"Relax, Kafka. I was only kidding. Are you here for anything in particular, or just the typical police hara.s.sment?"
"May I come in? I"d like to talk to you."
"Well, I don"t know," she hedged. "I"m a little busy right now. You see, I"m a militant feminist opportunist. Via my own selfinterests, rapaciousness, and overall inflated ego, and in addition to a reactive lack of writing talent, I"m exploiting a tragic circ.u.mstance for my own gain. I"m writing a bogus, sensationalist book based on the ghastly crimes of a-"
Spence stepped past her and entered the apartment. "What a hovel," he commented of her living room. "You"re not much of a housekeeper, are you? This dump looks like it got the once over by our tactical riot squad. What"s that smell?"
"Fresh pig," Kathleen said.
Spence smiled. He perused the room with his hands behind his back. "Aren"t you going to offer me some coffee?"
"All I have is beer and wine," Kathleen responded. "You see, I"m a clinical alcoholic, preformed by a geneticaddition propensity that you read about in some magazine."
"Speaking of magazines, when"s the next issue of your rag come out? I especially enjoy the column called "Verdict." It"s funnier than National Lampoon National Lampoon." Spence turned to her like a chess piece. "All jokes aside-"
"Oh, we were joking?"
"-have you received anything more from-"
She slapped him in the chest with a manila envelope.
"Originals, right?" he asked.
"Of course. I rented a copier from Shields today."
"Industrious. I trust you didn"t handle the originals until you put on the gloves?"
"I wore the d.a.m.n gloves, Lieutenant. Now why don"t you be like a hockey player and-"
Spence sat down at her desk before the slider. He picked up a sheaf of papers. "These are the photocopies?"
"Yes."
"Good material for the book?"
Kathleen didn"t say anything. She opened the slider and lit a Now 100. Spence began to read her photocopies, so not to touch the originals.
"Hmm. "NeedleWork." By the way, how"s the blazing love affair with Maxwell Platt?"
"Mind your own business."
"It"s strange. I read some of his work today in some literary magazines that our research department dug up. Did you know he"s had poetry published in Esquire, Esquire, The New York Times Literary Review The New York Times Literary Review, even Cosmopolitan? Cosmopolitan?"
"What"s strange about that?"
"Well, they"re formidable magazines, highly compet.i.tive markets, I should think-"
"Oh, you think?"
"-and his work is quite well done. Insightful, honest, highly creative. That"s the strange part, that a person with such respectable artistic talents should find anything at all in common with you."
"He only comes around for the blatant, indulgent s.e.x."
"Like last night? He was here last night, wasn"t he?"
"I know you have your watchdogs on me. You get a kick out of that, don"t you? Intruding on real people"s lives?"
"It"s only for your protection. Personally I"d much prefer to see district tax dollars spent elsewhere." Spence flipped a page of the ma.n.u.script. "But Maxwell Platt is innocent."
Cigarette smoke dangled before Kathleen"s eyes. "What"s that supposed to mean?"
"You know full well that a psychopathic killer is aware of your exact place of residence, yet you"re pursuing a romantic involvement with Platt. You"re inviting him over here. You don"t care about anyone, do you? Platt could wind up dead due to your reckless selfishness."
"That"s ridiculous," Kathleen spat. But actually she hadn"t thought of that at all. No, no, No, no, she tried to rationalize. she tried to rationalize. It"s too farfetched... It"s too farfetched...
"And it"s therefore my professional obligation to see that he"s protected when he"s over here. That"s why I"ve got the undercover vehicle in your parking lot."
"Why don"t you just leave?" Kathleen suggested, but, still, what he"d implied bothered her. "Or maybe it"s just that you"ve got nothing better to do. Big bad musclebound existential hotshot police investigator. What a laugh. It"s not my fault that a killer is sending me accounts of her murders. It"s not my fault that you"ve gotten nowhere on this case."
"Quite the contrary," Spence offered. He was reading and talking simultaneously. "We know who the killer is."
Kathleen bent forward. "You... What?"
"She"s a prost.i.tute known as Creamy. Her real name is Heather B. Willet. Twentysix years old, red hair, Caucasian. You know her?"
"How would I know a prost.i.tute, for G.o.d"s sake?" Kathleen stubbed out her cigarette, thinking. This revelation sat in her gut like a bad meal. Was Spence lying? He"d lied before, she felt sure of it. "A prost.i.tute? That doesn"t sound very logical."
"People who are pathological seldom behave logically. And by the way, I"m not an existentialist. I conform to a spiritual philosophy known as solipsisty-the theory that the self is the only thing that can be known and therefore verified."
This comment seemed to stretch her face against her skull, like thin elastic. "The last time I talked to you, you lied to me."
"I didn"t lie, I prevaricated-"
Kathleen laughed out loud.
"We"ve found two more bodies."
Her laughter dissolved. Suddenly, though backed by the blaze of sun, she felt frigid.
"This pa.s.sage here-" He held up the ma.n.u.script she"d received today. ""NeedleWork." It describes in verifiable detail the murder of a young man named Brad Weston. Traffic Branch found his body in his car about 36 hours ago. He was a barhound, like Calabrice."
"But you said two bodies."
Spence nodded, never looking up. "Early this morning. A black man named Tyrone Chaplin. I talked to him hours before his death. He was Heather B. Willet"s pimp. The physical evidence is incontestable. She killed them all. And her behavior patterns are evolving exactly as our forensic psychiatrist predicted. With each murder, her delusion is becoming more and more real to her. I won"t bother telling you the details regarding Chaplin"s death. I"m quite sure that you"ll be informed, posthaste."
Posthaste, Kathleen thought. Only a dolt would use a word like that. Only a dolt would use a word like that.
When Spence rose, his shadow submerged the kitchen. He b.u.t.toned his jacket, made an adjustment to his tie. "Call me when you get the next ma.n.u.script," he said.
"What"s the magic word?"
"Pretty please with misprision of a felony and obstruction of justice on top."
"Kiss my a.s.s, Spence," Kathleen answered his levity.
Spence retrieved the ma.n.u.script, unafflicted. He headed toward the door, then stopped and returned his gaze to her. "I was checking some things," he mentioned. "Public record."
She cast the oneperhour rule to the wayside, and lit another cigarette. "So?"
"Who is Samuel Curtis Shade?"
Kathleen felt something inside her shrivel, like slug skin when sprinkled with salt. "He"s my uncle. He"s the-"
"The man who s.e.xually abused you as a child?"
"Yes," she said dryly. "And G.o.dd.a.m.n you for prying into my personal life. And G.o.dd.a.m.n you double for even bringing it up."
"I apologize," Spence said. His sober face and attire almost lent sincerity to his apology.
The cat clock ticked.
Almost, almost. Alm- Here.
She heard the words now as clearly as Uncle Sammy had whispered them so long ago. The little bed was creaking; her dolls lined up along the dresser bore witness; the plastic eyes of the cat clock ticked back and forth. From behind, Uncle Sammy"s hands molded her nineyearold body like fresh white dough...
She spoke on, retracted from her own will. A puppet master directed her mouth to configure the words and leak them from her throat. "He s.e.xually abused me from the time I was nine "til my late teens. My mother was dead. My father was always away on business. Uncle Sammy...looked after me." She gulped jagged stones. "He made p.o.r.no movies for the mob, and transported them here for development and distribution. In 1988 he got caught in a Justice Department sting, or something like that. He was sentenced to 13 years in prison."
Spence looked away, discomfited. "Well, something happened to him yesterday."
Bright flowers seemed to open in her vision, before a raving light. He"s dead, He"s dead, she thought. she thought. Uncle Sammy"s dead. He hanged himself in prison. Someone murdered him. He died of cancer...something. Please tell me that Uncle Sammy"s dead. Uncle Sammy"s dead. He hanged himself in prison. Someone murdered him. He died of cancer...something. Please tell me that Uncle Sammy"s dead.
"He"s dead?" she asked, her voice like a tiny scratch.
"No, no he"s not," Spence answered her. "Yesterday at noon your uncle was paroled."
Chapter 18.
(I).
Is she right? Maxwell Platt paused to wonder over his Brother typewriter. Maxwell Platt paused to wonder over his Brother typewriter. Am I deluded? Has love deluded me? Am I deluded? Has love deluded me?
If so, it wasn"t really love.
Then he tossed his head back and laughed.
She was wrong. He was not deluded.
I"m in love, he thought. he thought.
He knew it was true. Since when was truth bound to criteria, to structure? Since when was love bound to rules? There were no rules, there was only the truth.
These seemed appropriate reflections for a poet. I don"t give a d.a.m.n that I"ve known her less than a week. I love her. I know I love her. I"m going to marry her. I"m going to spend the rest of my life with her. I"m going to be the father of her children, and I"m going to grow old and die with her. I don"t give a d.a.m.n that I"ve known her less than a week. I love her. I know I love her. I"m going to marry her. I"m going to spend the rest of my life with her. I"m going to be the father of her children, and I"m going to grow old and die with her.
He didn"t need to know anything beyond that.
From the window, P Street traffic sounded like a river at high spate. Maxwell"s deliberating happiness made him feel like the world revolved around him, he its axis.
Now, he thought. He felt risen. The poems of his past were done; it was time to begin the poems of his future. he thought. He felt risen. The poems of his past were done; it was time to begin the poems of his future. Good-bye, Exit, Good-bye, Exit, he thought. Now it was time to write a poem for her. he thought. Now it was time to write a poem for her.
The typewriter regurgitated loud clicking sounds within its steady hum; it was old. The keys tapped sluggishly and often jammed, and you could grow old waiting for the carriage to return. But Maxwell wouldn"t dream of replacing it. It was like an old friend, a companion that never let him down. The typewriter provided the tool for his muse. One day, when it broke down completely, he would bury it. Like a dead loved one, Like a dead loved one, he thought. he thought.
Kathleen"s first poem, he knew, would take time, a lot of reworking, rewriting. He felt this would be the most important poem he"d ever write. He typed out the t.i.tle:
A KEATSIAN INQUIRY by Maxwell Platt
He typed for the rest of the day.
Then he went to his nightstand and got the gun.
(II).
"Your friend, your killer," Simmons said, "is now fully established in the Totem Phase of her delusion. She feels invincible, wholly and completely protected. Her crimes-which she of course doesn"t see as crimes, but acts of truth-have risen in her perceptions to a stratum of absolute meaning."
"Wait," Spence said. "Back up." He felt as fuddled as he must look. "Totem Phase?"
Simmons" goatee looked like spun steel. He unconsciously turned a large blue Stelazine paperweight on his desk. A pencil cup faced Spence, which read MELLARILS SUSPENSION, b.u.t.termint Flavor! Spence recalled from his one psychopharmacology course that Mellaril was a heavyduty antipsychotic drug which often turned patients into pensive zombies. But...b.u.t.termint? At least they"ve made it taste good, At least they"ve made it taste good, he thought. Simmons continued, his head atilt. "Pattern serialkiller behavior exists in a total of seven phases. The first few are developmental; we already know about them in this case. The s.e.xual abuse from an early age, the doubtless genetic and environmental ramifications, etc. Your friend has now progressed to the most serious later phase, the Totem Phase, where all of her feelings ama.s.s to a single point of reference, through which she executes her crimes. Totem, in this case, means symbol. She feels energized now by the symbol." he thought. Simmons continued, his head atilt. "Pattern serialkiller behavior exists in a total of seven phases. The first few are developmental; we already know about them in this case. The s.e.xual abuse from an early age, the doubtless genetic and environmental ramifications, etc. Your friend has now progressed to the most serious later phase, the Totem Phase, where all of her feelings ama.s.s to a single point of reference, through which she executes her crimes. Totem, in this case, means symbol. She feels energized now by the symbol."