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Quentin, someone who wanted to get even with the Colonel for something we don't even know about, maybe even someone fixin' to rob the place." |
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Proctor's mouth curled into an impatient snarl. "Come on, Inspector, the way Driver was spread-eagled out on that bed, he was expecting something all right, and it sure as hell wasn't a robbery." |
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Dawkins nodded, slurped more coffee and mentally began sketching in his file cards for future reference. What did they have? A homely woman, about whom little was known, mindlessly spending her monotonous string of days in a mundane world of insignificance. She had been brutally murdered, her heart carved out of her body. Why the heart? Why not the brain? Why not some other organ? It all meant something, he supposed, to the addled mind of the frenzied creature who had committed the crime. Then, only a few hours later, the whole bizarre scenario had been repeated. The same smouldering question resurfacedwhy the heart? |
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Perhaps, Dawkins thought, it bothered him even more because he saw haunting similarities in his own often pointless, often lonely existence. Except for the outcome, how were they any different from him? |
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He set his cup down and ambled back over |
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