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
“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
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