The I80 between Omaha and Des Moines is one of the more godforsaken stretches of road in the country, and most people would agree that anyone who would ride a motorcycle through such a scene on a bitter January evening would have to be at least a little crazy.

This man, clad all in black, expression blank despite the cold and the speed, is more than a little crazy. Even as he takes a curve at just over ninety, he's busy reflecting on the deeds of the previous night.

Lights from the police cars and ambulance beat counterpoint in the lenses of the mirrored sunglasses the man wore, even at night, but his dark coat faded into the shadows of the rooftop, and he had no fear of being seen. The body had already spent hours in the river, but the ring of police officers peering into the gloom as if their charge might be attacked again. The man on the rooftop quirked a sour smile. These sheltered fools had no idea what their small town had been plunged into.

He glanced at the dark shape of the officer, standing with his back to the scene, head down, surveying the river. A hard man, to be sure. In his perch atop the Diner, he had seen Finch arrive, noted the calm determination of a seasoned veteran in the force. He had been warned about Finch; told that he would likely be involved, and advised to steer clear.

Would the police pull more than he expected from the scene? Unlikely. He'd become quite practiced at covering his tracks.

Lights suddenly loom ahead- a small town consisting of little more than a truck stop and a cheap motel.

"I reckon this is far enough," he says to himself.

He pulls up in front of the truck stop, swings down from his chopper, and prepares to light the day's last cigarette. As he clicks his Zippo, a bolt of pain shoots through his wrist. The last one had put up a helluva a fight. Almost like he'd had something to live for.

The man signs and returns the Pall Mall to the carton.

"I'm gettin' too old for this," he mutters as he strides inside.