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Ukie."
    “What the hell kind of name is that anyway?"
    “Ukie was sort of a half-assed entertainer at one time here. He worked a couple of the strip joints as an MC or something. Got up and strummed his ukelele and sang dirty songs or whatever. We've known him for years. Had him in over and over for a couple aggravated sexual assaults, wienie-wagging, bunch of times on suspicion-jerkin’ him around a little. Vag. He's a fuckin’ moke."
    “I saw the package. But you know what doesn't feel right?"
    “This is the car—'scuse me. Go ahead,” Michaels interrupted as he started to open the door of an unmarked Plymouth.
    “I got some luggage."
    “The airport guy's getting it. Get in. You've got the VIP treatment this time, Jack.” They got in the car and Wally popped the trunk release.
    “So, you were saying something wasn't right?"
    “It just doesn't fall together for me yet. I can't see a dude like this offing all those people. I mean you're talking some kinda body count already. What is it?"
    “Thirty-nine or forty-three depending on whose vibes you go with—whether you wanna believe Ukie or forensics. You know how some of these perps are. He wants credit for every murder one on the books now. Like I say, we've gotta walk on eggs."
    “I dunno.” Eichord shook his head. “It doesn't come together so far for me. Like this thing about you all tryin’ to get him to explain why and he said, what, that it was a jigsaw puzzle for the cops to solve. He wouldn't explain it. Or he couldn't. If he did all those people—and I'll admit so far it looks dead-bang—why did he leave seventeen to be found and supposedly bury hundreds, or let's say even bury dozens of victims? Why go to that much trouble and then leave seventeen? And why does a known dong-dangler who picks up a woman and forces her to have sex with him—why does a sex offender leave his sexiest victims unmolested? Huh-uh. Two, three different MOs going here. You got no semen residue, no sexual penetration, no freak stuff. Just whacks ‘em and either leaves ‘em or buries the corpse. Doesn't make a shred of sense at all. I mean, there's a million unexplained pieces to this, right?"
    “That's why—” But Jack was still going on with it.
    “Why does a guy who wants the coppers to play guessing games with him, a guy who is calculating enough to construct a mystery of this complexity, with the balls to carry out the killings—why would somebody like that be stupid enough to brag openly about the location of buried corpses to Donna Scanty-panties-whateverhernameis? See?"
    “Yeah. But—"
    “Bragging about buried bodies, Wally. I mean, if he buried some and leaves some, the ones he buried were buried for a reason. He didn't want us to find ‘em. So why brag—"
    “But if he thought he was going to silence her, doesn't it fit the profile of a hey-look-at-me kind of psychotic?"
    “Maybe and maybe not. But even so, I dunno—"
    “All right. Wait, Jack, suppose that some of these victims he's put in the ground turn out to have been molested."
    “Yeah?"
    “You grant the possibility?"
    “Right."
    “Right. Now, if he only has sex with some of his victims and then buries those AFTER he offs ‘em ... Get it?"
    “Huh?"
    “If he was going to bury Donna Scannapieco when he was through with her, what did he care whether or not she knew?"
    “Oh, yeah, I get that, but my point is we've got conflicting MOs at work here. Different patterns of behavior, it seems to me. That kind of a dude. He's not going to take those kind of unnecessary risks, is he? What sense does it make? He's already got the woman. Why tell her anything she doesn't need to know?"
    “To convince her."
    “Well..."
    “Big-time killer. He wants her to know it so she'll be scared. You know how some of those freaks are. Scary sex is the only sex. Boo, shit. Let's fuck. Those guys."
    “Yeah."
    “That's what."
    “But take a look at this guy's package. There's nothing here to indicate the sort of