to Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Strangler, were made—comparisons that did nothing to pour oil on the troubled waters. William Loeb’s Union-Leader in not-so-distant Manchester, New Hampshire, had published a helpful editorial titled THE DO-NOTHING COPS IN OUR SISTER STATE.
This Sunday supplement article, now nearly four weeks old and smelling pungently of shed and woodbox, quoted two local psychiatrists who had been perfectly happy to blue-sky the situation as long as their names weren’t printed. One of them mentioned a particular sexual aberration—the urge to commit some violent act at the moment of orgasm. Nice, Johnny thought, grimacing. He strangled them to death as he came. His headache was getting worse all the time.
The other shrink pointed out the fact that all five murders had been committed in late fall or early winter. And while the manic-depressive personality didn’t conform to any one set pattern, it was fairly common for such a person to have mood-swings closely paralleling the change of the seasons. He might have a “low” lasting from mid-April until about the end of August and then begin to climb, “peaking” at around the time of the murders.
During the manic or “up” state, the person in question was apt to be highly sexed, active, daring, and optimistic. “He would be likely to believe the police unable to catch him,” the unnamed psychiatrist had finished. The article concluded by saying that, so far, the person in question had been right.
Johnny put the paper down, glanced at the clock, and saw his father should be home almost anytime, unless the snow was holding him up. He took the old newspaper over to the wood stove and poked it into the firebox.
Not my business. Goddam Sam Weizak anyway.
Don’t hide away in a cave, Johnny.
He wasn’t hiding away in a cave, that wasn’t it at all. It just so happened that he’d had a fairly tough break. Losing a big chunk of your life, that qualified you for tough-break status, didn’t it?
And all the self-pity you can guzzle?
“Fuck you,” he muttered to himself. He went to the window and looked out. Nothing to see but snow falling in heavy, wind-driven lines. He hoped dad was being careful, but he also hoped his father would show up soon and put an end to this useless rat-run of introspection. He went over to the telephone again and stood there, undecided.
Self-pity or not, he had lost a goodish chunk of his life. His prime, if you wanted to put it that way. He had worked hard to get back. Didn’t he deserve some ordinary privacy? Didn’t he have a right to what he had just been thinking of a few minutes ago—an ordinary life?
There is no such thing, my man.
Maybe not, but there sure was such a thing as an abnormal life. That thing at Cole’s Farm. Feeling people’s clothes and suddenly knowing their little dreads, small secrets, petty triumphs—that was abnormal. It was a talent, it was a curse.
Suppose he did meet this sheriff? There was no guarantee he could tell him a thing. And suppose he could? Just suppose he could hand him his killer on a silver platter? It would be the hospital press conference all over again, a three-ring circus raised to the grisly nth power.
A little song began to run maddeningly through his aching head, little more than a jingle, really. A Sunday-school song from his early childhood: This little light of mine ... I’m gonna let it shine ... this little light of mine ... I’m gonna let it shine ... let it shine, shine, shine, let it shine ...
He picked up the phone and dialed Weizak’s office number. Safe enough now, after five. Weizak would have gone home, and big-deal neurologists don’t list their home phones. The phone rang six or seven times and Johnny was going to put it down when it was answered and Sam himself said, “Hi? Hello?”
“Sam?”
“John Smith?” The pleasure in Sam’s voice was unmistakable—but was there also an undercurrent of unease in it?
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“How do you like this snow?” Weizak said, maybe a little too heartily. “Is it snowing where you are?”
“It’s snowing.”
“Just started here about an hour ago. They say ... John? Is it the sheriff? Is that why you sound so cold?”
“Well, he called me,” Johnny said, “and I’ve been sort of wondering what happened. Why you gave him my name. Why you didn’t call me and say you had ... and why you didn’t call me first and ask if