Nor did he watch Munro look at him with pity in his eyes as he started to walk toward his lonely suite.
Munro lay awake in his bed for a long time that night. Patty had been asleep when he had come in shortly after one o'clock, and at first he had considered staying up, thinking about it all in his big leather chair, a Coors by his side. But he thought he might think about it better in the dark. Too, he felt as if he needed his wife beside him, needed the knowledge that he had someone he loved and who loved him, and who he need not fear would be taken away from him.
Oh, he had those fears from time to time, but they were only the normal, natural fears of any man for his loved ones – that they would be taken by disease or accident or even a random act of violence. But he did not have the fears that he knew must be possessing Dennis Hamilton. He did not have the precedents that Dennis Hamilton had.
The town of Kirkland averaged. 5 homicides per year, but now in only half a year the Venetian Theatre and environs had experienced five violent deaths – one definite murder, one possible suicide, and three "accidents."
No, Munro thought again, they were no accidents. Accidents didn't happen over and over again in one place, to a small group of people. And tonight? The little girl had suffocated, but that she should have done so on her own had been impossible. Self-preservation would have kept her pushing the clothes away from her face. There was no reason for it, just no reason at all short of murder, but to assume that the grandmother had done it was just plain stupid. Her grief had been real, as had been her attempts to bring the little girl back to life. The probability then?
Simple. When the grandmother wasn't looking, when she was in the john, somebody sneaked in and smothered the girl, then left. That story the woman had told about the clothes moving on their own Munro had dismissed as hallucination brought about by panic. It was the only thing to believe. Clothes didn't move on their own, not even in the goddamned Venetian Theatre.
And Dennis Hamilton once again had an alibi of sorts, though not a perfect one by any means. There had been one set of wet footprints going up to the costume shop from the pool, a bloody spot on the stairs where Hamilton had apparently raked his shin when the lights went out, and John Steinberg saying that he had left Dennis in the pool just minutes before the time of death. One thing bothered Munro, however, and that was why Hamilton had run up to the costume shop the way he did.
Hamilton's explanation had come in bits and pieces. He said that after Steinberg left he thought he had seen someone else pass in the hall, someone he didn't recognize, and ran out to see who it was. He said he called to the person, but that there was no answer, and that he grew afraid, thinking that it might be the same person who had murdered Donna Franklin. He decided to warn the others, and went to the costume shop first, knowing that Marvella Johnson was working late, but the lights failed, which alarmed him further, and he had to get a flashlight in the lobby. When he arrived, the girl was already dead.
Munro believed the story. There was no reason not to. Munro had little doubt that the person Hamilton had seen was the killer, not on his way to murder the little girl, but on his way out after having done so. One more death. One more mindless and motiveless death.
At least there was no motive that any sane mind could come up with. And that was what had given Dan Munro his theory.
Dennis Hamilton remained awake through most of the night as well, trying to deal with a reality that could not be, but was. The Emperor had proven himself. Proven himself with Whitney's death.
Dennis gave a shuddering sob and wondered if he had accepted the Emperor, had told him that he believed in him, had begged him to turn back from whatever horrible path he was taking, if the girl would still be alive. But she was not. She was dead, just like Robin and Tommy and Harry Ruhl and Donna, whom the Emperor had paraded before him like waxworks in some chamber of horrors.
And wasn't that just what the Venetian Theatre had become?
For an instant the old Dennis Hamilton flared, and he thought, How dare he? How dare that monster take my dream and turn it into a nightmare? How dare he tread on the bodies of the people I love?
And then the feeling was gone, but the memory of it buoyed him. There was still anger, emotion there, wasn't there? The Emperor had not taken it all. And he would not. He would not use Dennis's strength to harm the very people he loved. No. No more. No more theft. No more deaths.
No more.
The next morning Dennis Hamilton arrived at the police station at nine o'clock. John Steinberg was with him, and Dan Munro guided them into the little room that served him as an office. There were only two chairs, so Bill Davis brought in a folding chair for Steinberg, then coffee for the three of them.
"Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Steinberg," Munro said, "I'm convinced you have a real problem, and one that's not going to stop." He noticed that Hamilton's eyes seemed to light with surprise, but made no comment on it. "I don't think that any of the deaths that have occurred in the theatre building have been accidental. I believe every one was a premeditated homicide – and that includes Harry Ruhl's so-called suicide." He took a deep breath and another sip of coffee, watching for a reaction from either man, but there was none. "You've heard of celebrity stalkers?"
Steinberg murmured, "Yes," and Hamilton nodded.
"I think that may be what we've got here," Munro went on. "I came in early today, and read as much as I could find about it in our law enforcement journals. The situation doesn't fit the pattern perfectly, but it's damn close."
"You mean… a stranger?" Steinberg asked. "Someone we don't know?"
"It's possible. Maybe someone you do know, if only slightly. A big fan who may be jealous of the people around you, Mr. Hamilton, who'd like to be part of your entourage, and decides to whittle down the competition, or a performer jealous of your success, trying to hurt you through your friends… your wife. There are a lot of sick people out there. And a lot of people who don't need much of a reason to kill. Look at that kid who killed Lennon, or the one who shot Reagan – to impress Jodie Foster, for crissake. Celebrities can make weird people do weird things."
"I don't quite see," Steinberg said carefully, "how you suspect murder in all these cases."
"All right. I think that somebody dropped that curtain on Tommy Werton. I think Harry Ruhl was just plain murdered with that knife. Somebody knew when your wife and Mrs. Deems were going to be in the ceiling, and turned on the light to purposely startle them into falling. We know that Donna Franklin was strangled, and the little girl was smothered. It was no accident."
"How do you know that?" Steinberg asked.
"They did an autopsy early this morning, called me with the results. There were bruises and contusions on the girl's inner lips, and her nose was broken. Someone held those clothes over her face."
"Poor thing. Poor little thing." Steinberg grimly shook his head. "But how could this person… this stalker, as you put it… have access to all these places?" Steinberg asked.
"That's not difficult. He – or she – may have possession of all the keys he needs to get in and out of the theatre. One thing I'd do is have the locks changed – all the locks. To your apartments and everywhere else. But the first thing I'd do is to search that building from top to bottom. Every tunnel, every forgotten staircase, every room, any nook or cranny where somebody could be hiding."
"You mean you think this person might actually be living in the theatre," Steinberg said, "in hiding?"
"It's not likely, but it's possible."
Steinberg gave a dry chuckle without a trace of humor. "I think you may have seen The Phantom of the Opera once too often, Chief."