She looked at him with admiration.

"Yes," she said, "I feel the same way. I may be old-fashioned but-"

"No, no!" he protested.

"But I'd rather sit home by myself," she went on, "with a good book or something tasteful on educational TV-I'd rather do that than get caught up in the rat race."

"I couldn't agree more," he said warmly. "Except…"

"Except what?" she asked.

"Well, look, you and I work in the most frantic city in the world. And I wonder-I've been thinking a lot about this lately- that in spite of the way I feel, if it isn't getting to me. I mean, the noise, the anger, the frustration, the dirt, the violence. Zoe, they've got to be having some effect."

"I suppose," she said slowly.

"What I mean," he said desperately, "is that sometimes I feel I can't cope, that I'm a victim of things I can't control. It's all changing so fast. Nothing is the same. But what's the answer? To drop out and go live in the wilderness? Who can afford that? Or to try to change things? I don't believe an individual can do anything. It's just-just forces."

He drew a deep breath, drained off his wine. He laughed shakily.

"I'm probably boring you," he said. "I'm sorry."

"You're not boring me, Ernest."

"Ernie."

"You're not boring me, Ernie. What you said is very interesting. You really think we can be influenced by our environment? Even if we recognize how awful it is and try to-to rebel against it?"

"Oh yes," he said. "Definitely. Did you take any psychology courses?"

"Two years."

"Well, then you know you can put rats in a stress situation- loud noise, overcrowding, bad food, flashing lights, and so forth-and drive them right up the wall. All right, admittedly human beings have more intelligence than rats. We have the ability to know when we are in a stress situation, and can make a conscious effort to endure it, or escape it. But I still say that what is going on about us today, in the modern world, is probably affecting us in ways we're not even aware of."

"Physically, you mean? Affecting us physically?"

"That, of course. Polluted air, radiation, bad water, junk food. But what's worse is what's happening to us, the kind of people we are. We're changing, Zoe. I know we are."

"How are we changing?"

"Getting harder, less gentle. Our attention span is shortening. We can't concentrate. Sex has lost its significance. Love is a joke. Violence is a way of life. No respect for the law. Crime does pay. Religion is just another cult. And so forth and so on. Oh God, I must sound like a prophet of doom!"

She went back to what fascinated her most.

"And feeling this way," she said, "knowing all this, you still feel that you are being changed?"

He nodded miserably.

"The other night," he said, "I was eating my dinner in front of the TV set. Franks and beans. With a can of beer. I was watching the evening news. They had films from the refugee camps in Thailand. The Cambodians.

"I sat there eating and drinking, and saw kids, babies, with pipe-stem arms and legs, and swollen bellies, flies on their eyes. I sat there eating my franks and beans, drinking my beer, and watched people dying. And after a while I discovered I was crying."

"I know," she said sympathetically. "It was terrible."

"No, no," he said in anguish. "That wasn't why I was crying- because it was so terrible. I was crying because I wasn't feeling anything. I was watching those pictures, and I knew they were true, and those people really were dying, and I didn't feel a thing. I just ate my franks and beans, drank my beer, and watched a TV show. But I didn't feel anything, Zoe. I swear, I didn't feel anything. That's what I mean about this world changing us in ways we don't want to be changed."

Suddenly, without warning, his eyes brimmed over, and he began to weep. She watched him helplessly for a moment, then held her arms out to him.

He stumbled over to collapse next to her on the couch. She put an arm about his thin shoulders, drew him close. With her other hand she smoothed the fine flaxen hair back from his temples.

"There," she said in a soft, crooning voice. "There, Ernie. There. There."

In the days following Zoe Kohler's phoned tip to The New York Times, she searched the newspaper with avid interest. But nothing appeared other than a few brief follow-ups on the slaying of Frederick Wolheim at the Hotel Pierce.

Soon, even this case disappeared from the paper. Zoe was convinced a cover-up was in effect. As Everett Pinckney had said, it wasn't good for the hotel business. Hotels advertised in newspapers. The economy of the city was based to a large extent on tourism. So the newspapers were silent.

But on March 24th, a two-column article appeared in the Times' Metropolitan Report. Headlined: killer sought in two homicides, it reviewed the murders of George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim, pointing out the similarities, and said the police were working on the theory that both killings were committed by the same person. The motive was unknown.

The Times' article reported that the investigation was under the command of Detective Lieutenant Martin Slavin. He had stated: "We are exploring several promising leads, and an arrest is expected shortly." A special phone number had been set up for anyone with information on the crimes.

The Times did not mention the Son of Sam killings, but the afternoon Post and the evening's Daily News were not so restrained. The Post headline was: another son of sam? The News bannered their page 4 report with: cops call 'daughter of sam' a possibility.

Both papers suggested the police were afraid that the Puller and Wolheim murders might be just the first of a series of psychopathic, motiveless slayings. Both papers repeated Lieutenant Slavin's statement: "We are exploring several promising leads, and an arrest is expected shortly."

After a brief initial shock, Zoe Kohler decided she had nothing to fear from Slavin's optimistic prediction; it was intended to reassure New Yorkers that everything that could be done was being done, and this menace to the public safety would soon be eliminated.

More worrisome was the Daily News' reference to "Daughter of Sam." But a careful reading of the story indicated that the police were merely investigating the possibility that a prostitute had been responsible for both murders. Midtown whores and their pimps were being rousted and questioned in record numbers.

So, Zoe Kohler felt, nothing had been discovered that really threatened her. It was, she admitted, becoming increasingly exciting. All those policemen running around. Millions of newspaper readers titillated and frightened. She was becoming someone.

Her exhilaration was dampened two days later when Everett Pinckney came into her office with a notice that had been hand-delivered by the police to the chiefs of security in every hotel in midtown Manhattan.

It was, in effect, a wanted poster, asking the security officers to aid in apprehending the killer of George T. Puller and Frederick Wolheim. It was believed the murderer made contact with the victims in the bars, cocktail lounges, or dining rooms of hotels, especially those hosting conventions, sales meetings, or large gatherings of any type.

The description of the person "wanted for questioning" was sparse. It said only that the suspect could be male or female, approximately 5' 5" to 5' 7" tall, wearing a wig of black nylon.

"Not much to go on," Pinckney said. "If we grabbed every man and woman wearing a black nylon wig, we'd really be in the soup. Can you imagine the lawsuits for false arrest?"

"Yes," Zoe said.

"Well," Mr. Pinckney said, studying the notice, "the two murders happened around midnight. I'll make sure Joe Levine sees this when he comes on at five tonight. Then I'll leave it on my desk. If I miss Barney McMillan in the morning, will you make sure he sees it?"