cologne. The people from
the medical examiner's office were coming through the open freight
door now with their stretcher and body bag, but Sloan motioned for
them to wait outside.
Laura looked about the room, taking in everything but
the central figure of the tableau. Unlike the rest of the building,
this room had been dusted and swept clean and was as Sloan had
described it: candles, giving it the feel of the setting for some
sort of secret rite, a ceremony; a bottle of wine; a transistor
radio—that last somehow did not fit in.
Finally——how long could she avoid it?—Laura
forced herself to look at the victim. The body was in deep shadows,
but Laura could see she was in a kneeling position, her head resting
on some blankets. She was not nude but her pants were down, her
blouse pushed up and her hands fastened somehow behind her. As she
edged forward, she felt Sloan's hand on her arm, ignored it and took
another step. A gleam of light from the open window cut across the
body, and she saw the girl's hands were secured behind her back with
handcuffs.
Another step gave her a clear view of the body, and
it was all she could do not to scream. The swollen body had burst
open and-
Enough.
Sloan grabbed her and quickly led her out the freight
door.
"Now you know why I didn't want you to see it."
"George," she said, almost afraid to
breathe normally, "you've got to get him. He can't get away with
it. My God . . ." Whoever had done this was a sickness, a
virulence that had to be stamped out before it could spread.
Sloan took her arm and led her away from the depot.
"I promise, we'll get him. Now go on back to the paper and I'l1
call you as soon as the identification is complete."
As she walked toward the crowd she was certain of one
thing . . . no boyfriend could have done this, no matter how kinky he
was. And no ordinary rapist, if there was such a thing.
No, this was special. Beyond the pale. Sick, yes. But
evil too. And the word rang in her ears, melodramatic in most
situations, the only right one for this . . .
CHAPTER 4
ON THE way across town to the paper Laura mentally
composed her story, and when she came off the elevator at her floor
she was ready to write it. She went straight to her desk, flung down
her purse and began: "She Died Without Pain," was her lead.
The story came easily. In fact, in a rush, as if it
had to get out. No struggling for words as when trying to justify the
existence of yet another skinny, tattoo-encrusted rock-and-roll
zillionaire or phony titled hustler from Dubuque who had hooked a
titled European hustler living on the proceeds of tourist payments
for the privilege of viewing his fallen estate. This time the words
were genuine, and when she was finished she knew it was the best
piece she had ever written. She just hoped the editor, Will Stuart,
agreed.
She checked her messages and went to the cafeteria
for a cuppa. When she returned to her desk she called Will and asked
to see him, took the elevator to his office and waited while
Martha—Will's tall, thin, sixtyish secretary—lit an unfiltered
Camel, patted her tight curls and went in to announce her. When she
came back she touched the ruffled collar of her white blouse and
said, "He's on the phone, but go in."
As they passed each other Laura could smell the
familiar lavender sachet that caused Will to refer to her with
affection as the "moll for the Lavender Hill mob."
"What's his mood like today?" she asked.
In a cigarette-roughened voice Martha said, "I
wouldn't pay too much attention to him today. l think his hemorrhoids
are acting up."
Will was still on the phone, so Laura took a moment
to look around. She always liked his office. It was decorated like a
men's club with lots of well-worn leather chairs and sofas scattered
about. The wood furnishings, the coffee tables, the end tables and
his massive desk all gleamed from the daily coat of paste wax given
them by the custodial staff. The room was paneled in a dark
the medical examiner's office were coming through the open freight
door now with their stretcher and body bag, but Sloan motioned for
them to wait outside.
Laura looked about the room, taking in everything but
the central figure of the tableau. Unlike the rest of the building,
this room had been dusted and swept clean and was as Sloan had
described it: candles, giving it the feel of the setting for some
sort of secret rite, a ceremony; a bottle of wine; a transistor
radio—that last somehow did not fit in.
Finally——how long could she avoid it?—Laura
forced herself to look at the victim. The body was in deep shadows,
but Laura could see she was in a kneeling position, her head resting
on some blankets. She was not nude but her pants were down, her
blouse pushed up and her hands fastened somehow behind her. As she
edged forward, she felt Sloan's hand on her arm, ignored it and took
another step. A gleam of light from the open window cut across the
body, and she saw the girl's hands were secured behind her back with
handcuffs.
Another step gave her a clear view of the body, and
it was all she could do not to scream. The swollen body had burst
open and-
Enough.
Sloan grabbed her and quickly led her out the freight
door.
"Now you know why I didn't want you to see it."
"George," she said, almost afraid to
breathe normally, "you've got to get him. He can't get away with
it. My God . . ." Whoever had done this was a sickness, a
virulence that had to be stamped out before it could spread.
Sloan took her arm and led her away from the depot.
"I promise, we'll get him. Now go on back to the paper and I'l1
call you as soon as the identification is complete."
As she walked toward the crowd she was certain of one
thing . . . no boyfriend could have done this, no matter how kinky he
was. And no ordinary rapist, if there was such a thing.
No, this was special. Beyond the pale. Sick, yes. But
evil too. And the word rang in her ears, melodramatic in most
situations, the only right one for this . . .
CHAPTER 4
ON THE way across town to the paper Laura mentally
composed her story, and when she came off the elevator at her floor
she was ready to write it. She went straight to her desk, flung down
her purse and began: "She Died Without Pain," was her lead.
The story came easily. In fact, in a rush, as if it
had to get out. No struggling for words as when trying to justify the
existence of yet another skinny, tattoo-encrusted rock-and-roll
zillionaire or phony titled hustler from Dubuque who had hooked a
titled European hustler living on the proceeds of tourist payments
for the privilege of viewing his fallen estate. This time the words
were genuine, and when she was finished she knew it was the best
piece she had ever written. She just hoped the editor, Will Stuart,
agreed.
She checked her messages and went to the cafeteria
for a cuppa. When she returned to her desk she called Will and asked
to see him, took the elevator to his office and waited while
Martha—Will's tall, thin, sixtyish secretary—lit an unfiltered
Camel, patted her tight curls and went in to announce her. When she
came back she touched the ruffled collar of her white blouse and
said, "He's on the phone, but go in."
As they passed each other Laura could smell the
familiar lavender sachet that caused Will to refer to her with
affection as the "moll for the Lavender Hill mob."
"What's his mood like today?" she asked.
In a cigarette-roughened voice Martha said, "I
wouldn't pay too much attention to him today. l think his hemorrhoids
are acting up."
Will was still on the phone, so Laura took a moment
to look around. She always liked his office. It was decorated like a
men's club with lots of well-worn leather chairs and sofas scattered
about. The wood furnishings, the coffee tables, the end tables and
his massive desk all gleamed from the daily coat of paste wax given
them by the custodial staff. The room was paneled in a dark
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