LITMIR.BIZ

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would lie in his bed and pick out the various sounds: the metallic clicking of the crickets, the soft hoot of an owl, all the rustlings of the nocturnal creatures of the woods.

      He especially liked walking from the bright sunlight of a Sunday morning into the tall, vaulted interior of the church—he loved the cool stillness of the stone columns. He knew that his mother was gratified by his interest in church, but she had no idea how much he loved the dimness of the chapel, especially on dull grainy days, when the weak light could barely make it through the tall stained-glass windows, and the congregation sat shrouded in a holy gloom. It was moments like that when he felt closest to God, when he could almost imagine His forgiveness for his own dark desires…

      “Oh, oh, God…R-r-r-o-ger!”

      The girl’s voice tightened and exploded in a wail of pleasure. He put his hands over his ears as he felt his face redden, warmth spreading up from his neck. Hot tears of shame slid down his cheeks, falling from his chin and gathering in the hollow of his collarbone. He felt violated by his proximity to her unholy passion, and knew then what he had to do. He leaned over on the damp ground and cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth as the wetness seeped deeper into his skin, his veins, his bones. He moaned softly. There was only one thing to do now, and the awesome responsibility of it humbled him.

      The hand of God. He looked at his own hands, so white and delicate that they might almost be the hands of a woman. He knew how could it be done—he’d seen it. Now he was ready to do it himself.

      Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…

      He rose from his lonely lookout and retreated into the welcoming darkness. It was time to do God’s will.

      Chapter Ten

      “You know, it’s funny,” Lee remarked to Butts, “but I have more sympathy for these tortured, driven guys than for your run-of-the-mill murderer—you know, the ones who kill for ‘logical’ reasons.”

      They were sitting on the uptown A train as it rattled its way to the Bronx, on their way to interview Christine Riley, Marie Kelleher’s roommate at Fordham.

      “What exactly do you mean by ‘logical’?” Butts asked.

      “Oh, you know…jealousy, greed, revenge, money, prestige—or killing to get rid of an inconvenient spouse or family member. The usual stuff.”

      “You feel more sympathy for these psychos? How come?”

      “There’s something cold blooded about killing…for money, for example. But sexual homicides—well, they may be planned, but there’s usually a compulsion involved. Especially for the repeat offenders.”

      “Yeah? So what?” Butts asked as the train pulled into the station and jerked to a stop.

      “Once they start it’s virtually impossible for them to stop.”

      “Why do they start in the first place?”

      “Usually some stressor occurs in their life, and bingo—they go over the edge.”

      “So what do you think the stressor was in this guy’s life?” Butts asked as they trudged up the subway stairs.

      They were greeted at the top of the stairs by a leaden gray sky. A low cloud cover had settled like a slab of granite over the city. February was not the best month to be in New York, and the Bronx was hardly the most glamorous of the five boroughs. As they walked up the Grand Concourse, a chill wind nipped at their backs, scattering dried leaves and loose bits of paper around their feet. Even the buildings looked cold—four- and five-story structures of grim gray granite, with the occasional decorative flourish or wrought-iron railing a welcome relief from the massive, stolid rock walls. The Grand Concourse was one of the widest avenues in the city, with a thick median strip down the center. In the spring it was probably festive, with all the trees in bloom and beds of crocuses lining the strip, but now it was just grim. Still, there was a grandeur and dignity in its winter desolation that made Lee sort of glad he was there.

      “I don’t know what might have pushed him over the edge, but I’m sure he’s been hovering there for quite a while,” he answered as they turned onto the block Christine Riley lived on with her family.

      The buildings on the side streets were smaller in scale than the ones lining the avenue, and Christine’s family occupied the second floor of a cozy little four-story walk-up. Dead clumps of chrysanthemums drooped in flower beds lining the neat little white fence in front.

      They rang and were buzzed into the building. The knock on the door of the Rileys’ place produced a burst of rapid-fire barking from inside the apartment—high-pitched yapping from what sounded like a small and annoying dog. Sure enough, when Christine’s mother opened the door, at her feet was a ratty old white West Highland terrier. Fat and rheumy-eyed, the dog took little leaps up at them, barking in a shrill yelping that cut the air like bursts from automatic weapons.

      “Stop it, Fritzy!” the woman commanded. The animal ignored her and continued its barrage of barking. Each bark lifted the tiny dog right off the ground, all four feet rising about an inch from the floor with every yap.

      “Mrs. Riley?” said Butts.

      “Yes?” She was a striking blonde with an athletic build—a swimmer’s body, with broad shoulders and long arms. She was young looking, but her eyes were worn and weary, and her pale, big-boned hands clutched the door frame.

      Detective Butts showed her his badge.

      “Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Please come in.” She led them through a cluttered hallway full of religious icons to a spacious living room, also decorated with the same theme of religious kitsch. A heavy, lavishly framed oil painting dominated the east wall—a young, beautiful Mary looking up at Christ on the cross, her tearstained eyes full of saintly love and loss. Fritzy followed after them, barking and bouncing, as if he were made of rubber. It was as if the barking were a kind of unique propulsion system, moving him forward with a little jerk each time he made a sound. Mrs. Riley motioned for them to sit on a flowered couch, sheathed in plastic. It reminded Lee of a huge condom.

      Brought up to sneer at such lower-middle-class ideas of home furnishing, Lee had trouble understanding why anyone would choose the discomfort of sitting on plastic just to keep their furniture clean.

      “Please sit down,” Mrs. Riley said.

      He and Butts complied, the plastic making a crinkling sound as they sat.

      “I’ll tell Christine you’re here. Would you like some coffee?”

      “No, thanks, Ma’am—we’re fine,” Butts replied, hands on his knees. He looked uncomfortable, his sturdy body perching on the edge of the sofa, as if he were afraid to lean back, lest he might be swallowed in a sea of plastic.

      Mrs. Riley left the room, but Fritzy stayed behind to guard his quarry. The dog’s barking had subsided to a few hiccough-like eruptions deep in its throat, disgruntled rumbling sounds that served as a warning that, come what may, Fritzy was on the job. He sat lopsidedly a few feet away, leaning on one pink haunch, his bright little eyes shining out from under overhanging terrier brows, fixed on his prisoners.

      “I don’t get how they can see through all that fur,” Butts whispered, “but the wife tells me that they do. That’s a lousy excuse for a dog,” he added, shaking his head.

      As if he had heard the insult, Fritzy looked in the direction of the kitchen, then jumped up and followed his mistress out of the room.

      Lee and Butts looked around the living room. Everything was flowered—the couch, the rug, the curtains, even the wallpaper. The excess of floral patterns made Lee’s head ache.

      “Geez,” Butts said, “this place is nice, huh? My wife would love this.”

      Lee had an uncomfortable image of the Butts household, and wondered if it included plastic on the furniture. His musings were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Riley and her daughter Christine.

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