Bill Crider

"THE BODY LOOKS FAMILIAR This was no crime of passion. The killer sat patiently on the girl's satin-covered bed, drinking Scotch and soda, awaiting her return. He didn't smoke--some Sherlock might trace his brand. He had already taken care to plant the leads, to weave together the web of evidence that would direct the police unerringly to the wrong man. He didn't know the girl. When she entered, he thought it a pity to kill such a good-looker; then...