He told the reporter there would be a press conference held at police headquarters the following day. An expanded investigation would be announced and it would be stated that the killer could be either a man or a woman. Delaney said nothing about the blond wig, the knife blade tip, or the Chemical Mace.

"So?" Handry said. "What's so new and exciting? An expanded investigation-big deal."

"What's new and exciting," Delaney explained patiently, "is that actually the investigation is zeroing in on a female killer."

A moment of silence…

"So that research convinced you?" Handry said. "And you convinced them?"

"Half-convinced," Delaney said. "Some of them still think I'm blowing smoke."

He then went over the evidence that had persuaded him the Hotel Ripper was female. He ended by telling Handry that the; timing of the homicides matched a woman's menstrual periods.

"Crazy," the reporter said. "You're sure about all this?"

"Sure I'm sure. I'm giving you this stuff in advance of the press conference for background, not for publication. I owe you one. Also, I thought you might want to prepare by digging out old stories on women killers."

"I already have," Handry said. "It wasn't hard to figure how; your mind was working. I started looking into the history of mass murders. A series of homicides in which the killer is a stranger to the victims. One criminologist calls them 'multicides.'"

"Multicides," Delaney repeated. "That's a new one on me. Good name. What did you find?"

"Since 1900, there have been about twenty-five cases in the United States, with the number of victims ranging from seven to more than thirty. The scary thing is that more than half of those twenty-five cases have occurred since 1960. In other words, the incidence of multicides is increasing. More and more mass killings by strangers."

"Yes," Delaney said, "I was aware of that."

"And I've got bad news for you, Chief."

"What's that?"

"Of those twenty-five cases of multicide since 1900, only one was committed by a woman."

"Oh?" Delaney said. "Did they catch her?"

"No," Handry said.

Monica came out of the bathroom, hair in curlers, face cold-creamed, a strap of her nightgown held up with a safety pin.

"The Creature from Outer Space," she announced cheerfully.

He looked at her with a vacant smile. He had started to undress. Doffed his dark cheviot jacket and vest, after first removing watch and chain from waistcoat pockets. The clumpy gold chain had been his grandfather's. At one end was a hunter that had belonged to his father and had stopped fifty years ago. Twenty minutes to noon. Or midnight.

At the other end of the chain was a jeweled miniature of his detective's badge, given to him by his wife on his retirement.

Vest and jacket hung away, he seated himself heavily on the edge of his bed. He started to unlace his ankle-high shoes of black kangaroo leather, polished to a high gloss. He was seated there, one shoe dangling from his big hands, when Monica came out of the bathroom.

He watched her climb into bed. She propped pillows against the headboard, sat up with blanket and sheet pulled to her waist.

She donned her Benjamin Franklin glasses, picked up a book from the bedside table.

"What did you eat today?" she demanded, peering at him over her glasses.

"Not much," he lied effortlessly. "After that mighty breakfast this morning, I didn't need much. Skipped lunch. Had a sandwich and a beer tonight."

"One sandwich?"

"Just one."

"What kind?"

"Sliced turkey, cole slaw, lettuce and tomato on rye. With Russian dressing."

"That would do it," she said, nodding. "No wonder you look so remote."

"Remote?" he said. "Do I?"

He bent to unlace his other shoe and slide it off. He peeled away his heavy wool socks. Comfortable shoes and thick socks: secrets of a street cop's success.

When he straightened up, he saw that Monica was still staring at him.

"How is the case going?" she asked quietly.

"All right. It's really in the early stages. Just beginning to move."

"Everyone's talking about the Hotel Ripper. At the meetings today, it came up again and again. In informal conversations, I mean; not in lectures. Edward, people make jokes and laugh, but they're really frightened."

"Of course," he said. "Who wouldn't be?"

"You still think it's a woman?"

"Yes."

He stood, began to take off tie and shirt. Still she had not opened her book. She watched him empty his trouser pockets onto the bureau top.

"I wasn't going to tell you this," she said, "but I think I will."

He stopped what he was doing, turned to face her.

"Tell me what?" he said.

"I asked people I met if they thought the Hotel Ripper could be a woman. My own little survey of public opinion. I asked six people: three men and three women. All the men said the killer couldn't possibly be a woman, and all the women I asked said it could be a woman. Isn't that odd?"

"Interesting," he said. "But I don't know what it means-do you?"

"Not exactly. Except that men seem to have a higher opinion of women than women do of themselves."

He went to shower. He brushed his teeth, pulled on his pajamas. He came out, turned off the overhead light in the bedroom. Monica was reading by the bedlamp. He got into his bed, pulled up the blanket. He lay awake, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

"Why would a woman do such a thing?" he asked, turning his head to look at her.

She put down her book. "I thought you weren't interested in motives."

"Surely I didn't say that. I said I wasn't interested in causes. There's a difference. Every cop is interested in motives. Has to be. That's what helps solve cases. Not the underlying psychological or social causes, but the immediate motive. A man can kill from greed. That's important to a cop. What caused the greed is of little consequence. What immediate motive could a woman have for a series of homicides like this? Revenge? She mutilates their genitals. Could she have been a rape victim?"

"Could be," Monica said promptly. "It's reason enough. But it doesn't even have to be rape. Maybe she's been used by men all her life. Maybe they've just screwed her and deserted her. Made her feel like a thing. Without value. So she's getting back at them."

"Yes," he said, "that listens; it's a possibility. There's something sexual involved here, and I don't know what it is. Could she be an out-and-out sadist?"

"No," Monica said, "I don't think so. Physical sadism amongst women isn't all that common. And sadists prefer slow suffering to quick death."

"Emotional?" he said. "Could it be that? She's been jilted by a man. Betrayed. The woman scorned…"

"Mmm…" his wife said, considering. "No, I don't believe that. A woman might be terribly hurt by one man, but I can't believe she'd try to restore her self-esteem by killing strangers. I think your first idea is right: it's something sexual."

"It could be fear," he said. "Fear of sex with a man."

She looked at him, puzzled.

"I don't follow," she said. "If the killer is afraid of sex, she wouldn't go willingly to the hotel rooms of strange men."

"She might," he said. "To be attracted by what we dread is a very human emotion. Then, when she gets there, fear conquers desire."

"Edward, you make her sound a very complex woman."

"I think she is."

He went back to staring at the ceiling.

"There's another possibility," he said in a low voice.

"What's that?"

"She simply enjoys killing. Enjoys it."

"Oh Edward, I can't believe that."

"Because you can't feel it. Any more than you can believe that some people derive pleasure from being whipped. But such things exist."

"I suppose so," she said in a small voice. "Well, there's a fine selection of motives for you. Which do you suspect it is?"