Free Things Beyond Midnight by William F Nolan

celebrated California murder case some years ago I was amazed by the number of mental unfortunates who felt compelled to turn themselves in to the police and confess the crime. These self-confessed “killers” were, of course, all innocent—victims of their own delusions—what Hemingway called “walking crazies,” the ones who aimlessly wander the streets of our cities with fogged minds and tortured psyches.
    This tale was my first successful piece of shock fiction, written during the spring of 1956. I had quit my job with the California State Department of Employment to write full time in April of that year (and have been a fulltimer ever since). “Into the Lion’s Den” was one of 25 stories I wrote in 1956.
    It sold, appropriately enough, to Alfred Hitchcock.

INTO THE LION’S DEN
    Before she could scream, his right hand closed over her mouth. Grinning, he drove a knee into her stomach and stepped quickly back, letting her spill writhing to the floor at his feet. He watched her gasp for breath.
    Like a fish out of water, he thought, like adamn fish out of water. He took off his blue service cap and wiped sweat from the leather band. Hot. Damned hot. He looked down at the girl. She was rolling, bumping the furniture, fighting to breathe. She wouldn’t be able to scream until she got her breath back, and by then...
    He moved to a chair across the small living room and opened a black leather toolbag he’d placed there. He hesitated, looking back at her.
    “For you,” he said, smiling over his shoulder, “just for you.”
    He slowly withdrew a long-bladed hunting knife from the bag and held it up for her to see.
    She emitted small gasping sounds; her eyes bugged and her mouth opened and closed, chopping at air.
    You’re not beautiful anyway, he thought, moving toward her with the knife. Pretty, but not beautiful. Beautiful women shouldn’t die. Too rare. Sad to see beauty die. But, you.
    He stood above her, looking down. Face all red and puffy. No lipstick. Not even pretty any more. No prize package when she’d opened the door. If she’d been beautiful he would have gone on, told her he’d made a mistake, and gone on to the next apartment. But, she was nothing. Hair in pin curls. Apron. Nothing.
    He knelt, caught her arm and pulled her to him. “Don’t worry,” he told her. “This will be quick.”
    He did not stop smiling.

    “A Mr. Pruyn out front, sir. Says he’s here about the Sloane case.”
    “Send him in,” said Lieutenant Norman Bendix. He sighed and leaned back wearily in his swivel chair.
    Hell, he thought, another one. My four-year-old kid could come in here and give me better stories. Stabbed her to death with my crayons, Daddy. Nuts!
    Fifteen years with the force and he’d talked to dozens of Dopey Joes who “confessed” to unsolved murders they’d read about in the papers. Phonies. All phony as a five-dollar bill with Ben Franklin’s kisser on it. Oh, once he’d struck oil. Guy turned out to be telling the truth. All the facts checked out. Freak. Murderers are not likely to come in and tell the police all about how they did it. Usually it’s a guy with a souped-up imagination and a few drinks too many under his belt. This Sloane case was a prime example. Five “confessions” already. Five duds.
    Marcia Sloane. Twenty-seven. Housewife. Dead in her apartment. Broad daylight. Throat cut. No motives. No clues. Husband at work. Nobody saw anybody. Score to date: zero.
    Bendix swore. Damn the papers! Rags. Splash gore all over the front page. All the gory details. Except , thought Bendix, the little ones, the ones that count. At least they didn’t get those. Like the fact that the Sloane girl had exactly twenty-one cuts on her body below the throat; like the fact that her stomach bore a large bruise. She’d been kicked, and kicked hard, before her death. Little details—that only the killer would know. So, what happens? So a half-dozen addled pin-heads rush in to “confess” and