If Chet McCloskey hadn't been so damn soft hearted, someone else would've discovered the body.

The middle aged Chicago truck driver had run his early morning route thirteen days in a row and was looking forward to having the next day off and being able to sleep in long past his usual three a.m. wakeup call. He had just finished eating some leftover pizza and was settling back in his easy chair with a bottle of beer when the phone rang.

It was his old buddy and fellow driver Rocky Generro, sounding frantic. His wife had been rushed to the hospital with a ruptured appendix. She was going to be okay, but Rocky wanted to spend the next day with her. He hated to ask on such short notice, but four other relief drivers had already turned him down. Could Chet possibly take over his route tomorrow?

McCloskey protested. He was beat. He had other plans. Wasn't there anyone else? No one. Generro pleaded. It was a short route. Chet would be done long before noon. Wouldn't he reconsider? Oh, all right, McCloskey grumbled. He'd do it. He wished Rocky's wife a speedy recovery, then finished his beer, let the dogs out to do their job, and went to bed. Three o'clock would come all too soon.

The stop at St. Michael's Catholic Elementary School was midway through Rocky's route. St. Michael's was a three story red brick structure in a solidly middle class neighborhood about two miles south of Chicago's loop. McCloskey had finished unloading the cases of bread, hamburger and hot dog buns, and assorted sundries which the cafeteria workers would use for that day's luncheon and had just started backing his truck out of the alley next to the school when he caught a glimpse of something sticking out from behind a dumpster straight ahead of him.

What was that? McCloskey squinted. It looked like red fur. Must be a dog. Maybe a collie. He stopped the truck, flicked on his bright lights, and squinted again. Yup, it was definitely some kind of animal.

McCloskey was anxious to finish the route and head home for some badly needed shut eye. But then he thought of Lady and Tramp, the two fat cocker spaniels that eagerly awaited his arrival home every afternoon and decided what the hell was a few more minutes. This must be his day to play good samaritan. He put the truck in park and reached under the seat for his Coleman flashlight. With the truck's engine still idling, its headlights pointing toward the dumpster, he opened the door, eased his bulk out of the seat, and slowly began to walk forward, shining the flashlight in front of him.

It was a chilly morning in late April, and a light covering of ground fog gave the beam of light an erie glow. McCloskey tucked his red plaid flannel shirt into his khaki colored work pants and snapped his red quilted vest shut over his gut. Not knowing whether he might confront a sick or wounded animal, he began to speak in soothing tones as he approached.

"Are you hurt, boy? It's all right. Let's take a look at you. Just lay still. That's a good boy."

When McCloskey reached the side of the dumpster, he cautiously directed the light toward the red fur and blinked hard, trying to bring the sight into better focus. "Oh, Jesus!" he gasped, recoiling in horror. "Oh, God, no!" What had looked like fur was a shock of auburn hair. On the ground in front of him was the body of a woman.

McCloskey broke out in a cold sweat. His first impulse was to run, but he suppressed it. Better make sure she was dead, although there didn't seem to be much question about that. Stepping forward again, he nervously leaned down to get a better look.

She was lying on her back, her arms close to her sides. Trembling, McCloskey focused the flashlight on her face. She was very young, no older than twenty. Her eyes were closed peacefully, as though she had merely decided to lie down on the pavement and take a catnap. Her face was pale and lightly freckled, and even in her present state, McCloskey could tell she was definitely a looker. Her long shiny hair was pulled back into a low ponytail held by a green bow. It was the end of the tail that had first caught his attention.

Slowly moving the flashlight's beam down her body, McCloskey saw that the white skin of her neck was badly bruised. She was wearing a green wool pullover sweater with a brown cotton turtleneck underneath. The sweater and turtleneck had been slit open from her collarbone to her waist. The clothing had been parted, and her breasts were exposed. There was a great deal of blood pooled on her chest and on the ground next to her. McCloskey felt his stomach roll, and for a moment he was sure he was going to vomit.

The girl's green and brown plaid skirt had been pulled up around her waist, and the crotch of her white filmy panties had been ripped, revealing a tuft of curly reddish hair. The flashlight beam lingered there a moment. Her legs were slightly spread apart. There was blood caked on her upper thighs and a lot more blood under her bottom. She was wearing green knee socks and brown loafers. One shoe was upside down about two feet to her left.

Swallowing hard, McCloskey bent down further and slowly stretched out a shaky hand to touch her cheek. She was cold and already slightly stiff. She had probably been dead for hours.

McCloskey straightened up and took a deep breath. Although he was not a religious man, he glanced across the street where the steeple of St. Michael's was illuminated by a spot light and quickly crossed himself before hurrying back to the truck. He heaved himself inside and for a moment just sat there, paralyzed. He took several more deep breaths, jammed the truck into reverse, and backed it out onto the street. He was so shaken that he didn't bother to check for traffic and had a near miss with a white Pontiac, whose occupant leaned on the horn and gave him the finger. With tires squealing, McCloskey sped three blocks north on Halsted until he found a pay phone from which he called 911.

By the time the first streaks of daylight were beginning to break through the fog, the police had nearly finished securing the crime scene.

Detective Lieutenant Mike O'Riley, Chicago Police Dept. Homicide Division, the senior officer on hand, stared silently at the body as the department photographer clicked off shot after shot. As he gazed at the lifeless form, O'Riley's pulse quickened with the dual sensations of anger and sadness that he always felt at homicide scenes. Even after thirty years on the force, murders still bugged the hell out of him. Whenever he was confronted with a new victim, particularly one this young and pretty, he wanted to make sure the bastard that did it never got the opportunity to inflict similar harm on someone else. Maybe that's why he'd stayed in the job so long. The pay and the working conditions were sure nothing to write home about.

At age fifty-eight, O'Riley's five feet ten inch frame remained lean and hard, his eyes clear and deep blue. As he continued to watch the team of officers efficiently go about their duties, he unconsciously rubbed his right thigh. The damn thing was numb again. In his third year on the force, he had been wounded while making an arrest for armed robbery and had been left with a slight limp that was only noticeable when he was tired or rundown. This morning's call had roused him out of a sound sleep, and he hadn't been able to do his normal five miles on his stationary bike. As a result, his leg was seized up. He'd have to try to find time for some exercise when he got home.

O'Riley ran one hand through his closely cropped hair. It had been a flaming carrot color in his youth but in recent years had faded to a duller rust mixed liberally with gray.

Shit! I'm getting too old for this, he thought. He rubbed his right hand over his bristly cheek -- he hadn't taken time to shave -- and shrugged. He wouldn't be getting these pre-dawn calls much longer. In a little over three weeks he'd be retired and the city's endless round of murders and mayhem would be behind him. The only thing he'd have to worry about then would be if the fish were biting and if he had enough bait. Maybe he'd join one of those health clubs where he could use the sauna and whirlpool. That would be good for his leg. Hell, maybe he'd finally be able to quit smoking once he got out of this rat race.

Detective Greg Jablonski, a tall, blond man of thirty with two years' experience in Homicide, was bent intently over the body. When he straightened up, O'Riley asked casually, "Well, what do you think, Gregarious?"

O'Riley noted the slight clenching of the younger man's jaw with amusement. He knew Jablonski hated that nickname, so he made it a point to use it now and then. It helped keep the kid humble. "I'd say she died sometime before midnight," Jablonski responded.

O'Riley nodded. "What else?" he asked as he turned and began to walk toward the school with Jablonski following close behind.

"There's bruising around her neck. She was probably strangled till she was unconscious before he started carving her up."

"Go on," O'Riley prompted, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blue jacket.

Jablonski looked back at the body. "Two massive wounds to the chest that probably killed her, and some minor abdominal cutting. Also, we've got definite signs of sexual assault." "And does any of that look familiar?" O'Riley asked.

Jablonski nodded. "It sure does. The whole shebang is just exactly like what happened to that school teacher they found on the south side in early March. Plus, the two women look enough alike to be sisters."

"What'd you say?" The hair on the back of O'Riley's neck stood on end.

"I said we've got an unsolved prior by the name of Julie Santini who could be this girl's twin," Jablonski explained patiently. "If you didn't already know that, why were you baiting me with those dumb questions?"

O'Riley shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. "'Cos the answer I was fishing for is that this girl looks just like a Jane Doe we found off of Pulaski three weeks back. I didn't know anything about Santini."

Jablonski's eyes widened, but before he could reply, a uniformed patrolman standing near them spoke up. "I couldn't help but overhear," he said. "There was another girl that bought it over on Clark on Valentine's Day that was a dead ringer for this one, if you'll excuse the pun."

O'Riley could feel his blood pressure soar. "Shit!" he spat. "What's wrong with the goddamn communications in this department? You mean this is the fourth one with the same MO and nobody picked up the similarities till now? Jesus! What are we, still in the Stone Age?"

Jablonski's eyes grew wider. "Four of 'em." He emitted a low whistle. "Sounds like we got ourselves a repeater.

O'Riley looked at the young detective and frowned. "Wipe that shit eating grin off your face," he ordered crossly. "Discovering we might have a serial killer on the loose isn't exactly something to celebrate."

"I guess that depends how you look at it," Jablonski countered brightly. "It'll sure be one hell of a career boost for the guy who cracks this one."

Jablonski's intense ambition and eagerness to rise in the ranks of the Department at a meteoric rate had rubbed many senior officers, including O'Riley, the wrong way. But now that O'Riley was getting out, he found the younger man's unabashed enthusiasm rather amusing. "I hope you do crack it, Jablonski," he said, removing his right hand from his pocket and rubbing his thigh. "And after you do, I hope you get promoted to Superintendent. All I know is that it ain't gonna be my problem."

At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, both men turned. A young patrolman jogged towards them. He stopped short, out of breath, and swallowed hard.

O'Riley looked at him closely. According to the patch on his jacket, his name was Larson. The kid's face was white as a sheet. He must be a rookie. It took a while before you got over the feeling you were going to puke when you looked at a corpse. "What's the matter, son?" O'Riley asked kindly. "Did you find another body?"

The young man shook his head. "No. No, sir," he stammered. "But I found a witness a couple blocks over on Halsted, an old guy who said he was walking his dog around eleven last night when he saw a man running from this direction. He said the guy was really pumping, like he was either chasing somebody or being chased himself."

O'Riley's countenance brightened slightly. "Good work, Larson. Can the witness give us a description?"

Officer Larson swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, sir. He said he was tall, over six feet, had dark hair . . ." His voice trailed off. ". . . and he said he was wearing a policeman's uniform just like mine. He said he figured it was an officer in pursuit of a suspect, so he didn't think anything of it."

Shit! O'Riley thought, clenching his jaw. He gave the young patrolman a quick pat on the back. "All right, Larson. Get your witness to come down to headquarters later this morning to give a signed statement."

"Yes, sir." Officer Larson hurried off.

"What do you think of that?" Jablonski asked.

O'Riley rubbed his forehead. "I don't know what I think. I'll tell you after we get a statement."

"Yeah, but what's your gut reaction?" Jablonski pressed. "Do you think it could be a cop?"

"Right now, I think it could be anybody. . . including you," O'Riley answered curtly. He looked over at the school's parking lot. "It looks like some of the teachers are starting to arrive. Better get inside."

As Jablonski walked toward the school, O'Riley looked at his watch. It was nearly seven. Soon the sidewalks would be dotted with St. Michael's students arriving for morning classes. He had instructed Jablonski to remain behind to explain events to school authorities. O'Riley's oldest grandchild attended third grade in a westside suburb. Kids were so impressionable. He wished there were some way to spare them the sight of the yellow Crime Scene banners and the chalk marks delineating where the body had lain.

On the other hand, kids were exposed to so much violence on TV that this might not even faze a lot of them. Hell, some of 'em would probably find the idea of a murder on school property to be real exciting. He snarled. The world had sure changed since he was young. And he couldn't say it was for the better.

As O'Riley was contemplating the degeneration of American youth, Dr. Randall Packard, the assistant medical examiner, walked up to him. Packard was a tall, stocky man in his late thirties. He had dishwater blonde hair and wore dark brown horn rimmed glasses. Thorough and intense, in O'Riley's opinion, Packard was one of the best ME's he had ever worked with.

"All finished?" O'Riley asked.

Packard nodded and pulled his tan trench coat around him. "I've got everything I can here. We're ready to take her in, that is if your people are finished."

O'Riley nodded. "Any ideas on time of death?"

"I'd say probably around ten," Packard replied.

O'Riley nodded again, then put his hand on the doctor's arm. "When you get back to the office, I'd appreciate it if you'd check some files for me."

"Sure thing," Packard replied, pulling a pen and pad out of his pocket. "Which ones?"

O'Riley quickly explained what he'd just learned about the three unsolved homicides. "I'd like your fast and dirty opinion on whether the knife used on any or all of them seems to match this one's wounds," he concluded.

Packard raised an eyebrow. "Think we've got a repeater?"

"Dunno yet. I hope not, but let's talk after you've looked at the files and done the post on this one."

"Will do," Packard said, slipping pen and paper back into his pocket.

"Thanks, Randy. I appreciate it."

O'Riley turned and walked silently back to his car. Jesus! he cursed to himself as he got behind the wheel. A serial killer . . . Maybe a cop. It was a hell of a way to start the morning. He lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The sensation of blowing smoke toward the windshield was oddly comforting.

As he headed back to headquarters, O'Riley's foul mood began to lift. He reflected that sometimes the fates were kind. His retirement couldn't be coming at a better time. He mentally ticked off seventeen more working days in which he planned to do nothing more strenuous than finish up some paperwork. As he'd told Jablonski, this mess was going to be somebody else's problem.

* * * *

Strong, steady hands lifted the large scrapbook from its niche on the shelf. The book was filled with heavy black pages, the kind on which elder family members used to paste newspaper clippings of births, wedding announcements, deaths, and other significant community events. The left side had two punched holes with a black cord laced through them. The cover was made of heavy cardboard stock in a dark rose hue. Such a pretty color. Ashes of roses, Grandmother called it.

Gently open the book's cover. There were so many entries already. Flip to a clean sheet.

Pick up a white calligraphy pen and slowly, painstakingly, begin to write at the top. Take your time. Artistry can't be rushed. There. Isn't it lovely? "She makes a swan-like end, Fading in music." The Merchant of Venice, Act three, scene two.

The young woman had been a musician. At least she'd been carrying sheet music. What an amazing coincidence that had turned out to be, since the verse had been chosen long ago. Seeing the sheet music merely confirmed that her death had been preordained. But of course you knew that all along, didn't you? A bit of the sheet music would have made a nice momento for the scrapbook. What a pity you didn't think of that sooner, before you disposed of her belongings. Oh, well. No matter. There would be more than enough clippings to fill several pages.

Starting a scrapbook had been such a good idea. It gave you so much pleasure to study the other three sections of clippings, one for each young woman. And each headed by a verse. All Shakespeare, of course. It had to be Shakespeare.

Admire the writing once more. Very nice. Flip through the rest of the book. So many empty pages. So many more lovely verses to recite. Which one should come next? No need to hurry the decision. There was plenty of time. Close the book and reverently return it to the shelf.