KANE

The freezing air helped clear the remaining fog of bourbon from my brain as I drove. The note in my pocket felt like it was humming, a rhythmic pulse against my thigh. Room 402. December 12th. I didn't go home. I didn't go to the office. I went straight to the private medical registry I’d been ignoring for weeks. I needed a name to go with that room, and I needed to know who was on duty the night the "scavenger" supposedly became a killer.

It took me three hours of cold-calling and ...