"She was between boyfriends."

"Maybe an old boyfriend stopped in to talk."

"No. When Edna dropped a guy, he stayed stayed dropped." dropped."

Preduski sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head sadly. "I hate to have to ask this.... You were her best friend. But what I'm going to say-please understand I don't mean to put her down. Life is tough. We all have to do things we'd rather not do. I'm not proud of every day of my life. G.o.d knows. Don't judge. That's my motto. There's only one crime I can't rationalize away. Murder. I really hate to ask this.... Well, was she... do you think she ever..."

"Was she a prost.i.tute?" Sarah asked for him.

"Oh, I wouldn't put it that way! That's such an awful... I really meant ..."

"Don't worry," she said. She smiled sweetly. "I'm not offended."

Graham was amused to see her squeeze the detective's hand. Now she she was comforting was comforting Preduski. Preduski.

"I do some light hooking myself," Sarah said. "Not much. Once a week, maybe. I've got to like the guy, and he's got to have two hundred bucks to spare. It's all the same as stripping to me, really. But it wouldn't have been something Edna could do. She was surprisingly straight."

"I shouldn't have asked. It was none of my business," said Preduski. "But it occurred to me that in her line of work there would be a lot of temptation for a girl who needed money."

"She made eight hundred a week stripping and hustling drinks," Sarah said. "She only spent money on her books and apartment. She was socking it in the bank. She didn't need more."

Preduski was somber. "But you see why I had to ask? If she opened the door to the killer, he must have been someone she knew, however briefly. That's what puzzles me most about this whole case. How does the Butcher get them to open the door?"

Graham had never thought about that. The dead women were all young, but they were from varied backgrounds. One was a housewife. One was a lawyer. Two were school-teachers. Three secretaries, one model, one sales clerk.... How did did the Butcher get so many different women to open their doors to him late at night? the Butcher get so many different women to open their doors to him late at night?

The kitchen table was littered with the remains of a hastily prepared and hastily eaten meal. Bits of bread. The dried edge of a slice of bologna. Smears of mustard and mayonnaise. Two apple cores. A can of cling peaches empty of everything except an inch of packing syrup. A drumstick gnawed to the bone. Half a doughnut. Three crushed beer cans. The Butcher had been ravenous and sloppy.

"Ten murders," Preduski said, "and he always goes to the kitchen for a snack afterward."

Stifled by the psychic atmosphere of the kitchen, by the incredibly strong, lingering presence of the killer which was nearly as heavy here as it had been in the dead woman's bedroom, Graham could only nod. The mess on the table, in contrast with the otherwise tidy kitchen, disturbed him deeply. The peach can and the beer can were covered with reddish-brown stains; the killer had eaten while wearing his b.l.o.o.d.y gloves. the killer had eaten while wearing his b.l.o.o.d.y gloves.

Preduski shuffled forlornly to the window by the sink. He stared at the neighboring apartment house. "I've talked to a few psychiatrists about these feasts he has when he's done the dirty work. As I understand it, there are two basic ways a psychopath will act when he's finished with his victim. Number one, there's Mr. Meek. The killing is everything for him, his whole reason for living, the only color and desire in his life. When he's done killing, there's nothing, he's nothing. He goes home and watches television. Sleeps a lot. He sinks into a deep pit of boredom until the pressures build up and he kills again. Number two, there's the man who gets psyched up by the murder. His real excitement comes not during the killing but after it. He'll go straight from the scene of the crime to a bar and drink everyone under the table. His adrenaline is up. His heartbeat is up. He eats like a lumberjack and sometimes picks up wh.o.r.es by the six-pack. Apparently, our man is number two. Except..."

"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 b.u.t.ter 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 look as if he'd had a big meal. He did the same thing at the scene of murders seven and eight." 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, h.e.l.l. 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, at all, then there's a reason behind the killings," Preduski said thoughtfully. "Somehow they're connected. Is that what you're saying?" 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 what I mean." 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sion 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. logic. I've never had so much trouble drawing a bead on this kind of killer." 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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. 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. 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 circ.u.mstances," 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 circ.u.mstances."

"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. The Four Zoas. When he awoke five hours later, he felt new and fresh and pure, as if he had been reborn. 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.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"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... 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 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 b.u.t.ton that lifted his spirits each time it was pushed, a reminder that he was destined for a dizzyingly high station in life. 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 b.u.t.ton 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."