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lifted his most expensive prize onto the table. The Browning BAR rifle with the telescopic sights. He’d splurged to buy the most luxurious one, the Safari model, which had the engraved steel receiver and upgraded walnut stock. He ran his fingers down the slightly oily barrel to feel the smooth precision of the engineering.
    He thought of Zehra. When she was first assigned to represent the killer, Paul told his superiors he knew Zehra, providing him an excuse to contact her. It seemed like a good idea then. Now he realized how difficult it would be.
     
     

Four
     
    Carolyn Bechter could feel tension rumble up from her groin, through her stomach, and into her chest. She took deep breaths to calm herself. As one of the “seasoned” reporters for TV Channel 6, she thought this was the story that would catapult her out of obscurity. She’d missed breaking the story of the disappearance of the young Somali men. Of course, she covered the arrest of the terrorist El-Amin and was assigned to cover the murder trial when it began. But she competed against all the other local to national journalists. After years of declining responsibilities, this story had to work for her.
    She paused in the lobby of Hiawatha High School, in a southern suburb of the Twin Cities. Just outside, protesters were gathering. Carolyn knew other media people would be here soon, but she was the first.
    She could feel the immensity of this story.
    Carolyn stopped at the front desk and showed her ID.
    While Carolyn waited, she thanked the cheap-ass station owners for at least setting up the “Tip-Six” website. Corny as it sounded, it actually worked. When it was introduced two years ago, her producer assured everyone that the tips coming in would be distributed equally. Not true.
    As an older reporter, Carolyn fought a losing battle against the newer, blonder, and lower-paid reporters who caught the eye of the producer—pig that he was. The perky, new reporters always got more choice assignment with more face time on the screen. The more they jiggled, the more stories they got. For years, Carolyn struggled to make a name for herself. But now, even her producer told her she was “branding out.” His term to describe the fatigue that viewers felt when they saw her yet again, after fifteen years with Channel Six.
    She’d show the self-centered prick.
    When the tip came in about the protest, Carolyn happened to be there, had grabbed it, and run with it.
    “Hey,” the receptionist said. “It’s like, gonna happen over there.” She pointed and looked at her watch. “We’ve been cut-back to part time, so I’ve gotta boogie.” She looked at Carolyn with stupid eyes. “Sorry, but you’re on your own.”
    Carolyn sighed. Years ago, her presence at a school like this would have brought out several people, all interested in seeing the face they watched nightly or trying to get on camera themselves. Not anymore. The twit of a receptionist didn’t even recognize Carolyn. Of course, the poor girl wasn’t Carolyn’s demographic. She had the over-forty-five crowd. This girl’s group got their news from the Internet.
    She thought of her former husband, Matt, who had soared while she’d stalled in the secondary market of the Twin Cities. He’d moved to Los Angeles. The passion between them always teetered between love and competition. So far, he’d won. Carolyn tried to dismiss him. It didn’t matter anymore. Let it go.
    And passion? Well, she hadn’t been laid in months.
    She felt the rumble in her lower body. This story could do it for her.
    A middle-aged woman entered the lobby. She had short, curly brown hair, a frumpy brown outfit, sans makeup. Her smile was crooked and weak and as she came closer she said, “Are you … Carolyn Bechter?”
    Of course I am you idiot , Carolyn thought to herself. Don’t you recognize me? She forced a smile back. “I am. Who are you?”
    “I’m a teacher here. Gennifer. I just came out to see what was going