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vague impression of jeans and a T-shirt, but she couldn’t be sure. No, she hadn’t really looked at his face, but he might have been wearing sunglasses
and a baseball cap. In fact, thinking about it now, she thought he probably was. No, she hadn’t noticed anything about his hands, rings or anything like that. His age? It could have been
anywhere between twenty and fifty. No, he didn’t speak. He just passed her the envelope and left. She was pretty sure he was white, but then again he could have been Hispanic. She was real
sorry not to be more helpful. What was this all about, please?
    When she had gone, Coulter asked to be taken to the picture desk. He carefully bagged the envelope that was still lying where Morton had tossed it.
    Back in the editor’s office he said, ‘I’ll need the girl’s prints and the courier’s, as well as yours, Mr Morton. Was the envelope gummed down, by the
way?’
    Morton shook his head. ‘No. The flap was just tucked in.’
    ‘Damn. We might have got some saliva and a blood type from that.’
    Coulter sat forward a moment, tapping his teeth with his pen. Then he relaxed. ‘All right, Mr Stewart. Ask your questions, but I’m not guaranteeing to answer them.’
    The news editor pulled out his own notepad.
    ‘At yesterday’s press conference, your spokesman said the police believe the three victims – the last girl, Lucy Twain, and Jennifer Alston and Hester Wainwright – were
killed by the same person, due to the specific nature of their injuries. All you’ve told us about those injuries is that they involve extensive and distinctive knife wounds. Does that include
the calling card he left in the Twain girl’s eye?’
    Coulter smiled and scratched his chin. Then he stood up. ‘I can see the way this is going. I’m sorry, Mr Stewart, but questions like that are above my pay grade. You’re going
to have to put them to my boss. In fact, I suggest your editor does that when he drops by headquarters to collect my badge.’ He turned to leave.
    ‘Hey! Now wait just one second! We’ve been co-operative! At least give me a guarantee we’ll be the first to run the picture when you end up having to admit it doesn’t
compromise the investigation!’
    ‘Again, above my pay grade. There’ll be someone over later to take those prints, by the way.’
    ‘
Jesus!
Answer just
one
thing then, will you? Do you have prints from any of the murder scenes? On that knife left in Lucy Twain’s eye, for example?’
    Coulter considered the question from the doorway.
    ‘Possibly,’ he said at length. Then he was gone.
    The news editor turned to his colleague. He was almost purple with rage.
    ‘Can you believe that guy? What a jerk.’ He paused for a moment, drumming his fingers angrily on the table. Suddenly he glared at the picture editor. ‘And why, by the way,
didn’t you take a cover shot of the damn Polaroid before Coulter got here? Too busy throwing up? Jesus Christ, Glen!’
    Morton sighed as he removed a miniature Leica camera from an inside pocket of his jacket.
    ‘Have a little faith, Henry. Actually, I took three.’

8
    ‘Jack? Can you come in here a minute?’
    Bobby Kennedy ducked back out of the glare of the strengthening early autumn Massachusetts sun, running his fingers through his hair as he re-read the docket that had just chattered off the
teleprinter in the study.
    Jesus. This was a
royal
pain in the ass.
    A few moments later, the tall French windows facing onto a wide lawn were pushed open and his older brother came into the room, swinging a white towel. Jack was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt
and he was covered in a light sheen of perspiration.
    ‘Your wife and I were about to
completely
take Teddy’s team at touch-ball, Bobby! Ethel’s furious with you, so this had better be important.’
    ‘C’mon, Jack, TAKE them? With your back? You’re coach these days at best. Anyway, it is. Important, I mean.’
    ‘Family
important, or Attorney General