investigation by having all the teams chasing whatever lead catches their fancy. It’s a cooperative effort, not a competition.”

Jack’s gaze slid my way. “Yeah. You’re right. Time to team up. On strategy. Investigate separately. But plan together.”

I expected Quinn to find a way to argue, but instead he smiled and relaxed.

“Thank God,” he said. “And thank you. Now maybe we can make some progress, because Felix and I are just spinning our wheels. What about Sid and Shadow? I tried calling them yesterday, but they aren’t answering the page.”

“Same here.”

Felix was approaching the table and overheard. “So either they’ve been arrested or they’ve changed their mind about doing this. Either is equally likely, I’m afraid, and little we can do about it, whichever it is. We’ll continue trying to contact them, but for now we’ll have to presume our investigation is down to four.”

“Five,” Jack said. “Evelyn’s in.”

Felix handed out our cans. “So you did manage to secure her participation. Excellent. Can we contact her with research questions?”

Jack nodded. They talked for a moment. As they did, I realized Jack sounded…odd. Had since we’d first met Quinn and Felix at the hospital, though it was only really obvious now, as he spoke more. It took a second to figure out what was different. Then it hit. The accent—or lack of it. Since meeting the others, he’d swallowed that trace of a brogue, as he did whenever we were out. With Evelyn, he let himself fall back into it. Everyone else got a standard undefinable American accent.

Quinn popped open his can. “Back to the case. The DNA is a match. That’s confirmed, so the question is, how did Moreland do it?”

“He didn’t,” Jack said.

I could see Quinn’s hackles rise, and jumped in. “It’s unlikely Moreland did it. He’s a diagnosed disorganized schizophrenic. If he did commit the murders, they’d be more like Manson’s. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s an ironclad ‘no way,’ but combined with the problem of getting out of the hospital for each murder…”

“Damned near impossible,” Quinn said, nodding. “Feds are bound to figure that out soon.”

“So the hair was a plant,” Felix said. “Quite clever. Exceedingly clever, in fact, requiring only a hospital visit, and a plucked arm hair, strategically placed as trace evidence. I’ll have to remember that one. So, I suppose this puts us back to the proverbial square one. Shall we compare leads and set out again, then?”

“Not yet,” Jack said. “Wait for the fallout. See which way it blows. Shouldn’t take long.”

To Jack, “waiting for fallout” did not mean waiting as a group. He wanted to separate, then discuss leads by phone after Quinn found out what the Feds were doing about Moreland. Felix seemed inclined to agree, but Quinn argued that it made little sense when morning—and news—would be here soon enough. We should separate for the night, but reunite at breakfast so we could discuss our next steps together.

I understood Jack’s concern. Spending as little time together as possible made sense. But after mulling it over for a few minutes, he agreed that breakfast—in our hotel room—should be safe enough. He’d contact them later with the address.

* * *

HSK

He stood in the stand of trees, binoculars trained on the front entrance to the psychiatric hospital. The agents had gone in that way, so he presumed they’d exit there, too, but every few seconds, he’d scan over to the other doors as well, just to be sure.

He’d taken the hair from Moreland months ago and stored it. Then he’d planted it on a scene, to support his later claim to be the son of Charles Manson. Whether it went further than that was supposed to depend on whether he’d need Moreland as a scapegoat. If he did, Moreland would die, in an apparent suicide, but not before confessing to the crimes. As for how a psychiatric patient had managed to commit them, that would be up to the Feds to puzzle out, formulating a theory to fit the evidence.

But now he’d had to use Moreland in a very different way, and couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He’d liked the Manson angle. It had served him well.

Back in 1969, when the Manson murders hit the news, he’d been just starting as a hitman, making the transition from stealing goods to stealing lives. Like most people, he’d followed the case with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Yet in his case, it was revulsion at the killer’s mistakes, and fascination at the