Free The Assailant by James Patrick Hunt Page A

collection. Raymond could recognize another predator when he saw one. Tassett was that. He was the sort that would take a certain pleasure in seducing a nice girl like Helen. But she would figure him out. Tassett made little attempt to hide what he was about, considering his lifestyle for the most part harmless. There would be a breakup, an undramatic one at that.
    And Raymond Sheffield would be there when it happened.
    He was being patient. For he knew how to be patient. He knew how to wait when waiting was necessary. Not that he planned to add Helen Krans to
his
collection. That would not be her role.
    He planned to marry her.
    He knew that in time she would come to trust him. Confide in him and be drawn to him. She was already seeing the Raymond that he wanted her to see. The decent, compassionate, thoughtful physician. She would round him out. She would be part of his daytimepersona. The Dr. Sheffield persona. She would make a good wife. For who would suspect a physician? Particularly a physician who was married to such a nice, guileless girl like Helen Krans?
    Raymond rubbed his eyes. He was coming down off the high now, and he found that, in spite of the tea, he was tired. He retreated to bed. He tried to read a chapter of an Anthony Trollope novel but gave up after a page. He turned off the light and went straight to sleep.

THIRTEEN
    Hastings was in a convenience store buying a Sunday newspaper and a coffee when he got the call.
    â€œHastings.”
    â€œLieutenant? This is Deputy Ernie Hill, County PD. We got a body here on West Manchester Road, death by strangulation.”
    Hastings said, “A woman?”
    â€œYeah. A young lady named Adele Sayers. We’re reasonably sure she’s a hooker. Dispatch says you investigated a strangulation yesterday down by the river. Maybe it’s the same guy.”
    â€œOkay. You giving me an invite?”
    â€œWe’d welcome you.”
    Hastings said, “I could be there in about thirty minutes. Listen, Deputy, you got reporters there?”
    â€œNo, I don’t see any yet.”
    â€œCan I ask you a favor? Tell your people not to give out any statements. Not yet.”
    â€œI understand.”
    Hastings got off the phone. Two prostitutes strangled in two days. Technically, it could be called a serial killing. The press got hold of that and there could be panic. Maybe they would need the cooperation of the press, but if it got out at the wrong time, the upper brass would get upset and would want someone to blame for itif the killer wasn’t apprehended. Panic, fear, despair. You could tell people the facts. Tell them that out of about two hundred thousand murders committed across the nation, at most two hundred could be attributed to serial killers. Tell them that they were in far greater danger from fucked-up ex-boyfriends or estranged husbands, the everyday, commonplace monsters. Tell them, but it wouldn’t matter.
    Hastings hoped the murders weren’t related. He hoped they weren’t because if they were, they were dealing with something illogical and raw. Something unnatural. And it was this that Hastings believed people feared. Not the dumb-ass loser who drinks too much and bashes a neighbor’s head against the sidewalk; not the pathetic asshole who would rather see his woman dead than free of him. Those things were common. The mass murderer was not common.
    He hoped they weren’t related, but he suspected they were.
    â€¢
    The Thunderbird Motel was a three-quarters rectangle of rooms with red doors set against an off-white exterior. There were three county police cars and an unmarked felony car. It was early and there was no yellow tape up.
    The county detectives had gotten there before Hastings. Introductions were made. The heavyset detective, whose name was Escobar, pointed through the window of the Camaro and said, “You see that? Extension cord.”
    â€œYeah,” Hastings said.
    â€œWe believe that was