The next morning my tail actually came to my door. It seemed that the FBI team had arrived and they wanted to interview me. I showered and got dressed, took a couple of pain killers and asked them to find me some breakfast once we got to the station. I got some coffee and a very stale donut for my trouble, and was led into an interrogation room.

I hadn’t done a lot of work with the Feds. Like most of you, I have seen the cop shows and the shows with the profilers and there are two conclusions that invariably get made and they are a variation on the same theme; either the Feds are smarter than the local cops, or vice-versa. Neither is true. What is true is that the training for each type of job is very different, and as a result there is some specialization on each side. In this case, the local police needed a profile of the type of person they were looking for, and this is something that the FBI is very good at.

Don’t go thinking that you’re going to meet a bunch of unique characters when you deal with the FBI. They all get the same training and this tends to make them uniform. Sure, there are specialists but don’t go thinking that there is a 22 year-old boy with 5 doctorates giving them insight on someone’s psychology, or some best-selling author who has come back into the fold. There are just people with more experience than with others.

Two men came into the interview room, both in their early 50’s. One extended a hand to me. “Mr. Carter,” he said. “I’m Special Agent William Borges. This is Special Agent Martin Faulkner.”

I shook both of their hands and looked back at Agent Borges. I had heard of this man. He was part of the team that accurately profiled the B2K killer, as well as a serial killer in Atlanta who had killed 16 boys. Gilda had brought in a rock star, and a damned good one.

“Agents,” I replied, returning to my seat. “Where do we begin?”

“At the beginning,” said Borges. “Why were you even in the massage parlor to begin with?”

I sighed. I don’t mind explaining my vices, but to an FBI agent? Whatever this all was, I was neck deep in it already so I recognized that this was unavoidable. I gave them the condensed version about my scars and my proclivities, but I didn’t enjoy doing so.

We then walked through the evidence from the first shooting, and I had to point out to them that as of yet I hadn’t seen the photos of the first victims and I hadn’t seen them in person. Agent Faulkner pulled out an envelope and began pulling out pictures, placing them on the table facing me.

“We’ve been made to understand that you are consulting on the case,” he said.

“Against my will,” I replied. “It’s obvious that I’m connected to this somehow and I have an alibi for the second killings but I’ll be damned if I know why.”

“You know about the surprise factor?” Borges asked.

“I do, and it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Look at the photos and tell me what you see.”

I did just that. One photo was of a couple, customer and working girl – both half-dressed and both shot in the head. Another was of a couple still in mid-clench. It didn’t even look like the guy had a chance to pull out.

“The angles of the bodies are all over the place,” I said, “and yet they’re all shot in the forehead. Even the couple still in the clench. The shooter got in between them and shot them both? How the hell is that possible?”

“We have a theory about that, but I’ll admit that it’s odd.” Borges said. “Take a look at the exit wounds.”

I did for a moment and noticed for the first time something that I hadn’t noticed at the Pacific Heights house. “They’re all uniform,” I said.

“They are,” replied Faulkner.

“What about the slugs?”

“There were no slugs to recover.”

And at that moment it suddenly occurred to me something I should have considered at the first crime scene. “There were no bullet holes in the walls,” I said. “Not in the doors, not anywhere. This guy is fucking Houdini!”

“Let’s assume he’s not, but that he is one smart bastard,” Borges said. “So think it through. No exterior damage beyond the bodies. He not only polices his brass but the slugs. He manages to surprise every victim, despite shooting many people at almost exactly the same time.”

“I know I smelled gunpowder at the first scene,” I noted. “But that might be about something else. Has pathology confirmed that these people were actually shot?”

“Not yet,” Faulkner replied. “You’re headed in the right direction though.”

“Some kind of specialized weapon? Is anyone missing something special?”

“That’s being checked,” Borges said, “but something that could do this that would be developed through official channels would be so deeply black ops that we would probably never find out.”

“So pursue the avenues you can,” I finished for him. “You’re looking for an inventor.”

Borges actually smiled. “Got it in one,” he said.

“So,” Faulkner chimed in, “do you know any?”

I shook my head. “Yeah, I do.”