arms around Washburn. Washburn wasn't out. As Quirk straightened I could see him staring blankly over Quirk's shoulder. Then he began to cry. It sounded like the sobs were being twisted out of him. Quirk held Washburn and let him cry until he stopped. Then Quirk eased him back on the couch. Washburn slumped when Quirk let go of him, as if there were no strength in him. His eyes were swollen and his face was wet.
Quirk looked at one of the EMTs that had come with the ambulance. 'He'll need help,' Quirk said.
'We'll take him down to City,' the EMT said, 'let one of the doctors talk with him.'
Quirk nodded. He looked at me.
'You got any thoughts?' he said.
'No.'
'Belson?'
'No.'
'Me either,' Quirk said. 'Let's get the fuck out of here.'
We went to my office. I sat at my desk. Quirk sat across, and Belson stood, as he almost always did, leaning against the wall. The office had a closed-up smell. I opened the window and the sparse weekend traffic noise drifted up.
'Could be a copycat,' Belson said. 'Guy wants to do his wife in, covers it up by making it look like Red Rose, except there's no semen.'
'Scene looked authentic,' Quirk said, 'otherwise.'
'It's all been in the papers,' Belson said.
'Takes a special guy,' I said. 'To murder his wife and then deposit semen stains on the rug.'
Belson shrugged.
'He was grief-stricken,' Quirk said, 'but that doesn't mean he didn't do it.'
'Got the name of the counselor?' I said.
'Yeah, woman in the South End,' Belson said, 'Rebecca Stimpson, MSW.'
'I'll ask Susan to call her,' I said.
'Frank,' Quirk said, 'go over the crime scene, everything, compare it with the other killings.'
Belson nodded.
'And we should get a report on the media coverage. See exactly what it's possible to know about Red Rose from the papers. If this isn't a copycat, there will be one later.'
Belson nodded.
'Newspapers, TV, radio, everything.'
'Take some time, Lieutenant.'
Belson said.
'We got nothing else to do,' Quirk said.
'Other people get killed in this city,' Belson said.
'They wait their turn,' Quirk said. 'I am going to catch this motherfucker.'
From the intersection below my office window a horn brayed.
'Spenser,' Quirk said, 'I want you to backtrack each case. Start with the first murder. Go through it just like it was brand-new. Talk to everyone involved, read the evidence file and the forensic stuff, treat it like no one ever looked at it before.'
'We need a pattern,' I said.
'Black women, over forty, living in racially mixed or fringe neighborhoods. One hooker, one cocktail waitress, one dancer, one singer, one teacher,' Belson said.
'Up the social scale?' Quirk said.
'If you think singers rank higher than dancers,' I said.
'Or he thinks so.'
'Over forty,' I said.
'Yes,' Belson said. 'Royette Chambers, the hooker, was forty-one.
Chantelle was forty-six. The other three were in between.'
'That's a fairly tight age-cluster,' I said.
'Especially the hooker,' Quirk said. 'Forty-one's old for a hooker.'
'So why does he only kill women in their forties?' I said. 'Five times, it can't be an accident.'
'Zee muzzer,' Quirk said. 'We usually look to zee muzzer.'
