“The Priest,” Ben murmured as he skimmed the headline. “The press always likes to give psychos a title.”

“And lots of coverage,” Harris added. “Let’s get him out of the headlines and behind bars.”

Hazy after a long night of paperwork, Dr. Teresa Court sipped coffee and skimmed the Post. A full week after the second murder and the Priest, as the press termed him, was still at large. She didn’t find reading about him the best way to begin her day, but professionally he interested her. She wasn’t immune to the death of two young women, but she’d been trained to look at facts and diagnose. Her life had been dedicated to it.

Professionally, her life was besieged by problems, pain, frustrations. To compensate, she kept her private world organized and simple. Because she’d grown up with the cushion of wealth and education, she took the Matisse print on her wall and the Baccarat crystal on the table as a matter of course. She preferred clean lines and pastels, but now and again found herself drawn to something jarring, like the abstract oil in vivid strokes and arrogant colors over her table. She understood her need for the harsh as well as the soft, and was content. One of her top priorities was to remain content.

Because the coffee was already cold, she pushed it aside. After a moment she pushed the paper away as well. She wished she knew more about the killer and the victims, had all the details. Then she remembered the old saying about being careful what you wished for because you just might get it. With a quick check of her watch, she rose from the table. She didn’t have time to brood over a story in the paper. She had patients to see.

Eastern cities are at their most splendid in the fall. Summer bakes them, winter leaves them stalled and dingy, but autumn gives them a blast of color and dignity.

At two A.M. on a cool October morning Ben Paris found himself suddenly and completely awake. There was no use wondering what had disturbed his sleep and the interesting dream involving three blondes. Rising, he padded naked to his dresser and groped for his cigarettes. Twenty-two, he counted silently.