I noticed the use of “our” as in our killer. I knew if Frankie had come with me he would’ve blown a gasket by now. I let it go.

“Did you look at the list I gave you of the names?”

“Yes, I looked at everything. And I think your instincts are good. The two potential suspects you highlighted both fit into the profile I constructed for this killing. Late twenties with a history of crimes of escalating nature.”

“The Woodland Hills janitor has routine access to industrial cleaners-we could match something to the cleaning agent used on the body. He’s the one we like best.”

McCaleb nodded but didn’t say anything. He seemed to be studying the photographs, which were now spread across the desk.

“You like the other guy, don’t you? The stage builder from Burbank.”

McCaleb looked up at me.

“Yes, I like him better. His crimes, though minor, fall more into line with the sexual predator maturation models we have seen. I think when we talk to him we have to make sure we do it in his home. We’ll get a better feel for him. We’ll know.”

“We?”

“Yes. And we need to do it soon.”

He nodded to the photos covering his desk.

“This wasn’t a one shot deal. Whoever he is, he’s going to do it again… if he hasn’t already.”

I had been responsible for many men going to San Quentin but I had never been there myself before. At the gate I showed ID and was given a printout with instructions that directed me to a fenced lot for law enforcement vehicles. At a nearby door marked law enforcement personnel only I was ushered through the great wall of the prison and my weapon was taken and locked in a gun vault. I was given a red plastic chit with the number 7 printed on it.

After my name was put into the computer and the pre-arranged clearances were noted, a guard who didn’t bother introducing himself walked me through an empty recreation yard to a brick building that had darkened over time to a fireplace black. It was the death house, the place where Seguin would get the juice in one week’s time.