Anatomy of a Killer by Peter Rabe

get done, but this time I have this thing to do and it will fill up the evening.
    He cajoled himself like that and stroked his jumpiness so it would lie still like a cat. He waited till dark, which came late at that time of year, and drove back to the square in town. He left the car there and walked.
    Warm and dark under the trees, he said. Leaf sounds up there, like something swarming. I’m nervous and paying attention to unimportant things.
    The apartment house had lighted windows which showed in no special pattern. That one is Kemp’s, or that one is Kemp’s, or none…. Jordan stopped at the entrance and looked past the door frame at the mailboxes inside the hall. He did not go in, he just looked in.
    T. Kemp, it said. There was a newspaper in the box. Jordan went across to the diner.
    There was a waitress behind the counter, and there was a man sitting but Jordan could see only his back. He could see that the waitress had a round face and moved slowly, and the inside of the diner was probably hot. The man wore a cap on his head. But Jordan was not really looking at him, or at the waitress, but now felt the gravel under his shoes. He stood in a tree-dark place outside the diner and heard the leaf sounds and felt the gravel points under his soles. He started to curse but interrupted himself with a quick breath. I’ve felt gravel before. I’ve watched before, standing like this, and have spent time before like I did today, laying everything out. And Kemp is in town, I know that; his name is on the box on the other side of the street, I know that; I know everything ahead of time, not counting the details; how it will end, not counting the details; and even that the back sitting there at the counter is not Kemp, and this relief now is fake. Relief is always fake…. He stopped himself and felt the gravel under his shoes.
    The man at the counter got up and was not Kemp. He was too young. When he came out of the diner he was whistling and kept doing it all the way down the street.
    Jordan felt no change. He had known that ahead of time, too. Then he went into the diner because he could not stand it to think back and forth any more.
    The girl was at the sink and looked up when Jordan came in, but only to say good evening. Then she looked down again and washed dishes.
    There was too much paint in the place. The diner was very narrow, with counter, stools, tiny booths, and circus paint everywhere. Red counter, green swivel seats, blue booths, trims and borders and thick colored paint.
    “You wait just one second? Or you in a real hurry?”
    “No. Go ahead and finish up.”
    “If you’re in a real….”
    “No. I’m not.”
    She kept making soap-water sounds and then splashes when she dipped into the rinse, and once she looked over at Jordan but he did not look back. She had started to smile but he had looked away.
    It would be easy to say more now, something about take your time, there’s no hurry.
    She used her forearm to wipe hair away from her face.
    Or something about how hot it is.
    Her hair was very light brown and her bare arm was very smooth.
    I can say nothing about that. There is nothing to say. I will have to talk to her because it is that kind of job, the kind I have never done before and should not be trying. What I do best has nothing to do with people.
    “I’m ready now,” she said.
    He told her coffee with cream and two doughnuts. He had no idea why doughnuts when she bent down at the counter and wrote the order on a pad. He thought two doughnuts are good. I can stay longer.
    She wrote slowly and, bending over, her head was close to Jordan. He thought he could feel the skin-warmth coming from her, especially from her hair. The hair fell forward again, the way it had done at the sink, and she was so close, if she doesn’t brush the hair back again at the sides…. Jordan put his hands in his lap and worked his fingers together. They felt thick with heat and stiff with it. She has almost an empty face,