasoline. The burns are far deeper. This fire burned longer, at least on the victim."

"So about the victim," Spinnelli interjected. "Who is she?"

"Penelope Hill, age forty-seven," Mitchell said. "She was an employee of the Department of Children and Family Services for twenty-five years." She blew a breath up through her bangs, sending them flying. "Last night was her retirement party. I talked to one of my old friends in DCFS this morning. Hill was well respected and well loved. She'd been written up in the paper several times for her community service."

"'Well loved' is relative," Westphalen noted. "By her coworkers, maybe."

"But by parents whose kids she's taken away?" Mitchell continued Westphalen's thought. '"Well loved' probably isn't a description they'd use. I thought of that, Miles."

"A cop's daughter and a social worker," Spinnelli mused. "Any connection?"

She shook her head. "Burnette didn't know her. I'll be cross-checking their caseloads today. But the fires themselves were the same in a lot of ways."

Spinnelli raised his brows. "Reed?"

All eyes turned to him. "Both were started in the kitchen. Both used natural gas as the primary fuel. Both used a strip of solid accelerant up the wall as a chemical extension of the fuse. The lab came back with the analysis of the solid accelerant used in the Doughertys' house. Ammonium nitrate mixed with kerosene and guar gum. Highly flammable. I should have the lab's analysis on the mix used in Hill's house by the end of the day, but I expect it to be the same."

Spinnelli stroked his mustache. "Are we dealing with a professional arsonist?"

"Not in the traditional sense. Arson for profit is normally committed by property owners for the insurance or by torches who are providing… a service. This doesn't feel like it's about money. It's personal. I mean, he didn't just set a fire. He blew up their houses. How he knew the victims we still haven't figured out, but the use of an explosion just screams Look at me. Look at what 1 can do."