Part 8 (1/2)
”Do you have any idea what that's from?”
”None.”
”Neither did I. My head is full of garbage. There's no room for anything important. And I'm not a well-educated man. Not well educated at all. So I called a friend of mine, a professor in the Department of English at Columbia. He didn't recognize the line either, but he pa.s.sed it around to a few of his colleagues. One of them thought he knew it. He got a concordance of the major philosophers and located the full quotation. 'Man is rope stretched between the animal and the Superman-a rope over an abyss.'”
”Who said it?”
”Hitler's favorite philosopher.”
”Nietzsche.”
”You know his work?”
”In pa.s.sing.”
”He believed men could be G.o.ds-or at least that certain men could be G.o.ds if their society allowed them to grow and exercise their powers. He believed mankind was evolving toward G.o.dhood. You see, there's a superficial resemblance between Blake and Nietzsche. That's why the Butcher might quote both of them. But there's a problem, Graham.”
”What's that?”
”Blake was an optimist all the way. Nietzsche was a raving pessimist. Blake thought mankind had a bright future. Nietzsche thought mankind should have a bright future, but he believed that it would destroy itself before the Supermen ever evolved from it. Blake apparently liked women. Nietzsche despised them. In fact, he thought women const.i.tuted one of the greatest obstacles standing between man and his climb to G.o.dhood. You see what I'm getting at?”
”You're saying that if the Butcher subscribes to both Blake and Nietzsche's philosophies, then he's a schizophrenic.”
”Yet you say he's not even crazy.”
”Wait a minute.”
”Last night-”
”All I said was that if he's a maniac, he's a new kind new kind of maniac. I said he wasn't crazy in any traditional sense.” of maniac. I said he wasn't crazy in any traditional sense.”
”Which rules out schizophrenia?”
”I guess it does, Ira.”
”But I think it's a good bet... maybe I'm wrong... G.o.d knows... but maybe he looks at himself as one of Nietzsche's Supermen. A psychiatrist would call that delusions of grandeur. And delusions of grandeur characterize schizophrenia and paranoia. Do you still think the Butcher could pa.s.s any psychiatric test we could give him?”
”Yes.”
”You sense this psychically?”
”That's right.”
”Have you ever sensed something and been wrong?”
”Not seriously wrong. No worse than thinking Edna Mowry's name was Edna Dancer.”
”Of course. I know your reputation. I know you're good. I didn't mean to imply anything. You understand? But still-now where do I stand?”
”I don't know.”
”Graham... if you were to sit down with a book of Blake's poems, if you were to spend an hour or so reading them, would that maybe put you in tune with the Butcher? Would it spark something-if not a vision, at least a hunch?”
”It might.”
”Would you do me a favor then?”
”Name it.”
”If I send a messenger right over with an edition of Blake's work, will you sit down with it for an hour and see what happens?”
”You can send it over today if you want, but I won't get to it until tomorrow.”
”Maybe just half an half an hour.” hour.”
”Not even that. I've got to finish working on one of my magazines and get it off to the printer tomorrow morning. I'm already three days late with the issue. I'll be working most of tonight. But tomorrow afternoon or evening, I'll make time for Blake.”
”Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do. I'm counting on you. You're my only hope. This Butcher is too much for me, too sharp for me. I'm getting nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. If we don't get a solid lead soon, I don't know what's going to happen.”
9.
Paul Stevenson was wearing a hand-sewn blue s.h.i.+rt, a blue-and-black-striped silk tie, an expensive black suit, black socks, and light brown shoes with white st.i.tching. When he came into Anthony Prine's office at two o'clock Friday afternoon, unaware that Prine winced when he saw the shoes, he was upset. Because he was incapable of shouting and screaming at Prine, he pouted. ”Tony, why are you keeping secrets from me?”
Prine was stretched out on the couch, his head propped on a bolster pillow. He was reading The New York Times. The New York Times. ”Secrets?” ”Secrets?”
”I just found out that at your direction the company has hired a private detective agency to snoop on Graham Harris.”
”They're not snooping. All I've asked them to do is establish Harris's whereabouts at certain hours on certain days.”
”You asked the detectives not to approach Harris or his girlfriend directly. That's snooping. And you asked them for a forty-eight-hour rush job, which triples the cost. If you want to know where he was, why don't you ask him yourself?”
”I think he'd lie to me.”
”Why should he lie? What certain hours? What certain dates?”
Prine put down the paper, sat up, stood up, stretched. ”I want to know where he was when each of those ten women was killed.”
Perplexed, blinking somewhat stupidly, Stevenson said, ”Why?”
”If on all ten occasions he was alone-working alone, seeing a movie alone, walking alone-then maybe he could have killed them.”
”Harris? You think Harris is the Butcher?” You think Harris is the Butcher?”
”Maybe.”