All she needed was a “sign”.

Eyes burning, Jessica Tyson drew in a deep, stabilizing breath. It didn’t matter what labels people put on the dead woman’s body. Prostitute or not, Ann Smith was somebody’s little girl—possibly somebody’s mother.

Life to Jessica felt as raw as the weather. Though pro-tected under the Aurora Bridge in the Fremont neighborhood of Seattle, the surrounding morning drizzle sliced into her soul. Today she hated police work.

Flying back to Wisconsin last week for her grandfather’s funeral during her finals at Western Washington University had really started her thinking. Just because he was the al-mighty savior-sheriff for forty years of his life didn’t mean she had to follow in his footsteps.

Just two days ago, little Denny Kellerman’s broken body had been left on this hard cement surface on a cold, dark morning—wrapped in a blanket—for strangers to find. Three months earlier the body of Annie Smith was left in a similar soft blue blanket. Identical M.O., broken neck, animal-like scratches to the face.

She braced herself for the onslaught of emotional pain that accompanied a “sign.”

None.

Her gaze followed the thirty-foot cement pillars leering above, supporting Hwy 99. A continual swoosh of cars rushed far overhead; drivers racing to early morning jobs. A re-minder—the rhythm of life goes on.

“You know,” Jesse mused aloud, “as a child I once saw a picture of Atlas maintaining the weight of the universe on his shoulders. That’s what these pillars remind me of. That’s how this whole miserable situation makes me feel.”

Granddad always said, when a person is under heavy stress you find out what they’re really made of. Everyone returns to what they were at five years old.

Was this where she was at five?

Deserted by her mother at three, Jessica learned to create her own comfort inside. She’d have to dig that deep again to find solace now.

She stared across the crime scene at Sergeant Cardon of the Seattle Police Department. His beige trench coat flapped from his shoulders revealing the overweight, round body of a cop who’d had one too many donuts.

“What positive feedback ever comes from this feeling of isolation and desolation of investigating dead bodies? Searching into the negative side of people’s lives?”

“It pays the bills.” Cardon shrugged. “Sorry to hear about your dad. Passing on and all.”

“He was my Granddad.”

“Oh, I thought...”

“My grandparents raised me. Thank you for the concern.”

Her ESP was something that only her loving Granddad had understood. He’d helped her through adolescence to hone it to perfection. And now he was gone. One year to the day af-ter Grandmother’s death.

“Any vibes, yet? What’s all that feel like anyway?”

Jesse stared at what was left of the chalk marks. If she tried to explain, maybe he would lighten up.

“If I meld into the neighborhood where the victim lived, get the feel for those people who surrounded him or her, then while standing at the scene of a murder, I can see it. Watch exactly how it went down.”

“Hm,” Cardon replied.

Jesse couldn’t tell if he digested the information or, more likely, discounted it. After all, he didn’t allow her to expound.

“Well, you know why you’re here.” He shrugged. “Our men at the SPD can’t connect the murders. Same animal-like attack. Signature killings is what they call it at the department. The third body shows up and the killer earns the title of serial killer. We’re looking to you to halt this with your special tal-ent.” He spat out the final words.

“You’re just unhappy with me because I didn’t apply to serve and protect at the SPD right after graduation. Even if I’d considered it, I wouldn’t apply without an invitation.”

“Invitation?” Cardon raised an eyebrow. “Hell, solve this one and maybe the chief will offer you an invite,” he sneered.

Jessica shook her head. It was times like this she was grateful she still worked free-lance and alone. If he’d just stop filling the air with his negative remarks, maybe she could start her investigation.

“Everyone’s a suspect,” he continued. “The parents are number one in my book. Big bucks attorneys and living out on Mercer Island in their mansion. Never computes for me, par-ents killing their offspring.”

Denny’s mother’s words from the police-taped interview rang in Jessica’s ears. They kept accusing my Denny of these terrible things. He was such a good boy. My only child, my baby.

She smoothed an errant lock of long, jet black hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear, studying the remaining chalk outline of a body between them on the cement—Denny’s body.

“Probably the same size outline as Annie Smith.” Jesse shook her head to ease the tension building in her chest.

“’Bout the same. Three months ago, same spot.” Cardon chortled. “Annie,” he added in a growl.

Jesse swallowed hard to hold tears of anger at bay. Every time she’d read that name, Ann, in the report...

Her mother’s name was Ann. The way she disappeared just after Jessica was born...

She fingered the serpentine ring on her left forefinger. No, the age was all wrong.

“The Troll That Eats Bugs, they call this thing.” Sergeant Cardon waved his hand up toward the cement sculpture and let out a coarse laugh. “Endowment of the arts commissioned it to the tune of 30K. Fifteen-foot troll devouring a Volks-wagen bug.”

The cement giant’s wide lips sported a menacing smile. Eyes of oversized headlights glared down at Jessica. A six-foot claw encased the windshield of a yellow Volkswagen with its bumper nearly hidden in the sculpture.

Jesse cocooned her black trench coat tightly around her body, shivered against the damp, biting mist of the Seattle dawn. At another time, the frivolity of the cartoon-like troll would not have been lost on her. But now with death and murder rumbling through her head, the knot in her throat kept the corners of her mouth stiff, unable to smile. “Mon-sters,” she mumbled.

“Only one monster we suspect. Killed ’em both.”

Jesse stared in silence, wished it were that easy. Just find a monster.

“Feel anything, Tyson?” the sarcastic tone stabbed at her heart.

She gave the sergeant a deadpan stare, gritted her teeth to hold back a cutting remark.

Though she’d played an integral part in solving a previous case, his skepticism would never give her an ounce of credit.

She scuffed at loose stones on the cement street. Black serpentine tar repair stripes slithered down its path and patches of tall grass devoured the edges. No sidewalk on either side.

A small green house with white peeling shutters hanging askew nestled behind a Harley and overgrown shrubs. Next door an ’80’s, rusted out Chevy sat in front of a paint-chipped white bungalow. Wild blossoms of purple clematis en-shrouded a trellis near the entrance.

“So what’s happnin’ in there, Tyson?” Cardon interrupted her mental surveillance.

Jesse glanced to Cardon’s amused face and shook her head as echoes of another car swooshed over the bridge.

“They had some psychologist work up a profile on this case,” Cardon rattled on. “Said it could be some religious cult or purging or some such thing.”

“Why wasn’t that in the report?” she snapped.

“Was. I just didn’t send it along.”

Jessica sighed. “You can’t exclude things from me. I can’t work that way.” The moment the words escaped her lips she knew her mistake. He’d pushed buttons to get her ire up dur-ing the previous case. Didn’t trust anything or anyone who didn’t work by the book, produce hard evidence.

He shrugged. “I just didn’t buy that crap. They checked into the full moon bit, too, neither murder happened on a full moon.” Again the harsh laugh.

Movement down the street.

They both watched in silence. A man, hair tied back in a leather thong, wearing jeans and old worn buckskin jacket, jaywalked across the street near the corner. The faded colors of a long flowing skirt as a woman rushed out to the Chevy toting an oversized, tapestry shoulder bag.

“This entire area’s a throwback to the ‘60’s,” Cardon grumbled. “Time warp. Hippie Land.”

Jesse again drew in a deep breath, gritted her teeth. His resentment for her intrusion into his case could be blocking any chance for a “sign.”

The peasant-skirted woman peered in their direction, shook her head and then went about her business, climbing into the Chevy. The flat thud of the slamming door amplified the reality of the scene.

Had other strangers stood at this spot today? Yesterday? The murderer? Trespassing on neighborhood culture? Fre-mont was safe haven for soft-spoken people who enjoyed be-ing frozen in the attitude of smoke-ins and dropouts. Little shops beyond the corner filled with clay, leather and feathered memorabilia, usually buzzed with locals and tourists.

Jessica’s judgmental grandmother would have referred to these non-conformist, non-workaholic people as animals. Ani-mals don’t like infringement on their privacy either, Jesse mused as thoughts of the murder victims and the animal-like attack outlined in the report crowded her mind. Grandmother would want the whole area wiped out. Bad breeds bad, she’d say.

The rattling slam of a wooden screen door down the street fused her thoughts to the past. Jessica could just see Granddad heading out the back door of the old farmhouse laughing, commenting that Grandma was on her moral high horse again. It’s what keeps us lawmakers in business. You get enough moral preachers like your grandmother, each with her own set of rules, and people become animals. Start killing one another.

Cardon prattled on; “My two detectives kept screaming gangland. Apparently Queenie was running with some big monied figure before she died. Ann Smith,” he spat out the words. “Bitch didn’t even have a real last name.”

She met Mr. Big Bucks at one of those sleaze-joint motels down on 99 once a week,” Cardon barked. “Married, too, for a few months.”

Jessica didn’t know how much she’d missed during his continuing tirade as she tried to concentrate on the scene. Tried to pick up a “sign.”

“Children?” she asked.

“You nuts? Nah, rich bastard, Renard. Owns half of Queen Anne Hill. Married the little wench. Bought her a man-sion up there and then she ran out on him. Now if that wouldn’t get his ire up for murder... Jealous rage gets ’em every time.

And that kid, Kellerman, a juvie with a drug problem. This wasn’t some psychopath. If the deaths are connected, it’s gangland. Or coulda been that damn ex-surgeon, school psy-chologist, psycho schoolteacher we can’t get near for ques-tioning.”

Jessica cleared her throat, drew in a deep, revitalizing breath. She had to get on with the investigation. This self-aggrandizing man only brainstormed with himself. “Do you re-alize you’ve now nailed five suspects in less than ten minutes?”

“I’m outta here.” Cardon waved a hand at her. “Got work to do. See you at lunch.”

He returned to his car, made a U-turn under the bridge and drove toward Lake Union before pulling his phone to his ear.

Reassessing the sculpture, Jesse could now sense the hu-mor in the artist’s trowel. If only she could reconstruct what this friendly old troll had observed through those reflecting headlights he wore for eyes. If only he had a brain, she remem-bered the lines from The Wizard of Oz, with a sardonic smile.

Ridiculous. Standing here. Speculating. She wasn’t get-ting anything. No “sign.”

The murders weren’t committed here. She had to search for a place where “bad breeds bad.”