When teenage boys start showing up dead, with a big red bullet hole in the chest, all of them sitting up calmly (but dead) in Central Park's mall and band shell area, black undercover policeman Warren Jackson is taken off Street Crime and given the job of nabbing the killer. But the reader knows right from the start who the killer is, so the only question is how or when the killer will make a dumb move. He's an art gallery owner (75th and Madison) who walks his little red chow twice daily and sees his psychiatrist once a week (mainly just for chatty conversation). He has absolutely no friends and no sex life, and he usually blanks out just before he kills each kid with his silencered pistol. About the only explanation given for his little problems is that he's a pedephiliac, which means he loves boys. Padded and bodiless.