Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 32

Next came abrupt, nondescript sounds. Thunking. Mumbling. A long, low moan-distinctly male.

"Don't hang up!" Kathleen pleaded. "Are you there? Are you still there?" She made this plea for many minutes more, until she heard the sirens, the helicopters...

Spence punched off the tape. "She's very calculating," he suggested. "She deliberately didn't hang up, even when she left the vehicle. She had a good idea that we were trying to trace the call and DF the mobile phone signal. She was toying with us."

"Where did she disappear to?" Kathleen wondered.

"No doubt she'd previously parked her car somewhere nearby, probably in one of the alleys off the main road, or somewhere in the industrial site. She drove away five minutes before our units arrived."

Kathleen felt uncomfortable in the hot seat, the sun in her face. "How did she know about you?"

"'Rome, the pimp. I'd talked to him the day before we found his body."

"And what was all that stuff... Most of the conversation she sounded very clearheaded, coherent. Then she goes into the bit about the pain, taking her mother's pain away, and all that."

"Psychiatrists call it word salad," Spence enlightened her. "A fairly common trait in bipolar psychosis. One minute she acts and sounds normal, the next minute she's completely dissociated, completely submerged in her delusions, to such an extreme extent that only she can understand herself."

"Like split personality?"

"No, no, nothing like that. It's a conversion of mental dispositions, an exchange from the reality state to the delusory state. That's why we're having such a hard time catching her. In the reality mode she's very sharp, even rational. She's able to keep control over the delusion." Spence took the ca.s.sette out of the tape player, appraising it with his gaze. "But it's...chilling, isn't it?"

Kathleen fumbled with an unlit cigarette. "What do you mean?"

"The voice, or I should say the idea. The idea that the voice we just heard belongs to a woman who's tortured and murdered at least seven men."

Chilling? Kathleen thought. Suddenly she was famished, like she could eat a whole box of sugary cereal, or an entire pizza. She could eat a whole jar of peanut b.u.t.ter 'til it lodged in her throat. "I wouldn't say chilling as much as alien. Like something inhuman speaking in the voice of a beautiful woman. I wonder what she looks like. I wonder if she's beautiful." Kathleen thought. Suddenly she was famished, like she could eat a whole box of sugary cereal, or an entire pizza. She could eat a whole jar of peanut b.u.t.ter 'til it lodged in her throat. "I wouldn't say chilling as much as alien. Like something inhuman speaking in the voice of a beautiful woman. I wonder what she looks like. I wonder if she's beautiful."

"More than likely, she's very beautiful," Spence said. Today he wore an unusually wide, striped tie, but it looked crumpled. "Serial killers frequently take the specific element by which they were abused as children and turn it against the people they perceive to be their enemies. Her father s.e.xually abused her, her father was a man, so now she's utilizing her s.e.xuality to put her in a clandestine position of power over men. Every man she kills, to her, is her father."

Daddy, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought.

Spence pushed back his rather unkempt hair. "But I wonder what she meant when she said that you were corrupted, and that she would purge you of your corruptions?"

"I wish I knew."

"It's a little scary, isn't it?"

"No," Kathleen said. Somehow, it wasn't scary at all. Again, she thought it more alien than anything else.

"Well, whatever she means, we can use it to our advantage. She's beginning to trust you. She's beginning to believe that you desire to be in league with her, for the sake of her 'story.' It's important that you do everything you can to make her continue to believe that. Keep acting as though the police are not only her enemies, but yours too. Moreover-and obviously-she hates men. If she believes that you, too, hate men, then eventually she'll trust you enough to arrange a meeting, or perhaps to make an unscheduled visit."

More games, Kathleen thought. Spence had actually been tolerable today, until now. Kathleen thought. Spence had actually been tolerable today, until now. Trying to scare me. Trying to rattle my cage, Trying to scare me. Trying to rattle my cage, she thought. she thought. Next, he'll probably mention Uncle Sammy. Next, he'll probably mention Uncle Sammy.

"Not to change the subject," Spence went on, "but I just want you to know that we're still trying to locate your uncle."

"For my protection, right?"

"Yes."

"And because any outside interference from my uncle could botch your investigation, destabilize your human bait, right?"

"In a sense, yes."

"Thank you at least for not lying to me, like you usually do. We get along much better when you don't lie to me. I might even like you some day."

"Implausible. And it's even more implausible that I I would ever like would ever like you you," Spence said, back to his stonecold face. "Condescending, reactionary, unrealistic, feminist-"

"You really are a p.r.i.c.k-"

Spence offered a dismayed look. "You just got done saying that you want me to be honest."

"-a humorless, unfriendly, unmitigated p.r.i.c.k p.r.i.c.k."

"And as I said before, the more she trusts you, the greater the chance that she'll make an effort to meet you. I can't imagine why, but to her you're a 'Great Woman.' You represent something that she absolutely envies. Which leads me to my next point."

Kathleen lit her cigarette, dragged deep, and spewed smoke toward Spence.

"Regarding a certain unregistered, illegal handgun that your boyfriend gave you? Which, in addition, I've been lenient enough not to prosecute you for possessing?"

"What about it, Spence?"

He gave her the oddest look, as if making a consideration against some nameless physical strain. "Keep it close at hand," he advised. "And keep it loaded."

Chapter 27.

(I).

Maxwell felt dissipated, like he'd done 12 hours of road work. It was a joyous exhaustion, though. Writing, even to the point of physical stupor, always left him radiant. In joy.

He stood now on his balcony. Mid-afternoon nailed the city down with planks of heat. Below, traffic jerked up and down P Street. All he need do, at any given moment, was glance at the city's slog of traffic to be grateful he didn't own a car.

He didn't need a car. All he needed was his muse, his fingers, and his typewriter.

And Kathleen, he thought. The missing piece of my life The missing piece of my life.

But, no, she wasn't a piece. She was an ent.i.ty. She was a beautiful, wonderful woman whom he loved. That must be it, That must be it, he postulated. So unadorned, so simple. he postulated. So unadorned, so simple. Isn't that what everything is all about, from the beginning to the very end of the world? Love? Isn't that what everything is all about, from the beginning to the very end of the world? Love? It sounded so blatantly idealistic, but he knew it was true. It was the meaning of life. It was the meaning of- It sounded so blatantly idealistic, but he knew it was true. It was the meaning of life. It was the meaning of- Everything...

Okay. Great. But does she love me? She'd said she did, but didn't people often say things they didn't mean? Wasn't human love, in all its import, partly or even fully impossible to define? She'd said she did, but didn't people often say things they didn't mean? Wasn't human love, in all its import, partly or even fully impossible to define?

Did Kathleen even know what love was?

But these questions were futile. I can't spend the rest of my life weighing questions, I can't spend the rest of my life weighing questions, Maxwell substantiated Maxwell substantiated. I have to live my life based on the things that I KNOW about myself.

This made much more sense. He knew that he loved her. Therefore, he must proceed from there.

Maxwell was not a traditionalist, but he'd learned, in his own experiences, that most women were, even when they said they weren't. He'd never, for instance, sent a woman flowers. He'd send poetry instead, because poetry was eternal. Weren't eternal symbols far more meaningful? A dozen longstemmed roses were withered and ugly in days, and in the garbage, but a poem never lost its petals, a poem never wilted and died. Wasn't it a better display of love to give a piece of himself than something he could buy in a store? Of course it is, his poet's psyche agreed. But, still, there always came times when traditionalism must be acknowledged.

I'll have to buy her an engagement ring, he thought. He'd never done that before; he didn't even know how to make such a purchase. He knew they cost thousands of dollars, though, so at least he knew something. What was the procedure? Should he buy the ring on his own, and give it to her when he proposed? Or should he propose first, and then let her pick out her own ring? he thought. He'd never done that before; he didn't even know how to make such a purchase. He knew they cost thousands of dollars, though, so at least he knew something. What was the procedure? Should he buy the ring on his own, and give it to her when he proposed? Or should he propose first, and then let her pick out her own ring? I don't even know her ring size I don't even know her ring size, he thought. And then he thought: I don't even know if she'll say yes... I don't even know if she'll say yes...

That didn't matter, though. Follow your heart, Follow your heart, he thought. In these times, in truth, what else was there to follow? Social trends? Politics? Material? No, none of that was real. There was only love. he thought. In these times, in truth, what else was there to follow? Social trends? Politics? Material? No, none of that was real. There was only love.

Am I being unrealistic? he wondered. he wondered. Am I rus.h.i.+ng things? Am I rus.h.i.+ng things? And what of the timing? Was this the optimum time to make his proposal? Haunted afresh now by the memory of her uncle's s.e.xual abuse? Bulldogged and spied upon by police? Hara.s.sed by a psychotic killer? No, by all intents, it probably wasn't the optimum time, but that didn't matter, either. What he felt in his heart could only be made true by his own concurrence of self. Time was always now. And what of the timing? Was this the optimum time to make his proposal? Haunted afresh now by the memory of her uncle's s.e.xual abuse? Bulldogged and spied upon by police? Hara.s.sed by a psychotic killer? No, by all intents, it probably wasn't the optimum time, but that didn't matter, either. What he felt in his heart could only be made true by his own concurrence of self. Time was always now.

The moment...is now. And if it isn't now, then it's false. It's ashes. It's dust.

It's settled, he concluded. His long hair wavered in his eyes as he gazed off the high balcony. he concluded. His long hair wavered in his eyes as he gazed off the high balcony. Today I'll price engagement rings. Today I'll price engagement rings.

The poem was done. He'd written it dozens of times in the past two days. He'd honed it, crafting and recrafting, structuring and restructuring. He'd spent an hour deliberating over the placement of a comma, and another hour removing it. There came a point in the revision process when the work could be embellished no further. Minutes ago, Maxwell had reached that point. The poem was as good as he'd ever be able to make it. The poem was done.

He remained gazing off the balcony a while longer, to clear his brain of the wringing muse. Then he went back in. The platen pawl clicked when he rolled the poem from the typewriter. He read it a final time, then nodded.

He handwrote KATHLEEN on an envelope. He put the poem in the envelope.

I'll give it to her tonight.

Maxwell Platt, then, grabbed his wallet and keys, and just as he would embark to survey the local jewelry stores, there was a knock on the door.

(II).

"The femoral artery," Kohls was saying. With an unlit cigarette, he pointed to an anatomical chart. The artery, in red, and its accompanying inferior vein, in blue, ran just forward of the inside of the thigh, at the groin. "Expertly severed, probably a longbladed scalpel. She knew exactly where to make the incision. Exactly."

"I should've scrambled a medevac chopper the instant I got the call," Spence regretted. "If there'd been an EMT crew there, the guy might've lived."

"No way," Kohls countered. Now the unlit cigarette bobbed in his lips as he technically absolved Spence. "The femoral is deep and big-a major artery. Like I said, she knew exactly what she was doing. It's too high to tourniquet. Once it's severed, you're dead in five minutes. f.u.c.king Dr. Kildare couldn't have saved this guy. You could have had an operating room on the street with you and he would have bled to death before anyone could get in there with a clamp."

Spence felt a venal relief-venal in that it wasn't the victim's life that concerned him as much as what he could've told Spence if he'd survived.

"Latents?" he inquired.

"One. A good tipridge on the edge of the tape she used on that note she left you."

"One," Spence considered. Then he articulated, "That's f.u.c.ked up. It's always one or two prints. Why? She's obviously taking steps to conceal her latents, but there're always one or two. Not dozens, just one or two. And she knows we've ID'd her. She left her name on the G.o.dd.a.m.n note. It doesn't make sense."

"She's a crazy."

"Yeah, but still... What about hairfall?"

"Same," Kohls said. "Couple of p.u.b.es, couple headstrands. Fusiformal match with the others, and the hairs we got out of her hairbrush at her crib. The wig was synthetic."

Spence let a sideglance flit quickly to the bleached corpse on the slatted morgue table. Just once. He was sick of looking at corpses minus genitalia. "Dissimilarities in modus? I noticed the mouth..."

"Sewn shut and then cut back open-right," Kohls agreed. "Can't guess why. And she didn't glue this guy's eyes shut, or pop his ears like the others. For some reason she wanted him to hear her, and see her, and talk."

"But why sew his mouth shut and cut open the st.i.tches later?"

"My guess, as far as the probable sequence," Kohls offered, "she knocks them out with the Amytal first, then she sews their lips shut, then she brings them back to consciousness with the Desoxyn. She wants them conscious while she's working them over, that's why she's sewing their lips shut first, so they don't make a ruckus."

Spence's jaw locked as he considered the magnitude of pain, of being conscious as the genitals were cut off. "But wouldn't they pa.s.s out from the pain?"

"Sure. And she keeps bringing them back with the Desoxyn injections. It's hard to pa.s.s out when your heartrate's topping 300."

"What else she do to this guy?" Spence dared to ask. "Why were his knees and ankles bandaged?"

"Drilled, looks like about a long threeeighthsinch bit. Right through the joints."

Again, Spence tried to contemplate the sheer eminence of agony. Drilled, Drilled, he echoed Kohls. he echoed Kohls. Right through the joints Right through the joints...

"She also snipped off the ends of his nipples, the very ends, the greatest concentration of nerveendings. And we got what looks like repeated abdominal punctures-she was sticking a dissection needle or something similar directly into his navel. It wouldn't kill him, but it'd sure have the guy jumping... And when she cut off this guy's c.o.c.k, she did a real pro job at cessating the bleeding. Johnson & Johnson highpressure bandage, prothrombin coagulant paste. She doesn't want them dying on her before she's had her fun."

Was that what it was? Fun? Not fun, Not fun, Spence realized. Spence realized. A catalyst, to keep the delusion real. A catalyst, to keep the delusion real. He remembered what the killer had said to Kathleen Shade, on the tape. He remembered what the killer had said to Kathleen Shade, on the tape. It's her power, It's her power, he thought. Kohls opened one of several refrigerators and retrieved a c.o.ke. While the door was open, Spence noticed evidence bags on the shelves; one bag contained a human foot, another bag contained an ear. Still another contained-at least what seemed to be-someone's forehead, complete with eyebrows. "What the h.e.l.l's all that?" he asked. "That stuff's not from this case." he thought. Kohls opened one of several refrigerators and retrieved a c.o.ke. While the door was open, Spence noticed evidence bags on the shelves; one bag contained a human foot, another bag contained an ear. Still another contained-at least what seemed to be-someone's forehead, complete with eyebrows. "What the h.e.l.l's all that?" he asked. "That stuff's not from this case."

Kohls popped his c.o.ke. "No, just various s.h.i.+t. D.C.'s already exceeded last year's murder rate, and it's only August. Each year gets worse. Got druggers machinegunning each other every day. Last week this 34-yearold woman is driving her three kids to school, and she gets caught in a 9mm crossfire-Uzis, for G.o.d's sake, and MP5s. Her head burst right in front of her kids; most of the triggermen got away. Same day somebody took one rifle shot-a dumdummed 7.6 deuce-at a Metrobus. Hit a teenaged girl in the neck. She was gonna be in the Olympics or some s.h.i.+t, now she's quad. Couple of players on dust took down a KFC in Southeast, cleaned out the registers, bagged every wallet in the joint. Before they split one of 'em decided to push a customer's face down in the deep fryer. 7th District Tac picked him up a couple hours later; they asked him why he did that, and you know what he said? He said 'For the h.e.l.l of it.'"

For the h.e.l.l of it, Spence thought. Spence thought. For the h.e.l.l of it. For the h.e.l.l of it.

"GW student, theology major," Kohls ambled on, "comes back to her apartment one night about eight, and there's a guy waiting for her. He beats the s.h.i.+t out of her, sodomizes her 'til midnight, then s.h.i.+vs her with a carving knife, nicks her aorta. She's only got a couple minutes before she bleeds out, right? She crawls outside 'cos the rapist trashed the phone before he left, and her neighbor's coming home from work and he sees her crawling out of her apartment, and it just so happens the guy's a paramedic. He does an openheart cutdown on her right there in the f.u.c.king parking lot, with the neighbors holding flashlights so he can see-and she lives lives. That's great, right? That's beautiful. Two days later, the rapist reads about it in the paper; he goes to the hospital where she's recovering, walks right into her ICU, cuts her throat, and walks out. n.o.body sees him, no ID, no nothing. Beautiful world, ain't it?"

f.u.c.k the world, Spence thought. He wished the world would crack open and suck everybody down into its magma. Spence thought. He wished the world would crack open and suck everybody down into its magma. Why bother living? Why bother trying to do anything? Why bother living? Why bother trying to do anything? he conjectured. The world wasn't worth it. he conjectured. The world wasn't worth it. Just suck everybody down, good and evil alike. Let G.o.d start all over again. Just suck everybody down, good and evil alike. Let G.o.d start all over again.

"Be right back," Kohls said. "Got a photoma.s.s spec coming out the hopper on this guy." As the technician disappeared to another room, Spence, in order to avoid looking at the prostrate and quite dead Jonathan Duff, flipped through a copy of Was.h.i.+ngtonian magazine that lay on Kohls' desk. BEAUTIFUL, ANGELIC ASIAN LADIES, read one cla.s.sified. Friends.h.i.+p/marriage! Free brochure! Another one read DOMINANCE & SUBMISSION-The Black Mask is a caring support network featuring lectures/workshops focusing on safe, sane & sensual relations.h.i.+ps. "What the h.e.l.l..." Spence muttered. CROSSDRESSER SERVICE-Confidential, experience total feminine image transformation. "You've got to be s.h.i.+tting me," Spence muttered. Next page: HOLISTIC Ma.s.sAGE, GREAT Ma.s.sAGE, EUROPEAN MUSCLE Ma.s.sAGE, ICHIBAN Ma.s.sAGE, DYNAMITE PRO Ma.s.sAGE. There were dozens of ma.s.sage ads. In the worst recession since the late '70s, how good could the ma.s.sage business be?

"Same old, same old," Kohls said, appearing with a Canon medicalspecprinter readout. "Got DMSO, Amytal, and trace isopropanol in the bloodstream. And isopropanol all over his back. She's wiping their backs off with the iso."

"Why?" Spence asked.

"Prints, I guess-"

"Wait." Spence held up a hand. "The DMSO carries stuff into the bloodstream through the skin, right?"

"Yeah."

"And if the isopropanol is in his bloodstream, and it's also on his back, then that means he had the DMSO on his back first, right?"

Kohls considered this, rolling the unlit cigarette in his fingers. "Yeah, I guess so."