'Mr. Harris?' Bollinger said. 'What are you two saying? Please
don't whisper.'
'Where then?' Connie whispered.
'The office.'
He nudged her, and they ducked quickly into the Harris Publications
suite, slammed and locked the reception room door.
A second later, Bollinger hit the outside of the door with his shoulder.
it trembled in its frame. He rattled the knob violently.
'He's probably got a gun,' Connie said. 'He'll get in sooner or later.'
Graham nodded. 'I know.'
part three
FRIDAY 8:30 P.Mo 10:30 PoM.
moas Ira Preduski parked at the end of a string of three squad cars and
two unmarked police sedans that blocked one half of the two-lane street.
Although there was no one in any of the five vehicles, all the engines
were running, headlights blazing; the trio of blue-and-whites were
crowned with revolving red beacons. Preduski got out of his car and
locked it.
A half inch of snow made the street look clean and pretty. As he walked
toward the apartment house, Preduski scuffed his shoes against the
sidewalk, sending up puffs of white flakes in front of him. The wind
whipped the falling snow into his back, and cold flakes found their way
past his collar. He was reminded of that February, in his fourth year,
when his family moved to Albany, New York, where he saw his first winter
storm.
A uniformed patrolman in his late twenties was ' standing at the bottom
of the outside steps to the apartment house.
'Tough job you've got tonight,' Preduski said. 'I don't mind it.
I like snow.'
'Yeah? So do I.'
'Besides,' the patrolman said, 'it's better standing out here in the
cold than up there in all that blood.'
The room smelled of blood, excrement and dusting powder.
Fingers bent like claws, the dead woman lay on the floor beside the bed.
Her eyes were open.
Two lab technicians were working around the body, studying it carefully
before chalking its position and moving it.
Ralph Martin was the detective handling the on scene investigation. He
was chubby, completely bald, with bushy eyebrows and dark-rimmed
glasses. He avoided looking at the corpse.
'The call from the Butcher came in at ten of seven,' Martin said.
'We tried your home number immedi lately, but we weren't able to get
through until almost eight o'clock.'
'My phone was off the hook. I just got out of bed at a quarter past
eight. I'm working graveyard.' He sighed and turned away from the
corpse. 'What did he say-this Butcher?'
Martin took two folded sheets of paper from his pocket, unfolded them.
'I dictated the conversation, as well as I could recall it, and one of
the girls made copies.
