Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 19

She lurched up. "Don't tell me to be quiet! This is my house! You can't tell me to be quiet in my house!"

"It's not a house, it's an apartment," Maxwell said.

"You're outrageous, Maxwell! I'll throw your skinny a.s.s right out of here!"

"Last night I had a great a.s.s," he mentioned, reading. "Now I've got a skinny a.s.s. Women are so ambiguous."

"Maxwell! You better-"

"Look," he said, jerking his gaze. "I'm going to read this stuff, with or without your approval. So just pipe down, all right? Have some more tea. Watch Donahue or something, soap operas."

Kathleen fumed. Her lips sealed to the tightest closure, like a scar. She sat back down and watched him. His long hair hung down as he pored over the pages.

She watched him go pale in increments, just as Spence had. With the turn of each page, his face seemed to transform into a mask of incredulous dread, of slow, creeping, quiet horror.

"Good Christ Almighty," he whispered.

"I told you so," Kathleen said.

He argued with her all the way back to his apartment. "You shouldn't be by yourself," he said. "It's crazy. If you won't stay with me, at least let me stay with you."

"No," she said. She gunned the TBird past Blackie's House of Beef on 21st Street. VISIT THE RUSH ROOM a sign invited. MEET RUSH. Kathleen thought Rush Limbaugh was an arrogant dolt. It's his fault the traffic's like this, It's his fault the traffic's like this, she reasoned. Lunch hour traffic in this city was almost as bad as rush hour. Cars sat backed up at each little intersection, ablaze in relentless glare. "I have my work to do, you have your work to do. We'd get in each other's way; it'd be very inconvenient." she reasoned. Lunch hour traffic in this city was almost as bad as rush hour. Cars sat backed up at each little intersection, ablaze in relentless glare. "I have my work to do, you have your work to do. We'd get in each other's way; it'd be very inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" Maxwell's eyes rolled. "We've got something pretty dangerous here and you talking about convenience? convenience?"

"It's nothing for you to worry about, Maxwell. Jesus Christ."

"Nothing for me to worry about? I thought relations.h.i.+ps were supposed to involve mutuality."

There he went again about relations.h.i.+ps. "What good does it do to argue, Maxwell?" she suggested. "Psycho killer or not, I told you I'm not ready to even think about living with anyone."

This time he refrained from comment. Thank G.o.d Thank G.o.d, Kathleen thought. Conversely, though, she found something inspiring in the argument. Nothing in its context-just the fact: They were lovers and they were arguing. She hadn't had an argument with a lover in years. Or maybe not at all Or maybe not at all, she supposed. Never. Never. She felt something vaguely vital about it, something meaningful even though she couldn't guess what the meaning could be. She felt something vaguely vital about it, something meaningful even though she couldn't guess what the meaning could be.

"Do you think," Maxwell began. He looked ahead through the winds.h.i.+eld either stifled or dazed. His eyes slowly went wide. "Do you think all those things are true? Do you think all those things really happened to her?"

"Yes," Kathleen said. As with her, it would no doubt take a while for the killer's writings to wear off of Maxwell's mind. "I'm sure of it. And I'm also sure there's more to come. She's delusional and obsessive. She's killing men based on the motivations of her delusion. What she's doing is the most important thing in her life, and it becomes even more important to her when she relates it all to me. To the killer, I'm the angel of truth who will communicate her testament to the world."

"Yeah, but why?" Maxwell said. "Why you?"

Kathleen shrugged. "Spence says it's my column in the magazine, something about my writing that the killer relates to. It might even just be the way way I write, my style or something, or the tone of my responses to readers. Some bizarre subconscious attraction, something that only the killer fully understands." I write, my style or something, or the tone of my responses to readers. Some bizarre subconscious attraction, something that only the killer fully understands."

"That doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"Of course not. We're talking about someone who's clinically insane."

When she pulled over in front of his apartment building, he had the most forlorn look in his eyes. She knew what he was going to ask.

"Can I see you tonight?"

She watched traffic crawl up P Street. "Let's not move too fast, Maxwell. Okay? I'll call you later."

He nodded, still diffuse. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"I know."

"It's just that this whole thing really scares me."

What, though? Did he mean their prospective relations.h.i.+p? Kathleen felt sure he referred to her contact with the killer. Of course it scared him. But- I wonder why I'm not scared, I wonder why I'm not scared, she thought. It was true. She wasn't scared at all. she thought. It was true. She wasn't scared at all.

He leaned over and quickly kissed her.

"'Bye," he said.

"'Bye."

Maxwell got out. Heading toward his apartment entrance, he seemed to drift rather than walk, a attenuated ghost. His long blonde hair blew back when he opened the door. Then he disappeared.

I guess I love you, too, Kathleen thought. She pulled out. A Yellow cab and a Porsche cut her off on the circle but she didn't get mad as she normally would. She felt strangely sated, weird, as she drove on. It took her a while to realize what it was. Kathleen thought. She pulled out. A Yellow cab and a Porsche cut her off on the circle but she didn't get mad as she normally would. She felt strangely sated, weird, as she drove on. It took her a while to realize what it was.

I'm happy, she realized.

For the first time in a long time, Kathleen Shade was genuinely happy.

For the first time in a long time, she felt good.

She felt good all the way back home. Until she opened her mailbox and found the envelope.

Moments later she was back in her apartment. She donned Spence's evidence gloves, slit open the envelope, and read the next chapter of the killer's chronicle, ent.i.tled "NeedleWork."

Then she didn't feel good any more.

Chapter 17.

(I).

Broad daylight. Traffic sounds. Venders selling hot dogs, halfsmokes. Pedestrians proceeding to and fro with their lives. Normalcy.

Madness, Spence thought. Spence thought.

"Call the M.E.'s office," he said. "Then call TSD and tell them to send Kohls down here with his crew."

The Traffic Branch cop wore his hat c.o.c.ked back on his head. He nodded, wiping sweat off his brow, where dovetails of dark hair lay sh.e.l.lacked. The details of his job-a routine one-disheveled him, along with the city's heat. But beyond that he looked ravaged. This was a guy who'd been working Traffic Branch probably 15 years. He'd no doubt seen his share of rough things. But...this? But...this? Spence thought. He abstracted: If he could look into this cop's eyes, he'd see a spirit mauled by utter incomprehension. Spence thought. He abstracted: If he could look into this cop's eyes, he'd see a spirit mauled by utter incomprehension.

And madness.

"Snap out of it. This is tough, sure, but we're cops. I can't have you folding on me. Make those calls, okay?"

The cop nodded again, shuffled through heat and confusion back to his car.

The cop would have to debriefed. So far they'd kept it all out of the papers; a district reg allowed them to exclude any MCS homicide from the blotters, but there were always leaks, and it was only a matter of time before the Post Post people nosed their way in. They'd probably have to run a wanted soon anyway; at least they had a name and a face now. people nosed their way in. They'd probably have to run a wanted soon anyway; at least they had a name and a face now.

The BMW's finish s.h.i.+ned like sleek, white ice. Spence noted that it was a 635CSi. Fifty grand Fifty grand, he thought. Must be nice. Must be nice. The vehicle's trunk lid stood open; Spence thought of a great maw frozen open on a petrified beast. The vehicle's trunk lid stood open; Spence thought of a great maw frozen open on a petrified beast.

He'd never seen anything so strange in his life.

A mummy, he thought.

Furrows drew into his brow as he gazed down. Common silver duct tape, twoinch wide, had been used to wrap Tyrone "'Rome" Chaplin into a tight, oblong bundle. He'd been completely coc.o.o.ned. Only the nostrils had been left exposed. The killer had left the eloquent pimp's district driver's license adhered to the taped chest, but Spence didn't need to see the face to know that the contents of this bizarre bundle was Chaplin. The first murder with a motive, The first murder with a motive, he realized. he realized. Psychotic prost.i.tute gets revenge against her pimp, her oppressor. Psychotic prost.i.tute gets revenge against her pimp, her oppressor.

But why had she wrapped him up?

What in G.o.d's name did she do to him? Spence thought. Spence thought.

"Death by asphyxia," Kohls said a few hours later in the workup room. He could tell first by simple visual examination of the inside of 'Rome's lips, a dark blue/blackish color known as acyanosis. Further microscopy verified this.

"She smothered him," Spence said at the entrance.

"Probably very slowly, over an extended period."

Spence stepped closer to the s.h.i.+ny guttered, heightadjustable autopsy slab. "What else?"

"Won't know 'til I do the Ysection." Kohls looked up from the great dualeyepieced Zeiss microscope, turning down the lampfield. "Got something...asperous, a scarlet color lining the insides of the nostrils."

"Blood?"

"No, no, it's colloidal. I'll nail it down. Just gimme some time."

"There's not much to give." Spence deliberately stood well away from the corpse, at an off angle. Kohls, after doing a print scan with the laser, had removed all of the duct tape, extricating Tyrone Chaplin from his coc.o.o.n of death. This removal left the dark skin strangely dry in appearance, tacky.

"It's funny," Kohls observed. "You ever skinned an animal? Like a deer, a rabbit?"

"No," Spence said.

"The sound is identical, when you pull the skin off."

"Identical to what?"

"When I was pulling the tape off your partner, 'Rome. It made the same exact sound as skinning an animal. Gave me the jeebies, you know? Like I was skinning 'Rome."

Spence found the observation useless. "Did she cut off his..."

"Yep," Kohls said, pointing toward the corpse's hips. "Take a gander."

"No thanks. I gotta drive."

Kohl's brow flitted. "Only found one print, on the guy's driver's license. What's her name? Helen? Heather?"

"Creamy," Spence corrected. "Hairfall?"

"One p.u.b.e. Fusiformal match. This gal's a piece of work. I can't wait to find out exactly what she did to him. You want to stick around for the Ysection, Lieutenant?"

"No thanks," Spence repeated. "I gotta drive."

"And there's one other thing." Kohls offered the faintest of grins. "You'd see it yourself if you weren't standing so far away from the table. You squeamish?"

"No, but I don't particularly enjoy close visual inspections of corpses whose full genitalia have been cut off."

"Gotcha."

"What's the other thing?"

"She also cut off his right hand. She didn't do that to any of the others. Kind of screwy... Say, you ever get a line on the hospital angle?"

Spence tried to answer with confidence. "We're doing a full background run, the bureau's helping. We've also got-" Then he stopped, as if he'd run into a stone wall. "Who the h.e.l.l am I kidding?" he admitted. "I haven't got a line on s.h.i.+t."

"Oh well," Kohls commiserated. As Spence left the workup section, Kohls' 12,500rpm Stryker autopsy saw began to rev like a dentist's drill.

(II).

Kathleen went rigid at her desk when she heard the rapping at the door. Her hands froze over the typewriter. The raps were delicate yet insistent, five, evenly s.p.a.ced, a pause, then five more. She tried, ludicrously, to make a presumption. How would a killer, a psychotic murderess, knock on a door?

rapraprapraprap Like that? she wondered. she wondered.

She doubted it. Then she smirked when she looked in the bra.s.s peephole. It was Spence.

"h.e.l.lo," he said when she opened up.

"d.a.m.n. I was hoping it was the Fuller Brush Man."

"The Fuller Brush Man isn't your ticket to literary acclaim."

"Oh, but you are?" she said. "A pokerfaced cop in a bargain bas.e.m.e.nt suit?"

Spence's gaze distended. "This suit cost $850. It's made from some of the finest-"