A Gentle Man Born

"Allow me, miss," he said, in a manner as soft and polished as the sheen on his Italian loafers. A faint smile rose to his lips as he inserted his own key into the lock. She smiled back, revealing even white teeth. No fear. It worked every time, despite the warnings on the evening news about the killer of three women who stalked this East Side Manhattan neighborhood. He had even mulled about with all the other curious passersby beside the yellow police tape cordoning off the last crime site on the next corner. He supposed he didn't look like a killer, whatever that meant. He was too well dressed, too charming, too rich and handsome to evoke suspicion.

No one ever saw beyond his technical genius or the specialized line of computers he designed and manufactured. In the grandest of ironies, he had been instrumental in developing and formatting the National Crime Information Computer, which tracked the world's most dangerous felons. Deep in the night that made him laugh. Just like the memory of their screams. His work kept him isolated and too remote from living to be a part of its pain. Women deserved whatever they got. They were so stupid, so trusting.

"Let me help you," he said, scooping up one of her bags and inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume. The old doorman, his chore accomplished, returned dutifully to his post just as the two passed him in the lobby. J. T. Raymond never worried about witnesses. He had learned long ago how to change the way he was remembered. He could slip through any opening, fit in anywhere. He had known how to do that almost since he'd known anything at all.