His picture glares from storefront windows.

His presence permeates the streets, ominous and chilling.

Publicity about him is unrelenting.

And yet he slinks beneath the glaring searchlight, escaping detection.

He is, impossibly, still out there.

And now, perhaps emboldened by his success, he may be attacking at an earlier time of the day and in a busier, riskier place - on Chestnut Street, during the evening instead of in the middle of the night.

Is he changing his pattern to avoid detection? Or has he turned arrogant and daring, taunting us to catch him if we can?

Can we?

We know what he looks like. We know his method. We know his motivation.

Crime professionals think they know even more about him - the kind of job he has, the hours he works, the way he feels about his life.

And yet, he outwits a city desperately searching for him.

Is he in disguise? Does he live in such isolation that no one sees him, day in and day out? No one recognizes the composite as a friend, a co-worker, a neighbor?

Impossible.

I walked these streets of Center City last weekend, and the rapist walked every step of the way with me. His presence is palpable.

I lived here when I was young and single and then young and married. Walnut Street, 21st Street, Spruce Street, Pine Street, Lombard Street, I lived on them all.

For many young women, moving into Center City is a rite of passage. They're on their own for the first time, drawn to the vibrance and vitality of urban life.

They're away from their parents, away from the suburbs, away from the campus, away from the people and places that have always protected them.

It should be an exhilarating experience.

Instead, this man, this monster, has made the liberation a chastening experience, a lesson in vulnerability.

And the city has come to embody the mythological urban menace, a place where doors are triple-locked and streets are dangerous after dark, a place where rapists lurk behind every bush.

It's become a place where newly liberated women are caged again, by fear.

It's become a place where the defining terror of womanhood - that someone will break in in the middle of the night and rape you or kill you - seems a real possibility.

Once, this neighborhood seemed an idyllic urban setting, with charming townhouses and inviting stores, trees and parks and children at play.

This part of town, between Rittenhouse Square and the river, has always seemed like a beautiful separate village, quiet and neighborly and somewhat secluded.

Then the Center City jogger was killed here. And Shannon Schieber was murdered. And now a serial rapist prowls the night streets and terrorizes every woman who fits his victim profile.

With each new assault and every revelation about questionable police response to earlier crimes - the Inquirer has revealed botched investigations and misreported incidents - frustration turns to anger.

And anger turns to a certain disbelief.

How is it that he's still out there, mingling among us, without arousing suspicion?

His picture glares from storefront windows.

But he's still safely hidden from sight.