I crouched down and was very still inside the tent of trees.

The killer liked it in here, hiding in the darkness. He doesn't like himself much, though. Prefers the dark. He likes his mind, his thoughts, but not what he looks like. There probably something distinctive about him physically.

I didn't know any of that for sure, but it seemed right; it felt right as I crouched at the murder site.

He was hiding in here, probably because there something about him people might remember. If so, it was a good clue.

I could see Shanelie Green's battered face again. Then an image of my dead wife, Maria, came to me. I could feel the rage climbing from my gut to my throat, blowing and billowing inside me. I thought of Jannie and Damon.

I had one more thought about the child killer: anger usually implies an awareness of self-worth. Strange, but true. The killer was angry because he believed in himself much more than the world did.

Finally, I rose up and pushed my way back out of the hideaway. I'd had enough.

“Haul down that balloon,” I called to a patrolman. “Get that damn balloon out of the tree now. It's evidence.”

THERE WAS SOMETHING distinctive about him physically. I was almost certain of it. It was a place to start.

That afternoon Sampson and I were out on the street again, working near the Northfield Village projects. The Washington newspapers and TV hadn't bothered much about the murder of a little girl in Southeast. Instead, they were filled with stories about the killing of Senator Fitzpatrick by the so-called Jack and Jill stalkers. Shanelle Green didn't seem to matter very much.

Except to Sampson and me. We had seen Shanelle's broken body and met her heartbroken parents. Now we talked to our street sources, but also to our neighbors. We continued to let people see us working, walking the streets.