“Partially the group aspect,” Special Agent Turner said. “Serial rape-murders are almost always individuals. And usually when there is a group, somebody cracks and burns it.”

“The papers are saying it’s a cult,” the coroner’s assistant replied. “Ritual killings.”

“Perhaps,” Germaine said, reaching up to close the girl’s staring eyes. It was a gentle action that made Lockhart rethink his initial evaluation of the “consultant.” “But cults can be taken down as well,” the consultant continued. He stood up, stripped off the gloves and nodded at the FBI agent. “I’ve seen everything that’s important.”

“Got a bit of bad news,” Special Agent Turner said, wincing. “You know that scale you recovered from the second body?”

“Yeah?” Lockhart said, uneasily. The thing had looked like a fish scale but it was about three times as large as any he’d ever seen. They’d sent it to the FBI to try to figure out what species it had come from. Probably it had been stuck to the body or hands of one of the rapists, a fisherman and God knew that there were enough in the bayous, which would probably be a dead lead. But a clue was a clue. You just kept picking away at the evidence until you got a match. Or, hopefully, somebody got scared and agreed to turn state’s evidence in exchange for not being charged with capital murder.

“The crime lab lost it,” Turner said, grimacing.

“Lost it!” Lockhart snarled. “It was the only thing we had that wasn’t complete bullshit! How the hell could they lose it?”

“Things like that happen,” Germaine said, placatingly. “And, eventually, we’ll find the perpetrators and get a DNA match. One scale will not keep them from justice, Sergeant.”

“What about the odd-ball DNA?” Lockhart asked. “Our lab said they couldn’t make head or tails of it.”