"Mr. Parsons, exactly when did you see this fellow in the alley?" Springfield asked.

"I'm not sure, I was trying to think."

"Do you recall the time of day? Morning? Noon? Afternoon?"

"I know the times of day, you don't have to name them. Afternoon, maybe. I don't remember."

Springfield rubbed the back of his neck. "Excuse me, Mr. Parsons, but I have to get this just right. Could we go in your kitchen and you show us just where you saw him from?"

"Let me see your credentials. Both of you."

In the house, silence, shiny surfaces, and dead air. Neat. Neat. The desperate order of an aging couple who see their lives begin to blur.

Graham wished he had stayed outside. He was sure the drawers held polished silver with egg between the tines.

Stop it and let's pump the old fart.

The window over the kitchen sink gave a good view of the backyard.

"There. Are you satisfied?" Parsons asked. "You can see out there from here. I never talked to him, I don't remember what he looked like. If that's all, I have a lot to do."

Graham spoke for the first time. "You said you went to get your robe, and when you came back he was gone. You weren't dressed, then?"

"No."

"In the middle of the afternoon? Were you not feeling well, Mr. Parsons?"

"What I do in my own house is my business. I can wear a kangaroo suit in here if I want to. Why aren't you out looking for the killer? Probably because it's cool in here."

"I understand you're retired, Mr. Parsons, so I guess it doesn't matter if you put on your clothes every day or not. A lot of days you just don't get dressed at all, am I right?"

Veins stood out in Parsons' temples. "Just because I'm retired doesn't mean I don't put my clothes on and get busy every day. I just got hot and I came in and took a shower. I was working. I was mulching, and I had done a day's work by afternoon, which is more than you'll do today."

"You were what?"

"Mulching."

"What day did you mulch?"

"Friday. It was last Friday. They delivered it in the morning, a big load, and I had…I had it all spread by afternoon. You can ask at the Garden Center how much it was.

"And you got hot and came in and took a shower. What were you doing in the kitchen?"

"Fixing a glass of iced tea."

"And you got out some ice? But the refrigerator is over there, away from the window."

Parsons looked from the window to the refrigerator, lost and confused. His eyes were dull, like the eyes of a fish in the market toward the end of the day. Then they brightened in triumph. He went to the cabinet by the sink.

"I was right here, getting some Sweet 'N Low when I saw him. That's it. That's all. Now, if you're through prying…"

"I think he saw Hoyt Lewis," Graham said.

"So do I," Springfield said.

"It was not Hoyt Lewis. It was not." Parsons' eyes were watering.

"How do you know?" Springfield said. "It might have been Hoyt Lewis, and you just thought-"

"Lewis is brown from the sun. He's got old greasy hair and those peckerwood sideburns." Parsons' voice had risen and he was talking so fast it was hard to understand him. "That's how I knew. Of course it wasn't Lewis. This fellow was paler and his hair was blond. He turned to write on his clipboard and I could see under the back of his hat. Blond. Cut off square on the back of his neck."

Springfield stood absolutely still and when he spoke his voice was still skeptical. "What about his face?"

"I don't know. He may have had a mustache."

"Like Lewis?"

"Lewis doesn't have a mustache."

"Oh," Springfield said. "Was he at eye level with the meter? Did he have to look up at it?"

"Eye level, I guess."

"Would you know him if you saw him again?"

"No."

"What age was he?"

"Not old. I don't know."

"Did you see the Leedses' dog anywhere around him?"

"No."

"Look, Mr. Parsons, I can see I was wrong," Springfield said. "You're a real big help to us. If you don't mind, I'm going to send our artist out here, and if you'd just let him sit right here at your kitchen table, maybe you could give him an idea of what this fellow looked like. It sure wasn't Lewis."

"I don't want my name in any newspapers.

"It won't be."

Parsons followed them outside.

"You've done a hell of a fine job on this yard, Mr. Parsons," Springfield said. "It ought to win some kind of a prize."

Parsons said nothing. His face was red and working, his eyes wet. He stood there in his baggy shorts and sandals and glared at them. As they left the yard, he grabbed his fork and began to grub furiously in the ground, hacking blindly through the flowers,scattering mulch on the grass.

Springfield checked in on his car radio. None of the utilities or city agencies could account for the man in the alley on the day before the murders. Springfield reported Parsons' description and gave instructions for the artist. "Tell him to draw the pole and the meter first and go from there. He'll have to ease the witness along.

"Our artist doesn't much like to make house calls," the chief of detectives told Graham as he slid the stripline Ford through the traffic. "He likes for the secretaries to see him work, with the witness standing on one foot and then the other, looking over his shoulder. A police station is a damn poor place to question anybody that you don't need to scare. Soon as we get the picture, we'll door-to-door the neighborhood with it.

"I feel like we just got a whiff, Will. Just faint, but a whiff, don't you? Look, we did it to the poor old devil and he came through. Now let's do something with it."

"If the man in the alley is the one we want, it's the best news yet," Graham said. He was sick of himself.

"Right. It means he's not just getting off a bus and going whichever way his peter points. He's got a plan. He stayed in town overnight. He knows where he's going a day or two ahead. He's got some kind of an idea. Case the place, kill the pet, then the family. What the hell kind of an idea is that?" Springfield paused. "That's kind of your territory, isn't it?"

"It is, yes. If it's anybody's, I suppose it's mine."

"I know you've seen this kind of thing before. You didn't like it the other day when I asked you about Lecter, but I need to talk to you about it."

"All right."

"He killed nine people, didn't he, in all?"

"Nine that we know of. Two others didn't die."

"What happened to them?"

"One is on a respirator at a hospital in Baltimore. The other is in a private mental hospital in Denver."

"What made him do it, how was he crazy?"

Graham looked out the car window at the people on the sidewalk. His voice sounded detached, as though he were dictating a letter.

"He did it because he liked it. Still does. Dr. Lecter is not crazy, in any common way we think of being crazy. He did some hideous things because he enjoyed them. But he can function perfecfly when he wants to."

"What did the psychologists call it – what was wrong with him?"

"They say he's a sociopath, because they don't know what else to call him. He has some of the characteristics of what they call a sociopath. He has no remorse or guilt at all. And he had the first and worst sign – sadism to animals as a child."

Springfield grunted.

"But he doesn't have any of the other marks," Graham said. "He wasn't a drifter, he had no history of trouble with the law. He wasn't shallow and exploitive in small things, like most sociopaths are. He's not insensitive. They don't know what to call him. His electroencephalograms show some odd patterns, but they haven't been able to tell much from them."

"What would you call him?" Springfield asked.