Night-World by Robert Bloch Read Free Book Online Page B

about these killings. Cain had become a mass murderer, striking savagely and at random.
    In Biblical times, God put a mark upon Cain but did not kill him, and Cain went to dwell in the land of Nod.
    Today, God’s surrogate, the psychotherapist, puts his mark upon Cain, branding him sociopath, psychopath, multiple schizophrenic, cycloid personality—and Cain is sent to dwell in the asylum.
    And now, today, five potential murderers were at large. And their bloody trail led from the distant canyon into the heart of the city itself. The heart began to pulse and pound at the realization of its own vulnerability.
    Telephones rang and women exchanged shrill queries. Did you read the paper, did you hear the news on television, do you think they’ll find out who they are, do you think they’ll catch them? Appointments were canceled at the hairdressers’ and shopping plans hastily abandoned. That poor Dorothy Anderson. Remember all those nurses in Chicago? I’m not leaving the house today.
    It was the men who left the house, who did the shopping. Before they went to work, they stopped by the hardware stores and bought locks, install-it-yourself alarms.
    And as the day grew warmer, children whined behind closed doors. Why can’t I go outside, Mommy? I want to play. You promised I could go in the pool, remember?
    Mommy shut them up. Shut them up inside, behind closed doors, barricaded from all callers, even the mailman.
    The noonday sun was high in the heavens, but Los Angeles stayed at home, listening to the latest news—which was no news at all.
    At police headquarters in the West Valley, in Van Nuys, Hollywood, downtown, the reports were coming in from the lab boys. Again, no news at all.
    The murderer had been careful about prints. He had worn gloves. The Anderson apartment and the Griswold automobile had yielded no clues, and nothing had been turned up at the sanatorium, though a team was still working. But so far there weren’t any leads—and no one had phoned in to volunteer any information.
    “Just the usual crank calls,” Lieutenant Barringer told Dr. Vicente. He took the last gulp of his coffee and frowned down at the cup. “Why do they always call, Doc? Why is it that every nut in town gets on the phone at a time like this—fake confessions, phoney reports of guys hiding under the bed, old yentas telling about their dreams?”
    “You touch a nerve, you get a response,” Vicente said. “The reaction to violence is usually a violent one, but it takes a variety of forms. People tend to dramatize their guilt feelings, fantasize their fears.”
    “Save the lecture for UCLA,” Barringer said. He shook his head, yawned heavily. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
    Dr. Vicente hesitated. “There’s something I wanted to tell you before you check out.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I contacted Sawtelle this morning. The VA Center has a file on Bruce Raymond.”
    “Was he a patient?”
    “No, not there. But it’s a medical discharge, and he was definitely under psychiatric observation before he was released from service. That’s all they told me over the phone, but they’re getting a transcript to us this afternoon.”
    “Good.”
    “Is it?” Dr. Vicente’s eyes were thoughtful. “I have no way of knowing what that transcript will show, but one thing is already clear. Whatever was wrong with Bruce Raymond, he obviously didn’t make a permanent recovery. That’s why he went to the sanatorium.”
    “You’re not telling me anything new,” Barringer said.
    Dr. Vicente’s gaze narrowed. “But, knowing this, you still allowed Mrs. Raymond to go home.”
    “With around-the-clock surveillance.”
    “Her husband could be dangerous.”
    “We’re already set up to monitor any calls on her apartment phone. If he tries to contact her directly, there’ll be a good man waiting for him.”
    “You’re hoping he does show up, aren’t you? That’s why you let her go—to use her as bait.”
    “No