Free Act of Love by Joe R. Lansdale

softly.
    "Yeah."
    "It's eating you up. Why? Why is this one so personal?"
    "I don't know. I guess because it's everything I'm against." He turned into her arms and held her.
    "Let's go to bed."
    "It's almost daylight. Been up this long I might as well stay up."
    "Who said anything about sleeping."
    "Ah, dark designs. What about the coffee?"
    "It'll turn off and be nice and hot when we're ready."
    "I'm getting nice and hot now."
    "And I'm ready."
    They went upstairs.

    MONDAY AFTERNOON

    He left work early that day with sickness as the cause. He went to his apartment and tried to sleep. He managed a couple of hours before the whine of the garbage compactor brought him awake. Giving up on sleep, he went to the flyspecked window and looked out. After a moment he raised the window and pushed the stick that held it up in place. He listened to the clang and clatter of the garbage truck; the banging of the garbage cans and the talk of the sanitation men at work. It was getting along toward evening, going from grey to black with wavey fingers of pink still sticking out like pulsing veins.
    The city. The crawling, clanging, banging city.
    The sour contents of the garbage truck drifted to his nostrils; vomit, baby diapers, stinking Kotex, mildewed underwear and all manner of food slop filled his head with its odor.
    He loved it. The smell was nectar. And slowly, his element, the night came; crawling, black velvet full of city sounds and city smells . . . and like free diamonds lying on the velvet darkness, were the women. Whores, each and every last one of them. And if he could, if there was that much time in a night, he would pluck them all from that velvet and leave its fabric blank of sparkle and full only of darkness . . . and red, red blood.
    But he must have patience. The city was on guard tonight. He must wait until it jerked its latch and threw open its doors. Then, when they least expected it ... he would strike.

    TUESDAY . . . 11:15 a.m.

    Tuesday, Philip Barlowe began a series about murders similar to those of The Hacker. He drew parallels. Joe Clark read the column carefully. When he finished, he cut it out and put it in the desk drawer with the others.
    Hanson, who was once again typing out reports in his stutter style method, said, "You still reading those?" '
    "It has to do with the case, doesn't it?"
    "Pretty vaguely."
    "Part of being a good cop. You want to see that list they gave me when I was taking criminology?"
    "What list?"
    "The list that tells what makes up a good investigator."
    "You're kidding?"
    "Nope. Want to see?"
    "Not particularly."
    Undaunted, Clark went around to the desk drawer again and dug down deep, came up with a purple folder full of papers.
    "Christ," Hanson said. "Is that the list?"
    "Not all these papers . . . they're related, but ..." Clark opened the folder and took out the top sheet of paper. "Look at this."
    "Shit."
    "Just for the hell of it."
    "All right. Give it to me."
    The list read:
     
    Suspicion
    Curiosity
    Observation
    Memory
    Ordinary intelligence and common sense
    Unbiased and unprejudiced mind
    Avoidance of inaccurate conclusions
    Patience, understanding, courtesy
    Ability to play a role
    Ability to gain and hold confidence
    Persistence and tireless and capacity for work
    A knowledge of the Corpus Delicti of crimes
    An interest in Sociology and Psychology
    Ability to recognize persons who are likely to be the subject of police investigations
    Resourcefulness
    Knowledge of investigative techniques
    Ability to make friends and secure the cooperation of others
    Tact, self-control and dignity
    Interest in job and pride of accomplishment
    Loyalty
     
    Hanson handed Clark back the list.
    "Well?" Clark asked.
    "Well what?"
    "What do you think?"
    "Pretty good," Hanson admitted grudgingly. "Seems right. I never thought about what it took for an investigator, but that's pretty close. One more maybe. Gut instinct. You've either got it or you don't."
    "Agreed," Clark said, nodding.
    "Wait a