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Dr. Sullivan lived in a modestly sized German Colonial style home in a neighborhood of similarly constructed houses on a quiet street set well apart from the main thoroughfares of Monroe.

It looked exactly the sort of home that a bookish historian would inhabit, and that’s exactly the impression faith got of Marcus when he answered the door.

He was big enough to be their killer. Faith guessed him at six-foot-five and an easy two-fifty, a healthy portion of it carried in powerful shoulders and a broad chest. Other than that, he seemed about as far from a killer as Faith was from a shaman.

He wore wire-rimmed glasses that he still squinted through, and his weak chin and round face clashed with his powerful build. He was balding, and the hair that remained was combed over his bald spot in a horrid fashion—or rather lack thereof.

Actually, now that she thought about it, he looked exactly like a serial killer.

“Dr. Marcus Sullivan?” she asked.

“Yes?” Marcus replied in a high-pitched, slightly nasal voice that sounded like it belonged to a man half his size. “May I ask why the FBI is at my door?”

“I’m Special Agent Faith Bold,” Faith replied. “This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince, and our K9 unit, Turk.”

Turk barked a formal greeting, and Marcus squinted down at him. “Wow. He’s in excellent shape for an older dog.”

Faith’s lips thinned, but she kept herself composed. “Thank you. To answer your question, we’re here investigating the murders of Paul Martinez and Kevin Barnes.”

Marcus tilted his head. “I see. Well, I’m afraid I don’t know either of those gentlemen. Or didn’t know them, rather.”

“Really?” Michael said. “But you were definitely at one of the crime scenes.”

Marcus blinked. “Was I?”

“Staff Sergeant Barnes’s body was buried in a shallow grave at an archaeological dig site in Collis P. Huntington State Park outside of Danbury,” Faith informed him.

Marcus's mouth dropped open in an O, an action that somehow emphasized the roundness of his face. "Oh my goodness! The excavation of the Battle of Candlewood Village?"

“Yes,” Faith said.

“Oh my.” He shook his head. “Well, you’d better come inside. Don’t worry about your dog. I don’t mind if he tracks a little mud inside.”

Faith shared a look with Michael. “Thank you.”

The three agents followed him inside. The house was well-appointed with stone tile floors and hardwood furniture.

A wood-burning furnace dominated the living room, and the kitchen counters were made of some dark basaltic stone that contrasted nicely with the brushed aluminum surfaces of the appliances.

A chandelier hung over the center of the dining room, and a massive ceiling fan occupied the same space in the living room.

And every available flat surface was piled with books, journals, and magazines, all of which were histories of warfare. Faith shared another look with Michael. Dr. Sullivan was looking better by the minute.

"Would you two like some coffee or tea?" Marcus asked, flitting around the kitchen with the odd grace that many big men seemed to possess. "I have a lovely Earl Grey or, if you prefer, a Jasmine tea imported directly from Kyoto."

“We’re all right, thank you,” Faith said. “So you have a special interest in the Candlewood site.”

"I have a special interest in all sites of human conflict," Marcus replied, filling a small kettle with water and setting it on his stove.

"Especially those that have gone unnoticed by the general public.

I'm writing a book cataloguing all of those lesser-known sites in the United States.

I have a feeling it's going to be a multi-volume work, considering how many sites are popping up just in New England.

Did you know there's a site on the Upper Delaware River not two hours from here where the Delaware Nation engaged in battle with the Mohawk Indians over territory?

It could be the oldest record of conflict between the Delaware and the Iroquois Confederacy. "

"Why, what a coincidence," Michael said drily. "That site happens to be where we found the body of Paul Martinez."

Marcus paused as he held a scoop of tea leaves over a stoneware mug. “Oh.” He looked up. “Oh. You suspect me of being the murderer.”

“We’re not saying that yet,” Faith replied carefully, “but you clearly have an interest in warfare. Both victims were veterans. Both were buried in shallow graves at sites of ancient battles—another interest of yours.”

“A double interest,” Marcus interrupted. “I am also intrigued by the different burial practices of warrior cultures.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. She suspected that their killer wanted to be caught, but Marcus was basically flaunting it at this point.

Or he was innocent and confident that he could prove it.

“I’ll get right to it, Dr. Sullivan,” she said. “Can you provide an alibi for last night and for three nights ago?”

“Last night I was here. I have security footage that will show me arriving home at eight o’clock and show that I didn’t leave until six this morning. Three nights ago, I was at a writers’ convention in Vancouver. I flew back yesterday.”

Faith shared another look with Michael, this one of disappointment. Once more, they had followed a promising lead only for it to reach a dead end. They’d confirm the alibis, of course, but considering Marcus’s confidence and relaxed attitude, she was pretty sure they’d turn out to be legitimate.

Marcus must have noticed their disappointment because he said in a wry tone, “I’m sorry to have let you down. You seem to have put a lot of stock into the possibility of me as your killer.”

“We follow the evidence, Dr. Sullivan,” Faith replied. “It led us here, but assuming your alibis check out, that evidence will lead us somewhere else.”

“Well, all is not lost,” Marcus said. “I might not be your killer, but I’ll bet I can help you find him.”

The kettle came to a boil, and Marcus removed it from the heat and set it aside to rest briefly before pouring it over his tea leaves.

Faith looked at Turk. He sat with his head cocked, studying Marcus.

He didn’t seem suspicious, more intrigued.

Faith wondered what it was about the bookish but broad-chested historian that interested him so much.

Marcus carried his tea to the dining room and joined them at the table.

“I’ve developed a reputation as a somewhat nosy individual,” he said, “No doubt that’s why you two were alerted to me in the first place.

I trespassed on the Candlewood dig several times to measure distances, take pictures and try to get a sense of what fighting there must have looked like.

Of course, the area looked quite different in 1773, but when I do my research, I find it helpful to place myself at the scene of the battles as much as possible.

“As for the native site, it wasn’t convenient for me to be there personally. Since I lost my position at New York State University, the university has unfortunately taken a very stern stance with me.”

“Can you tell us why that is?” Faith asked.

Marcus smiled slightly. “They consider me a plagiarizer.”

“I see.”

“That might not seem serious, but in academia, it’s a death sentence.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael replied politely.

Marcus shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world. I’ve invested my money well, so I’m not in danger of destitution. And my book will be published with or without their approval. I will cite my sources, of course, presuming the principles in question will agree to be a source.”

He seemed slightly irritated saying that, and Faith guessed he was talking about Dr. Winters.

She was more interested in the help he said he could offer them, however.

If he was telling the truth about that, then they might finally be able to break through the wall that seemed to keep them from the answers they needed.

“You said you believed you could help us,” Faith said. “How so?”

Marcus grinned and folded huge hands on the table as he leaned forward. “Because I understand the warrior mindset, and like him or despise him, your killer is a warrior.”

“Go on,” Michael said doubtfully.

“He treats other warriors with great reverence,” Marcus said. “These graves, were they marked?”

“No, but they were meant to be easy to find.”

“They were shallow, but not necessarily meant to be easy to find,” Marcus corrected. “At least, Barnes’s grave was shallow. I assume the other grave was shallow as well?”

“It was,” Faith confirmed. “Not as shallow as Barnes’s grave, but shallow.”

“Then they were warriors’ graves,” Marcus insisted.

“I’m not following,” Michael said, still showing skepticism.

Marcus leaned back and adopted a professorial tone. “This specific practice of burying warriors in unmarked shallow graves on or near the site of the battle where they fell dates to Ancient Sparta. At least, that is the best attested early example of which we know.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “I thought the Spartans carried their dead home on their shields.”

“A myth,” Sullivan announced. “The Spartans were nothing if not practical. They revered their warriors, of course, but they revered their capability. They wouldn’t have wasted the strength of their fighting men carrying dead corpses home, and those dead men, if alive, would insist on being buried where they fell rather than tire the still living men who needed to fight to defend their Kingdom.

The graves were shallow because they didn’t need to be deep, just deep enough to cover the bodies.

They were unmarked because the presence of the corpse wasn’t important.

It was the warrior’s soul that mattered, and that soul had already gone on to Tartarus.

Now obviously, your killer couldn’t take the bodies of these warriors to the sites of their own battles, so he made do with the nearest sacred ground he could find. ”

“I can see where you’re going with this,” Faith said, “but our killer didn’t treat these bodies like empty shells.

He treated them with great respect, posing them with their legs straight, their hands folded over their chests, and coins over their eyes.

” That, of course, was only true of the second body, but Faith didn’t want to get stuck on the details right now.

“Well, our killer can’t be expected to be a thorough historian.”

Michael crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s say you’re right. How does that help us find him?”

Marcus took a deep breath and tilted his head.

"I would say that you're looking for someone who is also a veteran, someone who would feel camaraderie with these wounded warriors.

I would speculate that the victims suffered from severe PTSD and possibly depression.

The killer also suffers from these ailments and believes the victims are better off dead.

Why these specific victims is probably answered by more specific criteria to determine worthiness of death.

That is beyond my area of expertise, but I would suggest starting by looking for fellow veterans with mental health issues as a result of trauma sustained during combat.

Above all, this will be someone who loves and admires their fellow warriors.

He isn't murdering them. In his eyes, he is granting them a warrior's death. "

“A very thorough analysis,” Michael pointed out, an amused smile on his face. “Do you have a background as a criminal profiler?”

Marcus lifted a finger. “Not a criminal profiler, Special Agent, but a warrior profiler.”

He got to his feet with a spryness made disturbing by his size and picked a book off of one of the shelves that lined the walls of his living room.

He handed it to Michael. Faith glanced at the title.

The Warrior’s Mind: A Comprehensive Analysis of the Thought Processes of Humanity’s Greatest Representatives.

“That’s for you,” Marcus said generously. “I think it will help a lot.”

Faith nodded. “Thank you for that information, Dr. Sullivan. And thank you for the book. We might reach out for more help at a later time.”

The two of them stood, and Faith left Marcus a card. He took it and gave her a smile that looked a little too eager for her comfort. "I don't suppose you'd consider allowing me to interview your killer once you find him? It would be a fascinating insight into the mind of a warrior."

“Not a chance,” Faith said firmly.

Marcus sighed. “Well, I had to ask. Good luck anyway, agents.”

Faith felt more than a little frustrated as they left Sullivan’s house, but this hadn’t been a completely wasted effort.

Even though Marcus had told them little that they knew already, he had offered a concise profile of their killer.

Better, he had offered an identifiable one.

They still had more work to do to solve the case, but Faith felt that they had taken an important step forward.

At least, she hoped so. Night would fall soon, and she worried what horror it would bring.