He was going to commit murder...again. Nothing pleased him more.

It did not matter which of the three subspecies of the two-legged variety he encountered. Man, woman, or child. He had killed them all before. Leaving a long trail of blood in his wake.

The best part of his diabolical plot, as he saw it any way, was no one even suspected he could be the villain. But, he was. And had been. For a long time. The face that runs the place. At least, that's how he fancied himself.

From Baton Rouge, to Seattle, east to Buffalo, and then in Chicago. Wherever the circus travelled. He was an equal opportunity killer. Now he was back in Portland, Oregon. Where it all began. Biding his time. Waiting to strike. And he would. Soon.

The phone rang three times in the home of Detective Wyatt Holt before the lawman answered the call. He hoped the noise would not startle his sleeping baby. The boy, Tyler Holt, was in an uphill battle. Fighting Meningitis, and losing the war.

"Miss me?" the familiar voice tauntingly asked.

Wyatt Holt was in no mood for small talk. Especially with the sinister monster he hunted. Or, perhaps better stated, was being stalked by. He was not sure which event was occurring more often. What he really desired was to catch the madman before he could strike down any more victims. Somehow, the killer seemed to stay one step ahead of him.

Detective Holt did not immediately respond to the question he was asked. This angered the caller, who warned him, "Tonight I will leave you another calling card!"

"Talk to me. What do you want?" Holt asked his adversary. The killer's message was the last thing he needed to hear.

Like all the other calls before, in an instant stone cold silence eerily came on the line after these few words were exchanged. Detective Holt slammed the receiver down hard on his house phone. It had been a particularly long and grueling day. Most of them were. He also knew every time he received one of these off-the-wall telephone calls another case soon followed. When it came to murder the killer always kept his promises.

Knowing the call could not be traced, Detective Holt tossed the bills he'd extracted out of his mailbox upon arriving home that evening onto the kitchen table. He would attend to them later. Snatching an ice cold beer off the bottom shelf of the Frigidaire, Holt headed into his workroom in the rear of his small A-Frame house. A stack of manila folders were scattered on top of a mahogany desk in the far corner of the room.

Joining them were gruesome photographs of the four most recent victims attributed to the unknown assassin he pursued. They consisted of what was left of two males in their mid-forties. One Black. One White. There was also a twenty-something redheaded hooker and a pimple-faced teenager.

The MO's were the same. After being slaughtered each of them suffered various mutilations. And lost an assortment of body parts. Claimed trophies of the kills: fingers, toes, ears, and in the hooker's case, feet.

Led by Detective Holt, a Special Task Force was assigned to the case by Mayor Joseph Carradine. The menagerie of law enforcement officers labored non-stop around the clock to connect the pieces of the puzzle together. So far more unanswered questions remained than had been resolved.

Never had The City of Roses experienced a crime spree as intense as the one that gripped it now. Or a more massive manhunt. It seemed no one was immune from the threat haunting the city. Settling down onto his black leather, high-back chair, Detective Holt picked up a folder he had studied several times before. Something caught his eye. Had he found the missing link?