by Robert Bloch
There had been a strangler in Boston, cold-blooded murderers on the prairie, a rampaging rifleman on a tower in Texas, a psychotic slayer in Phoenix, a killer of migrant workers who filled more than two dozen shallow graves dotting the California farmlands. Somewhere around the Bay Area a slayboy turned homicides into an ego-trip, as he boasted of his tally of victims in letters to the newspapers which he signed with the nom de doom of Zodiac. And right here in fair and warmer Los Angeles, people were remembering the Manson family.
All men are brothers—but which brother is named Cain?
An unfair question, perhaps, and an unfair comparison. For Cain slew Abel for personal reasons, unacceptable but understandable.
There was nothing personal about these killings. Cain had become a mass murderer, striking savagely and at random.
In Biblical times, God put a mark upon Cain but did not kill him, and Cain went to dwell in the land of Nod.
Today, God’s surrogate, the psychotherapist, puts his mark upon Cain, branding him sociopath, psychopath, multiple schizophrenic, cycloid personality—and Cain is sent to dwell in the asylum.
And now, today, five potential murderers were at large. And their bloody trail led from the distant canyon into the heart of the city itself. The heart began to pulse and pound at the realization of its own vulnerability.
Telephones rang and women exchanged shrill queries. Did you read the paper, did you hear the news on television, do you think they’ll find out who they are, do you think they’ll catch them? Appointments were canceled at the hairdressers’ and shopping plans hastily abandoned. That poor Dorothy Anderson. Remember all those nurses in Chicago? I’m not leaving the house today.
It was the men who left the house, who did the shopping. Before they went to work, they stopped by the hardware stores and bought locks, install-it-yourself alarms.
And as the day grew warmer, children whined behind closed doors. Why can’t I go outside, Mommy? I want to play. You promised I could go in the pool, remember?
Mommy shut them up. Shut them up inside, behind closed doors, barricaded from all callers, even the mailman.
The noonday sun was high in the heavens, but Los Angeles stayed at home, listening to the latest news—which was no news at all.
At police headquarters in the West Valley, in Van Nuys, Hollywood, downtown, the reports were coming in from the lab boys. Again, no news at all.
The murderer had been careful about prints. He had worn gloves. The Anderson apartment and the Griswold automobile had yielded no clues, and nothing had been turned up at the sanatorium, though a team was still working. But so far there weren’t any leads—and no one had phoned in to volunteer any information.
“Just the usual crank calls,” Lieutenant Barringer told Dr. Vicente. He took the last gulp of his coffee and frowned down at the cup. “Why do they always call, Doc? Why is it that every nut in town gets on the phone at a time like this—fake confessions, phoney reports of guys hiding under the bed, old yentas telling about their dreams?”
“You touch a nerve, you get a response,” Vicente said. “The reaction to violence is usually a violent one, but it takes a variety of forms. People tend to dramatize their guilt feelings, fantasize their fears.”
“Save the lecture for UCLA,” Barringer said. He shook his head, yawned heavily. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
Dr. Vicente hesitated. “There’s something I wanted to tell you before you check out.”
“Go ahead.”
“I contacted Sawtelle this morning. The VA Center has a file on Bruce Raymond.”
“Was he a patient?”
“No, not there. But it’s a medical discharge, and he was definitely under psychiatric observation before he was released from service. That’s all they told me over the phone, but they’re getting a transcript to us this afternoon.”
“Good.”
“Is it?” Dr. Vicente’s eyes were thoughtful. “I have no way of knowing what that transcript will show, but one thing is already clear. Whatever was wrong with Bruce Raymond, he obviously didn’t make a permanent recovery. That’s why he went to the sanatorium.”
“You’re not telling me anything new,” Barringer said.
Dr. Vicente’s gaze narrowed. “But, knowing this, you still allowed Mrs. Raymond to go home.”
“With around-the-clock surveillance.”
“Her husband could be dangerous.”
“We’re already set up to monitor any calls on her apartment phone. If he tries to contact her directly, there’ll be a good man waiting for him.”
“You’re hoping he does show up, aren’t you? That’s why you let her go—to use her as bait.”
“No comment.”
“I’ll comment on it. I think it’s one hell of a risk.”
“She asked for it, remember? And we’re giving her every possible protection.”
“If you really wanted to protect her, you’d see to it that she was held here.”
“Get off my back, Doc.” Barringer stood up. “Sure, she’d be better off under maximum security conditions. But that’s just part of the job. There’s three million other people out there whose phones aren’t bugged, who have nobody assigned to stand guard duty, who have no security at all. They’ve got to be protected, too—and none of them are safe until we nail whoever’s reponsible for these killings.”
Dr. Vicente shrugged. “You talk as though you were the only man on the case. Between the LAPD and the Sheriff’s Department, how many men are working with us? There must be hundreds—”
“And not a single goddam lead for any one of them to go with.” Barringer shook his head. “I agree with you, letting that girl go is a hell of a risk. But if it can give us a line on Bruce Raymond or any of the other suspects, it’s a risk we’ve got to take.”
“All right.” Dr. Vicente moved with Barringer towards the door. “Get some rest.”
“I’ll do that,” said Barringer.
And he did.
Karen sat in the air-conditioned hum of her apartment, staring alternately at the telephone and at Tom Doyle.
The telephone was black and squat and silent.
Tom Doyle was white and tall and silent.
The telephone sat on an end table. Tom Doyle sat on the sofa, but in the past hour he’d come to seem as much of a fixture in the apartment as the phone—just another permanent installation.
Well, she’d asked for it, Karen told herself. There was no reason to resent him or his presence. But she hadn’t realized somebody would be breathing down her neck quite so closely. He’s here to protect you, that’s his job. Be reasonable.
Easier said than done. Doyle was reading a magazine, and Karen gave him a sidelong glance of appraisal. Long and lanky, with sandy hair and a pale, freckled face. Probably in his middle thirties. Gray suit, summer weight, with medium-wide lapels. Gray-and-white striped shirt, pale blue tie. Conservative. He didn’t look like a detective.
Karen caught herself and frowned. What’s a detective supposed to look like? She’d watched too much television, she told herself. All those shows with the older, craggy-featured ex-leading man playing the brains and the young, grinning ex-filling station attendant playing the muscles. Racing around in sports cars, up and down the hills of San Francisco, while rock music blasted from the soundtrack.
Doyle didn’t drive a sports car, and there was no rock music here—just the humming of the air-conditioner. But he was a detective; the minute they’d arrived he’d examined the front door to see if anyone had forced the lock. Then he checked out the entire apartment, revolver in hand, making sure she stood well to one side as he opened and closed closets, examined the windows. The window in the bathroom was partway raised, and if she hadn’t told him at once that she’d left it open before going to work yesterday morning, he probably would have called Barringer right then and there and arranged to drag her back to the station. He was a detective, no doubt about it.
Karen stirred in her chair, her left foot tapping a
gainst its base like a nervous metronome.
Doyle looked up. “You don’t have to keep me company, Mrs. Raymond. If you want to lie down for a while—”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Avoiding his eyes, Karen concentrated on the telephone. Bruce, I know you’re out there somewhere. For God’s sake, why don’t you call?
Doyle’s voice was soft. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch the phone. If it rings while you’re asleep, I’ll wake you up and let you answer it.”
He was a detective, all right. Or was it just that her reactions were so obvious?
Karen rose, forcing a smile. “Thanks. Maybe I will stretch out for a few minutes.” She started toward the bathroom doorway.
“Mrs. Raymond.”
“Yes?”
“Better not close your door.”
Karen went on into the bedroom. Don’t close your door. Great. And suppose she wanted to go to the bathroom?
She did just that, moving through the bedroom and leaving the bathroom door ajar. At least he couldn’t see her from the living room, not unless he followed her. This was worse than being in jail. Now she could understand how Bruce must have felt in the sanatorium, under observation, someone watching all the time. Bruce, where are you? I know you’ve been here.
She knew because she had lied about the bathroom window. When she had left for work yesterday, it had been closed and locked.
She moved to it now, quietly and cautiously, ears attuned for any telltale sound that would show that Doyle might have gotten up. Carefully, very slowly and deliberately, she eased the window down, exposing the lock, with its telltale bright metal streakings, shining in parallel grooves against the marred, painted surface. The lock had been forced open from outside.
Karen had been sure Bruce had been home the moment she’d seen the partly-open window; she never left the apartment without making certain everything was closed. And if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to tell Doyle she’d opened the window, if she hadn’t been quick enough to forestall him, he would have done what she was doing now and had confirmation.
Karen took a deep breath. Confirmation of what? That Bruce had been here?
It was her first thought at the time. That’s why she’d lied to Doyle.
But now, gazing at the forced lock, she had to admit to herself that she wasn’t sure. After all, Bruce did have his own key to the apartment. Unless, of course, it wasn’t in his possession when he left the sanatorium. Griswold might have placed all of Bruce’s personal effects somewhere for safekeeping, and he might not have had the opportunity to locate his key. Even so, would he have risked entering this way?
The murderer of Dorothy Anderson came in through the bathroom window—
Maybe it wasn’t Bruce who had forced this lock. Suppose it was the killer?
Karen turned, started back towards the bedroom. She’d better tell Doyle.
Or should she? Her pace slackened and she halted before the bathroom mirror.
She couldn’t tell Doyle; it would be an admission of a deliberate lie, and the moment he knew he’d yank her back down to headquarters—to sit there, behind bars, not knowing what was happening, without a chance of hearing from Bruce, without a chance of his ever getting to her.
But what if he did get to her?
What if it had been Bruce after all, trying to get to her—trying to get to her and kill her?
Bruce wouldn’t do that.
Or would he?
Karen met her own wide-eyed stare in the mirror.
Would he?
That was the real question, the question she’d tried to avoid all along. But she had to face it now, just as she had to face herself in the shimmering glass.
Knowing what had happened, knowing what she did about Bruce—did she think he was guilty?
Slowly, Karen retraced her steps to the window and opened it to its former position. That settled that; Doyle wouldn’t realize what had happened. But it still didn’t answer the question.
Was Bruce guilty?
She didn’t know.
And now, staring through the open window at the empty alleyway, she was afraid to find out.
CHAPTER 10
No news is good news—but not to a reporter.
LAPD had no official statement to issue that afternoon, and neither did the Sheriff’s Department. Lieutenant Barringer was unavailable for comment—holed up somewhere for his badly-needed sleep—and Captain Runsvick, fronting for the homicide division, had nothing to offer but advice.
“Play it down,” he said. “Sure, we’re getting a lot of calls and we’ll be checking them out. As soon as we’ve got something, we’ll give it to you. But until we do, no sense spreading rumors.”
A few blocks away, the press was faring no better at the Sutherland Agency. Ed Haskane was perfectly willing to talk, but he had nothing to say. Yes, he was Karen’s boss, but he’d never met her husband. No, she had never spoken about him except when he was discharged from service; then she’d been very excited that he was coming home. Afterwards, he’d just taken it for granted that everything was fine. He had been shocked to learn that Bruce Raymond was in a sanatorium. What was Mrs. Raymond like? A very bright girl, wrote good copy. All of which might well be true, but it didn’t make good copy.
In midafternoon, Tom Doyle closed the door on would-be interviewers at Karen’s apartment. They had to make do with neighbors, but no one could tell them very much. Only a few of the women around the courtyard pool could remember seeing Bruce Raymond at all, and nobody had actually spoken to him during his brief stay over six months ago. Apparently Karen was looked upon as a loner; she had no friends here and never came down to the pool herself. When Bruce ceased to put in an appearance, most of the other tenants hadn’t even noticed his absence. The few who did merely assumed there’d been a separation or a divorce.
Late in the afternoon a mobile TV unit descended on Griswold’s sanatorium. They’d come out in the morning, only to find the place was off-limits, and the situation now was still unchanged. Squad cars guarded the gates, and Sergeant Cole was supervising an investigatory team inside. If anything had been turned up, it wasn’t ready for release. The camera crew had already picked up exterior footage during their first run, and there wasn’t much point in taking more. They did get a few shots of long-haired local residents clustered across the road, but since the observations of these curiosity seekers were largely confined to mumbled asides about pigs, fuzz and other four-letter commentaries, the visit proved to be a waste of time and film.
It was already dusk when the mobile unit broke its return run downtown to stop at Raymond’s Charter Service. Once again they drew a blank; patrol cars stood before the entrance, and a uniformed officer politely refused admission to the newscasters. There was some debate inside the mobile unit about the advisability of sticking around until the police left, but it was getting late and the ten o’clock news waits for no man; they’d never be able to put coverage on the air in time.
Inside the office, Rita Raymond happened to glance through the window just as the mobile unit drove away. She didn’t say anything about it; she was doing her best to say as little as possible.
But it wasn’t easy, not with Sergeant Galpert asking the questions. She didn’t care for the sergeant; he had the persistent manner of a terrier worrying a bone.
“You’re positive that your brother made no attempt to get in touch with you?”
“He may have tried. All I know is he didn’t succeed.”
Galpert frowned. “Meaning he might have come here?”
“I haven’t seen him.” Rita lit a cigarette as she glanced out of the window again. “And neither have your men, apparently.” Rita exhaled, and the fan behind her whirred, weaving the smoke into a weblike tracery. “Tell me, Sergeant, isn’t it customary to bring a search warrant when you conduct an operation like this?”
Galpert looked as though he was going to growl at her for trying to take away his bone. “You admitted us to the property o
n your own volition. Of course, if you want to bring up technicalities—”
“I don’t want to bring up anything.” Rita checked herself; any show of antagonism would only provoke barking and snapping. “Believe me, I’m as anxious to locate Bruce as you are. But I’ve told you—he hasn’t contacted me.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother?”
“He’s been in the sanatorium since last winter—you know that.”
Galpert nodded quickly. “And you visited him there.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your sister-in-law.”
Rita repressed her frown. Of course Karen would have mentioned the visits, she should have anticipated he’d know about them. No way of holding out now.
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” Galpert repeated.
“Thursday, in the afternoon. I never went on weekends, that’s when we get busy here—”
“Last Thursday afternoon.” Galpert leaned forward; the terrier had a good grip on his bone now and he wasn’t letting go of it. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” Rita stubbed her cigarette. “It was a nice day. We took a walk outside, on the grounds.”
“Just the two of you? No attendant?”
“It wasn’t necessary. He’d been perfectly fine for months—”
“And before that?”
Rita hesitated. “We’d visit indoors, in his room.” She shook her head. “Look, if you’re trying to get me to say he’d been disturbed—”
“Had he?”
“Of course he had, at first. That’s why he was out there to begin with. But he was never violent or irrational like some of the others, not even at the beginning.”
Galpert wasn’t satisfied with the bone; he wanted the marrow, too. “The other patients—you saw them?”
“No, never. Dr. Griswold had a thing about respecting a patient’s right to privacy.”
“Then how do you know the others were violent and irrational?”
“Bruce told me. Not all of them, but a few.”
“Who, for example?”
Rita’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m trying to remember if he ever mentioned anyone by name.”