Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 5

"Because I'm gay, sir?" Spence asked.

"Well, uh, yes."

"I don't prefer to work by myself because I'm gay, sir," Spence explained. "I prefer to work by myself simply because I get more work done."

"Excellent. And, well, I want you to know that...well, here you're only judged by your performance record, not by, well, you know, any s.e.xual, uh, preference you may have."

Spence didn't like to be patronized. He'd merely left, and thanked the man for the promotion.

But the new a.s.signment pleased him only because it granted him a professional solitude. He got to work, essentially, alone.

Spence was gay. He was also celibate for the last decade due to a steepening antisociability. Eighteen years ago, when he'd joined as a cadet, gays weren't allowed on the force. Now they had support groups and monthly meetings. Spence had driven a sector beat and gone to night school throughout his twenties, and once he'd gotten his psychology degree, he'd found that the world had changed without him. He saw many tragic things which, over time, cauterized him. He looked at death as a clinician. By now he wasn't even the least bit interested in looking at himself.

One night several winters ago, a stool had set him up. Spence wound up killing three guys in an abandoned textile factory near Brentwood. They took shots at him, so Spence hunted them down and killed them. Simple. Then he did the paperwork, went home, and caught the last two minutes of a Redskins/Giants Monday Night game. The Skins lost, and Spence was p.i.s.sed.

A flashback, then, a whisper of memory. Too many years ago to remember, his last lover had broken up with him on a night in the middle of May. The man's name was Reginald, and Spence had loved him.

"You don't love anyone, Jeffrey. Your job eats you up. You're still half in the closet, pretending."

"No, I'm not," Spence said. "I don't give a s.h.i.+t what anyone thinks about me."

"You don't care about me. You don't even care about yourself."

"That's not true!" Spence bellowed. Then his voice cracked, like wood splintering. "Please don't leave me." It was the first plea he'd ever made in his life, to anyone.

"Be real, Jeffrey. There's nothing left."

"I'll do anything for you," Spence croaked.

"Whatever it is you're looking for," Reginald said, "I truly hope you find it. Good-bye, Jeffrey."

Spence punched holes in the wall when he got home. He bit his tongue 'til he bled, tears in his eyes like hot acid. G.o.dd.a.m.n it! You can't do this to me! G.o.dd.a.m.n it! You can't do this to me! he thought. he thought. I love you! I love you! I love you! I love you!

But the next day it was all gone. He knew he had no choice but to make it go away, like he always had.

Reginald was right.

(III).

The yellow sodium light looked like gas. The tow driver, in Fleet Management overalls, disconnected the Audi from the ramp hook.

Spence showed the driver his ID. "Has this vehicle been inventoried?"

"Nope. Dispatch rerouted me on my way to the impound lot."

"Good," Spence said. "Have you touched anything inside the vehicle?"

"Nope. Don't need to on a ramp tow." The driver was tall and lanky, with disheveled blond hair.

"Sliphammer the trunk."

The driver's mouth formed some silent objection. He scratched his head. "Let me slimjim the door. There's probably a trunk b.u.t.ton in the glove box."

"I don't want anybody going inside the vehicle. Sliphammer the trunk."

"You want me to do a couple hundred bucks' worth of damage for no reason? It's private property. You're telling me to bust up a $40,000 car. All he did was park in front of a hydrant. It'd be easier if I slimjimmed the door and used the trunk but-"

"Take my word for it, the owner won't file a complaint. I don't want anyone but CES people inside the vehicle, for reasons that are none of your business. Neither of us have time to stand here and argue. The Metropolitan Police Major Case Section is fully authorizing you to sliphammer the trunk. So do it."

The driver scratched his head again. He wasn't a cop, he was just a car jockey. He returned in a moment with a sliphammer and screwed it into the Audi's trunk lock. "Look," he said, "I'm not going to be held responsible for any dam-"

"Sliphammer the f.u.c.king trunk!" Spence yelled.

Two hard strokes on the metal sleeve tore the lock out of the trunk. The night swallowed up the sound, and at the same time a mobile unit from the Criminal Evidence Section pulled into the pieshaped lot. The grotesque sodium light made the brown car look green. As if covered with pollen, or mist.

Spence, for whatever reason, thought of his mother.

"Jeffrey, how come you don't go out with friends?"

I don't have any friends.

When the trunk lid raised, the towman turned away. Spence gazed down into a trunk full of body parts.

(IV).

At 3:15 a.m., Kathleen Shade, naked and drenched in sweat, lay deep in REM sleep.

She was dreaming.

This is a dream, she thought, as though it were of paramount importance that she acknowledge that fact. It made her feel safe. she thought, as though it were of paramount importance that she acknowledge that fact. It made her feel safe.

She was dreaming that she lay awake in her bed late at night. The moon gazed in at her like an eye behind the window. Darkness hung about her in strangely precise angles.

One of the angles was a figure.

Was it a ghost? Kathleen didn't think so; she didn't believe in them. I'm in bed dreaming, I'm in bed dreaming, she thought, she thought, and I'm dreaming that I'm awake in bed. and I'm dreaming that I'm awake in bed. She was naked on the mattress, having kicked the sheets fully off. Her nipples, inexplicably, stood erect. She was naked on the mattress, having kicked the sheets fully off. Her nipples, inexplicably, stood erect.

The figure, standing to her side, leaned over. It seemed to be holding something out, offering something.

What are those? In the moonlight, Kathleen's skin looked dead. The sweat all over her felt like warm slime. In the moonlight, Kathleen's skin looked dead. The sweat all over her felt like warm slime.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The figure didn't answer.

"What's that in your hand?"

"Pictures," the figure said.

It was a woman's voice, one Kathleen didn't recognize. It sounded clement, soft in care. Kathleen's eyes tried to focus upward...

Pieces of the darkness itself composed the figure's form. Its hands were black bones. Its face was an abyss.

The hand opened. A stack of pictures, Polaroids, fell into Kathleen's naked lap.

"Embrace your hatred," the figure said.

Kathleen didn't know what that meant. She squinted at the pictures, but it was too dark to make any of them out.

The cat clock ticked...

"Would you like to do my story?" the figure asked.

Chapter 5.

(I).

It was disappointment that had dogged her all day, and that made her wonder. The only mail today had been a credit card solicitation and a NeimanMarcus catalog. Nothing forwarded from the magazine. Nothing from the killer.

Her cramps were fading. The weatherman said today had almost broken records: 103 degrees. Kathleen had turned the a/c off and opened the windows and the slider, and had sat around all day in her panties. She was thinking about "the story," hoping the heat would incite her. She didn't even know if a story existed. What if the killer never contacted her again? And even if she did, how could Kathleen make a story out of it?

What do you look like? she wondered. she wondered. What's your name? What do you do? What's your name? What do you do? She closed her eyes, lax on the couch, and tried to visualize this redhaired human cryptogram who'd seen fit to mail her a severed p.e.n.i.s. The red hair was as far as she got. The rest stood upright in her mind as only black smears, like a charcoal sketch. Red hair atop a faceless head. A body of shadow. Hands like black bones. She closed her eyes, lax on the couch, and tried to visualize this redhaired human cryptogram who'd seen fit to mail her a severed p.e.n.i.s. The red hair was as far as she got. The rest stood upright in her mind as only black smears, like a charcoal sketch. Red hair atop a faceless head. A body of shadow. Hands like black bones.

The Dream. Of course. The figure in the dream symbolized the killer. You didn't have to be a psychiatrist to figure that one out. And the photographs? Kathleen vaguely remembered. Quite a bit had been booked as evidence at Uncle Sammy's trial. One exhibit had been a King Edward cigar box filled with snapshots of naked children. That's what the nightmare had been about: backwash of her past colliding with her horrific speculations regarding the killer. Of course. The figure in the dream symbolized the killer. You didn't have to be a psychiatrist to figure that one out. And the photographs? Kathleen vaguely remembered. Quite a bit had been booked as evidence at Uncle Sammy's trial. One exhibit had been a King Edward cigar box filled with snapshots of naked children. That's what the nightmare had been about: backwash of her past colliding with her horrific speculations regarding the killer. Embrace your hatred, Embrace your hatred, the figure had said. Kathleen hated Uncle Sammy. the figure had said. Kathleen hated Uncle Sammy.

She smoked one cigarette per hour; it was a long road. She'd gone from Salems to Merits to Nows, which were the lowest tar she could find. She'd tried cold turkey several times, and had been miserable. Weaning herself slowly made more sense. She discovered, oddly, that antic.i.p.ating the next hour's cigarette kept her on a sparkling creative edge. It gave her something to look forward to.

But that's my life, she thought. Not much ever happened now. All her hopes seemed to exist in the future. She'd lose weight in the future. She'd have a lover in the future. She'd become famous as a writer in the future. she thought. Not much ever happened now. All her hopes seemed to exist in the future. She'd lose weight in the future. She'd have a lover in the future. She'd become famous as a writer in the future.

I want something now.

The sunlight through the slidinggla.s.s door made her feel dark. The heat chilled her. She attempted to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e on the couch but gave up after a diligent 20minute effort. Images of male models left her unimpressed; they weren't real to her. Her fingers dawdled over her pubis for nothing. Often she'd picture herself in bed with past lovers, and would moisten. But then the desire shut down like a power failure when the memory elucidated her own body. It wasn't the men, because Kathleen was much older when Sammy was caught. There was one guy she'd dated in her freshman year at Maryland. He was the only one she'd ever told about Sammy. After a mixer at the Student Union, they had gone back to his dorm and begun to make love, but suddenly, well into the act, Kathleen had gone dry as pumice. She'd had to stop, gus.h.i.+ng apologies. "It's all right," the guy had said. "It's that G.o.dd.a.m.n uncle of yours, isn't it? I'd like to strangle the b.a.s.t.a.r.d." But that wasn't it at all. Thanks to a private counselor her father had sent her to, Kathleen was cured of Uncle Sammy's horrific memory within a year. "RapeConclusionSubst.i.tution," the technique was called, and it worked. She knew it wasn't Sammy who sabotaged her s.e.xual desire. She knew it was herself. The image she had, and the concept she had, of- Myself, she thought. she thought.

At 6 p.m., she turned on the radio shrink. "...and it makes me feel dirty," a caller was confessing. "It makes me feel absolutely perverted. It can't be normal for a woman to become excited while she's breastfeeding her baby. I'm so ashamed." "Don't be," the radio shrink replied. "s.e.xual excitation during breastfeeding is not only normal, it's a clinically acknowledged component of primal genetic motherhood. Cave women had a lot of perpetual worries-worries that make the stresses of our own lives seem quite paltry-such as starvation, predators, inclement weather. Today we worry about our next pay raise; our ancestors, however, had to worry about getting eaten by sabertoothed tigers. Its part of the cerebrochemical design of motherhood to feel s.e.xual pleasure while breastfeeding. It's an inducement, an additional reason to feed our babies when we might otherwise be worrying about more dire things, and it's not to be confused with any s.e.xual aberration. It's normal and it's healthy and it's nothing to be ashamed about. Many women, in fact, experience minor o.r.g.a.s.mic spasms while breastfeeding. Think of it as your body's way of reminding you of the importance of keeping your baby well fed..." This seemed interesting to Kathleen, yet grossly disconnected. She didn't like to hear about babies because it reminded her that she didn't have one, and probably never would. Who'd want to have a baby by me? Who'd want to have a baby by me? she asked herself. Her thighs spread on the couch, and her spreading b.u.t.tocks stretched her panties. When she leaned up, a roll of fat at her waistline looked like a seam in dough. she asked herself. Her thighs spread on the couch, and her spreading b.u.t.tocks stretched her panties. When she leaned up, a roll of fat at her waistline looked like a seam in dough. You're a Fattie, Kathleen. You've got to lose weight. You're a Fattie, Kathleen. You've got to lose weight. But there she went, slamming herself again, doing exactly what she advised her own readers not to do. How many times had readers written in, depressed because their boyfriends had left them for slimmer women? Kathleen always told them that they were better off without men like that, and that better men awaited them. But there she went, slamming herself again, doing exactly what she advised her own readers not to do. How many times had readers written in, depressed because their boyfriends had left them for slimmer women? Kathleen always told them that they were better off without men like that, and that better men awaited them. Hypocrite. Fattie. Hypocrite. Fattie. She looked at the clock. Ten after seven. She looked at the clock. Ten after seven.

The lecture! Holy s.h.i.+t!

"Isn't it wonderful?" the group president elated. She was an elderly, pale woman, quite misdressed in a s.h.i.+ny black evening gown. Kathleen sat with her in the back of the auditorium, at a table where tickets were sold. "We sold over 200 nonmember tickets tonight," the older woman said.

Kathleen had arrived late. Thank G.o.d there's a speaker before me. Thank G.o.d there's a speaker before me. A voice echoed hollowly, amplified through the PA system. Rows and rows of people in chairs faced a long draped stage. The first speaker, a longhaired blond man, looked tiny behind the distant podium. A voice echoed hollowly, amplified through the PA system. Rows and rows of people in chairs faced a long draped stage. The first speaker, a longhaired blond man, looked tiny behind the distant podium.

"He must be pretty wellknown," Kathleen remarked, noting the packed auditorium. There must be 300 people here tonight, There must be 300 people here tonight, she realized. she realized.

"Who? Platt?" the older woman said. "Oh, no. He's just a local poet. Usually we don't even sell 50 50 nonmember tickets. All these people, Ms. Shade, are here to see you." nonmember tickets. All these people, Ms. Shade, are here to see you."

Kathleen felt remotely flattered. She'd spoken at writers groups before but never to a crowd this large. Had all these people really come just to see her?

"He'll be done in a minute," the older woman said.

The voice echoed on. Kathleen fidgeted. I hope I don't smell, I hope I don't smell, she fretted. She'd skipped showering. She'd fixed her hair as best she could and had jumped in her car. She couldn't imagine how embarra.s.sed she'd have been if she hadn't made it. she fretted. She'd skipped showering. She'd fixed her hair as best she could and had jumped in her car. She couldn't imagine how embarra.s.sed she'd have been if she hadn't made it.

She looked on, over a plethora of heads. The poet, whose name was Maxwell Platt, had read several poems and then broke into a commentary about the function of aesthetics. "...and I can think of no better way that humanity defines itself than through its art. All art really is, after all, is the decryption of our feelings and our views into creative terms, and poetry, the ultimate art form, best discharges this function. Where would we be without it? Where would we be a million years from now when our ruins are discovered and all we have to show for our existence are sitcoms and Schwartzenegger movies? I thank G.o.d we have better than that. We have Sh.e.l.ley and Stevens and Pound. We have Owens and T.S. Eliot. We have Shakespeare. But more important than that, we have you. We have all of us, mindful people in chaotic times, the new poets of the new dark age..."

This sounded insightful, but the words kept s.h.i.+fting away. Kathleen scarcely knew what she would talk about when her turn came. These people had paid money to hear her talk. What am I going to give them back? What am I going to give them back? she thought. she thought.

Now Platt was saying, "...and I'd like to finish by reading you my latest. It's called 'Exit.'"

The crowd hushed. Kathleen was thinking about the dream. She was thinking about the killer, and the things Spence had said...

Platt began, "Cenote or ziggurat, so shall it be, to end this riven hatred which beckons me, like torture into the light of the past. The dreams of some are the nightmares of others, blessings a.s.signed or black lots cast, in the most wretched adieu. I glimpsed the light, the light went out. All my dreams come true."

Dreams, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought.

Applause rose. Platt smiled behind the long blond hair that hung in his face. He held up a finger and said into the microphone: "Thank you all very much. And let me add one more thing... We are all the progeny of creation. I bid you to create."

Kathleen's heart fluttered. It's my turn now, It's my turn now, she thought as the older woman said at the same time, "It's your turn now." she thought as the older woman said at the same time, "It's your turn now."

The poet came off the stage as the applause subsided. I must look fatter than Roseanne in this dress, I must look fatter than Roseanne in this dress, Kathleen feared. The lavender crepe swished behind her as she followed the older woman up. She sensed her heels on the waxed wood sounded like mallets pounding. Kathleen feared. The lavender crepe swished behind her as she followed the older woman up. She sensed her heels on the waxed wood sounded like mallets pounding.

The older woman tapped the microphone, a formality. "It's my great pleasure," she said, "to introduce our next guest, the renowned columnist from '90s Woman '90s Woman, Ms. Kathleen Shade."

Kathleen addressed the podium. The applause deafened her and seemed to go on and on-her propped up smile made her feel like a.r.s.enio Hall. Stop clapping! Stop clapping! she thought. she thought. Let me start, even though I haven't got the slightest idea what I'm going to talk about. Let me start, even though I haven't got the slightest idea what I'm going to talk about. She felt sorry for the poet; he'd received only half the applause. When they finally died down, Kathleen began, "I'm grateful for the opportunity to be here tonight-" At the edges of her vision, though, at the back of the auditorium, she noticed two men in suits standing by the door. Another similarly dressed man stood at the forward entrance, arms crossed as if bored. She felt sorry for the poet; he'd received only half the applause. When they finally died down, Kathleen began, "I'm grateful for the opportunity to be here tonight-" At the edges of her vision, though, at the back of the auditorium, she noticed two men in suits standing by the door. Another similarly dressed man stood at the forward entrance, arms crossed as if bored.

Kathleen began her talk, which occurred to her somewhat unconsciously. Words flowed from her lips without her really hearing them. The crowd stared up raptly. "Feminism has evolved in many unique ways over the past decade," she was saying, "and what I'd like to talk about tonight, among other things, are the ways in which we, as critical writers, can a.s.sert..."

And while she was talking, her eyes drifted across the crowd, and there, sitting in the middle of the front row, was Spence.

(II).