Brannigan drove his rented Camry under moonlit skies above the Anacostia River in Washington, D.C. while Paulan rode shotgun with a large cherry Slurpee in one hand and his phone with the navigation on in the other.

Paulan sucked on his straw hard enough to collapse it. “Take a right at the light, then go left at the next intersection.”

“Are you done with that thing? You sound like a vacuum with a broken hose.”

“All the juice is gone. I can’t suck the ice through the straw.”

“Then take the lid off and scoop it.”

“I can’t scoop and navigate at the same time. And I’m starving.”

Brannigan made a slow turn onto the next side street. “There’s a Chinese place near here that will blow your vegan balls off.”

Paulan spoke with forced restraint, his eyes squinting tightly at Brannigan. “As appetizing as that sounds, I’d rather prepare food at home.”

Brannigan shook his head. “Give me the address one more time.”

“Four-zero-seven Bangor Street.”

Brannigan turned off his headlights. “Dim the screen or put the phone away.” He hugged the curb a block away from a chain link fence outside a red brick townhouse. It boasted broken concrete steps and sagging power lines suspended from the roof to a crooked, weather-beaten utility pole stapled with paper flyers. “You sure we have the right address?”

“Positive. But this house looks vacant.” Paulan pulled the lid off his Slurpee and put the cup to his mouth, tapping the bottom to dislodge the frozen concoction. “I’ll tell you what,” he mumbled through cold teeth, “Faith Galloway’s a ghost. Her tax returns point to a dummy corporation. Her social security number is bogus. I can’t find any credit or utilities in her name.”

Brannigan adjusted his shoulder holster. “Ronald Neyman fled to Maryland to pursue Faith and Mira for a reason.”

“But why? He’s been confined to Hudson Psychiatric for the better part of a decade. What drives him to pursue the same two women after all these years?”

“Because time is inconsequential to him. Ten days, ten months, or ten years. He’s still drawn to Faith and Mira.”

“Despite no sexual disposition toward these women?”

Brannigan searched his pocket to find an empty gum pack. “His obsession with these women runs deeper than a lustful urge or a desire to sexually dominate. Bondage, rape, or any other sexual perversion doesn’t fit his MO. His fantasy involves inserting himself into their lives to instill fear. He thrives on his need to possess and control his victims. His torture is psychological, not physical.”

“How could someone with his limited intelligence stage a skydiving accident, assuming he was involved? And why not kill his victims outright the way so many perpetrators do? For that matter, what prompted him to attempt their murders in the first place?”

Brannigan crumpled his empty gum pack. “Because Neyman wanted to control them.”

“So he wanted them to suffer?”

“Not necessarily. At least not in the physical sense. He wanted them to accept their death was imminent, and nothing they could do would prevent it.”

Paulan chewed on one end of the Slurpee straw. “He’s also killed five other people that we’re aware of, suggesting he’s capable of more than obsessive stalking. He kills without remorse like Bundy, Kemper, or Dahmer.”

“Not necessarily,” Brannigan corrected his junior partner. “Neyman’s recent killings were compulsive. A means to an end. Neyman isn’t driven to kill for the sake of killing. He wants something from Faith and Mira.” Brannigan looked through the car window at the townhouse outside. “Where are we on the Jenkins’ wiretap?”

“The judge approved it, but so far, Jenkins has been radio silent. He could have switched to a prepaid phone. We’ve got Neyman’s face in every federal, state, and local law enforcement database from New York to Florida. Savant or not, he’ll make a mistake eventually. They all do.”

“We can’t wait for eventually.” Brannigan viewed his side-view mirror to see the headlight configuration of a late model Mustang parked a few hundred feet away. “Where are you with Neyman’s juvenile records?”

“The same place I was the last three times you asked me. I’m still waiting for the judge to unseal them.”

“What about our retired detective in Arizona?”

“He’s not returning my calls.”

“Then fly out tomorrow and track him down. This detective was the last cop to interview Neyman since his confinement to Hudson Psychiatric. I’m hoping he can shed some light.”

Paulan shoved his straw back through the Slurpee lid. “Neyman’s crimes appear organized and disorganized at the same time. His psychological, interpersonal, and neuropsychological features suggest he’s insane.”

“Depends on your definition. I believe he understands right from wrong. I also believe his crimes are attributed to mental defects.” Brannigan paused when the Mustang approached from his side-view mirror, prompting him to reach for his gun. When the car drove past, he took his hand off the rubber grip. “The majority of people with psychiatric disorders don’t commit acts of violence. They are usually the victims, not the perpetrators. Neyman is a mixed offender. His methods vary from one crime to another. Jenkins claims Neyman suffers from schizophrenic hallucinations and paranoid delusions. Most diagnosed schizophrenics are prone to outbursts of violence more impulsive than premeditated. The murder of Garrett Smitts and Darrell Jordan appeared sloppy and impulsive on the surface, but—”

“Stealing a janitor’s badge and escorting himself from Hudson Psychiatric in an ambulance took forethought and careful planning.”

“Absolutely. So did staging a skydiving tragedy to look like an accident, which suggests Neyman’s reasoning skills are too organized to fit a textbook schizophrenia definition.”

Paulan nodded. “Why didn’t he kill the paramedics who treated him?”

“Because he didn’t have to. He used them to meet his needs and moved on.”

“What about the truck driver?”

“Neyman felt threatened. Most likely at knife point. He killed out of self-preservation.”

“What about Jon Bradford and his girlfriend Tracy Stevenson? Wrong place, wrong time?”

“Based on their preliminary autopsies, I’m not convinced Neyman meant to kill either one of them. Jon Bradford’s head injuries were consistent with a slip and fall on the ice. Tracy Stevenson was hit by an oncoming car when she attempted to run away.”

“From a killer with a knife.”

Brannigan gestured with his hands. “Witness statements claim Tracy ran in front of traffic unprovoked.”

“You’re saying Neyman’s not a psychopath?”

“Not necessarily. Psychopathy exists on a continuum. True psychopaths are unreliable, irresponsible, and unpredictable. Their actions are often motivated by the need for thrills and excitement, which Neyman indulges by stalking Faith and Mira.”

Paulan waved his hands in front of Brannigan. “Then why try to kill them? And why bother to make it look like an accident?”

Brannigan grabbed his door handle. “That’s what we have to find out.”

Paulan brandished his duty weapon and followed Brannigan outside the car to the concrete steps in front of the middle townhouse with a solid red door and dead leaves partly buried in a patch of dirty snow. He peered inside the front bay window with open blinds. “No lights on. This place looks vacant.”

Brannigan pushed the doorbell button but heard nothing. “The power’s out.”

He turned the doorknob and found the entrance unlocked. He drew his weapon and shined his flashlight inside the empty townhouse. Greeted by a foul odor, he panned the light and saw the charred remnants of a makeshift cooking fire from an empty gallon paint can. Broken crack pipes littered the floor covered in dirty shoe prints and soiled blankets. He bent down and felt the paint can warm to the touch. “Someone’s been here recently.”

Paulan searched the filthy, squatter’s den. “I’m guessing we can rule out Dr. Galloway.”

Brannigan shined the flashlight in front of him. “Watch your step. There could be needles.”

Paulan kept his Glock pointed down. “According to county records, this house was sold recently.”

Brannigan aimed the flashlight toward an adjacent room with an empty fireplace and a hole in the wall roughly the size of an errant fist. He took his phone out when it rang, unaware of the figure lurking inside the adjacent room. “Yeah?” He listened a moment.

“When? Are you sure?” He motioned for Paulan to leave. “We’re on our way.”

“What happened?” Paulan asked.

“Alexandria Police found Daniel Streak dead in his apartment.”

* * *

Brannigan drove Paulan to Daniel Streak’s address and presented his badge to the officers outside the building, where groups of residents huddled together while a local news reporter and her cameraman jockeyed for a better view. “We need to speak with the detective on scene.”

“He’s canvassing for witnesses,” an Alexandria officer replied.

“Who found the body?”

“My partner and I caught a domestic disturbance call about an hour ago. Neighbors said they heard someone screaming in the apartment down the hall from them. We found a male DOA inside.”

“Alone?” Paulan asked.

“Affirmative. It looked like someone tossed the place pretty hard.”

Brannigan gazed at the audience behind him, searching for anyone who appeared out of place. “Has crime scene been here?”

“Not yet. They’re jammed up with a triple homicide.”

Brannigan led Paulan upstairs to Daniel Streak’s apartment. Inside, they found Daniel Streak bound to a chair with his head tilted back and his eyes bulging out of his skull. A trail of blood and stomach contents spilled down his neck and chest.

Paulan covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Hold your liquor,” Brannigan chided. He observed an empty drain cleaner bottle and whiffed the toxic vapors emanating from the chemical residue. “Nasty stuff.” He scanned the room, which was in amazing disarray. “Someone was looking for something.”

Paulan found a leather wallet with Daniel’s driver’s license and small denomination bills. “They weren’t after his money. Any chance Ronald Neyman was involved?”

Brannigan shook his head. “This killing was deliberate. Personal. Brutal.”

“Tell that to our one-eyed trucker in the morgue.” Paulan showed Brannigan a bus ticket with Daniel Streak’s name on it. “I found this near the wallet.”

Brannigan read the destination city. “Portland’s a long way from home.” He studied the crime scene from a killer’s perspective. “Streak was tortured for something he had knowledge of or something in his possession.”

“The gas station video caught a tall Caucasian male in a dark hoodie paying cash for fuel. What if Daniel Streak used the stolen credit card on purpose and sent us chasing him in lieu of Neyman, while Neyman drove off in Jon Bradford’s truck with different plates?”

Brannigan pondered the assertion. “Streak seemed nervous but not surprised to see me when I confronted him at gunpoint. Maybe Streak and Neyman are connected somehow. What else did you find on Daniel Streak?”

Paulan reviewed the notes on his phone. “Not much. Thirty-two-year-old Maryland resident. No criminal history. His truck was impounded and searched, but no evidence recovered to suggest he had any connection with Ronald Neyman. Streak has a history of mental illness but no record of involuntary confinement. He was fired from his IT employer three months ago and lives alone on disability insurance.”

“Disability from what?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Then find out.”

Paulan followed Brannigan toward the back of the apartment to inspect the bathroom.

Brannigan opened the medicine cabinet and read the label on a haloperidol prescription with Daniel’s name. He found a different prescription bottle tucked behind it. “Streak was taking antipsychotic medication. This stuff is mostly used to treat schizophrenia and bipolar disorders.”

“What about the other bottle?”

Brannigan read the label, from Lindquist Pharmaceuticals. “I don’t recognize this drug.” He gave Paulan the bottle of haloperidol. “This is interesting. Check out the prescribing doctor.”

Paulan read the label. “Faith Galloway.”

“Call the pharmacy that filled the script. See if they have a recent address for her. Hopefully one we haven’t covered already. Keep pressing for Neyman’s juvenile records and fly out to Arizona to interview our retired detective. I’ll circle back to the convalescent home to re-interview Margaret Galloway.”

“You think she’ll talk to you?”

“Maybe if I ask the right questions.”