But they gave us no information — what we found we discovered on our own. What my partner and I did locate was Anglin’s yearbook. I stuffed it into my briefcase, and we carried it off the premises of Anglin’s Utah dwelling before the Fibbies could scream foul. Back in Chicago, I took a good look at our subject. He’d been an athlete and a scholar and had seemed to get along well with his peers. A member of the swimming and cross-country teams. Honor roll, several times. The guy fit a more modern kind of serial profile — like a Ted Bundy. We needed to interview Anglin’s mother. Perhaps he’d contacted her in the ten months since he’d disappeared. The man could be dead. This could be some other player that we hadn’t picked up on. It could be a copycat. Someone who’d read all the literature on Anglin. I didn’t think so. I thought he was geared up for a comeback. He was having all that fun being a celebrity killer who got off the hook.
