"He's doing more than that, miss. I've always wanted to be a painter. That's why I took this job at the museum because I love art. Anyway, Richard comes here and paints. When I saw his work, I thought, I want to be like him. So I asked him if he'd teach me, and he's been great. Have you seen any of his paintings?"
"I have," Alette said. "They're wonderful."
When they left him, Alette said, "It's lovely of you to do that, Richard."
"I like to do things for people," and he was looking at Alette.
When they were walking out of the museum, Richard said, "My roommate is at a party tonight. Why don't we stop up at my place?" He smiled. "I have some paintings I'd like to show you."
Alette squeezed his hand. "Not yet, Richard."
"Whatever you say. I'll see you next weekend?"
"Yes."
And he had no idea how much she was looking forward to it.
Richard walked Alette to the parking lot where she had parked her car. He waved good-bye as she drove off.
* * *
As Alette was going to sleep that night, she thought. It's like a miracle. Richard has freed me. She fell asleep, earning of him.
At two o'clock in the morning, Richard Melton's roommate, Gary, returned from a birthday party. The apartment was dark. He switched on the lights in the living room. "Richard?"
He started toward the bedroom. At the door he looked inside and was sick to his stomach.
"Calm down, son." Detective Whittier looked at the shivering figure in the chair. "Now, let's go over it again. Did he have any enemies, someone mad enough at him to do this?"
Gary swallowed. "No. Everyone... everyone liked Richard."
"Someone didn't. How long have you and Richard lived together?"
"Two years."
"Were you lovers?"
"For God's sake," Gary said indignantly. "No. We were friends. We lived together for financial reasons."
Detective Whittier looked around the small apartment. "Sure as hell wasn't a burglary," he said. "There's nothing here to steal. Was your roommate seeing anyone romantically?"
"No - Well, yes. There was a girl he was interested in. I think he was really starting to like her."
"Do you know her name?"
"Yes. Alette. Alette Peters. She works in Cupertino."
Detective Whittier and Detective Reynolds looked at each other.
"Cupertino?"
"Jesus," Reynolds said.
Thirty minutes later, Detective Whittier was on the phone with Sheriff Dowling. "Sheriff, I thought you might be interested to know that we have a murder here that's the same M.O. as the case you had in Cupertino - multiple stab wounds and castration."
"My God!"
"I just had a talk with the FBI. Their computer shows that there have been three previous castration killings very similar to this one. The first one happened in Bedford, Pennsylvania, about ten years ago, the next one was a man named Dennis Tibble - that was your case - then there was the same M.O. in Quebec City, and now this one."
"It doesn't make sense. Pennsylvania... Cupertino... Quebec City... San Francisco... Is there any link?"
"We're trying to find one. Quebec requires passports. The FBI is doing a cross-check to see if anyone who was in Quebec City around Christmas was in any of the other cities at the times of the murders...."
When the media got wind of what was happening, their stories were splashed across the front pages across the world:
SERIAL KILLER LOOSE...
QUATRES HOMMES BRUTALEMENT TUES ET CASTRES...
SUCHT WIRD EIN MANN DER SEINE OFFER KAS-TRIERT...
QUATTRO UOMINI SONO STATI CASTRATI E UCCISI.
On the networks, self-important psychologists analyzed the killings.
"... and all the victims were men. Because of the way they were stabbed and castrated, it is undoubtedly the work of a homosexual who..."
"...so if the police can find a connection between the victims, they will probably discover that it was the work of a lover the men had all scorned...."
"... but I would say they were random killings committed by someone who had a dominating mother...."
Saturday morning, Detective Whittier called deputy Blake from San Francisco.
"Deputy, I have an update for you."
"Go ahead."
"I just got a call from the FBI. Cupertino is listed as the residence of an American who was in Quebec on the date of the Parent murder."
"That's interesting. What's his name?"
"Her. Patterson. Ashley Patterson."
At six o'clock that evening, deputy Sam Blake rang the bell at Ashley Patterson's apartment. Through the closed door he heard her call out cautiously, "Who is it?"
"Deputy Blake. I'd like to talk to you. Miss Patterson".
There was a long silence, then the door opened. Ashley was standing there, looking wary.
"May I come in?"
"Yes, of course." Is this about Father? I must be careful. Ashley led the deputy to a couch. "What can I do for you, Deputy?"
"Would you mind answering a few questions?"
Ashley shifted uncomfortably. "I - I don't know. Am I under suspicion for something?"
He smiled reassuringly. "Nothing like that. Miss Patterson. This is just routine. We're investigating some murders."
"I don't know anything about any murders," she said quickly. Too quickly?
"You were in Quebec City recently, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you acquainted with Jean Claude Parent?"
"Jean Claude Parent?" She thought for a moment, "No. I've never heard of him. Who is he?"
"He owns a jewelry store in Quebec City."
Ashley shook her head. "I didn't do any jewelry shopping in Quebec."
"You worked with Dennis Tibble."
Ashley felt the fear beginning to rise again. This was about her father. She said cautiously, "I didn't work with him. He worked for the same company."
"Of course. You go into San Francisco occasionally, don't you. Miss Patterson?"
Ashley wondered where this was leading. Careful. "From time to time, yes."
"Did you ever meet an artist there named Richard Melton?"
"No. I don't know anyone by that name."
Deputy Blake sat there studying Ashley, frustrated. "Miss Patterson, would you mind coming down to headquarters and taking a polygraph test? If you want to, you can call your lawyer and - "
"I don't need a lawyer. I'll be glad to take a test."
The polygraph expert was a man named Keith Rosson, and he was one of the best. He had had to cancel a dinner ate, but he was happy to oblige Sam Blake.
Ashley was seated in a chair, wired to the polygraph chine. Rosson had already spent forty-five minutes chatting with her, getting background information and evaluating her emotional state. Now he was ready to begin.
"Are you comfortable?"
"Yes."
"Good. Let's start." He pressed a button. "What's your name?"
"Ashley Patterson."
Rosson's eyes kept darting between Ashley and the polygraph printout.
"How old are you. Miss Patterson?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Where do you live?"
"10964 Via Camino Court in Cupertino."
"Are you employed?"
"Yes."
"Do you like classical music?"
"Yes."
"Do you know Richard Melton?"
"No."
There was no change on the graph. "Where do you work?"
"At Global Computer Graphics Corporation."
"Do you enjoy your job?"
"Yes."
"Do you work five days a week?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever met Jean Claude Parent?"
"No."
Still no change on the graph.
"Did you have breakfast this morning?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill Dennis Tibble?"
"No."
The questions continued for another thirty minutes and were repeated three times, in a different order.
When the session was over, Keith Rosson walked in Sam Blake's office and handed him the polygraph test "Clean as a whistle. There's a less than one percent chance that she's lying. You've got the wrong person."
Ashley left police headquarters, giddy with relief. Thank God it's over. She had been terrified that they might ask questions that would involve her father, but that had not happened. No one can connect Father with any of this now.
She parked her car in the garage and took the elevator up to her apartment floor. She unlocked the door, went inside and carefully locked the door behind her. She felt drained, and at the same time, elated. A nice hot bath, Ashley thought. She walked into the bathroom and turned dead white. On her bathroom mirror, someone had scrawled in bright red lipstick YOU WILL DIE.