This is the way I heard it.

Bob didn't believe in mediums, clairvoyance, or consultants.

He caught bad guys the old fashioned way, with police work.

But the letter in his hand was hard to ignore.

Dear Mr. Keppel, it's been a while.

I'm writing to you now because I would like to help you catch the river man.

On his desk, the detective regarded 37 photographs he had just arranged, according to date.

There were hitchhikers and prostitutes, co-eds and waitresses, blondes and brunettes.

All female, all waterlogged, all dead.

Curdacy of a psychopath called the river man.

Bob slid the letter across his partner's desk.

What do you think, ask Keppel?

Bob's partner regarded the letter inside. He too shared Bob's skepticism with wannabe

citizen detectives.

But then he glanced up at the sharpy speckled map of Tacoma, where 37 circles indicated

the location of 37 dead girls up and down the green river and beyond.

What do we have to lose?

It was a fair question thought, Bob.

Female bodies were stacking up like cord wood. The public was an panic.

The press was calling his task force a task farce. Soon the 38th circle would be on the map,

and there didn't appear to be a damn thing anyone could do to stop it.

So Bob booked a flight to Florida to reconnect with the amateur detective who thought he

...