“Uncontrolled?”

“Don’t start yelling censorship, Alan. I’m not telling you what to print. Or what not to print. I’m asking you to be responsible, because there is a very fine line between warning people to be concerned and take precautions, and yelling fire in a crowded theater.”

“Do we have a serial killer?” Alan demanded.

Rafe didn’t hesitate. “We have three murders we believe were committed by the same person, fitting the established criteria for a serial killer.”

“In other words, we have a lunatic in Hastings,” somebody he didn’t recognize muttered just loud enough to be heard.

Rafe responded to that as well, still calm. “By definition a serial killer is judged conventionally if not clinically to be insane, yes. That doesn’t mean he’ll be visibly any different from you or me. And they seldom wear horns or a tail.”

The reporter who’d made the lunatic comment grimaced. “Okay, point taken. Nobody is above suspicion and let’s all freak out.” She was blond.

“Let’s all take care, not freak out,” Rafe corrected. “Obviously, we would advise blond women in their mid to late twenties to take special care, but we have no way of knowing for certain if age and hair color are factors or merely a coincidence.”

“I say err on the side of factor,” she offered wryly.

“And I can’t say I’d blame you for that. Just keep in mind that at this point there is very little we can be sure of-except that we have a serious problem in Hastings. Now, since a small-town police department is hardly trained or equipped to deal with this type of crime, we have requested the involvement of the FBI.”

“Have they provided a profile?” This question came from Paige Gilbert, a reporter with one of the local radio stations. She was more brisk and matter-of-fact than some of the other women in the room had been, less visibly uneasy, possibly because she was brunette.