The cigarette hissed against the wet pavement. I pressed my shoe down over to crush it and turned back to Phelps. She was knelt down over the vic, peering under the blue sheet that had been laid over him. Watery blood stained the ground.

“His sockets are full of rain,” she remarked. I tried not to notice how my partner’s slacks were tight around her ass and legs.

“It was a hell of a downpour,” I replied. “Coroner says five, maybe six hours ago.”

Phelps stood up and straightened her jacket. “This makes it eight. Did you see the Observer this morning? Press is calling him the Eyeball Killer.”

“Shit,” I said, and turned to look at the mass of journalists down the alleyway. A plastic yellow line and three officers held them back. “They’re having a heyday.”

“Eight vics. No signs of trauma save for their missing eyes? I don’t blame them.”

A nearby officer’s radio crackled. He listened in, and then turned to me. “Detective? They’ve found another one.”

My heart sank. What the hell was going on?