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least not the way it might seem.
    Three.
Time was of the essence right now.
    She reached Saleda and Dodd just as Saleda was giving instructions to Sergeant Daly on what to release at the press conference based on the shooter’s current profile.
    â€œDon’t do that,” Jenna said, interrupting her supervisory agent. Sometimes insubordination was called for, damn it. “This isn’t a random shooter. We’ve seen him before.”

5
    W hen Jenna, Saleda, and Porter returned to Quantico, Irv had the files and photos they’d requested pulled and ready for them. Dodd had insisted on hanging back at Lowman’s to poke around, and Saleda had been so irritated with him, Jenna doubted she wanted him close by anyway. She’d agreed he could stay at the site and interview witnesses as long as Teva stayed to help—or babysit.
    Now Porter approached the cherrywood table and lifted one of the photos by its corner. “If the Triple Shooter is the person who shot up Lowman’s, why didn’t he shoot each of the victims three times?”
    As soon as Jenna realized the grocery store shooting had taken place on March the third around 3:33 p.m., Molly’s statement about the shooter tapping three times had clicked into place. Until about six weeks ago, the Triple Shooter had kept the Southeast both terrorized and captivated for two months. Still at large, the killer shot his victims only after somehow, in his vision, they lined up with a series of the number three. He had been inactive for a good three fortnights as far as they knew. Either that, or they had missed a few bodies.
    As to why the killer had abandoned his MO of shooting each victim three times, Jenna wasn’t even ready to venture a guess. It didn’t make sense to her, either. But this was him. It had to be.
    â€œAll I can think right now is that the Triple Shooter is still young, kill-wise. He only has three victims, barely enough to qualify as a serial. Serials grow, develop. They experiment and figure out what works and doesn’t. The Triple kills because of bizarre coincidences, which definitely supports the theory that he’s obsessive-compulsive, maybe schizophrenic. But if he is schizophrenic, just because he kills because voices tell him to doesn’t mean he can’t learn and adapt,” she replied.
    She glanced at the photo of victim one in Porter’s hand. Twenty-six-year-old Wendy Ulrich had been found in the parking garage outside of her apartment complex in Fairfax. The brunette was shot three times in the chest. A receipt from Demetri’s Diner takeout shop was found with her. It had been ripped in half, one half placed over each eyelid. She had been customer number three hundred and thirty-three.
    Porter handed Jenna the picture of the second victim, Maitlyn O’Meara. The middle-aged woman had been killed at a rest stop off of exit 9B, just a town over from the site of the first victim’s murder. She, too, had been shot three times. From the wounds, the ME had determined that the killer most likely approached the victim on foot and shot her in the back when she ran. Blood smears indicated that she had rolled over, where he then shot her in the chest from a distance, then once in the head at point-blank range. He’d cut her driver’s license in half and left one piece over each closed eyelid.
    â€œYou think the eye thing has to do with self-loathing? He doesn’t want the victims to see him, so he covers their eyes?” Porter said, now studying the third and last confirmed victim’s picture.
    â€œCould be,” Jenna answered, but something about the submissive blue she associated with this killer tugged at her. She pushed it away. That could be examined later. “But their eyes are closed under the pieces left on top of the lids. I seriously doubt all three victims died from gunshot wounds with their eyes already closed. He has to be closing