but Douglas either puts me on their serious crank list or it gets Douglas to call me back. Either way, maybe somebody talks to us."
The phone rang.
DeAnne laughed nervously.
Step picked up the receiver.
"This Stephen Fletcher?" asked a man with a soft tidewater accent.
"Yes," said Step.
"This is Doug Douglas, Steuben Police Department. What's on your mind?"
Step mouthed to DeAnne: It's him. Then, to Douglas, he said, "Mr. Douglas, this is probably crazy and we're probably going to end up on your crank-call list, but we've got something he re that if we don't tell you about it we're probably going to go out of our minds worrying about it, so if you've got two minutes I'll give it a try and then you can tell me I'm nuts and I'll go away."
"I got two minutes, son," said Douglas. "Go ahead."
"We've got a list here that has four names on it. Jack, Scotty David, and Roddy."
"Mm-hm."
"That list was written early in June. Since then, and before we saw this article in the paper, we added three more names to it. Peter, Van, and Sandy."
"So you telling me you're a psychic?" asked Douglas. The weariness in his voice told Step what he thought of psychics.
"No," said Step. "Far from it. We got these names from some body else, for a completely unrelated purpose.
But you don't have to take just our word for it. That same list is also in the possession of a doctor here in town, who also collected it for a completely unrelated reason."
"Mm-hm."
"So then back in June we also got a forty- five rpm record in the mail, anonymously, but it was postmarked Steuben. And the record was that one by the rock group The Police, the song called 'Every Breath You Take.' It has a part about how the singer of the song will be watching. We figured it was just somebody who wanted to scare us or punish us for something, and we didn't think the police would be interested or even if you were, what could you do? So we didn't report it. But now this article comes out, and we think-maybe the reason we had these names is somehow connected with the person who sent us that record. And maybe that person is somehow connected with the serial killer. And so maybe..."
"You're being a little cute with me, Mr. Fletcher. You keep not telling me why you have that list of names."
"I'm not trying to be cute, I'm just trying to tell you the parts that matter before I tell you the part that makes it all so hard for anybody to believe, including us. I mean, we want you to take this seriously"
"So far I'm listening serious, and I'm waiting for you to talk serious."
"Yes. Can you- first can you just tell me if our list really does correspond? I mean, was Jonathan Lee, was he ever called 'Jack.' Did Alexander Booth go by the nickname 'Sandy'?"
"Mr. Fletcher, I'm still on the phone with you. Doesn't that answer your question?"
"Yes, I guess so." Step took a deep breath. "Mr. Douglas, that list was written by my wife."
"She's the psychic?"
"No, she's the mother. I'm the father. The other person who assembled the same list is a psychiatrist. Our son's former psychiatrist. It's our son who came up with these names."
Douglas let out a stream of air into the phone. It occurred to Step that he was probably smoking. "Well now, that's interesting," he said. There was a pause on the line, as if Douglas was thinking. Then he spoke again.
"Does your son live with you?"
"Of course," said Step.
"Does he have a job? I mean, is he working today, or is he home?"
"Mr. Douglas, our son doesn't have a job and of course he lives at home. For heaven's sake."
"Mr. Fletcher, how old is your son?"
"He turned eight in June."
There was a loud squealing sound over the phone. Step thought: He just sat bolt upright, and his chair squeaks. "Eight years old?"
"Yes sir," said Step.
"Jesus H. Christ," said Douglas.
"I suppose so," said Step.
"I mean, you said your son's psychiatrist, your son came up with the list-I thought you were telling me your boy might be the serial killer. Hell, I've been having my boys here check out your address and I've got three patrol cars heading for your house right now and you're telling me that your son is eight?"
"Yes!" said Step. He leapt to his feet, started pacing as he talked, urgently. "I'm only thirty-two myself,