session and only rarely seen Fromley himself.
She shuddered. “Seeing those photographs makes him seem more real, somehow. They show us something of how he views the world around him. I never would have imagined confronting it would be so upsetting.” After a pause, she added, “I knew he dreamt and obsessed over horrible, evil things. But encountering that on the written page is a far different thing than seeing photographic evidence of it.”
“But remember, he is nothing more than a man,” I said with a reassuring smile. “That’s how I view it. Because I can’t fear him. The moment I do, my resolve to catch him might waver.”
I don’t know if she believed me, but she pulled herself together, explaining how the photographs we had found were consistent with Alistair’s larger presumptions about Michael Fromley.
“In some ways, Alistair has prepared me for this,” she said. “He always claimed that Michael’s fantasies and daydreams fueled his violent actions. That was why Alistair—and Fred Ebbings, too—worked to help him humanize the people around him. They believed the more Michael learned to recognize the thoughts and feelings of others, the closer he would be to a full rehabilitation.”
I said nothing to Isabella as we approached our destination on West Twenty-eighth Street, but what we had just discovered made me concerned about Clara Murphy. I hoped Clara would be able to help us locate Fromley. But most of all, I hoped we would find her in her flat—alive, unharmed, safe from Whatever violent impulses motivated this man. The fact that she was last seen in his company made me uneasy about her well-being.
As opposed to last night, when the place had been deserted and most residents out for the evening, this afternoon the lobby was filled with a cacophony of sounds: a woman belted out scales in her most operatic voice; the tinny jingle of a piano sounded out “My Gal Sal.” The place was crowded, noisy, and teeming with life—the perfect antidote to our mood after visiting Fromley’s rooms. We went to apartment 432, where—just as I had done last night—we knocked several times with no response.
“Still not at home.” I sighed in frustration. “We’ll have to try back later.” I turned away from the door and decided to find the building’s custodian, who might know something of Clara’s schedule and habits.
“Wait a moment,” Isabella said. “We should say something first. She may be here, simply not answering because she is afraid.”
If that were the case, I could not imagine what I could say to persuade her to open the door. Variations of “Police, open up” never seemed to work. But perhaps Isabella would fare better.
“You try,” I urged. “It may sound better coming from you.”
She shrugged in agreement, and called out softly but clearly. “Miss Murphy? Are you there? My name is Isabella Sinclair. A friend and I were hoping to have a word with you. We only need a few minutes of your time.”
We waited a moment, and as we heard the chain lock being undone from inside the door, I once again appreciated Isabella’s gift for striking just the right tone.
The door opened only a crack at first. A single eye peered out, taking full stock of Isabella before finding her acceptable.
Then the door opened wide enough for us to enter.
It was dark inside, just as it had been at Michael Fromley’s. And it was filthy—the bed rumpled and unmade, the washbasin unemptied. The stench of urine from a chamber pot permeated the room. As my eyes focused, I also noted faded pink wallpaper peeling off the wall. This particular flat was among the more squalid I had seen.
Once she had let us in, Clara Murphy retreated to the sole chair in the room—a bare wooden rocker—and eased her body into it gingerly. Isabella and I noticed her injuries at about the same time, but Isabella reacted first.
“Miss Murphy, you’re badly hurt!” she exclaimed. “You must see a doctor straightaway.”
Clara Murphy was clearly taken aback by the idea. And when she understood Isabella was serious, she rejected the proposal out of hand.
But she had not counted on Isabella’s persistence. “At least allow us to call a nurse to come to you here.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” Clara said again, her speech slurred by a swollen mouth. “I just need some rest,” she added wearily.
I had no doubt that was true, for she looked as though she had not slept in days. Or eaten, either, I suspected, as I noted her