Stone tenses, three bottles of beer in hand. He stands slowly and pushes the door closed. "Is that a fact... I can't believe it. That psychotic bitch is still alive out there." He growls softly, then pads back into the living room. He hands out the bottles, knowing Monkling would want one. He unscrews the cap, taking a long draw. "Dennam murders. Gods that was bad days." He takes a seat on the coffee table, facing the couch. He doesn't ask if Monkling remembers, he knows she does.<br/><br/>A short rash of murders, starting with Tracey Dennam. She was a Collie girl, only six years old. She'd been carved to pieces, eventually. The coroner had never seen anything like it. She had been used, thoroughly, for who could say what. She'd been cut, cut again, burned with fire, burned with acid, nameless other things. He'd still been a rookie, so had Monkling. Four others had been killed and mutilated in similar ways, dumped in different places. They'd<em>known</em>it was that woman, but there was zero proof. Nothing that could stick to enough to even get probable cause for a search.