“Sure, Lieutenant,” a serious-looking woman said.

Martinez led Tatum out and down the corridor. Once they were far enough out of earshot, Tatum stopped.

“Listen,” he said. “Your profiler is useless. Fire him.”

“I’m sorry?” Martinez asked, tensing.

“I doubt he has any real experience. He—”

“Dr. Bernstein is well known in this area, Agent,” Martinez said coldly. “He’s the number one media expert on serial killers in Chicago.”

A media expert. Of course. Tatum shook his head. “Listen, maybe he’s good enough for the media, but—”

“Are you a profiler, Agent Gray?”

“All FBI agents are trained as profilers,” Tatum said.

“But do you have actual experience as a profiler?”

“No, but—”

“Dr. Bernstein does. He’s personally interviewed John Wayne Gacy and written a book about it. He’s frequently hired as an expert witness on sexual murders. Trust me—he knows more than you or I ever will about serial killers.”

“Serial killers don’t go back to the crime scene because of guilt or desire for fame, Lieutenant, no matter what your profiler thinks,” Tatum said, irritated. “They go back to recall the crime and masturbate. Your killer might go back to one of the crime scenes this very night to relieve himself, and if you’d only stake out the—”

“We don’t have the manpower to stake out the crime scenes,” Martinez said. “No offense, but this is exactly why I was hesitant in involving the bureau. You storm in here, take over the investigation with your patronizing manner and offensive tone—what next? Will you tell the media how inept we are?”

“I’m sorry,” Tatum said, apologizing yet again. “I’ve had a long night. I’ve hardly slept. You’re right, of course; I was out of line. I assure you the FBI wants these coordinated efforts to work well.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t have sent you then,” Martinez said.

Tatum wholeheartedly agreed.

Tatum leaned back in his chair and sighed. He felt cramped and slightly claustrophobic. The special task force headed by Lieutenant Martinez had been created specifically for the current serial killings, and the team was cobbled together from detectives from various units in the Chicago PD Bureau of Detectives. The room they’d been assigned felt as if it had been similarly cobbled. It was a decent size for a living room but quite small when it came to housing six detectives and a desk for Dr. Bernstein. Now they had to create extra space for Tatum as well, and they managed it, but not in a way that was particularly welcoming. His desk was positioned in the room’s corner, a file cabinet behind him and the room’s watercooler just to his right. When he moved the chair slightly backward, he inevitably collided with the cabinet, emitting a loud clang.

As the day went by, the detectives around him talked and joked with each other, went to lunch together, and pointedly ignored him.

He suddenly yearned to be one of them. How had he gotten here? A job in an agency that didn’t appreciate him, in a department he didn’t want to be a part of, with no friends and a superior who distrusted him.

And a bunch of self-pity to boot. Disgusting. People would give their left kidney to be an FBI agent and their right one to be in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Except that would be counterproductive. Having at least one functioning kidney was a requirement for all FBI agents, he was pretty sure of it.

He saved the report he was working on. He had spent the entire day going over the autopsies of the two victims, talking to the medical examiner, and discussing the case with the detectives assigned to it. The task force was actually on the right track—or had been, up until three days ago. The first thing he had to do was to help them get back on course. He had a vague idea how to do it. He took out his phone, about to call the chief, when he saw the notification of four unread messages. He opened them—all four were from Marvin.

Where is the cat food?

Never mind found it.

That wasn’t the cat food but he likes it.

I think the cat is ill, he vomited in the living room. The fish is fine.

Tatum groaned and wrote back that the cat food was in the leftmost cupboard in the kitchen. He wondered what Marvin had been feeding Freckle and decided that any answer to that would only make him feel worse. Scrolling down his contacts, he located the contact Christine Mancuso and pressed the call button.

She answered after a few seconds. “Hello?”

“It’s Tatum.” He looked around him. The room was currently empty; all the detectives were either somewhere else or had gone home.

“I know.”

“Right. Okay, listen. The guys here are fine. The lieutenant in charge is pretty sharp, they have a decent task force working on those murders, and they were doing well until recently.”

“And then what happened?”

“They hired a profiler.”

“Ah.”

“This guy is spouting serial killer clichés at an alarming rate. He seems to be the media expert on serial killers in Chicago, and his face is familiar enough that the detectives are happy to follow his lead. He’s wasting the time and resources of the investigation, and they’re paying him to do so.”

“Did you tell them that?” Mancuso asked.