'I don't know. Whatever the reason, whatever the need behind his desire
to impress-that is the true motivation.
'If we knew what it was, we might be able to see a pattern in the
killings. We might be able to anticipate him.'
Suddenly excited, Enderby said, 'Wait a minute. Another case.
Two killers. Working together. Chicago. Nineteen twenty-four. Two
young men were the murderers. Both sons of millionaires. In their late
teens.'
'Leopold and Loeb.'
'You know the case?'
'Slightly.'
'They killed a boy, Bobby Franks. Fourteen years old. Son of anot er
rich man. They had nothing against him. None of the usual reasons.
No classic motive. Newspapers said it was for kicks. For thrills.
Very bloody murder. But they killed Franks for other reasons.
For more than kicks. For a philosophical ideal.'
Turning away from the window, Preduski said, 'I'm sorry. I must have
missed something. I'm not making sense of this. What philosophical
ideal?'
'They thought they were special. Supermen. The first of a new race.
Leopold idolized Nietzsche.'
Frowning, Preduski said, 'One of the quotes in there on the bedroom wall
is probably from Nietzsche's work, the other from Blake.
There was a quote from Nietzsche written in blood on Edna Mowry's wall
last night.'
'Leopold and Loeb. Incredible pair. They thought that committing the
perfect crime was proof that they were supermen. Getting away with
murder. They thought that was proof of superior intelligence, superior
cunning.'
'Weren't they homosexuals?'
'Yes. But that doesn't make Bobby Franks the victim of a sex killing.
They didn't molest him. Never had any intention of molesting him. They
weren't motivated by lust. Not at all. It was, as Loeb called it, 'an
intellectual exercise.
In spite of his excitement, Enderby noticed that his shirt cuffs were
not showing beyond the sleeves of his suit jacket. He pulled them out,
one at a time, until the proper half inch was revealed.
Although he had worked for some time in the blood-splashed bedroom and
then in the messy kitchen, he didn't have a stain on him.
His back to the window, leaning against the sill, conscious of his own
scuffed shoes and wrinkled trousers, Preduski said, 'I'm having trouble
understanding. You'll have to be patient with me. You know how I am.
Dense sometimes. But if these two boys, Leopold and Loeb, thought that
murder was an intellectual exercise, then they were crazy.
Weren't they? Were they mad?'
'In a way. Mad with their own power. Both real and imagined power.'
'Would they have appeared to be mad?'
'Not at all.'
'How is that possible?'
'Remember, Leopold graduated from college when he was just seventeen. He
