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gabled and weather-beaten, caravan past my window, against a backdrop of deep Pennsylvania woods.
    “Angela Villanova,” Polk said. “Community Liaison. I hear you and her are pretty tight. Paisans, eh?”
    I shrugged. “She knew me from years back, sent some people to me for help. Just started from there.”
    “I remember. I read about you in the Post-Gazette. ‘Shrink Turns Personal Tragedy Into Personal Mission.’ Somethin’ like that, right?”
    “You know reporters.” I said nothing more.
    “Fuckin’-A,” he replied. I thought he was going to lower his window and spit.
    I wanted to change the subject. “By the way, I’m not a psychiatrist. I’m a clinical psychologist.”
    “Who gives a shit?”
    “The AMA, for one. State licensing boards.”
    “Uh-huh. That’s real interesting. Listen, those people Villanova sent you…that was about the Handyman, right?”
    “Yeah. A couple people he grabbed got away. But even so, you’re looking at major trauma. Nightmares. Flashbacks. I worked with one of those survivors.”
    “Yeah, well I worked with the victims.” His voice grew bitter. “What was left of ’em.”
    “You were on the Task Force?”
    “Me and every other cop in town, plus the FBI, the ATF…Man, if it had initials, it was climbin’ up our ass, tellin’ us how to do our jobs.” He looked over at me. “It was a local cop who finally got him, ya know that? Kranksi. Another big dumb Polack, like me. Brought the guy in.”
    “I remember.”
    “Christ, what Dowd did to those poor people…Women, kids, he didn’t care. One truly sick fuck, that guy…”
    His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Hear who’s playin’ him in the movie? DeNiro. Can you believe they’re makin’ a movie about that piece o’ shit..?”
    “I heard. Serial killers are big box-office.”
    “Well, ain’t that nice.” He shook his head. “Tell that to the vics. And their families.”
    He gave a hacking cough, a sputtering of rage. Fished in his pocket for another Camel. Came up empty.
    I said nothing. If he wanted to say more, he would. I knew he wouldn’t. He was a cop. He’d have nightmares, an alcohol problem, a busted marriage, and an early death by colon cancer. But he wouldn’t talk.
    We made the turn onto my street, whose edge fell away onto a panoramic view of the Three Rivers and the glistening lights of contemporary Pittsburgh. Gone were the steel mills and factories; in their place stood razor-thin buildings of glass and chrome, of software and bond trading.
    The city had changed a lot since I was a kid, a shot-and-a-beer town colliding with the Information Age. Though sometimes, like tonight, I missed the Pittsburgh I grew up in. Forged by immigrants. Musty like the smell of damp wool. A mosaic of thick accents and old neighborhoods, clanging trolleys and cobblestone streets. Before mini-malls and decaf lattes. Before spaghetti became pasta.
    Polk slowed the car, as I pointed up ahead to my place, freshly painted a quiet yellow a few years back. I’d also added a rear deck that jutted over the edge of the hill. The houses on either side, my neighbors, were coal-dark, except for tiny porch-lights that made them seem somehow more vulnerable, not less.
    “Thanks for the ride,” I said as he pulled over to the curb. “When can I get my car back?”
    “Tomorrow. Oh, and Biegler ordered some surveillance. No big deal. A unit drivin’ by your place every twenty minutes, somethin’ like that.”
    “Surveillance?”
    “Hell, yeah. Maybe the killer knows he got the wrong guy. Maybe he don’t. If not, he’ll find out soon enough. This’ll be all over the morning news.”
    “Jesus Christ,” was all I could say.
    “It’s just hittin’ you now?” He laughed. “You’re so busy feelin’ guilty, you forgot to worry about your real problem. Namely, some fucker’s out there lookin’ to kill you.”

Chapter Seven
     
    I spent the next thirty minutes working out my frustrations on the