The Vision by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online Page B

that a great lawman required—in—telligence, courage, and street wisdom.
    Most important of all, Pollini was able to do his job without letting it touch him. He didn’t flinch at the sight of shattered bodies, not even when he encountered the most pathetic victim of all—the battered child. Pollini was nothing less than a rock.
    Although he tried to imitate his mentor, Stambaugh usually got sick to his stomach in the midst of too much spilled blood.
    “Come on,” Pollini said.
    He led Stambaugh back through the hall to the spare bath, where the harsh light glared on blood-splashed porcelain and on the hideously stained white vanity top.
    “There was a struggle this time,” Stambaugh said.
    “But not much of one. It was over in seconds.”
    Another young woman, wearing only panties, was curled fetally in a corner of the bathroom. She had been stabbed repeatedly in the breasts and stomach, back and buttocks. There were between fifty and a hundred wounds.
    Her blood had pooled around the pipes that came up from Alice Barnable’s first-floor apartment.
    “Funny,” Pollini said.
    “Funny?” Stambaugh had never seen such slaughter. He could not comprehend the violent mind behind it.
    “Funny that he didn’t rape either of them.”
    “Is that what he should have done?”
    “His kind does, ninety percent of the time.”
    Across the hall the spare bedroom contained two unmade beds but no bodies.
    In the master suite they found a nude redhead on the bed nearest the door. Her throat had been cut.
    “No struggle at all,” Pollini said. “He caught her while she was sleeping. Doesn’t look like he raped this one either.”
    Stambaugh nodded. He was unable to speak.
    Both women in the master bedroom appeared to be Catholics who were, if not devout, at least attentive to their faith. A number of religious objects were scattered on the floor.
    A damaged crucifix lay beside the redhead’s nightstand. The wooden cross had been broken into four pieces. The aluminum image of Christ was bent at the waist, so that its crown of thorns touched its bare feet ; and its head was twisted around so that Christ was looking over his shoulder.
    “This wasn’t just broken in a scuffle,” Pollini said, stooping over the remains of the icon. “The killer pulled this off the wall and spent a good bit of time demolishing it.”
    Two small religious statues had been on the redhead’s dresser. These were also broken. Some of the pieces had been ground into chalky dust ; there were a few white heel prints on the carpet.
    “He sure has something against Catholics,” Pollini said. “Or against religion in general.”
    Stambaugh reluctantly followed him to the last bed.
    The fourth dead woman had been stabbed repeatedly and strangled with a rosary.
    In life she had been beautiful. Even now, naked and cold, her hair matted with blood, nose broken, one eye swollen shut, face dark with bruises, there were still traces of beauty. Alive, her blue eyes would have been as clear as mountain lakes. Washed and combed, her hair would have been thick, lustrous. She had long shapely legs, a narrow waist, a flat belly and lovely breasts.
    I’ve seen women like her, Stambaugh thought sadly. She would have walked with her shoulders back, with evident pride in herself, with joy apparent in every step.
    “She was a nurse,” Pollini said.
    Stambaugh looked at the uniform and cap that were on a chair near the bed. His legs felt weak.
    “What’s the matter?” Pollini asked.
    Stambaugh hesitated, cleared his throat. “Well, my sister’s a nurse.”
    “This isn’t your sister, is it?”
    “No. But she’s about my sister’s age.”
    “You know her? She work with your sister?”
    “Never saw her before,” Stambaugh said.
    “Then what’s wrong?”
    “This girl might have been my sister.”
    “You cracking up on me?”
    “I’m okay. I’m fine.”
    “You’ll get used to this stuff.”
    Stambaugh said nothing.
    “This one was raped,”