Red Dragon [antikvár]

Will Graham sat Crawford down at a picnic table between the house and the ocean and gave him a glass of iced tea. Jack Crawford looked at the pleasant old house, salt-silvered wood in the clear light. 'I should have caught you in Marathon when you got off work,' he said. Tou don't want to talk about it here.' 'I don't want to talk about it anywhere. Jack. You've got to talk about it, so let's have it. Just don't get out any pictures. If you brought pictures, leave them in the briefcase—Molly and Willy will be back soon.' 'How much do you know?' 'What was in the Miami Herald and the Times,'' Graham said. 'Two families killed in their houses a month apart. Birmingham and Atlanta. The circumstances were similar.' 'Not similar. The same.' 'How many confessions so far?' 'Eighty-six when I called in this afternoon,' Crawford said. 'Cranks. None of them knew details. He smashes the mirrors and uses the pieces. None of them knew that.' 'What else did you keep out of the papers?' 'He's blond, right-handed and really strong, wears a size 11 shoe. He can tie a bowline. The prints are all smooth gloves.' 'You said that in public.' 'He's not too comfortable with locks,' Crawford said. 'Used a glass-cutter and a suction-cup to get in the house last time. Oh, and his blood's AB positive.' 'Somebody hurt him?'