No one recognized the suspect or the MO.
I hadn't even hit a third of the cops in the district yet, but my optimism was beginning to sag. Mug shots were now filed on computer rather than in books, and I did a quick search of young white male shoplifters and came up with more than eight thousand hits. Even with help it would take a zillion years.
I took a deep breath and let it out slow. If there was any connective tissue between what we had so far and our perp, I was too dense to see it. I was no closer to catching this guy than the day I'd taken the case.
I put in the videotape of the second crime scene and viewed it, seeing for the first time Benedict remove the note from the body, which had been stapled to Jane Doe #2's buttocks. After that it only got grimmer, made even worse because the picture quality was so good.
The first crime scene was videotaped at night while raining, by someone who had problems differentiating between focus and zoom. This video was clean, clear, and in your face. When the tape ended I had no desire to watch it again right away.
But I did watch it again. And again after that, numbing myself to the gore and trying to find something, anything, that might give me a clue.
During the fifth or sixth viewing, my mind began to wander. Was this how I was destined to spend the rest of my life? Benedict was home right now, with his wife. Maybe they were watching TV together, or making love. Or, most likely, eating. But whatever they were doing, it was together. They were sharing their lives. I was here, alone, watching the end of someone else's.
So what's the alternative? Go home, clean myself up, and hit the bars? Sure, I could let myself get picked up, kill the lonelies for a night. But I needed something more substantial than a quick, informal lay.
What I needed, what I've been missing for damn near fifteen years, was to be in love. And I didn't think I'd find it at the bars.
I thought, wistfully, about my ex-husband, Alan.
Alan was something special, that one-in-a-million guy who liked holding hands and sending flowers. He rarely lost his temper, was a whiz in the kitchen, and loved me so completely that I was never cold, even during the brutal Chicago winter.
I take full responsibility for ruining our marriage.
I met him on the job, back in the days when I walked a beat. He came up to me on the street, told me someone had lifted his wallet. I couldn't say he was especially handsome, but he had the kindest eyes I'd ever seen.
We dated for six months before he proposed.
In the beginning, our marriage was great. Alan was a freelance artist, so he was able to make his own schedule, ensuring that we always had time to be together.
Until my promotion to the Violent Crimes Unit.
Prior to this, Alan and I had planned to have children. We were going to have a boy named Jay and a girl named Melody, and buy a house with a big backyard, in a good school district.
But much as I wanted that, I also wanted a career. Maternity leave meant time away from work, and a newly ranked detective third class needed collars to make second grade.
My work week jumped from forty hours to sixty.
Alan was patient. He understood my ambition. He tried to wait until I was ready. Then a major career setback forced me to spend even more time on the job.
Alan left me a week before I made detective second. That was also the week my insomnia started.
I buried the memories. Regret wasn't going to get me anywhere. Only one thing would.
I picked up the phone, put it back down, and picked it up again. Swallowing what little pride I had left was harder than I thought, but I managed. The taxpayers financed a call to Information, and ten seconds later I was dialing Lunch Mates, hoping they'd be closed at this hour.
'Thanks for calling Lunch Mates. This is Sheila, how may I help you?'
Her voice was so buoyantly optimistic that I felt a wee bit better about my decision to call a dating service.
'I guess I wanted to make an appointment, or schedule a visit. I didn't really expect you to still be open.'
'We have late hours. After all, human relationships don't just run from nine to five. May I have your name, miss?'
'Jacqueline Daniels. Jack, for short.'
She tittered politely. 'Wonderful name. Your occupation, please?'
'Police officer.'
'We have many clients in the law enforcement field. Were you looking for a match also within the department?'
'Christ, no...I mean...'
'No problem. It's hard to date in the same profession. That's why all those famous actors and actresses are always getting divorced. Sexual orientation?'
'Pardon me?'
'Are you looking to meet a man or a woman?'
'A man.'
