murderer as . . . an actor is an actor. He can stop acting professionally but he’s still an actor. He acts. Or an artist. If he never picks up another brush, he will still see and think and react as an artist.”
“I believe,” Dix said slowly, “you could get some arguments on that.”
“Plenty,” Brub agreed cheerfully. “But that’s the way I see it.” He attacked his pie.
Dix put sugar in his coffee. Black and sweet. And hot. He smiled, thinking of her. “What about this new Ripper? You think he’s a nut?”
“Sure,” Brub agreed.
The quick agreement rankled. Brub should be brighter than that. “He’s been pretty smart for a nut, hasn’t he? No clues.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Brub said. “The insane are much more clever about their business, and more careful too, than the sane. It’s normal for them to be sly and secretive. That’s part of the mania. It makes them difficult to catch up with. But they give themselves away.”
“They do? How?”
When is more important. But plenty of ways. Repetition of the pattern.” Brub finished off the pie and lit a cigarette. “The pattern is clear enough with the strangler. It’s the motive that’s hard to fix on.”
”Does an insane man need a motive? Does he have one?”
He lit a cigarette. “Within the mania, yes.”
Dix said offside, “This is fascinating to me, Brub. You say you have the pattern. Doesn’t that in a way incorporate the motive?”
“In a way, yes. But you take this case. The pattern has emerged. Not too clearly but in a fuzzy way, yes. It’s a girl alone. At night. She doesn’t know the man. At least we’re reasonably sure of that. This last girl, as far as we can find out, couldn’t possibly have known the man. And there’s no slight connection between the girls. All right then: it’s a pickup. A girl waiting for a bus, or walking home. He comes along in a car and she accepts a ride.”
“I thought you were figuring he didn’t have a car. What were you talking about?”—he appeared to try to remember—”Going into a drive-in to eat—”
Brub broke in. “He had to have a car. Not in every case but definitely in the last ones.” His eyes looked seriously into Dix’s. “My own theory is that he doesn’t make the approach from the car. Because girls are wary about getting into a car with strangers. The danger of that has been too well publicized. I think he makes the approach on foot and after he has the lamb lulled, he mentions he’s on his way to get his car. Take this last one. She’s waiting for a bus. He’s waiting on the same corner. Busses don’t run often that time of night. They get talking. He invites her to have a cup of coffee. It was a foggy night, pretty chilly. By the time they’ve had coffee, he mentions his car isn’t far away and he’ll give her a lift.”
Dix set down his coffee cup carefully. “That’s how you’re figuring it,” he nodded his head. “It sounds reasonable.” He looked at Brub again. “Do your colleagues agree?”
“They think I may be on the right track.”
”And the motive?”
“That’s anybody’s guess.” Brub scowled. “Maybe he doesn’t like women. Maybe some girl did him dirt and he’s getting even with all of them.”
Dix said, “That sounds absurd.” He laughed, “It wouldn’t hold water in my book.”
“You’re forgetting. It’s mania; not sanity. Now you or I, if we wanted to strike back at a girl, we’d get us another one. Show the other gal what she’d lost. But a mind off the trolley doesn’t figure that way.”
“Any other motives?” Dix laughed.
“Religious mania, perhaps. There’ve always been plenty of that kind of nut out here. But it all comes back to one focal point, the man is a killer, he has to kill. As an actor has to act.”
“And he can’t stop?” Dix murmured.
“He can’t stop,” Brub said flatly. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go up Beverly Glen. Want to come
“I believe,” Dix said slowly, “you could get some arguments on that.”
“Plenty,” Brub agreed cheerfully. “But that’s the way I see it.” He attacked his pie.
Dix put sugar in his coffee. Black and sweet. And hot. He smiled, thinking of her. “What about this new Ripper? You think he’s a nut?”
“Sure,” Brub agreed.
The quick agreement rankled. Brub should be brighter than that. “He’s been pretty smart for a nut, hasn’t he? No clues.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Brub said. “The insane are much more clever about their business, and more careful too, than the sane. It’s normal for them to be sly and secretive. That’s part of the mania. It makes them difficult to catch up with. But they give themselves away.”
“They do? How?”
When is more important. But plenty of ways. Repetition of the pattern.” Brub finished off the pie and lit a cigarette. “The pattern is clear enough with the strangler. It’s the motive that’s hard to fix on.”
”Does an insane man need a motive? Does he have one?”
He lit a cigarette. “Within the mania, yes.”
Dix said offside, “This is fascinating to me, Brub. You say you have the pattern. Doesn’t that in a way incorporate the motive?”
“In a way, yes. But you take this case. The pattern has emerged. Not too clearly but in a fuzzy way, yes. It’s a girl alone. At night. She doesn’t know the man. At least we’re reasonably sure of that. This last girl, as far as we can find out, couldn’t possibly have known the man. And there’s no slight connection between the girls. All right then: it’s a pickup. A girl waiting for a bus, or walking home. He comes along in a car and she accepts a ride.”
“I thought you were figuring he didn’t have a car. What were you talking about?”—he appeared to try to remember—”Going into a drive-in to eat—”
Brub broke in. “He had to have a car. Not in every case but definitely in the last ones.” His eyes looked seriously into Dix’s. “My own theory is that he doesn’t make the approach from the car. Because girls are wary about getting into a car with strangers. The danger of that has been too well publicized. I think he makes the approach on foot and after he has the lamb lulled, he mentions he’s on his way to get his car. Take this last one. She’s waiting for a bus. He’s waiting on the same corner. Busses don’t run often that time of night. They get talking. He invites her to have a cup of coffee. It was a foggy night, pretty chilly. By the time they’ve had coffee, he mentions his car isn’t far away and he’ll give her a lift.”
Dix set down his coffee cup carefully. “That’s how you’re figuring it,” he nodded his head. “It sounds reasonable.” He looked at Brub again. “Do your colleagues agree?”
“They think I may be on the right track.”
”And the motive?”
“That’s anybody’s guess.” Brub scowled. “Maybe he doesn’t like women. Maybe some girl did him dirt and he’s getting even with all of them.”
Dix said, “That sounds absurd.” He laughed, “It wouldn’t hold water in my book.”
“You’re forgetting. It’s mania; not sanity. Now you or I, if we wanted to strike back at a girl, we’d get us another one. Show the other gal what she’d lost. But a mind off the trolley doesn’t figure that way.”
“Any other motives?” Dix laughed.
“Religious mania, perhaps. There’ve always been plenty of that kind of nut out here. But it all comes back to one focal point, the man is a killer, he has to kill. As an actor has to act.”
“And he can’t stop?” Dix murmured.
“He can’t stop,” Brub said flatly. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go up Beverly Glen. Want to come
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