Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 33

"But he's also got Amytal in his bloodstream, right?"

"A truckload. What are you getting at?"

"What's the physical nature of DMSO?"

"Stock pharm? It's a colorless, oily liquid."

"A colorless, oily liquid," Spence repeated. He was thinking of the ma.s.sage ads. "Would DMSO carry barbiturates, like Amytal, into the bloodstream too, through the skin?

"Sure," Kohls affirmed.

Back rubs, Spence thought. The oldest comeon in the book. All of the victims had been young, physically formidable men. The average man in most cases could easily overpower a strong woman, yet these guys were all being tortured to death. How was the killer getting them shackled down against their will? How was she getting them to do that before they got wise and could take physical steps to fend them off? Spence thought again of the ads. Spence thought. The oldest comeon in the book. All of the victims had been young, physically formidable men. The average man in most cases could easily overpower a strong woman, yet these guys were all being tortured to death. How was the killer getting them shackled down against their will? How was she getting them to do that before they got wise and could take physical steps to fend them off? Spence thought again of the ads. Back rubs, Back rubs, he thought, and then he thought about what Kohls had just told him. he thought, and then he thought about what Kohls had just told him.

And then he said, "I think I know how she's knocking them out."

Chapter 28.

(I).

CHAPTER FOUR.

MANBURGER.

The dimethylsulfoxide comes in a caramelcolored 120cc gla.s.s bottle. The Amytal is made by a company called Abbot, and the iv version comes in 100mg vials. You mix four vials with about 2 ounces of the DMSO, and shake it up in a plastic bottle that reads NORD, SWEDISH Ma.s.sAGE OIL."What's that?" he asks."Ma.s.sage oil," you say. You show him the bottle. "Turn over so I can give you a back rub."You're rubbing his back now. He didn't see you slip on the surgical gloves. You have to wear the gloves or else the DMSO will carry the Amytal into your own system. "Is that good?" you ask several times, and he always murmurs back "Yeah," as your hands rub the liquid into his back. He goes unconscious in a matter of minutes, and you sew his lips shut with the pretty violet suture. Then you bring him back with an i.m. shot of Desoxyn. You don't glue this one's eyes shut, and you don't rupture his eardrums with the Skeele curette. You need this one to see, and to hear. It's comical how he's moaning and trying to talk with his mouth sewn shut, especially when you show him the Bruns serrated plaster shears. The whites of his eyes instantly hemorrhage to the color of tomato juice when you cut off his- Kathleen stopped reading. She felt broached, sour. The small, neatly typed words seemed to project something between their lines that threatened to deplete her before she even read them. Was it foreknowledge? Or simply tone? The ma.n.u.script had arrived-again, via Express Mail-just minutes ago. Just minutes, she thought, and already the despair was dragging her down. It appeared larger than the previous ma.n.u.scripts, more pages that promised to be full up with atrocity...

It's the sound they make that particularly excites you, the closedoff scream, the explosion with nowhere to go. And the way their faces lengthen against their st.i.tchedshut lips. When the lovely Bruns shears close, this one's entire body arches up like he's being levitated by a magician, and the only thing that keeps him from sailing away are the stainlesssteel Peerless detention cuffs clasped to his ankles and wrists. But you need this one to live. There's still something you want to do. So you quickly apply the coagulant salve to the gus.h.i.+ng wound, then strap the white pressure bandage into place. He goes into shock for a few moments but the Desoxyn brings him back. It always does. Usually you don't care if they die at this point. But this one must live. You still have plans for this one. That was beautiful, your mother says. "It was, wasn't it?" you say. When he's fully conscious again, you hold it up for him to see, and you watch his eyes while it dangles from your fingers in the light. Suddenly those tomato juice eyes are so wide you think they could jump right out of his face like a cartoon. He knows what you've done now. He realizes what you've taken away. You smile in the light. "See?" you say, jiggling it at him. "See? It's not yours anymore. It's mine. But if you're a good boy, I might give it back to you. Are you a good boy? Is Johnny a good boy today?" Make him do it, your mother says. She's standing by the window. Behind her you can see The Cross. He won't want to, so you're going to have to make him. "I know," you say. "I know Johnny will do it because he's a good boy. And good boys always do what they're told." He's groaning now. The initial pain has settled down enough for him to think. You're always very interested in what they think once they realize what you've done to them. You're ready now. You're all ready for the rest. "By the way," you say. "Did you like the back rub? I told you I give good back rubs." Then you walk across the room to the dresser where you've set it up. The wood floor feels warm beneath your bare feet. Your whole body feels warm. Your skin is tight and s.h.i.+ning. Your b.r.e.a.s.t.s feel hot with blood. He continues to groan behind you, the m.u.f.fled noise like a machine buried deep in his throat. You have a machine too. You hope he likes it. "Yes, I've decided that you're such a good boy that I'm going to give it back to you. Okay?" Wait a minute, honey, your mother says. I- "I know," you say. "It's okay. Daddy made you that way, you can't help it." Just a minute, it'll only take a minute. You don't need to watch her. You've watched her enough times. Most of the veins in her arms have collapsed. Once Daddy had tied her up for a friend, and he'd tied twine around and under one of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s 'til a vein had swollen near her nipple and he'd injected the heroin into that and then released the twine. Okay, I'm ready now. First you get the gun out of the dresser, Daddy's big revolver, and you make sure it's loaded. You've read a lot about the famous serial killers like Dahmer and Ed Gein and Henry Lee Lucas and Albert Fish, and you've read about their cannibalism. But this never appealed to you. In fact it disgusts you. You would never want anything from a man to be inside of you. But you have your own idea now, a much better one. You turn on one of the cone lamps so he can see what you're doing. It's very important that he sees what you're doing. He must see everything, exactly. You take out the little plate. You put your hand on the crank. "See?" you say. "Do you see what this is?" He's craning his neck. He's looking. He sees. The machine on the dresser is an old RotoKing meat grinder. Then, "See?" you say, and you hold up the severed c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s. "Do you see what this is?" He groans again way down deep in his throat. "Watch," you say. "Watch what I'm doing now." You push it all into the round steel hole looking over your shoulder and you turn the crank. You grind it all up, and after only a few cranks it falls out of the little chute onto the plate. The plop of meat looks pale like the ground chicken and turkey you've seen at the Giant. You bring the plate to the bed. "I hope Johnny's hungry," you say. With a pair of Heath doublecurved suture scissors you snip open the st.i.tches in his lips. His mouth falls open to let out the low, gurgling groan. You c.o.c.k Daddy's big rusty revolver and put the barrel to his head. In your other hand is a spoon. You take up a spoonful of the ground meat and bring it to his mouth. His mouth snaps shut. "Open!" you say. "Open your mouth!" His eyes squeeze shut and you can see that he's actually biting his lips closed and he's shaking his head no no no no and you nudge his temple with the gun, saying "Open your mouth and eat it! If you don't eat it I'll blow your head off!" but he keeps shaking his head, his entire face squeezed shut. "I'll blow your brains out! Open your mouth!" No no no no, he keeps shaking his head. Make him! your mother yells. Make him eat it! But you can see that he isn't going to. You've got a gun to his head and he doesn't care. For a moment this intrigues you. He doesn't care anymore. He wants to die. He's not going to eat it and he wants to die. He wants you to kill him. Make him! your mother keeps yelling. You put the gun down and plug in the Black & Decker. "Okay, if Johnny's going to be a bad boy, he'll have to be punished." The drill screams but then he's screaming even louder when the carbonsteel bit grinds smoothly through his left ankle and then his right. "More?" you ask. "Does Johnny want more?" You give him more. His scream doesn't even sound human this time, when you drill through his knees. Weird smelling smoke drifts up, his blood and cartilage cooking in the holes you've made in his joints. "Has Johnny had enough? Is Johnny going to be a good boy now?" He's fading out, tremoring. "Don't you die yet!" you yell and throw ice water in his face. You give him another shot of Desoxyn and start slapping him hard in the face over and over again 'til your hand begins to hurt and you grab him by the hair and shake his head around 'til he revives. You press your palm against his forehead. You hold the spoonful of meat before his lips. "Are you going to eat it now?" you ask. "Are you going to be a good boy now or do I have to give you more?" He's barely sensible now but he looks at you with those s.h.i.+ny red eyes and he croaks, "f.u.c.k you." "Okay, okay," you say. "If Johnny wants more, then Johnny gets more." In the castered stand you keep all of your things. You rummage around until you find the Gracey periodontal curette, a long pinsharp needle set in an aluminum handle, and you stick it right into his navel. Once, twice, three times. Each needlestick makes him make a sound like a big dog barking. A few more times, stick, stick, stick, right into the navel, and his chest is heaving and he's still making that barking noise and his breath is grating and mucus is pouring out of his nose, stick stick, stick, a few more times, and then he's finally nodding like his head is on a paintshaking machine, nodding yes yes yes yes, and you stop. You poise the first spoonful over his lips and say, "Open," and his mouth opens. "There," you say, "keep it open," and he does, his eyes squeezed shut as spoonful after spoonful you put the pale ground meat into his mouth. "Close," you say next. His mouth closes. "Swallow," you say. His face freezes, his mouth frozen full of the strange meat, but his throat doesn't move. Make him do it! your mother yells. "Swallow it! Be a good boy and swallow it!" His throat doesn't move. "Okay, okay," you say. You plant your palm against his chin, push back hard so he can't spit the meat out, and you straddle him, and you keep pus.h.i.+ng back on his chin, jamming his jaw shut, and then he lurches twice when you snip off the tips of his nipples with the Heath scissors. "Swallow it!" you yell, pus.h.i.+ng, pus.h.i.+ng back and eventually you see the single throb of his throat as he swallows the meat. You climb off him, smiling. "That's a good, good boy," you say, patting his stomach. You turn to your mother and say, "See, I told you Johnny was a good boy. He ate his manburger all up."

Kathleen put the ma.n.u.script down, stood up shakily, and trudged to the bathroom. She hadn't eaten anything today (and it was unlikely that she'd eat for some time) but she slid down to her knees before the toilet and threw up regardless, just a few strings of liquid. Her face felt pasty, not from the vomiting but from what she'd just read: the imagery, the words, and the contemplations that lay beyond all that. Had the killer really done these things? Could anyone? According to Spence, the killer's deeds had thus far been authenticated by medical examination of the bodies. What am I getting myself into? What am I getting myself into? she finally asked herself. she finally asked herself. I'm collaborating on a book with a psychokiller. I'm collaborating on a book with a psychokiller. This was the first time that the impact of that fact hit her. This was the first time that the impact of that fact hit her. A murderer. A crazy person... A murderer. A crazy person...

When she meandered back to her desk, she noticed that still more remained of the ma.n.u.script; the killer had sent two chapters this time, the second ent.i.tled CHAPTER FIVE, MORE CHILDHOOD MEMORIES. Impossible, Impossible, Kathleen thought. There was no way she could read anymore now. She was simply not up to it. Kathleen thought. There was no way she could read anymore now. She was simply not up to it.

Maxwell, she thought. Did the thought arrive merely as a diversion? She hated that about herself: never knowing the true reason that things occurred to her. Perhaps the thought arrived because she loved him. I wish I knew, I wish I knew, she thought. she thought.

She photocopied the entire ma.n.u.script on the copier she rented from s.h.i.+elds. Then she slipped off the absurd "evidence" gloves, and called Spence. "Lieutenant Spence," she was told by a man with a voice like gravel falling out of a dump truck, "is having a meeting with Dr. Simmons." I'm supposed to know who Dr. Simmons is? I'm supposed to know who Dr. Simmons is? she thought. "Tell him the militant feminist columnist Kathleen Shade called, will you?" she said and hung up. she thought. "Tell him the militant feminist columnist Kathleen Shade called, will you?" she said and hung up. Good, Good, she thought. she thought. Now I have an excuse to go to Maxwell's. Now I have an excuse to go to Maxwell's. But why would she need an excuse? Why couldn't she call up Maxwell right now and say I'm coming over. I want to see you? But why would she need an excuse? Why couldn't she call up Maxwell right now and say I'm coming over. I want to see you?

I'm insecure, I'm emotionally unstable, she rendered to herself. she rendered to herself. I'll make up an excuse like, Maxwell, I just got another ma.n.u.script and Spence wasn't in, so I thought I'd drop by. I'll make up an excuse like, Maxwell, I just got another ma.n.u.script and Spence wasn't in, so I thought I'd drop by. It was easier. It was easier to make excuses than to reveal her true self. At least for now. She hoped the day came when she'd feel uncomfortable making excuses. It was easier. It was easier to make excuses than to reveal her true self. At least for now. She hoped the day came when she'd feel uncomfortable making excuses.

The traffic didn't fray her nerves like it usually did when she drove to Maxwell's. A Pakistani grinned when she pulled into the pay lot and doled out seven dollars. When she crossed P Street and stepped into Maxwell's lobby she stopped cold. A man with a ponytail and a woman with hair cut short as a Marine's jabbered before the elevator. A dim corridor behind the empty guard's desk was barred by a proverbial yellow ribbon which read POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS. "What happened?" she asked. The man with the ponytail answered, "The security guard got shot to death about an hour ago. They found his body in the alley out back." "That's terrible!" Kathleen exclaimed. Death so close, Death so close, she thought. Was it the same guard she'd seen last night reading the magazine? Had Maxwell heard the gunfire? she thought. Was it the same guard she'd seen last night reading the magazine? Had Maxwell heard the gunfire? My G.o.d, My G.o.d, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought. Death is so close all the time and n.o.body ever realizes it. Death is so close all the time and n.o.body ever realizes it.

She took the stairs up, leaving the couple to wait for the elevator. More images questioned her. Diversions? Diversions? she wondered. Suddenly her head felt stuffed with visual sensations-of s.e.x. She wanted to feel Maxwell's mouth between her legs. She wanted to feel his p.e.n.i.s in her. She wanted to come. But were these her true feelings, or just more pleas to distract her from the killer's newest account of atrocity? Somehow, it didn't seem to matter. To h.e.l.l with reasons. Her lewdness, or her love, wrapped about her. She wanted to be in bed with him. she wondered. Suddenly her head felt stuffed with visual sensations-of s.e.x. She wanted to feel Maxwell's mouth between her legs. She wanted to feel his p.e.n.i.s in her. She wanted to come. But were these her true feelings, or just more pleas to distract her from the killer's newest account of atrocity? Somehow, it didn't seem to matter. To h.e.l.l with reasons. Her lewdness, or her love, wrapped about her. She wanted to be in bed with him. Now Now, she thought. Right now. Right now.

She knocked on Maxwell's door. She decided she would kiss him before saying a word. That's right, That's right, she thought. she thought. I'll put my tongue in his mouth and reach around and squeeze his a.s.s before I say anything. I'll put my tongue in his mouth and reach around and squeeze his a.s.s before I say anything.

But when the door opened, she could've screamed. It was not Maxwell who'd answered her knocks.

It was Spence.

Chapter 29.

(I).

"Hi," she says. "I'm a friend of Kathleen's. I have a message she wants me to give you."

The blond man looks back.

He's slim, almost svelte.

He's reasonably attractive, but she thinks, What does she see in him? What does she see in him?

"Oh, I'm sorry. Come on in."

She accepts the invitation. "So how do you know Kathleen?" he asks once he lets you inside.

"We both work for the magazine."

"You said she has a message for me?"

"Yes," she says. "This."

"What the-"

From her purse, she's pulled the big revolver.

She's pointing it right in his face.

"This," she repeated.

"Wait a minute. I-"

"Don't say another word," she instructs. "Lie down on your stomach and don't make a sound," and at the same time she grabs him by the hair, keeping the gun to his head, and throws him to the floor, and she's straddling him, her knees pressed into the backs of his shoulders.

He's pinned, his face in the floor.

"Not a sound," she says.

He doesn't struggle.

She presses the barrel against the back of his skull with her right hand and with her left hand she removes the implement from her purse, a springoperated device called a Busch Automatic Injector, also known as a "chickenstick," mainly for diabetics who don't like to give themselves their insulin injections with a conventional hypodermic. She presses the injector into the side of his neck and it goes snap! and in a fraction of a second automatically expels 200mgs. of sodium amobarbital into his bloodstream.

"You're...," he mumbles.

She flips him over. "What?"

"You're the woman...who's been writing to Kathleen."

"Yes."

"You're...the killer."

"I'm The Purifier," she corrects. "Kathleen is a great woman, but she needs to be purified. She needs to be purged."

He's out.

She leaves a brief message, slings her purse, then puts him over her shoulder. He's not that heavy. She should have no trouble getting him downstairs.

She's going down the stairs.

"Help me!" she pleads in the lobby.

The security guard at the desk looks up from a magazine called Cemetery Dance Cemetery Dance.

"What-"

"My friend's in epileptic shock, I need to get him to the hospital!"

The guard picks up the phone. "I'll call an amb-"

"There's no time! My car's right out back. Help me!"

The guard takes the blond man off her shoulder.

She frantically leads him down the hall behind the desk to the fire exit and bangs through the door.

"Quickly!" she says and opens her car door.

The guard puts the blond man in the front seat.

"Thank you!" she exclaims.

"I hope he'll be all right."

"Don't worry."

"Holy sh-" the guard says when he turns to find the gun pointing at the bridge of his nose.

The big revolver jumps and emits a huge sound.

The guard's head ruptures.

She gets into the little blue Festiva and drives down the vacant alley.

Away.

(II).

"What the h.e.l.l are you-"

Spence showed her in. "Maxwell Platt has been abducted-"

"No!" Kathleen shrieked.

"-by the killer. About an hour ago. She took him out the back of the building. She killed the security guard with a largecaliber weapon."

"It's not possible," Kathleen stammered. "It's got to be a mistake."

"There's no doubt," Spence said. He pointed to the wall.

Very slowly, Kathleen's gaze crawled up the white sheetrock. Behind Maxwell's desk, and the pillar of magazines in which he'd been published, were the following words, written in lipstick:

YOU MUST BE PURGED OF YOUR CORRUPTION.

YOU ARE TOO GREAT A WOMAN.

EVENTUALLY YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.