I saw him. . . . That bastard. What was he doing here? In a large, fast moving crowd, on lower market just a quick movement in the throng fight its way towards the ferry. My blood froze with the sight of him. He was wearing an open blue shirt, brown corduroy jacket. He looked like some collage professor. On any other day, I could have passed him by, never noticed. He was thin, totally unremarkable in every way but one. It was the reddish-brown beards. His head bobbed in and out of the crowd. I followed, unable to narrow the distance.
“Police!” I shouted over the sin.
My cry dissolved into the hurring, unheeding mass of people. At any moment I might lose him.
I didn’t know his name, I only knew his victims, Lizzy Harry. Dorothy Noah. Suddenly, he stopped. He bucked against the flow, turned right towards me.
His face seemed illuminated, shining against a dark background like one of those medieval Russian icons, Amid the commotion, our eyes met.