"That's not my call. Remember, I'm retired."

"He'd just shave his mustache off, maybe dye his hair and lose weight," Betsy grumbled.

"Well, he'd be in for a shock if we posted it. He'll know he wasn't identified by any normal means but he won't have a clue how you do it or what capabilities you possess."

"He may already suspect something, after Alabama." I remembered the deputy sheriff he killed after his license plate was spotted.

"Maybe this new information is enough to stop him from his killing spree," Betsy said.

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"Don't count on it," Brennan said with a sigh. "These guys can't stop doing this shit; they're obsessed."

"It's not much of a description to start with," I injected. "So what if he shaves off the mustache? I think it's worth publicizing it, especially if the license plate turns out to be stolen and we have nothing."

"Lock your doors and windows, boys and girls. This guy is not only careful, he's good."

When the conversation was over, Betsy hugged me, long and hard. I could feel her tremble. The phone call to Daniel Brennan cranked up our level of anxiety several notches.

California, heading east. My mustache, my beloved mustache! It's dust in my bathroom sink! It's been a part of me since the dogs of law released from their barred kennel. He or she will pay, you Psychic Tipster, whoever you are! Pay and pay and pay!

Chubby? They call me chubby! I may have gained a few pounds driving around the countryside but I refute the label chubby and all its intonations. Perhaps I should shed a few pounds. A bicycle would prove an interesting addition to my repertoire but I'll not dye my hair like some fag pervert!

But first, I must protect myself from the worthless snapping hounds of police before I search out this mystery clairvoyant. This time, my sweet little friend will assist me! As usual, I'm far ahead of you all. My intelligence far surpasses any of you worthless scum. You could never trap me.




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