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suicide in her prison cell only three years ago, after nearly killing Sara Sidle. Resurrected in effigy, she tended to her gruesome dollhouse with meticulous care, an inscrutable smile upon her bland, unassuming features. Catherine was glad that she hadn’t assigned Sara to this call.
    â€œTell me about it,” Nick agreed. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Is it just me, or does this place remind you of Millander?”
    Paul Millander, another notorious serial killer in their past, had manufactured grisly Halloween novelties for a living, churning out severed rubber heads, arms, hands, and feet, some of which he’d used to plant bogus prints and impressions at crime scenes. He’d also managed to produce several genuine corpses before the CSIs had finally brought him to justice. Like Natalie Davis, he had ultimately cheated the executioner by taking his own life.
    â€œNo,” Catherine said. “You’re not the only one.”
    Now was no time for a trip down memory lane, however. She mentally shoved the disturbing recollections into the past. Millander and the Miniature Killer were dead. She had a new case to focus on. Scanning the lobby, Catherine noted a conspicuous gap in one line of figures. An empty pedestal was positioned between John Wayne Gacy and Lizzie Borden.
    Wonder who used to be there?
    Another cop met them at the end of the carpet and escorted them to the actual site of the shooting, which turned out to be a back office behind the bar. The body of the victim lay on his back on the floor.The front of his blue coveralls was soaked in blood. The clotted stains were still shiny and damp, indicating that the blood had been spilled in the last few hours. A gunshot wound in his chest left little doubt as to the cause of death. A hockey mask lay near his head. Blood spatter stained the walls and furniture. An untouched void on the desktop indicated the possible location of the shooter. Catherine winced at the sight of smeared red footprints all around the body; too many people seemed to have stomped all over the evidence. A single bullet hole could be seen in the wall by the door.
    A chainsaw rested on the carpet about a yard from the body. Catherine did a double take at the incongruous power tool.
    And was that an iron maiden in the corner?
    What the hell?
    Captain Jim Brass was already on the job, along with David Phillips, the assistant medical examiner. Dave appeared to have completed his preliminary examination of the victim, and was now waiting for Catherine and her team to release the body. Both he and Brass were keeping their distance from the corpse to avoid disturbing the blood and footprints more than they already were. Catherine appreciated their caution, but was not surprised. The two men had been working hand-in-hand with the crime lab for over a decade now; Brass had even supervised the forensics unit for a time before returning to his true calling as a detective. They knew the drill.
    â€œWelcome to the house of wax,” Brass greeted them, looking and sounding nothing like Vincent Price. A Jersey accent testified to his roots in Hoboken.A dour, hangdog face conveyed the impression that few things surprised him anymore. A star-shaped badge was pinned to the lapel of a tan sport coat.
    â€œWhat did we miss?” Catherine asked.
    Brass pulled out his notebook. “The victim is Matt Novak, an actor on the show. According to multiple witnesses, who were filming the whole thing from the next room, Novak surprised the shooter, one Jill Wooten, as part of a hidden-camera stunt. She surprised him by pulling out a gun and putting a bullet into his chest before anybody could say ‘cut.’” He put the notebook away. “Guess his performance was a little too convincing.”
    â€œTalk about dying for your art,” Catherine said. She peeled off her winter gloves and replaced them with thin white latex. “And the chainsaw?”
    â€œA noisy