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　　This　recent　trio　of　corpses　was　not　the　first　to　be　discovered　in　such　a　state；　the　very　day　that　Kaufman　had　arrived　a　story　had　broken　in　The　Times　that　was　still　the　talk　of　every　morbid　secretary　in　the　office。
　　The　story　went　that　a　German　visitor；　lost　in　the　subway　system　late　at　night；　had　e　across　a　body　in　a　train。　The　victim　was　a　well…built；　attractive　thirty…year…old　woman　from　Brooklyn。　She　had　been　pletely　stripped。　Every　shred　of　clothing；　every　article　of　jewellery。　Even　the　studs　in　her　ears。
　　More　bizarre　than　the　stripping　was　the　neat　and　systematic　way　in　which　the　clothes　had　been　folded　and　placed　in　individual　plastic　bags　on　the　seat　beside　the　corpse。
　　This　was　no　irrational　slasher　at　work。　This　was　a　highly…organized　mind：　a　lunatic　with　a　strong　sense　of　tidiness。
　　Further；　and　yet　more　bizarre　than　the　careful　stripping　of　the　corpse；　was　the　outrage　that　had　then　been　perpetrated　upon　it。　The　reports　claimed；　though　the　Police　Department　failed　to　confirm　this；　that　the　body　had　been　meticulously　shaved。　Every　hair　had　been　removed：　from　the　head；　from　the　groin；　from　beneath　the　arms；　all　cut　and　scorched　back　to　the　flesh。　Even　the　eyebrows　and　eyelashes　had　been　plucked　out。
　　Finally；　this　all　too　naked　slab　had　been　hung　by　the　feet　from　one　of　the　holding　handles　set　in　the　roof　of　the　car；　and　a　black　plastic　bucket；　lined　with　a　black　plastic　bag；　had　been　placed　beneath　the　corpse　to　catch　the　steady　fall　of　blood　from　its　wounds。
　　In　that　state；　stripped；　shaved；　suspended　and　practically　bled　white；　the　body　of　Loretta　Dyer　had　been　found。
　　It　was　disgusting；　it　was　meticulous；　and　it　was　deeply　confusing。
　　There　had　been　no　rape；　nor　any　sign　of　torture。　The　woman　had　been　swiftly　and　efficiently　dispatched　as　though　she　was　a　piece　of　meat。　And　the　butcher　was　still　loose。
　　The　City　Fathers；　in　their　wisdom；　declared　a　plete　close…down　on　press　reports　of　the　slaughter。　It　was　said　that　the　man　who　had　found　the　body　was　in　protective　custody　in　New　Jersey；　out　of　sight　of　enquiring　journalists。　But　the　cover…up　had　failed。　Some　greedy　cop　had　leaked　the　salient　details　to　a　reporter　from　The　Times。　Everyone　in　New　York　now　knew　the　horrible　story　of　the　slaughters。　It　was　a　topic　of　conversation　in　every　Deli　and　bar；　and；　of　course；　on　the　subway。
　　But　Loretta　Dyer　was　only　the　first。
　　Now　three　more　bodies　had　been　found　in　identical　circumstances；　though　the　work　had　clearly　been　interrupted　on　this　occasion。　Not　all　the　bodies　had　been　shaved；　and　the　jugulars　had　not　been　severed　to　bleed　them。　There　was　another；　more　significant　difference　in　the　discovery：　it　was　not　a　tourist　who　had　stumbled　on　the　sight；　it　was　a　reporter　from　The　New　York　Times。
　　Kaufman　surveyed　the　report　that　sprawled　across　the　front　page　of　the　newspaper。　He　had　no　prurient　interest　in　the　story；　unlike　his　elbow　mate　along　the　counter　of　the　Deli。　All　he　felt　was　a　mild　disgust；　that　made　him　push　his　plate　of　over…cooked　eggs　aside。　It　was　simply　further　proof　of　his　city's　decadence。　He　could　take　no　pleasure　in　her　sickness。
　　Nevertheless；　being　human；　he　could　not　entirely　ignore　the　gory　details　on　the　page　in　front　of　him。　The　article　was　unsensationally　written；　but　the　simple　clarity　of　the　style　made　the　subject　seem　more　appalling。　He　couldn't　help　wondering；　too；　about　the　man　behind　the　atrocities。　Was　there　one　psychotic　loose；　or　several；　each　inspired　to　copy　the　original　murder？　Perhaps　this　was　only　the　beginning　of　the　horror。　Maybe　more　murders　would　follow；　until　at　last　the　murderer；　in　his　exhilaration　or　exhaustion；　would　step　beyond　caution　and　be　taken。　Until　then　the　city；　Kaufman's　adored　city；　would　live　in　a　state　somewhere　between　hysteria　and　ecstasy。
　　At　his　elbow　a　bearded　man　knocked　over　Kaufman's　coffee。
　　〃Shit！〃　he　said。
　　Kaufman　shifted　on　his　stool　to　avoid　the　dribble　of　coffee　running　off　the　counter。
　　〃Shit；〃　the　man　said　again。
　　No　harm　done；〃　said　Kaufman。
　　He　looked　at　the　man　with　a　slightly　disdainful　expression　on　his　face。　The　clumsy　bastard　was　attempting　to　soak　up　the　coffee　with　a　napkin；　which　was　turning　to　mush　as　he　did　so。
　　Kaufman　found　himself　wondering　if　this　oaf；　with　his　florid　cheeks　and　his　uncultivated　beard；　was　capable　of　murder。　Was　there　any　sign　on　that　over…fed　face；　any　clue　in　the　shape　of　his　head　or　the　turn　of　his　small　eyes　that　gave　his　true　nature　away？
　　The　man　spoke。
　　〃Wannanother？〃　Kaufman　shook　his　head。
　　〃Coffee。　Regular。　Dark；〃　the　oaf　said　to　the　girl　behind　the　counter。　She　looked　up　from　cleaning　the　grill　of　cold　fat。
　　〃Huh？〃
　　〃Coffee。　You　deaf？〃　The　man　grinned　at　Kaufman。
　　〃Deaf；〃　he　said。
　　Kaufman　noticed　he　had　three　teeth　missing　from　his　lower　jaw。
　　〃Looks　bad；　huh？〃　he　said。
　　What　did　he　mean？　The　coffee？　The　absence　of　his　teeth？
　　〃Three　people　like　that。　Carved　up。〃　Kaufman　nodded。
　　〃Makes　you　think；〃　he　said。　〃Sure。〃
　　〃I　mean；　it's　a　cover…up　isn't　it？　They　know　who　did　it。〃　This　conversation's　ridiculous；　thought　Kaufman。　He　took　off　his　spectacles　and　pocketed　them：　the　bearded　face　was　no　longer　in　focus。　That　was　some　improvement　at　least。
　　〃Bastards；〃　he　said。　〃Fucking　bastards；　all　of　them。　I'll　lay　you　anything　it's　a　cover…up。〃
　　〃Of　what？〃
　　〃They　got　the　evidence：　they're　just　keeping　us　in　the　fucking　dark。　There's　something　out　there　that's　not　human。〃　Kaufman　understood。　It　was　a　conspiracy　theory　the　oaf　was　trotting　out。　He'd　heard　them　so　often；　a　panacea。
　　〃See；　they　do　all　this　cloning　stuff　and　it　gets　out　of　hand。
　　They　could　be　growing　fucking　monsters　for　all　we　know。
　　There's　something　down　there　they　won't　tell　us　about。
　　Cover…up；　like　I　say。　Lay　you　anything。〃　Kaufman　found　the　man's　certainty　attractive。　Monsters；　on　the　prowl。　Six　heads：　a　dozen　eyes。　Why　not？
　　He　knew　why　not。　Because　that　excused　his　city：　that　let　her　off　the　hook。　And　Kaufman　believed　in　his　heart　that　the　monsters　to　be　found　in　the　tunnels　were　perfectly　human。
　　The　bearded　man　threw　his　money　on　the　counter　and　got　up；　sliding　his　fat　bottom　off　the　stained　plastic　stool。
　　〃Probably　a　fucking　cop；〃　he　said；　as　his　parting　shot。　〃Tried　to　make　a　fucking　hero；　made　a　fucking　monster　instead。〃　He　grinned　grotesquely。　〃Lay　you　anything；〃　he　continued　and　lumbered　out　without　another　word。
　　Kaufman　slowly　exhaled　through　his　nose；　feeling　the　tension　in　his　body　abate。
　　He　hated　that　sort　of　confrontation：　it　made　him　feel　tongue…tied　and　ineffectual。　e　to　think　of　it；　he　hated　that　kind　of　man：　the　opinionated　brute　that　New　York　bred　so　well。
　　
　　It　was　ing　up　to　six　when　Mahogany　woke。　The　morning　rain　had　turned　into　a　light　drizzle　by　twilight。　The　air　was　about　as　clear…smelling　as　it　ever　got　in　Manhattan。　He　stretched　on　his　bed；　threw　off　the　dirty　blanket　and　got　up　for　work。
　　In　the　bathroom　the　rain　was　dripping　on　the　box　of　the　air…conditioner；　filling　the　apartment　with　a　rhythmical　slapping　sound。　Mahogany　turned　on　the　television　to　cover　the　noise；　uninterested　in　anything　it　had　to　offer。
　　He　went　to　the　window。　The　street　six　floors　below　was　thick　with　traffic　and　people。
　　After　a　hard　day's　work　New　York　was　on　its　way　home：　to　play；　to　make　love。　People　were　streaming　out　of　their　offices　and　into　their　automobiles。　Some　would　be　testy　after　a　day's　sweaty　labour　in　a　badly…aired　office；　others；　benign　as　sheep；　would　be　wandering　home　down　the　Avenues；　ushered　along　by　a　ceaseless　current　of　bodies。　Still　others　would　even　now　be　cramming　on　to　the　subway；　blind　to　the　graffiti　on　every　wall；　deaf　to　the　babble　of　their　own　voices；　and　to　the　cold　thunder　of　the　tunnels。
　　It　pleased　Mahogany　to　think　of　that。　He　was；　after　all；　not　one　of　the　mon　herd。　He　could　stand　at　his　window　and　look　down　on　a　thousand　heads　below　him；　and　know　he　was　a　chosen　man。
　　He　had　deadlines　to　meet；　of　course；　like　the　people　in　the　street。　But　his　work　was　not　their　senseless　labour；　it　was　more　like　a　sacred　duty。
　　He　needed　to　live；　and　sleep；　and　shit　like　them；　too。　But　it　was　not　financial　necessity　that　drove　him；　but　the　demands　of　history。
　　He　was　in　a　great　tradition；　that　stretched　further　back　than　America。　He　was　a　night…stalker：　like　Jack　the　Ripper；　like　Gilles　de　Rais；　a　living　embodiment　of　death；　a　wraith　with　a　human　face。　He　was　a　haunter　of　sleep；　and　an　awakener　of　terrors。
　　The　people　below　him　could　not　know　his　face；　nor　would　care　to　look　twice　at　him。　But　his　stare　caught　them；　and　weighed　them　up；　selecting　only　the　ripest　from　the　passing　parade；　choosing　only　the　healthy　and　the　young　to　fall　under　his　sanctified　knife。
　　Sometimes　Mahogany　longed　to　announce　his　identity　to　the　world；　but　he　had　responsibilities　and　they　bore　on　him　heavily。　He　couldn't　expect　fame。　His　was　a　secret　life；　and　it　was　merely　pride　that　longed　for　recognition。
　　After　all；　he　thought；　does　the　beef　salute　the　butcher　as　it　throbs　to　its　knees？
　　All　in　all；　he　was　content。　To　be　part　of　that　great　tradition　was　enough；　would　always　have　to　remain　enough。
　　Recently；　however；　there　had　been　discoveries。　They　weren't　his　fault　of　course。　Nobody　could　possibly　blame　him。　But　it　was　a　bad　time。　Life　was　not　as　easy　as　it　had　been　ten　years　ago。　He　was　that　much　older；　of　course；　and　that　made　the　job　more　exhausting；　and　more　and　more　the　obligations　weighed　on　his　shoulders。　He　was　a　chosen　man；　and　that　was　a　difficult　privilege　to　live　with。
　　He　wondered；　now　and　then；　if　it　wasn't　time　to　think　about　training　a　younger　man　for　his　duties。　There　would　need　to　be　consultations　with　the　Fathers；　but　sooner　or　later　a　replacement　would　have　to　be　found；　and　it　would　be；　he　felt；　a　criminal　waste　of　his　experience　not　to　take　on　an　apprentice。
　　There　were　so　many　felicities　he　could　pass　on。　The　tricks　of　his　extraordinary　trade。　The　best　way　to　stalk；　to　cut；　to　strip；　to　bleed。　The　best　meat　for　the　purpose。　The　simplest　way　to　dispose　of　the　remains。　So　much　detail；　so　much　accumulated　expertise。
　　Mahogany　wandered　into　the　bathroom　and　turned　on　the　shower。　As　he　stepp