Here, in the podunk backwater station they called Green Glade, floating in the middle of a swarm of rocks that had made this Lagrange-point their nest, still you found it: Humans being inhuman to humans. This particular example, at least, was a known quantity: A serial killer. Yes, they were still a problem, but this one... This one was a bigger problem than most. This one targeted unscanned women. Women with no imprint stored in an Ibrahim Sphere, women who weren't coming back when he was done with them. There was never so much as a mark left on their body, never so much as a drop of alcohol or a hint of poison in their blood. Never any evidence of a struggle or fighting back. No DNA but their own on their bodies, death with no apparent cause. The act of leaving the female victim naked somewhere was a time-honored tradition among serial killers, and that tradition was here as well, but with these women there was never any evidence of any kind of... "romantic" encounter, never a smudge of lipstick or so much as an eyelash out of place. Another time-honored tradition, of course, was leaving a calling card. A maker's mark. In this case, the killer had two. The first: He left his victims in the habitation units of spacers, only occupied habitation units of spacers, their bodies placed there as the occupants slept. The second: All four fingers on each hand, he posthumously broke in several places. This bizarre habit had earned him a particularly horrific moniker in the Stanton system: Mister Knuckles.