12The case was going nowhere. Mark could tell because Adams was humming. The tuneless drone had been going for an hour. It reminded Mark of the generators they used at the work camps. Those machines would hum into the night and Mark would lay on his top bunk, concentrating on the continuous noise and trying to drown out the whimpering from the beds around him. Sometimes in the dark it was just him and the generator – the only constant Mark had. He was forced to move bunks, change sheds, uproot everything week on week, but that sound was always there. And as he sat in their tiny office, staring at the pictures of four dead girls, he concentrated again on the dull pitch – this was home. This was constant.
Mark chewed on his thumbnail. He watched Adams as he studied the victims' autopsy repo
