The mix of cold, sweet spring air and conquest filled his lungs like menthol. He felt so powerful that he had an impulse to pull a tree from its roots in this Midwestern marsh. He wanted to yell, Tarzan-like, to announce his majesty to all, but he feared the noise would scare her as she nuzzled contently in his arms, protected from the damp chill.

What a great feeling—a perfect accomplishment! he thought as he cradled his trophy. She wiggled more tightly into his thick arms, as though burrowing into a nest. He looked down at her, and then he looked around from his perch atop a footbridge in the thicket. She was plump, beautiful, and her skin was indescribably soft, so silken that his calloused fingers tingled just from the touch of her. He cradled her head with a hand discolored from the grime of manual labor, staring at the contrast of her unblemished skin framed by his worn hand. An image of his own face, all darkened wrinkles, flashed in his mind. Just the thought of that ugly bloodhound countenance slapped his mood into self-hate; not one part of him was spared his disgust. Another glance at her perfect skin, and his scars flooded his thoughts. The raised patch on his temple from kicks in the head by a father who wanted a more intelligent child. The slashes across his back from a babysitter aunt who was thrilled when her belt left welts all over his naked backside. The worst scar of all was the one he couldn't see, left by a mother so indifferent that she didn't even care enough to beat him.

Then, just as suddenly as the rage had conjured up these ugly images, he was brought back into the moment. He began to enjoy this first time alone with her—it brought beauty and peace into a life of ugliness. She didn't resist his touch; instead she wiggled and cooed as if their being together were some childish game. The sensation of stroking her delicate skin rushed through him like a surge of electricity. The visceral enjoyment of his hand touching the skin of another human, especially someone of the opposite sex, aroused primitive feelings of pleasure that he could only imagine came from being touched tenderly sometime early in his life. Touching her, holding her, brought back feelings he hadn't experienced since that time, whenever it was. That experience was buried deep inside him, below all that life had piled on top of him since then.

He knew that people found him repulsive. He didn't know why, but the hurt stung just the same. Now here was this fragile being who was completely dependent on him; she was all his. The thought was exciting to him. This tender intimacy was the most powerful bond he had ever known. Is this what other people feel? he wondered. He felt a sense of power, control, domination. Those feelings made some sense to him.

Perfect. He couldn't stop that word from echoing over and over in his thoughts. Even the day is perfect, he thought as he swiveled his head about, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of a woods' awakening after a deep, dark winter. A Midwest spring could be as harsh as the hounds of hell or as gentle as a newborn puppy. Today, spring was the puppy: full of life, growth, and fresh energy, the cold not biting but playfully nipping. Green buds sprouted from the blooming foliage, which was everywhere. He even thought, Perfect, as his nostrils filled with the sweet smells of fresh pine, birch, and oak mixed with the fruity scent of the berries sprouting from the underbrush.

He walked slowly, carefully, but because of the weight of his large body, he sank with each step into the collage of wet natural mulch that blanketed the ground. In his arms, she opened and closed her eyes repeatedly, fighting the sleep that was a given after the combination of physical exertion, excitement, and cold, fresh air. She didn't seem to mind her nakedness, even in the damp, cool woods; his energy and excitement gave off enough body heat for the two of them. Not forgetting his purpose, he couldn't help but take in the moment and bask in the excitement of his conquest. His excitement was heightened by the fact that he really hadn't thought he would pull it off. As exhilarated as he was by the moment, his exhilaration was also fueled by the anticipation of notifying his entire buddy list about his accomplishment. He'd done it! After a life of just looking at the world, now he was a player. Soon he would no longer be watching others have their chances; he was here, with her, and he was just like everyone else. This achievement was his certificate of authenticity, his proof that he now belonged in the world he had always felt so apart from.

As he held her, he whispered, "Thanks for being here for me." She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Suddenly he realized that this moment couldn't stay frozen forever, that being together wasn't enough: they were heading toward a crescendo. They would share a peak experience. Following a command from someplace deep inside his mind, his energy surged in a different direction, and in a grand gesture, he lifted her small body above his head, balanced across his hands. Trusting his every move, she didn't offer any resistance to the awkward position. He lifted her even higher, and still her body lay prone across his palms. Now his thick arms were fully extended and locked over his head. He carefully moved each of his hands so that the tips of his fingers faced backward.

He arrived at this grand position and this perfect spot on a tiny stone footbridge that, long ago, some stonemason had carefully built over the shallow waters of the Kankakee River just outside Wilmington, Illinois. Then, again reacting to urges exploding from some hidden place in his mind, he mustered nearly all the strength in his husky body, tensed the muscles in his arms, and with a single heave, thrust her body downward, toward the gentle, flowing river below.

She struck one of the boulders that protruded from the water, hitting the rock like a sandbag and then sliding down effortlessly to disappear into the river. He stood and watched, mesmerized. He could only guess her age, having had little experience with children—until now, his sole observations of them had been colored by jealousy and contempt—but he guessed she was a little under a year old. For a brief moment he thought how interesting it was that her body had reacted the way it did. Then he looked down at the water below him and felt nothing. He hadn't expected it to be so dull to end a life.

Detective Frank Patron swung open the door to his one-bedroom apartment with the same intensity with which he approached everything. The door got out of his way. He hung up his sport coat with a thrust, yanked his tie loose, and sat on the edge of the couch. He squinted at the TV, his elbows on his knees, his fingers intertwined, his brow furrowed.

On the bottom of the screen was a maroon strip on a blue background, with "Special Report" in white, bold letters. Usually Patron would have flipped the channel. This kind of news took away from his downtime, and as with everything else in his life, he liked to have control over what invaded his privacy. But this announcement caught his attention with the first words that came across the crawl: "Child Found Murdered."

Patron didn't move from the edge of the couch as an anchorman read the report. "Officials are scouring the woods outside of Wilmington, Illinois, today after the naked body of child was found on the banks of the Kankakee River....