Part 17 (1/2)
Graham shut the door and stooped beside it. A collapsible doorstop was fixed to the bottom right-hand corner of the door. He pushed it all the way down, until the rubber-tipped shank was hard against the floor and the braces were locked in place. His hands were trembling, so that for a moment it looked as if he wouldn't be able to handle even a simple task like this.
”What are you doing?” she asked.
He stood up. ”It might not work if the stop didn't have locking hinges. But it does. See the doorsill? It's an inch higher than the floor on either side. When he tries to open the door, the stop will catch on the sill. It'll be almost as good as a bolt latch.”
”But he's got a gun.”
”Doesn't matter. He can't shoot through a heavy metal fire door.”
Although she was terrified, at the same time Connie was relieved that Graham had taken charge-for however brief a time-and was functioning in spite of his fear.
The door rattled as Bollinger depressed the bar handle on the far side. The stop caught on the sill; its hinges didn't fold up its hinges didn't fold up; the door refused to open. the door refused to open.
”He'll have to go up or down a floor,” Harris said, ”and come at us by the stairs at the other end of the building. Or by the elevator. Which gives us a few minutes.”
Cursing, Bollinger shook the door, putting all his strength into it. It wouldn't budge.
”What good will a few minutes do us?” Connie asked.
”I don't know.”
”Graham, are we ever going to get out of here?”
”Probably not.”
25.
Dr. Andrew Enderby, the medical examiner on the scene, was suave, even das.h.i.+ng, extremely fit for a man in his fifties. He had thick hair going white at the temples. Clear brown eyes. A long aristocratic nose, generally handsome features. His salt-and-pepper mustache was large but well kept. He was wearing a tailored gray suit with tastefully matched accessories that made Preduski's sloppiness all the more apparent.
”h.e.l.lo, Andy,” Preduski said.
”Number eleven,” Enderby said. ”Unusual. Like numbers five, seven and eight.” When Enderby was excited, which wasn't often, he was impatient to express himself. He sometimes spoke in staccato bursts. He pointed at the kitchen table and said, ”See it? No b.u.t.ter smears. No jelly stains. No crumbs. Too d.a.m.ned neat. Another fake.”
A lab technician was disconnecting the garbage-disposal unit from the pipes under the sink.
”Why?” Preduski said. ”Why does he fake it when he isn't hungry?”
”I know why. Sure of it.”
”So tell me,” Preduski said.
”First of all, did you know I'm a psychiatrist?”
”You're a coroner, a pathologist.”
”Psychiatrist too.”
”I didn't know that.”
”Went to medical school. Did my interns.h.i.+p. Specialized in otolaryngology. Couldn't stand it. Hideous way to make a living. My family had money. Didn't have to work. Went back to medical school. Became a psychiatrist.”
”That must be interesting work.”
”Fascinating. But I couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand a.s.sociating with the patients.”
”Oh?”
”All day with a bunch of neurotics. Began to feel that half of them should be locked up. Got out of the field fast. Better for me and and the patients.” the patients.”
”I should say so.”
”Kicked around a bit. Twenty years ago, I became a police pathologist.”
”The dead aren't neurotic.”
”Not even a little bit.”
”And they don't have ear, nose and throat infections.”
”Which they don't pa.s.s on to me,” Enderby said. ”No money in this job, of course. But I've got all the money I need. And the work is right for me. I'm perfect for the work, too. My psychiatric training gives me a different perspective. Insights. I have insights that other pathologists might not have. Like the one I had tonight.”
”About why the Butcher sometimes eats a hearty meal and sometimes fakes fakes a hearty meal?” a hearty meal?”
”Yes,” Enderby said. He took a breath. Then: ”It's because there are two of him.”
Preduski scratched his head. ”Schizophrenia?”
”No, no. I mean ... there isn't just one man running around killing women. There are two. two.”He smiled triumphantly.
Preduski stared at him.
Slamming his fist into his open hand, Enderby said, ”I'm right! I know I am. Butcher number one killed the first four victims. Killing them gave him an appet.i.te. Butcher number two killed the fifth woman. Cut her up as Butcher number one had done. But he was ever so slightly more tender-hearted than the first Butcher. Killing spoiled spoiled his appet.i.te. So he faked the meal.” his appet.i.te. So he faked the meal.”
”Why bother to fake it?”
”Simple. He wanted to leave no doubt about who killed her. Wanted us to think it was the Butcher.”
Preduski was suddenly aware of how precisely Enderby's necktie had been knotted. He touched his own tie self-consciously. ”Pardon me. Excuse me. I don't quite understand. My fault. G.o.d knows. But, you see, we've never told the newspapers about the scene in the kitchens. We've held that back to check false confessions against real ones. If this guy, Butcher number two, wanted to imitate the real Butcher, how would he know about the kitchen?”
”You're missing my point.”
”I'm sure I am.”
”Butcher number one and Butcher number two know each other. They're in this together.”