"We'll have the ladder."

"And we'll climb down thirty-one floors?" he asked.

"Please, Graham. If we start now, we might make it. Even if he finds that the maintenance room is unlocked, and even if he sees this red door-well, he might not think we'd have enough nerve to climb down the shaft. And if he did did see us, we could get off the ladder, leave the shaft at another floor. We'd gain more time." see us, we could get off the ladder, leave the shaft at another floor. We'd gain more time."

"I can't." He was gripping the railing with both hands, and with such force that she would not have been surprised if the metal had bent like paper in his hands.

Exasperated, she said, "Graham, what else else can we do?" can we do?"

He stared into the concrete depths.

When Bollinger found that Harris and the woman had locked the fire door, he ran down two flights to the thirtieth floor. He intended to use that corridor to reach the far end of the building where he could take the second stairwell back up to the thirty-first level and try the other other fire door. However, at the next landing the words "Hollowfield Land Management" were stenciled in black letters on the gray door: the entire floor belonged to a single occupant. That level had no public corridor fire door. However, at the next landing the words "Hollowfield Land Management" were stenciled in black letters on the gray door: the entire floor belonged to a single occupant. That level had no public corridor; the fire door could be opened only from the inside. The same was true of the twenty-ninth and twenty-eighth floors, which were the domain of Sweet Sixteen Cosmetics. He tried both entrances without success. the fire door could be opened only from the inside. The same was true of the twenty-ninth and twenty-eighth floors, which were the domain of Sweet Sixteen Cosmetics. He tried both entrances without success.

Worried that he would lose track of his prey, he rushed back to the twenty-sixth floor. That was where he had originally entered the stairwell, where he had left the elevator cab.

As he pulled open the fire door and stepped into the hall, he looked at his watch. 9:15. The time was pa.s.sing too fast, unnaturally fast, as if the universe had become unbalanced.

Hurrying to the elevator alcove, he fished in his pocket for the dead guard's keys. They snagged on the lining. When he jerked them loose, they spun out of his hand and fell on the carpet with a sleighbell jingle.

He knelt and felt for them in the darkness. Then he remembered the pencil flashlight, but even with that he needed more than a minute to locate the keys.

As he got up, angry with himself, he wondered if Harris and the woman were waiting here for him. He put away the flashlight and s.n.a.t.c.hed the pistol from his pocket. He stood quite still. He studied the darkness. If they were hiding there, they would have been silhouetted by the bright spot farther along at the alcove.

When he thought about it, he realized that they couldn't have known on which floor he'd left the elevator. Furthermore, they couldn't have gotten down here in time to surprise him.

The thirty-first floor was a different story. They might have time to set a trap for him up there. When the elevator doors slid open, they might be waiting for him; he would be most vulnerable at that moment. he would be most vulnerable at that moment.

Then again, he he was the one with the pistol. So what if they were waiting with makeshift weapons? They didn't stand a chance of overpowering him. was the one with the pistol. So what if they were waiting with makeshift weapons? They didn't stand a chance of overpowering him.

At the elevator he put the key in the control board and activated the circuit.

He looked at his watch. 9:19.

If there were no more delays, he could kill Harris and still have twenty minutes or half an hour with the woman.

Whistling again, he pushed one of the b.u.t.tons: 31.

27.

The lab technician disconnected the garbage disposal, wrapped it in a heavy white plastic sheet, and carried it out of the apartment.

Preduski and Enderby were left alone in the kitchen.

In the foyer, a grandfather clock struck the quarter hour: two soft chimes, running five minutes late. In accompaniment, the wind fluted musically through the eaves just above the kitchen windows.

"If you find it hard to accept the idea of two psychopaths working so smoothly together," Enderby said, "then consider the possibility that they aren't psychopaths of any sort we've seen before."

"Now you sound like Graham Harris."

"I know."

"The Butcher is mentally ill, Harris says. But you wouldn't know it to look at him, Harris says. Either the symptoms of his mania don't show, or he knows how to conceal them. He'd pa.s.s any psychiatric exam, Harris says."

"I'm beginning to agree with him."

"Except you say there are two Butchers."

Enderby nodded.

Preduski sighed. He went to the nearest window and drew the outline of a knife in the thin gray-white film of moisture that coated the gla.s.s. "If you're right, I can't hold onto my theory. That he's just your ordinary paranoid schizophrenic. Maybe a lone killer could be operating in a psychotic fugue. But not two of them simultaneously."

"They're not suffering any psychotic fugue," Enderby agreed. "Both of these men know precisely what they're doing. Neither of them suffers from amnesia."

Turning from the window, from the drawing of the knife which had begun to streak as droplets of water slid down the pane, Preduski said, "Whether this is a new type of psychotic or not, the crime is familiar. s.e.x murders are-"

"These aren't s.e.x murders," Enderby said.

Preduski c.o.c.ked his head. "Come again?"

"These aren't s.e.x s.e.x murders." murders."

"They only kill women."

"Yes, but-"

"And they rape them first."

"Yes. It's murder with s.e.x a.s.sociated. a.s.sociated. But these aren't s.e.x murders." But these aren't s.e.x murders."

"I'm sorry. I'm lost. My fault. Not yours."

"s.e.x isn't the motivating force. s.e.x isn't the whole or even the primary reason they have for attacking these women. The opportunity for rape is there. So they take it. Going to kill the women anyway. They aren't adding to their legal risks by raping them first. s.e.x is secondary. They aren't killing out of some psychos.e.xual impulse."

Shaking his head, Preduski said, "I don't see how you can say that. You've never met them. What evidence do you have that their motives aren't basically s.e.xual?"

"Circ.u.mstantial," Enderby said. "For instance, the way they mutilate the corpses."

"What about it?"

"Have you studied the mutilations carefully?"

"I had no choice."

"All right. Found any sign of a.n.a.l mutilation?"

"No."

"Mutilation of the genitalia?"

"No."

"Mutilation of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s?"

"In some cases he's cut open the abdomen and chest cavity."

"Mutilation of the b.r.e.a.s.t.s alone?"

"When he opens the chest-"

"I mean has he ever cut off a woman's nipples, or perhaps her entire b.r.e.a.s.t.s, as Jack the Ripper did?"

A look of loathing came over his face. "No."

"Has he ever mutilated the mouth of a victim?"

"The mouth?"

"Has he ever cut off the lips?"

"No. Never."

"Has he ever cut out a tongue?"

"G.o.d, no! Andy, do we have to go on like this? It's morbid. And I don't see where it's leading."

"If they were manical s.e.x killers with a desire to cut their victims," Enderby said, "they'd have disfigured one of those areas."

"a.n.u.s, b.r.e.a.s.t.s, genitalia or mouth?"

"Unquestionably. At least one of them. Probably all of them. But they didn't. So the mutilation is an afterthought. Not a s.e.xual compulsion. Window dressing."

Preduski closed his eyes, pressed his fingertips to them, as if he were trying to suppress unpleasant images."Window dressing? I'm afraid I don't understand.

"To impress us."

"The police?"

"Yes. And the newspapers."

Preduski went to the window where he had drawn the knife. He wiped away the film of moisture and stared at the snow sheeting through the glow around the street lamp. "Why would he want to impress us?"

"I don't know. Whatever the reason, whatever the need behind his desire to impress-that is the true motivation."

"If we knew what it was, we might be able to see a pattern in the killings. We might be able to antic.i.p.ate him."

Suddenly excited, Enderby said, "Wait a minute. Another case. Two killers. Working together. Chicago. Nineteen twenty-four. Two young men were the murders. Both sons of millionaires. In their late teens."

"Leopold and Loeb."

"You know the case?"

"Slightly."

"They killed a boy, Bobby Franks. Fourteen years old. Son of another rich man. They had nothing against him. None of the usual reasons. No cla.s.sic motive. Newspapers said it was for kicks. For thrills. Very b.l.o.o.d.y murder. But they killed Franks for other reasons. For more than kicks. For a philosophical ideal."

Turning away from the window, Preduski said, "I'm sorry. I must have missed something. I'm not making sense of this. What What philosophical ideal?" philosophical ideal?"

"They thought they were special. Supermen. The first of a new race. Leopold idolized Nietzsche."

Frowning, Preduski said, "One of the quotes in there on the bedroom wall is probably from Nietzsche's work, the other from Blake. There was a quote from Nietzsche written in blood on Edna Mowry's wall last night."

"Leopold and Loeb. Incredible pair. They thought that committing the perfect crime was proof that they were supermen. Getting away with murder. They thought that was proof proof of superior intelligence, superior cunning." of superior intelligence, superior cunning."

"Weren't they h.o.m.os.e.xuals?"

"Yes. But that doesn't make Bobby Franks the victim of a s.e.x killing. They didn't molest him. Never had any intention of molesting him. They weren't motivated by l.u.s.t. Not at all. It was, as Loeb called it,'an intellectual exercise.'"

In spite of his excitement, Enderby noticed that his shirt cuffs were not showing beyond the sleeves of his suit jacket. He pulled them out, one at a time, until the proper half inch was revealed. Although he had worked for some time in the blood-splashed bedroom and then in the messy kitchen, he didn't have a stain on him.

His back to the window, leaning against the sill, conscious of his own scuffed shoes and wrinkled trousers, Preduski said, "I'm having trouble understanding. You'll have to be patient with me. You know how I am. Dense sometimes. But if these two boys, Leopold and Loeb, thought that murder was an intellectual exercise, then they were crazy. Weren't they? Were they mad?"

"In a way. Mad with their own power. Both real and imagined power."

"Would they have appeared to be mad?"

"Not at all."

"How is that possible?"

"Remember, Leopold graduated from college when he was just seventeen. He had an IQ of two hundred or nearly so. He was a genius. So was Loeb. They were bright enough to keep their Nietzschean fantasies to themselves, to hide their grandiose self-images."

"What if they'd taken psychiatric tests?"

"Psychiatric tests weren't very well developed in nineteen twenty-four."

"But if there had been tests back then as sophisticated as those we have today, would Leopold and Loeb have pa.s.sed them?"

"Probably with flying colors."