he'd never seen committed.
If he could have wished away his powers, he would have done that long
ago. But because that was impossible, he felt as if he had a
responsibility to develop and interpret his psychic talent. He
believed, perhaps irrationally, that by doing so he was compensating, at
least in part, for the cowardice that had overwhelmed him these past
five years.
"What do you make of the message he left us?" Preduski asked.
On the wall beside the vanity bench there were lines of poetry printed
in blood.
Rintah roars and shakes his fires in the burdened air; Hungry clouds
swag on the deep "Have any idea what it means?" Preduski asked.
"I'm afraid not."
"Recognize the poet?"
"No."
"Neither do I. " Preduski shook his head sorrowfully.
"I'm not very well educated. I only had one year of college.
Couldn't afford it. I read a lot, but there's so much to read. if I
were educated, maybe I'd know whose poetry that is. I should know. If
the Butcher takes the time to write it down, it's something important to
him. It's a lead. What kind of detective am I if I can't follow up a
lead as plain as that?" He shook his head again, clearly disgusted with
himself. "Not a good one. Not a very good one."
"Maybe it's his own poetry," Graham said.
"The Butcher's?"
"Maybe."
"A murderous poet? T.S. Eliot with a homicidal urge?
Graham shrugged.
"No," Preduski said. "A man usually commits this sort of crime because
it's the only way he can express the rage inside him.
Slaughter releases pressures that have built in him. But a poet can
express his feelings with words. No. If it were doggerel, perhaps it
could be the Butcher's own verse. But this is too smooth, too
sensitive, too good. Anyway, it rings a bell. Way back in this thick
head of mine, it rings a bell." Preduski studied the bloody message for
a moment, then turned and went to the bedroom door. it was standing
open; he closed it. "Then there's this one."
On the back of the door, five words were printed in the dead woman's
blood.
a rope over an abyss "Has he ever left anything like this before?"
Graham asked.
"No. I would have told you if he had. But it's not unusual in this
sort of crime. Certain types of psychopaths like to communicate with
whoever finds the corpse. jack the Ripper wrote notes to the police.
The Manson family used blood to scrawl one-word messages on the walls.
'A rope over an abyss." What is he trying to tell us?"
"Is it from the same poem as the other?"
"I haven't the faintest idea." Preduski sighed, thrust his hands into
his pockets. He looked dejected. "I'm beginning to wonder if I'm ever
going to catch him."
The living room of Edna Mowry's apartment was small but not mean.
Indirect lighting bathed everything in a relaxing amber glow.
Gold velvet drapes.
Textured light tan burlap-pattern wallpaper.
Plush brown carpet. A beige velour sofa and two matching armchairs. A
heavy glass coffee table with brass legs. Chrome and glass shelves full
of books and statuary.
Limited editions of prints by some fine contemporary artists. It was
tasteful, cozy and expensive.
At Preduski's request, Graham settled down in one of the armchairs.
Sarah Piper was sitting on one end of the sofa. She looked as expensive
as the room. She was wearing a knitted pantsuit-dark blue with Kelly
green piping-gold earrings and an elegant watch as thin as a half
dollar. She was no older than twenty-five, a strikingly lovely,
well-built blonde, marked by experience.
Earlier she had been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red. She was in
control of herself now.
"We've been through this before," she said.
Preduski was beside her on the couch. "I know," he said. "And I'm
sorry. Truly sorry. It's terribly late, too late for this. But there
is something to be gained by asking the same questions two and even
three times. You think you've told me all the pertinent facts.
But it's possible you overlooked something. God knows, I'm forever
overlooking things. This questioning may seem redundant to you, but
it's the way I work. I have to go over things again and again to make
sure I've done them right. I'm not proud of it. That's just the way I
am. Some other detective might get everything he needs the first time
he speaks to you. Not me, I'm afraid. It was your misfortune that the
call came in while I was on duty. Bear with me. I'll be able to let
you go home before much longer. I promise."
The woman glanced at Graham and cocked her head as if to say, Is this
guy for real?
Graham smiled.
"How long had you known-the deceased?" Preduski asked.
She said, "About a year."
"How well did you know her?"
"She was my best friend."
"Do you think that in her eyes you were her best friend?"
"Sure. I was her only friend."
Preduski raised his eyebrows. "People didn't like her? "
"Of course they liked her,", Sarah Piper said. "What wasn't to like?
She just didn't make friends easily. She was a quiet girl. She kept
mostly to herself."
"Where did you meet her?"
"At work."
"Where is work?"
"You know that. The Rhinestone Palace."
"And what did she do there?"
"You know that too."
Nodding, patting her knee in a strictly fatherly manner, the detective
said, "That's correct. I know it. But, you see, Mr. Harris doesn't
know it. I neglected to fill him in. My fault. I'm sorry.
Would you tell him?"
She turned to Graham. "Edna was a stripper. just like me."
"I know the Rhinestone Palace," Graham said.
"You've been there?" Preduski asked.
"No. But I know it's fairly high class, not like most striptease
clubs."
For a moment Preduski's watery brown eyes seemed less out of focus than
usual. He stared intently at Graham. "Edna Mowry was a stripper.
How about that?"
He knew precisely what the detective was thinking. On the Prine show he
had said that the victim's name might be Edna Dancer. He had not been
right-but he had not been altogether wrong either; for although her name
was Mowry, she earned her living as a dancer.
According to Sarah Piper, Edna had reported for work at five o'clock the
previous evening. She performed a ten-minute act twice every hour for
the next seven hours, peeling out of a variety of costumes until she was
entirely nude. Between acts, dressed in a black cocktail dress, sans
bra, she mixed with the customers-mostly men, alone and in
groups-hustling drinks in a cautious, demure and stylish way that
skipped successfully along the edge of the state's B-girl laws. She had
finished her last performance at twenty minutes of twelve and left the
Rhinestone Palace no more than five minutes after that.
"You think she came straight home?" Preduski asked.
"She always did," Sarah said. "She never wanted to go out and have fun.
The Rhinestone Palace was all the night life she could stomach.
Who could blame her?"
Her voice wavered, as if she might begin to cry again.
Preduski took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
She let him hold it, and that appeared to give him an innocent pleasure.
"Did you dance last evening?"
"Yeah. Till midnight."
"When did you come here?"
"A quarter of three."
"Why would you be visiting at that hour?"
"Edna liked to sit and read all night. She never went to bed until
eight or nine in the morning. I told her I'd stop around for breakfast
and gossip. I often did."
"You've probably already told me . . ." Preduski made a face: