had an IQ of t*o hundred or nearly so. He was a genius.
So was Loeb. They were bright enough to keep their Nietzschean
fantasies to themselves, to hide their grandiose self-images.'
'What if they'd taken psychiatric tests?'
'Psychiatric tests weren't very well developed in nineteen twenty-four.'
'But if there had been tests back then as sophisticated as those we have
today, would Leopold and Loeb have passed them?'
'Probably with flying colors.'
'Have there been others like Leopold and Loeb since nineteen
twenty-four?' Preduski asked.
'Not that I know of. Not in a pure sense, anyway.
The Manson family killed for murky political and religious reasons. They
thought Manson was Christ. Thought killing the rich would help the
downtrodden. Unmitigated crazies, in my book.
Think of some other killers, especially mass murderers. Charles
Starkweather. Richard Speck. Albert DeSaivo. All of them were
psychotic. All of them were driven by psychoses that had grown and
festered in them, that had slowly corrupted them since childhood. In
Leopold and Loeb, there were apparently no serious childhood traumas
that could have led to psychotic behavior. No black seed to bear fruit
later.'
'So if the Butcher is two men,' Preduski said forlornly, 'we've got a
new Leopold and Loeb. Killing to prove their superiority.'
Enderby began to pace. 'Maybe. But then again, maybe it's more than
that. Something more complex than that.'
'Like what?'
'I don't know. But I feel it's not exactly a Leopold and Loeb sort of
thing.' He went to the table and stared at the remains of the meal that
had never been eaten. 'Have you called Harris?'
Preduski said, 'No.'
'You should. He's been trying to get an image of the killer.
Hasn't had any luck. Maybe that's because he's focusing on a single
image, trying to envision just one face. Tell him there are two
killers. Maybe that'll breit open for him. Maybe he'll finally get a
handle on the case.'
'We don't know there are two. That's just a theory. 'Tell him anyway,'
Enderby said. 'What harm can it do? '
'I should tell him tonight. I really should. But I just can't,'
Preduski said. 'He's gotten behind in his work because of this case.
That's my fault. I'm always calling him, talking to him, pressuring him
about it. He's working late, trying to get caught up.
I don't want to disturb him.' In the foyer by the front door, the
grandfather clock chimed the half hour, five minutes late again.
Preduski glanced at his wristwatch and said, 'It'll soon be ten o'clock.
I've got to be going.'
'Going? There's work to do here.'
'I'm not on duty yet.'
'Graveyard?'
'Yeah.'
