Weber rolled out of bed shortly after ten, rested and ready to go. He’d gone to bed late and slept well, not at all disturbed by what he was about to do. Through his bedroom window, he heard a dog yelping and a stereo pumping hip-hop tunes somewhere down the street. Despite the open windows and the dark curtains keeping the sun’s rays at bay, the heat was already building in his apartment, a sure sign the Santa Ana would broil the basin for at least another day. Weber didn’t much care. No matter how hot it got, it would never rival the torrid, steamy days in Southeast Asia. Naked, he padded to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, washing the last vestiges of sticky sleep from his eyes, then went to the kitchen and chugged half a bottle of Pepsi from the refrigerator before returning to the bathroom and turning on the shower. While the water warmed, he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, proud of the taut muscles that sheathed his body. He had been working out

A few miles away, Weber guided the Accord into an open spot along the curb on a quiet side street two blocks north of Hollywood Boulevard. The familiar tingle in his muscles ratcheted up a notch. The most dangerous part of his mission was about to begin. Finding and taking his victim would put him at the highest risk of being discovered. He had thought this part out carefully, using another stratagem taught him by his Uncle Sam—put yourself in your enemy’s place, think like he thinks, anticipate his actions and reactions. He had spent hours doing just that. Not thinking what he would do if he were a cop—that was the most basic and most fatal error you could make, believing your enemy thought the same way you did. Remembering that lesson had kept Weber alive all those years in Vietnam. He was not about to forget it now.The cops knew he needed a kid to carry out his plan. They would be watching every place they could think of where he might find one. And beca

Trying to keep his growing excitement under control, Weber turned on a mellow rock station and hummed softly to Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold,” his fingers drumming in rhythm atop the steering wheel as he cruised slowly through the wide, eucalyptus and maple lined streets on the eastern edge of the campus. The windows were down, letting the hot, dry air wash over him as his eyes flicked back and forth behind his amber shades, observing and recording every detail of the area. This section of the campus had a village feel to it, lined with tall, broad trees and sloping lawns in front of large wooden clapboard houses that served as offices for various academic departments. Today’s venture would leave him more vulnerable than any of his previous killings, so despite his impatience and the incriminating cargo in his trunk, he forced himself to take his time, to be thorough with his reconnaissance, to make certain he was completely familiar with the area in case some

Weber strode swiftly out of the building, exiting beneath the opposite tower from the one where he had thrown the boy. A small crowd was already beginning to gather around the costumed body, and more students were scampering in that direction, eager to see what was going on. A couple of kids glanced Weber’s way as he hurried away, but he resisted the temptation to break into a trot. He wanted to be noticed, but as an afterthought, not as someone running from a crime scene. His hat and sunglasses would prevent anyone from giving much more than a description of his clothes and his build.Suddenly, a siren wailed from surprisingly close by, and he saw a campus security cruiser rushing up the plaza, its rooftop light bar flashing red and blue. Damn cell phones, he thought as he quickly shifted his path away from the oncoming car. Someone had already called in the killing, and the cop had obviously been very nearby. Weber had not expected the cops to be here quite so swiftly

When Conner entered the plaza, he found the scene much busier than the one he and O’Malley had circled over just a short while ago. Three LAPD squad cars and two more university police cruisers formed a ragged semi-circle around the murder scene, their glaring headlights all pointing inward, illuminating the area around the body like klieg lights from a movie set. The crowd of gawkers milling behind a row of yellow police barriers added to the image of a movie production at work. But this was no movie. An ambulance sat on the lawn close to the body, but its flashing lights were off, and two paramedics stood idly nearby chatting with one of the cops, confirming what Conner had already guessed—the kid was dead.He stopped near the far end of the plaza, away from the crowd, where O’Malley would be able to land the chopper to pick him up. Now that he knew what to look for, he wanted to get back up in the air, where he would be able to cover the most ground. He was glad he had a good reaso