alone, walking alone-then maybe he could have killed them.”
“Harris? You think Harris is the Butcher?”
“Maybe.”
“You hire detectives on a maybe?”
“I told you, I’ve distrusted that man from the start. And if I’m right
about this, what a scoop we’ll have!”
“But Harris isn’t a killer. He catches killers.”
Prine went to the bar. “If a doctor treats fifty patients for influenza
one week and fifty more the next, would it surprise you if he -got
influenza himself during the third week? ”
“I’m not sure I get your point.”
Prine filled his glass with bourbon. “For years Harris has been tuning
in to murder with the deepest levels of his mind, exposing himself to
trauma as few of us ever do. He has been literally delving into the
minds Of wife killers, child killers, mass murderers…. He’s probably
seen more blood and violence than most career cops. Isn’t it
conceivable that a man, unstable to begin with, could crack from all the
violent input? Isn’t it conceivable that he could become the kind of
maniac he’s worked so hard to catch?”
“Unstable?” Stevenson frowned. “Graham Harris is as stable as you or
me.”
“How well do you know him?”
“I saw him on the show.”
“There’s a bit more you should know.” Prine caught sight of himself in
the mirror behind the bar cabinet; he smoothed his lustrous white hair
with one hand.
“For example?”
“I’ll indulge myself in amateur psychoanalysis-amateur but probably
accurate. First of all, Graham Harris was born into borderline poverty
and-”
“Hold on. His old man was Evan Harris, the publisher.
”
“His stepfather. His real father died when Graham was a year old. His
mother was a cocktail waitress. She had trouble keeping a roof over
their heads because she had to pay off her husband’s medical bills. For
years they lived day to day, on the edge of disaster. That would leave
marks on a child.”
“How did she meet Evan Harris?” Stevenson asked.
“I don’t know. But after they were married, Graham took his
stepfather’s name. He spent the latter part of his childhood in a
mansion. After he got his university degree, he had enough time and
money to become one of the world’s leading climbers. Old man Harris
encouraged him. In some circles, Graham was famous, a star.
Do you realize how many beautiful women are drawn to the sport of
climbing?”
Stevenson shrugged.
“Not as participants,” Prine said. “As companions to the participants,
as bedmates. More women than you’d think. I guess it’s the nearness of
death that attracts them. For more than a decade, Graham was adored,
made over. Then he took a bad fall. When he recovered, he was
terrified of climbing.” Prine was listening to his own voice,
fascinated by the theory he had developed. “Do you understand, Paul? He
was born a nobody, lived the first six years of his life as a
nobody-then overnight he became a somebody when his mother married Evan
Harris. Now is it any wonder that he’s afraid of being a nobody again?
” Stevenson went to the bar and poured himself some bourbon. “It’s not
likely he’ll be a nobody again. He did inherit his stepfather’s money.”
“Money isn’t the same as fame. Once he’d been a celebrity, even within
the tight circle of climbing enthusiasts, maybe he developed a habit for
it. Maybe he became a fame junkie. It can happen to the best. I’ve
seen it.”
“So have I.”
“if that’s what he is … well, maybe he’s decided that being infamous
is as good as being famous. As the Butcher, he’s grabbing headlines;
he’s infamous, even if only under a nora de guerre- ”
“But he was with you in the studio last night when the Mowry girl was
murdered.”
“Maybe not.”
“What? He predicted her death.”
“Did he? Or did he simply tell us who he had selected for his next
victim?”
Stevenson stared at him as if he were mad. Laughing, Prine said, “Of
course Harris was in the studio with me-but perhaps not when the murder
took place. I used a source in the police department and got a copy of