Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 2

Kathleen didn't know what he was talking about. "Okay, so what you really want to know is do I drink a lot?"

"Yes," Spence said.

"No," Kathleen answered.

When Spence set his chin in the crook of his thumb and index finger, his upper arm bulged to the extent of nearly bursting his s.h.i.+rt. "Do you have any close female friends who hang out in singles bars, or who are alcoholics?"

"No," Kathleen said.

"Is that your natural hair color? Brown?"

Kathleen gawped at the query. "What?"

"Or do you have any close female friends with red hair?"

"Yes to the first ridiculous question, no to the second."

"The reason I ask-" Now Spence moved his chin from one propped up hand to the other. "-is that our technical services crew found several red hairs on the body. Hairfall is quite common in s.e.xually motivated crimes."

"She's a redhead, in other words," Kathleen observed.

"Who?"

Kathleen rolled her eyes. "The killer."

"There you go again. Your absolute certainty that the killer is a woman."

Should I leave? Kathleen asked herself. Kathleen asked herself. Is there any reason why I should put up with this? Is there any reason why I should put up with this? "It's not an absolute certainty. I told you, it's a presumption, and a pretty logical one, I think." "It's not an absolute certainty. I told you, it's a presumption, and a pretty logical one, I think."

Spence nodded again, blankly. "Sure. Oh, and we discerned days ago that Calabrice wasn't gay. I'm just curious as to the basis of your...presumption. But it occurs to me now-" He paused, and tapped himself on the head. "-that it's a pretty stupid curiosity on my part. Of course you presume the killer's a woman. You're a militant feminist."

"I'm not a militant fem-"

"This looks pretty militant to me." Spence withdrew the May issue of '90s Woman '90s Woman from his desk, and read off some of the table of contents. "The ManTrap: Don't Walk Into It; What He Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him; When He's Lying To You: The Giveaway Signs; Exploitation In The Workplace: How To Survive In A Man's World." from his desk, and read off some of the table of contents. "The ManTrap: Don't Walk Into It; What He Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him; When He's Lying To You: The Giveaway Signs; Exploitation In The Workplace: How To Survive In A Man's World."

"They're legitimate articles about some very important topics in our society," Kathleen told him.

"Ah, and here we go. 'Verdict.'" Spence looked up. "In four out of five segments in your column, you recommend that a relations.h.i.+p be terminated in, I must say, some highly specialized terms. 'Thumbs down.' 'Give him the ax.' 'Don't punish yourself, his baggage isn't your problem.'" Spence smiled very faintly. "I like this one best of all. 'Dump him.'"

Pea brain, Kathleen thought. "It's a process, Lieutenant, of applying a combination of style and colloquialism that readers can relate to, in response to their relations.h.i.+p problems." Kathleen thought. "It's a process, Lieutenant, of applying a combination of style and colloquialism that readers can relate to, in response to their relations.h.i.+p problems."

"Oh, is that what it is? Style and colloquialism, yes." Spence put the magazine down. "I just don't understand your refusal to admit that you're a militant feminist."

Kathleen tensed up as she leaned forward. "Listen to me. I'm not a militant feminist-G.o.d, that term went out a decade ago. I'm a magazine writer. I'm a sociologist. And that's all."

"Ah. I see. A sociologist. I'm sorry." Spence kept his voice dead flat, to steepen the obvious sarcasm. "And these terms, these terms here- 'Thumbs down, Give him the ax, Dump him' -these are accepted sociological designations?"

"You're an a.s.shole, Lieutenant," Kathleen said.

"I resent that. But I also realize that your opinion of me is irrelevant. Are you lefthanded?"

"Wha-" Suddenly Kathleen was squinting. Clouds had moved off, leaving the sun glaring in her eyes. "Would you please close the blinds."

"Sorry, they don't work, I'm afraid," Spence said. "Are you lefthanded?"

Now she couldn't see him at all, just an erect smear before the window. She tried to s.h.i.+eld her eyes. "Yes," she eventually answered. "Why?"

"The killer's lefthanded too. Our hand writing a.n.a.lyst could tell by the note."

"But the note was typed, not hand written."

"We call it strikeimpactation. The graphology section has special microscopes that measure the depth, in microns, of any planar impactation. The typewriter, by the way, is a SmithCorona Coronet. And we know the killer's lefthanded because the letters on the lefthandside of the keyboard made deeper impactations. Of course, we already had a good idea that the killer was lefthanded for two other reasons. One, the angle of the...cut."

Only now did the imagery commence, the scarlet fact driving into Kathleen's psyche like a nail driven into new wood: Just exactly what someone had done to someone else...

"What's the second reason?"

"Most s.e.xkillers are lefthanded."

Kathleen could not fathom what he suspected. He can't possibly be that stupid, that rude, He can't possibly be that stupid, that rude, she thought she thought. No. No way.

"Let me ask you something," Kathleen said. "What makes you think the killer's a man? man?"

Spence looked fuddled at her. "We don't. We're quite certain that the killer's a woman. The hairs found on the body fusiformally matched a typical female scalecount."

"Then why-" Kathleen stopped to think, to contain her now bristling anger. More quietly she said, "Then how come you've been all over me for my presumption that the killer's a woman?"

"I was merely a.s.sessing the motive of the presumption." Spence opened his hands flat on the desk. They were big hands, st.u.r.dy. "Most of what I do," he said, "revolves around the simple recognition of interpersonal similarities in homicides. There's always something, you know?"

"No, I don't know."

"What kind of word processor do you use?"

"I don't use one. I use a typewriter."

Spence's brow did a trick over the blank face. "I thought all writers used word processors or computers."

"Some do, some don't." In her eyes, Spence's own computer screen continued to blink in amber: SYSTEM DOWN. "I don't," she said. "I use a typewriter. And, no, it's not a SmithCorona, it's a Xerox MemoryWriter."

"Hmm. Another... Let me think of the right word." Spence seemed to drift off behind the stone facade, a big hard finger tapping the blotter. "Parity," he said.

"What?"

"Another interesting parity. You know. The killer's a woman, you're a woman. The killer's lefthanded, you're lefthanded. The killer uses a typewriter, you use a typewriter-"

"This is the most ridicu-"

"The killer was abused as a child, you were abused as a child," Spence finished.

Kathleen's shock seemed to turn her to a pillar of salt.

Spence stared at her. "As far as the killer goes, I'm only making a, to use your word, a presumption based on knowntypical psychosocial statistics. It's a very reliable denominator, that most s.e.xkillers were abused as children."

"What about me?" Kathleen's voice croaked.

"I ran your name in the records computer."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. Your computer's down."

"We have more than one computer here."

No, she thought. she thought. Somehow, he knew. Somehow, he knew. "You guessed, didn't you?" "You guessed, didn't you?"

For the second time, Spence smiled, but this was a sheepish smile, like that of a child caught doing something forbidden. "All right," he admitted, "you're right. I guessed. Or I should say I deduced. deduced." He pointed behind him, to his psych degree. "After all, I'm trained as a psychologist."

"If you were trained as a psychologist, why are you a cop?"

"I felt phony. I wanted to act, rather than counsel."

Another cut. It was Spence's way of saying that she, as a trained sociologist writing for a woman's magazine, was phony. Just what the h.e.l.l are you driving at? Just what the h.e.l.l are you driving at? It was all building up: the policeman's unfounded dislike for her, his insults, his prejudgment, and the preposterous implications... It was all building up: the policeman's unfounded dislike for her, his insults, his prejudgment, and the preposterous implications...

Kathleen's fists clenched in her lap.

"What kind of car do you drive?" Spence asked next.

Kathleen couldn't resist. "An Audi Quattro, a brown one. I just got it three days ago."

"Funny. But there's nothing funny about any of this, is there?"

"You tell me. You seem to be getting a kick out of it."

"I've never been more serious," Spence said. "Do you think Calabrice is laughing? Now, what kind of car do you drive?"

"Why didn't you just look in your computer?"

"The computer's down." The screen continued to blink: SYSTEM DOWN. "As you have already observed."

"I drive a 1997 Ford Thunderbird."

"Black, probably. Right?"

Kathleen grit her teeth. "Yes."

"And didn't you tell me, shortly after you came in, that you actually didn't make a living as a writer?"

"Your memory is without equal."

"'97 Ford TBird. That's an expensive car, isn't it? Twenty thousand dollars, 25?"

"I don't know how much it cost. It was a gift."

"From who?"

"From my father. He helps me out financially sometimes."

Spence remained expressionless as a stone bust of Caesar. "Is your father the one who abused you as a child?"

Kathleen sucked a deep breath. "No."

Spence looked disappointed. "Then who was?"

Her nails dug into her thigh, through her dress. Don't...let him...do this to you. Don't...let him...do this to you.

"It's none of your business."

"Technically, none of these questions are my business, so why have you answered so many of them?"

"Because you're a police officer, or facsimile thereof. I've always been taught to cooperate with the police."

"So you've been involved in police matters in the past?"

"Yes."

"Would you elaborate?"

"It's none of your business!"

Spence did not react to Kathleen's holler. He looked at her a moment, then said very quietly, "Don't get hostile. Don't get...militant. I'm only asking objective questions."

"No you're not," Kathleen countered. She felt sweat trickling at her sides, at her armpits. "There's nothing objective about any of this. You've been absolutely intolerable. I came in here because I was asked to; I'm trying to be of some a.s.sistance a.s.sistance to you. And in return, you've interrogated me. You're practically accusing me of cutting off a man's p.e.n.i.s and mailing it to myself." to you. And in return, you've interrogated me. You're practically accusing me of cutting off a man's p.e.n.i.s and mailing it to myself."

"Now we're way off base," Spence said.

"And you can bet your a.s.s that I'm going to send a letter of complaint to the commissioner."

"Chief," Spence said.

"What?"

"We don't have a commissioner, we have a chief. Address your letter to The Office of the Chief of Police, Metropolitan Police Headquarters, 300 Indiana Avenue, Northwest, 20010."

"You haven't liked me since the instant I walked into this grubby little office of yours. Why?"

Spence steepled his fingers on the desk. "I can tell you that. You want me to be honest with you, right? It's not difficult to figure out. You're an unfulfilled columnist for a militant feminist magazine who doesn't even make a living at it. We have a psychokiller on our hands, and for some reason, that psychokiller is very impressed by you, impressed enough to actually write to you, and to send you physical proof of a very heinous crime. The killer's note indicates that she wants to collaborate with you; she wants you to write her story. I'm certain that this idea appeals to you-it's the only chance you'll ever have for real fame. You want to turn this very sick person's life into a sensationalist book that will make you rich and famous."

"You're an a.s.shole," Kathleen rea.s.serted.

"But that's not even my chief complaint. That's not the complete reason I don't like you."