Free The Boston Strangler by Gerold; Frank

upset.” He spoke very gently to the weeping woman on the other end. “Just because the police question someone doesn’t mean he’s guilty. If he’s not involved he’s got nothing to worry about. No, this won’t get into the papers—that only happens on TV. Please don’t be upset. I told your husband to call me in two days and I hope we’ll have it all cleared up by then …”
    He listened for a moment. “I don’t feel you need a lawyer—why pay lawyer’s bills? We haven’t done anything to abuse your husband. No, he’s not under arrest—we have to decide if whoever wrote that letter is worthy of belief … Believe me, your husband isn’t the first man we’ve talked to. I could show you drawers filled with names—do you know how many people are writing us? And we must check them all out—” He continued to speak reassuringly. “I know it’s just a routine investigation to us and it’s a heartache for you, but please don’t be upset—if you are, give me a ring, will you? Sure, sure, you can leave the house—of course you and your husband can go to a movie tonight …”
    He hung up, thinking, This woman and her husband have to go through all this because of some son-of-a-bitch who might as easily write my name or anyone else’s name in an anonymous letter …
    Lieutenant Sherry had come to be surprised at little in his job, particularly during those terrible days. Many of the wives and mothers he had spoken to had been weeping. But on the other hand, more than one anonymous letter identifying a specific man as the Strangler had turned out to come from the man’s own wife, wanting to punish him for having an affair. She knew he was not the Strangler, of course, but a session or two with the police would give him a bad few days and serve him right. People, Lieutenant Sherry thought, are complicated creatures.
    Now he sat back and tried to make sense of the material on his desk. For six months homicide detectives armed with mimeographed questionnaires had gone from house to house, street to street, interrogating women, moving in ever widening circles outward from each strangling scene. “Did you know the deceased? Did you see anyone suspicious in this neighborhood at the time of the crime? Have any friends told you anything out of the ordinary? Have you had any unusual incidents while living here?”
    On his desk lay the completed questionnaires. Nothing to seize upon save the response to the last question. At least half a dozen women had reported that a Dr. Jonathan Logan—in some cases, Dr. John Logan—had telephoned them in the evening. The stories were similar.
    In each case, Dr. Logan said over the phone that he had met the woman some time before at a cocktail party “on the Hill”; he had been struck not only by her appearance but by how intelligently she expressed herself—he had made a mental note to look her up soon. Now—he hoped she would forgive this unorthodox approach—he was taking the liberty of calling her to say he’d love to pick up their conversation where they’d left off. What was she doing right now? Might he drop by for a drink?
    None of the women could remember having met a Dr. Logan. Yet, it was possible. What girl hadn’t at one time or another gone to a party on Beacon Hill? The Hill was like one vast sorority house. Thousands of students, secretaries, and career girls lived in the small apartments made over from the great town houses, and the social activity was intense. Although some of the women he telephoned had cut him short, many had allowed Dr. Logan to “drop by.” They were embarrassed to admit it—the information came reluctantly and only after repeated questioning—but he turned out to be a most charming gentleman, and.… In six months, Sherry estimated in some awe, the mysterious Dr. Logan