That would change now. People, not just policemen but men and women, even children in the streets, would be looking for a man who preyed on young girls. And because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to distinguish him from other men, he realized with growing horror that he would now have to share his private theater—his dolls, his photographs—with all those others.

Not literally, of course. But he would never again be able to think of his carefully constructed tableaux, the dolls with their limbs and sleep-glass eyes and flowered pinafores, as being his alone. The fact that any man might be suspected meant that any one of them might be inspired to replicate his passion. Like a bad actor stepping into the role made famous by a great one, an audience of leering swine gazing with envy at and longing for what he alone should possess. They were all out there now, watching.

Desperation seized him, coupled with hunger. And rage. If he fled immediately, he might well be pursued and captured, but without the satisfaction of having those final moments with the doll lying silently beside him.

Yet he had no reason to believe the two Riverview killings would be immediately connected with those in Dreamland and Wonderland. The girl in Gary would be more problematic. Having heard of this weekend’s murders, the Indiana police might well have contacted their counterparts in Chicago. The similarities would be clear. The body wouldn’t need to be exhumed for them to determine the same person had killed all three.

On the other hand, the corpse of the slow-witted dago girl from two years ago would never be found. He’d disposed of it close to the amusement park. He’d passed the site often, and there was no reason to think the spot might not be useful to him again now, as long as he didn’t hunt too far from it. There was no shortage of slums in this part of Chicago. If he was lucky, he might be able to take more photographs this afternoon.

He rose, washed up, and dressed. He examined the scratches on his chin where the little bitch had attacked him, touched them up with a styptic pencil. If anyone noticed, he’d say he’d cut himself shaving. He prepared himself a boiled egg and coffee, ate quickly, then grabbed the remaining tin of lozenges and bottle of cordial.

He started for the door, after a moment’s indecision returned to the suitcase. Inside he found the leather wallet that contained the photographs he’d developed two nights before. He gazed at that calm smooth face, lips parted in an expression that held both a promise and a secret. He slipped the photos in his pocket, along with the leather wallet, tipped the boater onto his head, and left. Just another man out for a morning stroll, that was all, just another man.

Chapter 65

Chapter 65