“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