“Except what?” Graham asked.
Turning away from the window, Preduski said, “Seven times he’s eaten a big meal in the dead women’s own homes. But the other three times, he’s taken the food out of the refrigerator and faked a big meal.”
“Faked it? What do you mean?”
“The fifth murder, the Liedstrom woman,” Preduski said. He closed his eyes and grimaced as if he could still see her body and blood.“We were aware of his style by then. We checked the kitchen right away. There was an empty pear can on the table, an empty cottage cheese container, the remains of an apple and several other items. But there wasn’t a mess. The first four times, he’d been sloppy—like he was tonight. But in the Liedstrom kitchen, he hadn’t left a lot of crumbs.
No smears of butter or mustard or mayonnaise or ketchup. No bloodstains on the beer cans.”
He opened his eyes and walked to the table. “We’d found well-gnawed apple cores in two of the first four kitchens.” He pointed at an apple core on the table in front of him. “Like that one. The lab had even studied the teeth marks on them. But in the Liedstrom kitchen he peeled the apple and removed the center with a corer. The skins and the core were piled neatly on one corner of his dinner plate. That was a change from what we’d seen previously, and it got me thinking. Why had he eaten like a Neanderthal the first four times—and like a gentleman the fifth? I had the forensic boys open the plumbing under the sink and take out the garbage disposal unit. They ran tests on it and found that each of the eight kinds of food on the table had been put through the disposal within the past few hours. In short, the Butcher hadn’t taken a bite of anything in the Liedstrom kitchen. He got the food from the refrigerator and tossed it down the drain. Then he set the table so it would
look
as if he’d had a big meal. He did the same thing at the scene of murders seven and eight.”
That sort of behavior struck Graham as particularly eerie. The air in the room seemed suddenly more moist and oppressive than before. “You said his eating after a murder was part of a psychotic compulsion.”
“Yes.”
“If for some reason he didn’t feel that compulsion at the Liedstrom house, why would he bother to fake it?”
“I don’t know,” Preduski said. He wiped one slender hand across his face as if he were trying to pull off his weariness. “It’s too much for me. It really is. Much too much. If he’s crazy, why isn’t he crazy in the same way all of the time?”
Graham hesitated. Then: “I don’t think any court-appointed psychiatrist would find him insane.”
“Say again?”
“In fact, I think even the best psychiatrist, if not informed of the murders, would find this man saner and more reasonable than he would most of us.”
Preduski blinked his watery eyes in surprise. “Well, hell. He carves up ten women and leaves them for garbage, and you don’t think he’s crazy?”
“That’s the same reaction I got from a lady friend when I told her.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“But I’ll stick by it. Maybe he is crazy. But not in any traditional, recognizable way. He’s something altogether new.”
“You sense this?”
“Yes.”
“Psychically?”
“Yes.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Sorry.”
“Sense anything else?”
“Just what you heard on the Prine show.”
“Nothing new since you came here?”
“Nothing.”
“If he’s not insane
at all,
then there’s a reason behind the killings,” Preduski said thoughtfully. “Somehow they’re connected. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m not sure
what
I mean.”
“I don’t see how they could be connected.”
“Neither do I.”
“I’ve been looking for a connection, really looking. I was hoping you could pick up something here. From the bloody bedclothes. Or from this mess on the table.”
“I’m blank,” Harris said. “That’s why I’m positive that either he is sane, or he is insane in some whole new fashion. Usually, when I study or touch an item intimately connected with the murder, I can pick up on the emotion, the mania, the passion behind the crime. It’s like leaping into a river of violent thoughts, sensations, images.... This time all I get is a feeling of cool, implacable, evil
logic.
I’ve never had so much trouble drawing a bead on this kind of killer.”
“Me either,” Preduski said. “I never claimed to be Sherlock Holmes. I’m no genius. I work slow. Always have. And I’ve been lucky. God knows. It’s luck more than skill that’s kept my arrest record high. But this time I’m having no luck at all. None at all. Maybe it’s time for me to be put out to pasture.”
On his way out of the apartment, having left Ira Preduski in the kitchen to ponder the remnants of the Butcher’s macabre meal, Graham passed through the living room and saw Sarah Piper. The detective had not yet dismissed her. She was sitting on the sofa, her feet propped on the coffee table. She was smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling, smoke spiraling like dreams from her head
;
her back was to Graham.
The instant he saw her, a brilliant image flashed behind his eyes, intense, breathtaking:
Sarah Piper with blood all over her.
He stopped. Shaking. Waiting for more.
Nothing.
He strained. Tried to pluck more pictures from the ether.
Nothing. Just her face. And the blood. Gone now as quickly as it had come to him.
She became aware of him. She turned around and said, “Hi.”
He licked his lips, forced a smile.
“You predicted this?” she asked, waving one hand toward the dead woman’s bedroom.
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s spooky.”
“I want to say...”
“Yes?”
“It was nice meeting you.”
She smiled too.
“I wish it could have been under other circumstances,” he said, stalling, wondering how to tell her about the brief vision, wondering whether he should tell her at all.
“Maybe we will,” she said.
“What?”
“Meet under other circumstances.”
“Miss Piper... be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“For the next few days... be especially careful.”
“After what I’ve seen tonight,” she said, no longer smiling, “you can bet on it.”
7
Frank Bollinger’s apartment near the Metropolitan Museum of Art was small and spartan. The bedroom walls were cocoa brown, the wooden floor polished and bare. The only furniture in the room was a queen-size bed, one nightstand and a portable television set. He had built shelves into the closets to hold his clothes. The living room had white walls and the same shining wood floor. The only furniture was a black leather couch, a wicker chair with black cushions, a mirrored coffee table, and shelves full of books. The kitchen held the usual appliances and a small table with two straight-backed chairs. The windows were covered with venetian blinds, no drapes. The apartment was more like a monk’s cell than a home, and that was how he liked it.
At nine o’clock Friday morning he got out of bed, showered, plugged in the telephone, and brewed a pot of coffee.
He had come directly to his apartment from Edna Mowry’s place and had spent the early morning hours drinking Scotch and reading Blake’s poetry. Halfway through the bottle, still not drunk but so happy, very happy, he went to bed and fell asleep reciting lines from
The Four Zoas.
When he awoke five hours later, he felt new and fresh and pure, as if he had been reborn.
He was pouring his first cup of coffee when the telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Dwight?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Billy.”
“Of course.”
Dwight was his middle name—Franklin Dwight Bollinger—and had been the name of his maternal grandfather, who had died when Frank was less than a year old. Until he met and came to know Billy, until he trusted Billy, his grandmother had been the only one who ever used his middle name. Shortly after his fourth birthday, his father abandoned the family, and his mother discovered that a four-year-old interfered with the hectic social life of a divorcee. Except for a few scattered and agonizing months with his mother—who managed to provide occasional bursts of affection only when her conscience began to bother her—he had spent his childhood with his grandmother. She not only wanted him, she cherished him. She treated him as if he were the focus not just of her own life but of the very rotation of the earth.
“Franklin is such an ordinary name,” his grandmother used to say. “But
Dwight...
well, now, that’s special. It was your grandfather’s name, and he was a wonderful man, not at all like other people, one of a kind. You’re going to grow up to be just like him, set apart, set above, more important than others. Let everyone call you Frank. To me you’ll always be Dwight.” His grandmother had died ten years ago. For nine and a half years no one had called him Dwight
;
then, six months ago, he’d met Billy. Billy understood what it was like to be one of the new breed, to have been born superior to most men. Billy was superior too, and had a right to call him Dwight. He liked hearing the name again after all this time. It was a key to his psyche, a pleasure button that lifted his spirits each time it was pushed, a reminder that he was destined for a dizzyingly high station in life.
“I tried calling you several times last night,” Billy said.
“I unplugged the phone so I could drink some Scotch and sleep in peace.”
“Have you seen the papers this morning?”
“I just got up.”
“You haven’t heard anything about Harris?”
“Who?”
“Graham Harris. The psychic.”
“Oh. No. Nothing. What’s to hear?”
“Get the papers, Dwight. And then we’d better have lunch. You are off work today, aren’t you?”
“I’m always off Thursdays and Fridays. But what’s wrong?”
“The
Daily News
will tell you what’s wrong. Be sure to get a copy. We’ll have lunch at The Leopard at eleven-thirty.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “Look—”
“Eleven-thirty, Dwight.”
Billy hung up.
The day was dreary and cold. Thick dark clouds scudded southward
;
they were so low they seemed to skim the tops of the highest buildings.
Three blocks from the restaurant, Bollinger left his taxi and bought the
Daily News
at a kiosk. In his bulky coat and sweaters and gloves and scarves and wool toboggan cap, the vendor looked like a mummy.
The lower half of the front page held a publicity photograph of Edna Mowry provided by the Rhinestone Palace. She was smiling, quite lovely. The upper half of the page featured bold black headlines:
BUTCHER KILLS NUMBER 10 PSYCHIC PREDICTS MURDER
At the corner he turned to the second page and tried to read the story while waiting for the traffic light to change. The wind stung his eyes and made them water. It rattled the paper in his hands and made it impossible for him to read.
He crossed the street and stepped into the sheltered entranceway of an office building. His teeth still chattering from the cold, but free of the wind, he read about Graham Harris and
Manhattan at Midnight.
His name is Dwight, Harris had said.
The police already know him, Harris had said.
Christ! How could the son of a bitch possibly know so much? Psychic powers? That was a lot of bullshit. There weren’t such things. Were there?
Worried now, Bollinger walked to the corner, threw the newspaper into a litter basket, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and hurried toward the restaurant.
The Leopard, on Fiftieth Street near Second Avenue, was a charming restaurant with only a handful of tables and excellent food. The dining area was no larger than an average living room. A hideous display of artificial flowers filled the center of the room, but that was the only really outrageous element in a generally bland decor.
Billy was sitting at a choice table by the window. In an hour The Leopard would be full of diners and noisy conversation. This early, fifteen minutes or more before the executive lunch crowd could slip away from conference rooms and desks, Billy was the only customer. Bollinger sat opposite him. They shook hands and ordered drinks.
“Nasty weather,” Billy said. His Southern accent was heavy.
“Yes.”
They stared at each other over the bud vase and single rose that stood in the center of the table.
“Nasty news,” Billy said at last.
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“This Harris is incredible,” Bollinger said.
“Dwight.... Nobody but me knows you by that name. He hasn’t given them much of a clue.”
“My middle name’s on all my records—on my employee file at the department.”
Unfolding a linen napkin, Billy said, “They’ve got no reason to believe the killer’s a policeman.”
“Harris told them they already knew the Butcher.”
“They’ll just suppose that he’s someone they’ve already questioned.”
Frowning, Bollinger said, “If he gives them one more bit of detail, one more clue, I’m blown.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in psychics.”
“I was wrong. You were right.”
“Apology accepted,” Billy said, smiling thinly.
“This Harris—can we reason with him?”
“No.”
“He wouldn’t understand?”
“He’s not one of us.”
The waiter came with their drinks.
When they were alone again, Bollinger said, “I’ve never seen this Harris. What does he look like?”
“I’ll describe him to you later. Right now... do you mind telling me what you’re going to do?”
Bollinger didn’t have to think about that. Without hesitation he said, “Kill him.”