only the killer could know.
Dale at last gives in to temptation (how well Henry Leyden would understand) and hauls up his briefcase. He opens it and puts a thick file where his cereal bowl lately rested. He returns the briefcase to its place by his chair, then opens the file (it is marked ST. PIERRE/IRKENHAM rather than FISHERMAN ). He leafs past heartbreaking school photos of two smiling, gap-toothed children, past state medical examiner reports too horrible to read and crime-scene photos too horrible to look at (ah, but he must look at them, again and again he must look at them—the blood-slicked chains, the flies, the open eyes). There are also various transcripts, the longest being the interview with Spencer Hovdahl, who found the Irkenham boy and who was, very briefly, considered a suspect.
Next come Xerox copies of three letters. One had been sent to George and Helen Irkenham (addressed to Helen alone, if it made any difference). One went to Armand “Beezer” St. Pierre (addressed just that way, too, nickname and all). The third had been sent to the mother of Grace Budd, of New York City, following the murder of her daughter in the late spring of 1928.
Dale lays the three of them out, side by side.
Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her.
So Fish had written to Mrs. Budd.
Amy sat in my lap and hugged me. I made up my mind to eat her.
So had Beezer St. Pierre’s correspondent written, and was it any wonder the man had threatened to burn the French Landing police station to the ground? Dale doesn’t like the son of a bitch, but has to admit he might feel the same way in Beezer’s shoes.
I went upstairs and stripped all my clothes off. I knew if I did not I would get her blood on them.
Fish, to Mrs. Budd.
I went around back of the hen-house and stripped all my cloes off. New if I did not I would get his blood on them.
Anonymous, to Helen Irkenham. And here was a question: How could a mother receive a letter like that and retain her sanity? Was that possible? Dale thought not. Helen answered questions coherently, had even offered him tea the last time he was out there, but she had a glassy, poleaxed look in her eye that suggested she was running entirely on instruments.
Three letters, two new, one almost seventy-five years old. And yet all three are so similar. The St. Pierre letter and the Irkenham letter had been hand-printed by someone who was left-handed, according to the state experts. The paper was plain white Hammermill mimeo, available in every Office Depot and Staples in America. The pen used had probably been a Bic—now,
there
was a lead.
Fish to Mrs. Budd, back in ’28:
I did
not
fuck her tho I could of had I wished. She died a
virgin.
Anonymous to Beezer St. Pierre:
I did NOT fuck her tho I could of had I wished. She died a VIRGIN.
Anonymous to Helen Irkenham:
This may comfort you I did NOT fuck him tho I could of had I wished. He died a VIRGIN.
Dale’s out of his depth here and knows it, but he hopes he isn’t a complete fool. This doer, although he did not sign his letters with the old cannibal’s name, clearly
wanted
the connection to be made. He had done everything but leave a few dead trout at the dumping sites.
Sighing bitterly, Dale puts the letters back into the file, the file back into the briefcase.
“Dale? Honey?” Sarah’s sleepy voice, from the head of the stairs.
Dale gives the guilty jump of a man who has almost been caught doing something nasty and latches his briefcase. “I’m in the kitchen,” he calls back. No need to worry about waking Davey; he sleeps like the dead until at least seven-thirty every morning.
“Going in late?”
“Uh-huh.” He often goes in late, then makes up for it by working until seven or eight or even nine in the evening. Wendell Green hasn’t made a big deal of
that
.
.
.
at least not so far, but give him time. Talk about your cannibals!
“Give the flowers a drink before you go, would you? It’s been so
Dale at last gives in to temptation (how well Henry Leyden would understand) and hauls up his briefcase. He opens it and puts a thick file where his cereal bowl lately rested. He returns the briefcase to its place by his chair, then opens the file (it is marked ST. PIERRE/IRKENHAM rather than FISHERMAN ). He leafs past heartbreaking school photos of two smiling, gap-toothed children, past state medical examiner reports too horrible to read and crime-scene photos too horrible to look at (ah, but he must look at them, again and again he must look at them—the blood-slicked chains, the flies, the open eyes). There are also various transcripts, the longest being the interview with Spencer Hovdahl, who found the Irkenham boy and who was, very briefly, considered a suspect.
Next come Xerox copies of three letters. One had been sent to George and Helen Irkenham (addressed to Helen alone, if it made any difference). One went to Armand “Beezer” St. Pierre (addressed just that way, too, nickname and all). The third had been sent to the mother of Grace Budd, of New York City, following the murder of her daughter in the late spring of 1928.
Dale lays the three of them out, side by side.
Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her.
So Fish had written to Mrs. Budd.
Amy sat in my lap and hugged me. I made up my mind to eat her.
So had Beezer St. Pierre’s correspondent written, and was it any wonder the man had threatened to burn the French Landing police station to the ground? Dale doesn’t like the son of a bitch, but has to admit he might feel the same way in Beezer’s shoes.
I went upstairs and stripped all my clothes off. I knew if I did not I would get her blood on them.
Fish, to Mrs. Budd.
I went around back of the hen-house and stripped all my cloes off. New if I did not I would get his blood on them.
Anonymous, to Helen Irkenham. And here was a question: How could a mother receive a letter like that and retain her sanity? Was that possible? Dale thought not. Helen answered questions coherently, had even offered him tea the last time he was out there, but she had a glassy, poleaxed look in her eye that suggested she was running entirely on instruments.
Three letters, two new, one almost seventy-five years old. And yet all three are so similar. The St. Pierre letter and the Irkenham letter had been hand-printed by someone who was left-handed, according to the state experts. The paper was plain white Hammermill mimeo, available in every Office Depot and Staples in America. The pen used had probably been a Bic—now,
there
was a lead.
Fish to Mrs. Budd, back in ’28:
I did
not
fuck her tho I could of had I wished. She died a
virgin.
Anonymous to Beezer St. Pierre:
I did NOT fuck her tho I could of had I wished. She died a VIRGIN.
Anonymous to Helen Irkenham:
This may comfort you I did NOT fuck him tho I could of had I wished. He died a VIRGIN.
Dale’s out of his depth here and knows it, but he hopes he isn’t a complete fool. This doer, although he did not sign his letters with the old cannibal’s name, clearly
wanted
the connection to be made. He had done everything but leave a few dead trout at the dumping sites.
Sighing bitterly, Dale puts the letters back into the file, the file back into the briefcase.
“Dale? Honey?” Sarah’s sleepy voice, from the head of the stairs.
Dale gives the guilty jump of a man who has almost been caught doing something nasty and latches his briefcase. “I’m in the kitchen,” he calls back. No need to worry about waking Davey; he sleeps like the dead until at least seven-thirty every morning.
“Going in late?”
“Uh-huh.” He often goes in late, then makes up for it by working until seven or eight or even nine in the evening. Wendell Green hasn’t made a big deal of
that
.
.
.
at least not so far, but give him time. Talk about your cannibals!
“Give the flowers a drink before you go, would you? It’s been so
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