He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, had long brown hair and blue eyes. He doesn’t kill prostitutes or the homeless, people who wouldn’t be missed. He only goes after white, middle-class victims.”
    “Go on,” Logan said. He knew the profile, had read it dozens of times, but hearing it again might make him think of something, an angle he hadn’t thought of before.
    Pierce sighed and continued. “He’s probably blue-collar, or if he’s white-collar it’s in a low-paying job. Either that job gives him opportunities to travel, or he quits and easily finds another similar job in any town he lives.”
    “Like a waiter?” Logan asked.
    “Or a truck driver?” Riley said, his voice holding an edge of excitement.
    They all stopped, ignoring the hostile looks of the growing throng of neighbors thirty feet away.
    “Exactly like a truck driver,” Pierce said. “You have something?”
    Riley glanced back and forth between Pierce and Logan. “Frank Branson is a truck driver.”
    S ince attempts to locate Frank Branson had failed so far, Logan had decided to embark on a different search. He moved down a row of rusty filing cabinets in the first-floor storage room in the city hall annex. He’d overheard some admin assistants talking about the warehouse fire that had happened, saying they were glad their invoices were stored downstairs. Logan was anxious to take a look and see if any of the police department’s case files were also down here. It was a long shot, but he had to try one last time for a copy of the Northwood file.
    Solving that case had become an obsession, he knew it. But he also knew he was better at solving cases when he let his subconscious work on them. Sometimes he needed another case to review to help him get his mind off the current case. That’s when the patterns started making sense. That’s how he’d solved the Metzger case. He couldn’t think of another old case file he’d rather study right now than the case he’d screwed up.
    With the disastrous warehouse fire fresh in his mind, he’d decided to search the storage room by himself. At this point, he didn’t trust anyone.
    Stopping at a cabinet marked “property of SFPD,” he yanked the drawer open and started thumbing through the files. Five drawers later with nothing to show for his efforts, he moved to the next cabinet. The rusty metal drawer screeched its displeasure as he forced it open. Dust flew up from the top and he waved impatiently to clear the cloud out of his way.
    “What are you doing down here, Chief Richards? Is there something I can help you with?” His secretary’s sensible pumps echoed on the concrete floor after she descended the last of the stairs into the storage room. Mabel’s gnarled hands were wrapped around an open-topped box full of computer printouts.
    Logan hurried forward and took the box from her. “You shouldn’t carry something this heavy, let alone down those stairs. Have one of the men do that for you.”
    “Bah,” she grumbled. “I’ve been going up and down those stairs longer than you’ve been alive. Haven’t managed to fall yet and don’t plan to.” She raised a perfectly plucked, bluish-gray brow. “Put that box over there against the wall and tell me why you’re snooping around down here without asking for my help.”
    He carried the box to the spot where she’d pointed, careful to hide his grin at her scolding. When he turned around, she was thumbing through the files in the drawer he’d coaxed open.
    “I can’t imagine what you’d find interesting in old expense reports,” she said. “I’ve got a whole cabinet full of requisition requests and travel reimbursement invoices that are much more interesting.”
    “I wasn’t looking for expense reports,” he admitted.
    She crossed her arms. “You don’t say.”
    “I was hoping to find a copy of an old case file that burned up in the warehouse fire.”
    “Then you’ve come to the right place. The backups are over here.” Her puffy blue hair bounced in rhythm to the click of her heels as she headed to the far side of the cavernous room.
    “Backups? I thought the warehouse had the backups.” He rushed across the room and joined her beside a wall lined with more rusty metal file cabinets.
    She huffed and stared at him over the top of her glasses. “I never agreed with putting my files in that moldy firetrap. Of course I have backups. Now, which file are you interested in? I’ll find it a lot faster than you