I don’t know how it happens, but without trying, I’ll see things from a different perspective. And this was one of those times. I had been attempting, unsuccessfully, to figure out which little girl might be in danger, when it hit me that the opposite was true. When the killer wrote, “Sleep tight, little girl,” he could well have been saying that the next murder was going to be committed to somehow protect them. “Frank Granderson.” I said it out loud, although I was alone in the office. It sounded right, so I added, “Shit. It’s Frank Granderson.” I opened my door and yelled out for Hank to come in. Once he did, I said, “I want to know where Frank Granderson is.” It took a second for the light to go on in Hank’s eyes, but then he said, “Damn. That could be it. I’m on it.” He left as quickly as he came in. Seven years ago, Frank Granderson worked as a janitor in a day care center in Tompkins, about thirty minutes from Wilton. I was working as a state cop then, just starting out and getting my feet wet.
