Tully followed Cunningham’s directions and turned at the intersection. Immediately, he saw spotlights in the back alley of a small strip mall. Police cruisers blocked the street, and Tully pulled up beside one, flashed his badge and drove through the maze. He tried to take a lesson from his daughter’s new friend Josh by pretending to be cool. Fact was, his stomach felt hollow and perspiration slid down his back.

Tully had seen plenty of crime scenes, severed limbs, bloodied walls, mutilated bodies and sick, disgusting killer signatures that ranged from a single long-stemmed rose to a decapitated corpse. But all those scenes, up until now, had been only in photographs, digital scans and illustrations sent to him at the FBI Cleveland Field Office. He had become one of the Midwest’s experts in developing precise criminal profiles from the bits and pieces law enforcement officers sent him. It was his accuracy that had prompted Assistant Director Kyle Cunningham to offer Tully a position at Quantico in the Investigative Support Unit. In one phone call and without ever having met him, Cunningham had offered Tully a chance to work out in the field, starting with the hunt for one of the FBI’s most infamous fugitives—Albert Stucky.

Tully knew Cunningham had been forced to dismantle the task force after months of nothing to show for their time and expense. He also knew he owed his good fortune to the agent he had replaced, an agent who had been temporarily assigned to teaching at law enforcement conferences. Without much digging, he discovered the agent was Margaret O’Dell, whom he had never met but knew by reputation. She was one of the youngest and one of the best profilers in the country.

The unofficial word was that O’Dell had burned out and needed a break. Rumors suggested that she had lost her edge, that she was combative and reckless, that she had become paranoid and obsessed with recapturing Albert Stucky. Of course, there were also rumors that Assistant Director Cunningham had sidelined Margaret O’Dell to protect her from Stucky. The two had played a dangerous game of cat and mouse about eight months ago that had eventually led to Stucky’s capture, but only after he had tortured and almost killed O’Dell. Now after months of studying, searching and waiting, Tully would finally meet the man nicknamed The Collector, if only through his handiwork.

Tully pulled the car as close to the barricades as he could. Cunningham jumped out before Tully had it in park. He almost forgot to turn off the lights. He noticed his palms were sweaty when he pulled the key from the ignition. His legs seemed stiff, his knee suddenly reminding him of an old injury as he hurried to catch up with his boss. Tully stood four inches taller than the assistant director, and his strides were long, yet it took an effort to keep up. He guessed Cunningham to be at least ten years his senior, but the man had a lean, athletic body, and Tully had witnessed him bench-pressing twice the weight the academy recruits started at.

“Where is she?” Cunningham wasted no time asking a police detective who looked to be in charge.

“She’s still in the Dumpster. We haven’t moved a thing, except the pizza box.”

The detective had a neck as thick as a linebacker’s and the seams of his sports jacket bulged. He was treating this like an everyday traffic check. Tully wondered which big city the detective had come from, because he definitely had developed his no-nonsense manner somewhere other than Newburgh Heights. He and the assistant director seemed to know one another and took no time for introductions.

“Where is the pizza box?” Cunningham wanted to know.

“Officer McClusky gave it to the doc. The kid who found it sorta dropped it, and the stuff got all jostled.”

Suddenly the smell of stale pizza and the sounds of police radios made Tully’s head hurt. During the drive, the adrenaline had pumped him into action. Now the reality was a bit overwhelming. He ran unsteady fingers through his hair. Okay, this couldn’t be that much different than looking at photos. He could do this, and he ignored the recurring nausea as he followed his boss to the Dumpster where three uniformed officers stood guard. Even the officers stood a good ten feet away to avoid the stench.

The first thing Tully noticed was the young woman’s long blond hair. Immediately, he thought of Emma. He could see over the Dumpster’s edge easily, but waited as Cunningham pulled up a crate. His boss’s face remained emotionless.

Though covered in garbage, Tully could tell the woman had been young, not much older than Emma. And she had been beautiful. Discarded lettuce and spoiled tomatoes clung to her naked breasts. The rest of her was buried in garbage, but Tully saw glimpses of thigh, and then realized she wore only a blue baseball cap. He could also see that her throat had been slashed from ear to ear, and there was an open wound in her side, almost at her lower back. But that was all. There were no severed limbs, no bloody mutilation. He wasn’t sure what he had expected.

“She looks like she’s in one piece,” Cunningham said as though reading Tully’s thoughts. He stepped off the crate and then addressed the detective again. “What was in the box?”

“Not sure. Looked like a bloody glob to me. Doc can probably tell you. He’s over in the van.”

He pointed to a dusty silver van marked with the Stafford County emblem on the side. The doors were open and a distinguished gray-haired man in a well-pressed suit sat in the back with a clipboard.

“Doc, these gentlemen from the FBI need to see that special delivery.”

The detective turned and started to leave just as a media van pulled into an adjacent parking lot.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Looks like the zoo visitors have arrived.”

Cunningham stepped up into the van, and Tully followed, though it seemed crowded with the three of them. Or was Tully the only one having problems breathing? Already he could smell the contents of the box, which sat in the middle of the floor. He sat on one of the benches before his stomach started to churn.

“Hello, Frank.” Assistant Director Cunningham knew the medical examiner, too. “This is Special Agent R. J. Tully. Agent Tully, Dr. Frank Holmes, deputy chief medical examiner for Stafford County.”

“I don’t know if this is your man, Kyle, but when Detective Rosen called me, he seemed to think you might be interested.”

“Rosen worked in Boston when Stucky kidnapped Councilwoman Brenda Carson.”

“I remember that. What was that two, three years ago?”

“Not quite two.”

“Thankfully, I was on vacation. Fishing up in Canada.” The doctor cocked his head as though trying to remember some sporting event. Tully found everyone’s ease, all the casualness, a bit unnerving. He sat still, hoping no one could hear his heart pounding. The doctor continued. “But now if I remember right, Carson’s body was buried in a shallow grave in some woods. Outside Richmond, wasn’t it? Certainly not in some Dumpster.”

“This guy’s complicated, Frank. The ones he collects are the ones we rarely find. These women…these are his rejects. They’re simply for sport—for show-and-tell.” Cunningham sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, the balls of his feet rocking as though ready to jump into action at any moment. Everything about Cunningham telescoped his constant energy, his immediacy. Yet, his face, his voice remained calm, almost soothing.

Tully stared at the pizza box on the floor of the van. Despite the scent of pizza dough and pepperoni, he recognized the acrid scent as blood. So much for eating pizza ever again.

“Nothing happens in this quiet little suburb,” Dr. Holmes said while continuing to jot details on the forms he had clipped to his board. “Then two homicides in one day.”

“Two?” Cunningham’s patience seemed to wear thin with the doctor’s slow, deliberate manner. He stared at the pizza box, and Tully knew his boss wouldn’t touch it without first being invited to do so by Dr. Holmes. Tully had discovered early on that despite the director’s authority, he showed great respect for those he worked with, as well as for rules, policy and protocol.

“I’m not aware of another homicide, Frank,” he said when the doctor took too long to offer an explanation.

“Well, I’m not sure the other one is a homicide, yet. We never did find a body.” Dr. Holmes finally put the clipboard aside. “We had an agent on the scene. Maybe one of yours?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Not far from here in the nice quiet neighborhood of Newburgh Heights. Said she was a forensic psychologist. Just moved into the victim’s neighborhood. Very impressive young woman.”

Tully watched Cunningham’s face and saw the transformation from calm to agitated.

“Yes, I did hear about that. I had forgotten her new neighborhood was in Newburgh Heights. I apologize if she got in the way.”

“Oh, no apology necessary, Kyle. On the contrary, she proved very helpful. I think the arrogant bastard who was supposed to be investigating the scene may have even learned a thing or two.”

Tully caught the assistant director with a smile at the corner of his lips, before he realized he was being watched. He turned to Tully and explained, “Agent O’Dell, your predecessor, just bought a new home in this area.”

“Agent Margaret O’Dell?” Tully held his boss’s eyes until he saw that Cunningham had now made the same connection Tully had just made. Both of them stared at Dr. Holmes as he slid the pizza box closer. Suddenly, Tully knew it didn’t matter what they found in the box. Whatever had been discarded, neither of them needed to see the bloody mess to confirm that this was most likely the work of Albert Stucky. And Tully knew it was no coincidence that he had chosen to start again, close to Agent Margaret O’Dell’s new home.