Free Ashes to Ashes by Tami Hoag

as Quinn came toward her.
    “Kate.”
    She glared at him and jerked her arm away as he moved to take hold of her.
    “Thanks for your help,” he said softly, ducking his head in that way he had that made him seem boyish and contrite when he was neither.
    “Yeah, right. Can I have the cervical collar concession tomorrow when you march in here and tell them to challenge this son of a bitch in order to trap him?”
    He blinked innocently. “I don't know what you mean, Kate. You know as well as I do how important it is to be proactive in a situation like this—when the time is right.”
    She wanted to ask him if he was talking about the killer or the politicians, but she stopped herself. Quinn's proactive theories extended to all aspects of his life.
    “Don't play your little mind games with me, John,” she whispered bitterly. “I didn't mean to help you. I didn't offer you anything. You took, and I don't appreciate it. You think you can just manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard.”
    “The end justified the means.”
    “It always does, doesn't it?”
    “You know I was right.”
    “Funny, but that doesn't make you seem any less of a jerk to me.” She took a step back toward the door. “Excuse me. I've got a job to do. You want to make power plays, you leave me out of the game plan, thank you very much.”
    “Good to see you too, Kate,” he murmured as she walked away, thick red-gold hair swinging softly across her back.
    It struck Quinn only belatedly that she had a nasty bruise on her cheek and a split lip. He'd seen her as he remembered her: as an ex-friend's wife . . . as the only woman he'd ever truly loved.

6
                     

CHAPTER
    THE CROWD IS large. The Twin Cities are overrun with reporters. Two major daily newspapers, half a dozen television stations, radio stations too numerous to keep track of. And the story has brought in still more reporters from other places.
    He has captured their attention. He relishes the sense of power that brings. The
sounds
in particular excite him—the urgent voices, the angry voices, the scuffle of feet, the whirl of camera motor drives.
    He wishes he hadn't waited so long to go public. His first murders were private, hidden, far between in both time and space, the bodies left buried in shallow graves. This is so much better.
    The reporters jockey for position. Videographers and photographers set the perimeter of the gathering. Blinding artificial lights give the setting an other-worldly white glow. He stands just outside the media pack with the other spectators, caught on the fringe of a headline.
    The mayor takes the podium. The spokeswoman for the community expressing the collective moral outrage against senseless acts of violence. The county attorney parrots the mayor's remarks and promises punishment. The chief of police makes a statement regarding the formation of a task force.
    They take no questions, even though the reporters are clamoring for confirmation of the victim's identity and for the gruesome details of the crime, like scavengers drooling for the chance to pick the carcass after the predator's feast. They bark out questions, shout the word
decapitation
. There are rumors of a witness.
    The idea of someone watching the intimacy of his acts excites him. He believes any witness to his acts would be aroused by those acts, as he was. Aroused in a way just beyond understanding, as he had been as a child locked in the closet, listening to his mother having sex with men he didn't know. Arousal instinctively known as forbidden, irrepressible just the same.
    Questions and more questions from the media.
    No answers. No comment.
    He sees John Quinn standing off to one side among a group of cops, and feels a rush of pride. He is familiar with Quinn's reputation, his theories. He has seen him on television, read articles about him. The FBI has sent their best for the Cremator.
    He wants the agent to take the podium, wants to hear his voice