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through to Sergeant Dennis Warfield, the daytime watch commander. Over the years, Jack had dealt with Warfield on a number of homicide cases. Common acquaintances, Jack would always say.
    “Tell me, Jack, which offender are you looking for?”
    “Alvin Franklin Cooper.”
    There was a pause before Dennis responded. “I guess the Feds really are watching everything you do.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Alvin Cooper, model prisoner of the State for nearly five years, granted work furlough status for the past three months with no problems?”
    Jack had a bad feeling where this was going.
    “Three days ago, Mr. Cooper failed to return from work furlough. Between you and me, the guard gave Cooper the evening to report back, trying not to get him in trouble. Thought he was just running late. That evening’s bed count came up one short and the guard knew he was screwed. Cooper’s on the lam.”
    Jack slouched down in his chair and shook his head. “Just my luck.”
    “I don’t get it. Cooper had less than a couple years left. He lucked into a work furlough program. He was low maintenance here.”
    “What are you doing to find him?”
    “I got the state fugitive team out looking for him. It’s not that unusual; we get walkaways like this. In the end they usually get caught.”
    Jack sighed.
    “Why you looking for him anyway?” Dennis asked.

    “Nothing significant. We just found out that Mr. Cooper may be a serial killer.”

4
     

    Tuesday –
7:32 a.m.
     

    The man in the blue-gray windbreaker sat low in the driver’s seat of his car as he watched Paul Baker unlock and enter a Chrysler 300 sedan parked in the driveway. The man had been watching the Baker house from a few houses down the street since yesterday evening when he followed Paul Baker home from the bank. From where he was parked, he could see anyone coming and going. That morning, Paul Baker was the first to leave.
    He reached for his binoculars and leveled them up to his eyes, watching the Chrysler back down the driveway. A small digital camera rested next to his leg. He one-handed the camera, aimed it out the window, pointing it in Paul Baker’s direction and snapped off a few shots. His gazed followed the Chrysler as it coasted to a stop, then lurched forward accelerating past him. When the car crested the top of the street and fell out of sight, the man let out a deep sigh and stretched.
    After following him home, the man had contemplated all night how he was going to get in and get out of the house without any trouble.
    He lifted the binoculars back to his eyes. The house fell into focus but the windows were nothing more than black squares. He couldn’t see what was going on inside. He wished Mrs. Baker would leave. Maybe run some errands, go grocery shopping. Go to the store to get her sick daughter cough medicine. By his calculations, he needed ten minutes—fifteen tops—to get in and do what he needed to do.
    The early morning sun crawled high into the sky. The inside of the car was starting to heat up. His body was pressed snuggly against his vinyl seats, causing beads of sweat to form and roll down his back, dripping around his waistline. The mixture of heat and perspiration made the interior of his vehicle feel like a sauna. The man cracked the window, felt a puff of air gently slap him across the face; it wasn’t any cooler than inside his car. He dragged a shirtsleeve across his face to clear the sweat from his eyes, then forced himself to find a comfortable position. This was not the first time he had sat in front of a house, watching, observing, stalking. It was the waiting part he disliked the most. But in the end, it always paid off.
    By ten in the morning, he saw the front door open. Mrs. Baker stepped out of the house with a purse swinging from her arm and a set of car keys rattling in her hand. He recognized her from the photo. A tiny woman, slender. He instinctively raised the camera again and clicked off another series of