<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ff99">"The Shadowman," Cat repeated in a mocking singsong.  "That's as bad a moniker as some of the shit the FBI tacks on bank robbers and serial killers."  She shook her head, blonde hair bobbing.  "Can't say.  Not don't know -- can't say."  She sighed.  "Is this like the wizard equivalent of 'I'm sorry, that's classified'?  Because I hate that."<br/>
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She admired his bared forearms, wanting abruptly to trace those tattoos with her finger.  (Or her tongue.  She kept that thought extremely small.)  "Sounds more like a poisoner's profile than a sniper.  Would they have to have line-of-sight?  Or is it something they can... what, set it and forget it?"  She tapped a photo with her pen.  "Maybe thinking of it as an exotic poison is easier, particularly if the perp -- perpetrator -- chose the method because he doesn't have the physicality to do it otherwise."<br/>
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"How likely is it that two warlocks stumble upon matching MOs in different cities, a year apart?"  She sat back again, looking at him intensely.  "I mean, is this something common enough that stumbling into it wouldn't be unusual, like a kid finding his dad's gun?  Or is it more... what are the chances, really, that it's coincidence?"  </span></span>