Pity Him Afterwards

The thing was, the killer had made absolutely no attempt to avoid leaving fingerprints. He hadn’t worn gloves, and he hadn’t wiped any surfaces clean before leaving. That was probably another indication of his desire to be caught and stopped. But he’d been excited, nervous, tense, while killing Cissie Walker, and his fingers had been trembling. Smudged prints were everywhere, and none of them useful. Only one print had seemed like a good possibility; a right-thumb print smashed into the bar of soap the killer had used to write on the mirror. The soap was a pale green, and Mike had dusted it lightly with the black powder, bringing out the highlights of the print and seeing that it was probably a pretty good one, though they couldn’t be sure until the photo was enlarged. But then he’d set the bar of soap up to take the picture, and the soap had slipped away as soap will do, and unthinkingly he had lunged for it and grabbed.

It could have happened to anyone. Sondgard had told him so, and had meant it — though he couldn’t entirely hide his disappointment — but Mike hadn’t been able to accept the solace. “Would one of Garrett’s men have loused it up like that?” he’d asked.

No, probably not. Sondgard had had nothing to say.

Because if one of Garrett’s men wouldn’t have loused it up like that, then Mike should no longer feel responsible or take the blame on his own shoulders. It was Sondgard’s responsibility, the blame rested squarely on his shoulders, because it had been his decision not to call Garrett in.

If he’d called Garrett right away, yesterday, as soon as he’d learned the seriousness of the crime, would Garrett have cleaned it up by last night? Would Eddie Cranshaw still be alive?

No, not with the evidence so far. Not even Sherlock Holmes could have found the right man that quickly, and been sure enough to make an arrest.

Except that Garrett would probably have had the print.

If the print had been usable. It could just as readily have been no good at all, like every other print Mike had found. Mike had taken pictures of five different prints, and when enlarged none of them had been worth a damn. So maybe the thumb print on the bar of soap wouldn’t have been worth a damn either. But there was no way to know that for sure, one way or the other, so Mike was still looking sheepish this morning, and Sondgard would never know whether he had been to blame for Cranshaw’s death or not.

They had to get him. They had to get him soon, before he piled any more crimes on Sondgard’s conscience.

What about Garrett now? Why not call him in? In a way, Sondgard would welcome it, would be more than happy to have Garrett relieve him of the responsibility, but in another way he couldn’t do it. Pride was part of it, he had to admit that, and embarrassment at calling Garrett in so late to repair the botched job, but there was also Sondgard’s own stubbornness and his conviction that he was still better qualified than Garrett to catch this particular killer, because this particular killer was not going to be caught by fingerprints or lab work, this particular killer was going to be caught only by an understanding of human nature.

It was Sondgard’s baby, and he was stuck with it.

He came down the hall and said, “Anything out of them?”

Mike shook his head. “Not a peep.”

“They haven’t been told about Cranshaw, have they?”

“Nope. They still think it’s just that kitchen-table deal.”

“All right. Good. I’ll be right back.”

Sondgard slid open the door and stepped into the rehearsal room, closing the door again behind himself. Fifteen people sat on the folding chairs, their heads turned to look at him, their faces curious and troubled. Eleven men and four women. One of four of the men was the killer. Any one of the others could be his next victim.

Sondgard moved up to the front of the room, by the sofa and table, where under normal circumstances these people would be rehearsing their first week’s play right now. Well, maybe not right now; it was barely eight o’clock in the morning. Many of the faces out in front of him showed the marks of too-little sleep and too-rude an awakening. And none of these people had had breakfast yet, or so much as a cup of coffee.