Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 7

"Not hungry." She'd ordered another Cardinal without really realizing it. Platt's suggestion was a polite reminder as to how much alcohol she'd consumed. I'm not drunk, am I? I'm not drunk, am I? she thought. She almost never drank to excess; getting drunk made her feel stupid. She often found a silly joy in watching others get drunk in bars. They knew they'd get drunk, they knew they'd make a.s.ses of themselves eventually, yet they continued to drink. "Have you ever thought," she said to Platt (and for the life of her she couldn't remember his first name), "about the actual social symptomatology of drinking? It's absurd. It's like bars are places where people go because it's acceptable to make jacka.s.ses of themselves." she thought. She almost never drank to excess; getting drunk made her feel stupid. She often found a silly joy in watching others get drunk in bars. They knew they'd get drunk, they knew they'd make a.s.ses of themselves eventually, yet they continued to drink. "Have you ever thought," she said to Platt (and for the life of her she couldn't remember his first name), "about the actual social symptomatology of drinking? It's absurd. It's like bars are places where people go because it's acceptable to make jacka.s.ses of themselves."

"I've, uh, I never thought of it that way," Platt said with a brow tightening.

"I mean, look at this. People would never act like this in other public places, would they?" Behind them, three young guys in baggy Dockers laughed uproariously. One of them chugged a full bottle of dark brown beer in less than 15 seconds. At another table, two girls giggled as their dates conversed loudly about their jobs. A girl at the end of the bar shouted to the barkeep, "Hey, Craig, can I have your kids?" It was an arena of silliness. An overdressed dolt with a face like Chris Isaak squeezed next to her and ordered a Stoplight shooter as his friends cheered him on. Chaos, Chaos, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought.

"I guess we better go," Platt said.

"Why?"

"You seem pretty bored."

"I'm sorry," she said. He must think she didn't like him. "I'm not bored, I'm thinking. I have this habit of thinking about lots of things at once."

Platt at last ordered a second beer. "What are you thinking about?"

"I... Well..." But what was was she thinking about? She scanned the long bar for redheads. She wondered where the killer had sat, what she'd worn, what type of drinks she'd had. What had Stephen W. Calabrice's last drink on earth been? she thinking about? She scanned the long bar for redheads. She wondered where the killer had sat, what she'd worn, what type of drinks she'd had. What had Stephen W. Calabrice's last drink on earth been? I hope it was a good one, I hope it was a good one, she thought. Eventually, she answered Platt, as more overdressed patrons squeezed past, "A project." she thought. Eventually, she answered Platt, as more overdressed patrons squeezed past, "A project."

"You mean a writing project?"

"Yeah." She caught Platt's brow ticking again when she ordered another Cardinal. "You're a writer. Have you ever considered writing a book?"

Finally she'd given him something to talk about. "Oh, sure," he said. "I'm always toying with the idea of writing a novel, but I know I never will. I prefer poetry. It seems to me-I mean for my own creative purposes-that even the best novel can never be more truthful creatively than a poem. You never know what your motives are with a novel."

"What do you mean?"

"Is the novel motivated by money, by status, or by aesthetics? You never know," he said.

"Why can't it be all three?"

"Well, it can, but that doesn't appeal to me. I know a lot of novelists, and most of them are just prost.i.tutes. Soon they're writing books based on the needs of the market instead of the needs of their muse."

Kathleen thought about that. These were more of Platt's convictions. She remembered what Spence had implied at the police station: that she was looking to sensationalize a tragedy. That wasn't it at all. Maybe she just wanted something to do.

"What about you?" Platt asked. "Are you considering writing a novel?"

"I'm not sure if it's a novel. It might be, or it might not be, or it might be something in between." The Cardinal was making her buzz a little. "All I know is that it will be a book."

"What's the book going to be about?"

"A killer," she said. She sipped the rich drink, closed her eyes. "It's about a female psychokiller."

Chapter 7.

(I).

When Kathleen woke, at about 6 a.m., she had to pressure her brain to give up the memory. Where am I? Where am I? she thought at first, and then the headache reminded her. She lay seeping with sweat; Platt's apartment, an efficiency off of P Street, was not air conditioned. Morning light poured in from the balcony-as if caught off guard, Kathleen quickly pulled the sheet up over her. Platt lay asleep beside her. she thought at first, and then the headache reminded her. She lay seeping with sweat; Platt's apartment, an efficiency off of P Street, was not air conditioned. Morning light poured in from the balcony-as if caught off guard, Kathleen quickly pulled the sheet up over her. Platt lay asleep beside her.

You bad girl, Kathleen. What would the radio shrink say about this? That she'd gotten drunk on purpose as a ploy to sleep with Platt? What would the radio shrink say about this? That she'd gotten drunk on purpose as a ploy to sleep with Platt? And we did more than sleep, And we did more than sleep, she reminded herself. she reminded herself.

Extended periods of inactivity in your s.e.x life, the radio shrink would say, the radio shrink would say, have imbued rigid feelings of selfdoubt. Not having s.e.x makes you feel unwanted. In becoming intoxicated, you have manufactured a situation which will increase the potential of a s.e.xual encounter. have imbued rigid feelings of selfdoubt. Not having s.e.x makes you feel unwanted. In becoming intoxicated, you have manufactured a situation which will increase the potential of a s.e.xual encounter.

Is that what I did? she wondered now. She only vaguely recalled Platt's insistence that she not drive home. "You're too drunk," he'd said. "I'll call you a cab, or I'll drive us in your car back to my place. I'll sleep on the couch." Platt had not taken advantage of her by any means. Kathleen supposed the opposite, that she took advantage of him. She took a cold shower, checked herself to see that her period had stopped. Her pubic hair looked a little straggly so she stood there ludicrously over the toilet tr.i.m.m.i.n.g at it with a little pair of scissors she found in the cabinet. It was all so calculated that she scarcely believed it of herself. she wondered now. She only vaguely recalled Platt's insistence that she not drive home. "You're too drunk," he'd said. "I'll call you a cab, or I'll drive us in your car back to my place. I'll sleep on the couch." Platt had not taken advantage of her by any means. Kathleen supposed the opposite, that she took advantage of him. She took a cold shower, checked herself to see that her period had stopped. Her pubic hair looked a little straggly so she stood there ludicrously over the toilet tr.i.m.m.i.n.g at it with a little pair of scissors she found in the cabinet. It was all so calculated that she scarcely believed it of herself.

He was lying on the couch, as promised, under a sheet, when she emerged wrapped in a towel. A small lamp glowed; he was reading a book of Anne s.e.xton poems called The Death Notebooks. The Death Notebooks. For a moment his long straight blond hair made him look girlish. For a moment his long straight blond hair made him look girlish. Maybe he's gay, Maybe he's gay, she considered. P Street and Dupont was certainly a gay area. But the poem he'd read was about a girl; she felt certain of that. He looked up at her then and said, "The bed's right over th-" she considered. P Street and Dupont was certainly a gay area. But the poem he'd read was about a girl; she felt certain of that. He looked up at her then and said, "The bed's right over th-"

"I'd rather sleep here," she said. She turned off the light, let the towel fall, and climbed on top of him, squeezing Anne s.e.xton between their chests as they kissed. At first Platt was stifled, not quite sure what to make of this. In the dark she felt completely unrestrained; she felt like someone else, someone she was watching in a dirty movie, or someone people gossiped about. She knelt beside the couch, pulled the sheet off, pulled off his briefs. His skin felt smooth and cool as she ran her hands up and down his right side. She let her hands be her eyes in the dark, and was content by what she saw. No, he's not gay, No, he's not gay, she concluded; his p.e.n.i.s-average length, thin, and uncirc.u.mcised-had already become erect before she even touched it. She squeezed it gently; Platt stifled a moan. she concluded; his p.e.n.i.s-average length, thin, and uncirc.u.mcised-had already become erect before she even touched it. She squeezed it gently; Platt stifled a moan. I have a man's p.e.n.i.s in my hand, I have a man's p.e.n.i.s in my hand, she realized, she realized, and I don't even remember his first name! and I don't even remember his first name! How embarra.s.sing. She leaned over and began to f.e.l.l.a.t.e him; he stifled another moan. She let her tongue glaze over the glans, wiping away small drops of salty, precursory fluid. His hand slid up and down her back as his legs stiffened. "Kathleen," he whispered. "You better stop. I'm getting ready." How embarra.s.sing. She leaned over and began to f.e.l.l.a.t.e him; he stifled another moan. She let her tongue glaze over the glans, wiping away small drops of salty, precursory fluid. His hand slid up and down her back as his legs stiffened. "Kathleen," he whispered. "You better stop. I'm getting ready." At least he's a gentleman, At least he's a gentleman, she thought. She didn't care; in fact, she was flattered, remembering the old joke about a man's three biggest lies: I love you, I was just about to call, and I promise not to come in your mouth. His t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, caged in her fingers, drew up. She noticed with some fascination that the right one drew up farther than the left, and that it was minutely larger. Her mouth sucked harder, increasing the wet friction, and there he went again, whispering in panic, "Kathleen, Kathleen..." "Umhmm," was all the reply she was able to make at the moment. She could sense with her lips a nervous throbbing building up. When he began to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e, she squeezed his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es; the right one by now had all but constricted into his groin. She'd only done this a few times before. she thought. She didn't care; in fact, she was flattered, remembering the old joke about a man's three biggest lies: I love you, I was just about to call, and I promise not to come in your mouth. His t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, caged in her fingers, drew up. She noticed with some fascination that the right one drew up farther than the left, and that it was minutely larger. Her mouth sucked harder, increasing the wet friction, and there he went again, whispering in panic, "Kathleen, Kathleen..." "Umhmm," was all the reply she was able to make at the moment. She could sense with her lips a nervous throbbing building up. When he began to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e, she squeezed his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es; the right one by now had all but constricted into his groin. She'd only done this a few times before. I hope I'm doing it right. Is it the same for men? I hope I'm doing it right. Is it the same for men? Even her own past could attest: of the times when men had gone down on her-not many times-there were an array of ways to do it wrong. You practically had to read off a list of guidelines. She flinched at the first few spurts which launched to the back of her throat. His fingers ranged in her showerwet hair. When she was done, she let the fair volume of s.e.m.e.n fall out of her mouth onto his stomach. Even her own past could attest: of the times when men had gone down on her-not many times-there were an array of ways to do it wrong. You practically had to read off a list of guidelines. She flinched at the first few spurts which launched to the back of her throat. His fingers ranged in her showerwet hair. When she was done, she let the fair volume of s.e.m.e.n fall out of her mouth onto his stomach.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she said. She felt around in the dark for a Kleenex but found none. Would it be rude to wipe him off with his sheet? Maybe I should have swallowed it, Maybe I should have swallowed it, she thought, but she really didn't want to do that. "There's no tissues here," he said, and suddenly there was a tearing sound. Kathleen laughed. "It that how poets smite each other?" she asked. "Actually," he said, "it's sort of an esoteric compliment. I wouldn't consider it an insult at all, creation merging with creation." He wiped himself off with a page he'd ripped out of the Anne s.e.xton book. she thought, but she really didn't want to do that. "There's no tissues here," he said, and suddenly there was a tearing sound. Kathleen laughed. "It that how poets smite each other?" she asked. "Actually," he said, "it's sort of an esoteric compliment. I wouldn't consider it an insult at all, creation merging with creation." He wiped himself off with a page he'd ripped out of the Anne s.e.xton book.

He brought her to her feet in the dark. She was glad for the dark-he couldn't see her fat. She felt deliciously hot in the unairconditioned apartment. "Come on," he said, leading her toward the bed. "The condoms are over here."

After another cool shower, she sneaked around the efficiency, draped in the sheet from the couch. Platt snored slightly, brazenly naked on the bed. Nearly as brazenly herself, she stepped onto the balcony in the dawn light and smoked a cigarette. Below stretched an ugly pay parking lot beside P Street. The man in the booth looked like Uncle Sammy until she blinked and saw that he was black. Another man walking briskly down the street with a briefcase looked like Uncle Sammy too. She blinked him away. Retrograde shock jags, Retrograde shock jags, the counselor had called them. Not hallucinations but tricks of memory. She hadn't had them in years. the counselor had called them. Not hallucinations but tricks of memory. She hadn't had them in years. Why now? What's Sam doing now? Why now? What's Sam doing now? she asked herself. she asked herself. Masturbating in his cell? Thinking of me? Masturbating in his cell? Thinking of me? she wondered. Then she thought about the killer, who, according to the allknowing Lieutenant Spence, had also been s.e.xually abused. Who had abused the killer? And how? At what age and how many times? she wondered. Then she thought about the killer, who, according to the allknowing Lieutenant Spence, had also been s.e.xually abused. Who had abused the killer? And how? At what age and how many times?

She would have to know all these things for the book. And if the killer never wrote to her again, there'd be be no book. Spence's threat loomed: "Do not tamper with evidence." She made a mental note: no book. Spence's threat loomed: "Do not tamper with evidence." She made a mental note: Call New York, ask about mail. Call New York, ask about mail.

Back inside, she perused Platt's work s.p.a.ce, which was much less organized than her own. A little Brother electric typewriter sat on a big desk with a fakewoodgrain top. A piece of paper hung out of the platen like a tongue. Creative people often had quirks. Weird superst.i.tions about new work. Territorialism. Was she violating some poetic law by looking? But Platt remained asleep, now curled into a naked ball. On the paper, he'd typed:

EXIT by Maxwell Platt

Maxwell! Kathleen celebrated. Now at least she knew his first name. But hadn't "Exit" been the t.i.tle of the poem he'd read at the writers lecture? This was different. Kathleen celebrated. Now at least she knew his first name. But hadn't "Exit" been the t.i.tle of the poem he'd read at the writers lecture? This was different.

Through twilit nights my love still soars.

I am forever and ineffably yours.

One the desk rested a manila folder. Dare I? Dare I? she thought. She had no right to look at his work without his permission. She looked at it anyway; poets intrigued her, especially poets who gave her o.r.g.a.s.ms. The first poem in the folder read, again: she thought. She had no right to look at his work without his permission. She looked at it anyway; poets intrigued her, especially poets who gave her o.r.g.a.s.ms. The first poem in the folder read, again:

EXIT by Maxwell Platt

Did he t.i.tle all his poems "Exit?" An exit fixation, An exit fixation, she thought. she thought. Like my killer fixation. Like my killer fixation. The poem, dated December 12, 1990, read: The poem, dated December 12, 1990, read:

Ah, love-it leaves us bleakly blessed, either that or sweetly cursed.

I watch you take your heart from me, you watch my heart burst.

But upon this night, exactly one year ago, I remember: you and I were kissing in the snow.

Kathleen closed the folder. She felt ashamed, even though Platt would never know. My G.o.d, My G.o.d, she thought when she looked down. Leaning against the corner of his work area stood a stack of publications, four feet high: magazines, newspapers, tradesized digests, smallpress and literary journals-all the places Platt had been published. It was literally a pillar of poetry. She picked up the top magazine, she thought when she looked down. Leaning against the corner of his work area stood a stack of publications, four feet high: magazines, newspapers, tradesized digests, smallpress and literary journals-all the places Platt had been published. It was literally a pillar of poetry. She picked up the top magazine, The Annapolis Critique, The Annapolis Critique, and thumbed the contents. and thumbed the contents.

EXIT by Maxwell Platt... page 8

Yet another poem called "Exit." This began to fascinate her. She turned to page 8 and read:

I always got less than the least from you.

Now I hope that the rats come and feast on you.

Platt the altruist finally shows some bitterness. Yes, it was obvious to her: these poems were about women from Platt's past; he was a lovepoet. This seemed totally real to her, totally honest, not corny. Too much of today's poetry dismissed love as a trifle. They deemed it more "important" to write about politics or nuclear weapons. Yes, it was obvious to her: these poems were about women from Platt's past; he was a lovepoet. This seemed totally real to her, totally honest, not corny. Too much of today's poetry dismissed love as a trifle. They deemed it more "important" to write about politics or nuclear weapons. But such a bitter poem, But such a bitter poem, she thought. Bitterness didn't seem to suit Platt. As for herself, when men had stopped seeing her, or stopped calling, Kathleen never felt bitter. She felt fat and disillusioned but never bitter. Or maybe she'd never loved anyone enough to feel bitter over a relations.h.i.+p's demise. she thought. Bitterness didn't seem to suit Platt. As for herself, when men had stopped seeing her, or stopped calling, Kathleen never felt bitter. She felt fat and disillusioned but never bitter. Or maybe she'd never loved anyone enough to feel bitter over a relations.h.i.+p's demise.

But this is just s.e.xual, she pointed out to herself. Platt, though not a physical specimen, looked trim and enticing. she pointed out to herself. Platt, though not a physical specimen, looked trim and enticing. There's no way he could ever love a Fattie like me. There's no way he could ever love a Fattie like me. This impression of herself did not depress her at all; it made her feel proudly objective, not weighing, of course, the hypocrisy. When readers wrote in, fearing rejection due to being overweight, Kathleen rea.s.sured them that looks meant nothing in a real relations.h.i.+p. This impression of herself did not depress her at all; it made her feel proudly objective, not weighing, of course, the hypocrisy. When readers wrote in, fearing rejection due to being overweight, Kathleen rea.s.sured them that looks meant nothing in a real relations.h.i.+p. Dump them, Dump them, she'd advise. she'd advise.

Still draped in the sheet, like a disheveled statute of liberty, she padded to the bed to look down at Platt. Every few minutes he s.h.i.+fted positions in sleep. Now he lay arms out and spreadlegged on the mattress, his face covered by blond hair. Her headache was dissolving. Should I just leave? Should I just leave? she wondered. She really did want to call her editor and ask if any letters had come in for her. On the floor lay three condoms tied in knots, their reservoir ends laden with proof that Platt could rise to an occasion. Her memory unreeled like clippings of film: he'd made love to her voraciously, constantly concerned for her pleasure. It got to aggravate her to a point. He'd ask her "which way feels the best for you?" or "does it feel better this way or that way?" She felt like saying, she wondered. She really did want to call her editor and ask if any letters had come in for her. On the floor lay three condoms tied in knots, their reservoir ends laden with proof that Platt could rise to an occasion. Her memory unreeled like clippings of film: he'd made love to her voraciously, constantly concerned for her pleasure. It got to aggravate her to a point. He'd ask her "which way feels the best for you?" or "does it feel better this way or that way?" She felt like saying, Look, Platt, I haven't been laid in a year. Any way feels good, so be quiet and just do it. Look, Platt, I haven't been laid in a year. Any way feels good, so be quiet and just do it. She'd had several bouts of o.r.g.a.s.ms, but the best came when he finished her off. He'd slid her b.u.t.tocks to the edge of the bed and knelt on the floor, laving her c.l.i.toris with his tongue while two fingers stroked in and out of her v.a.g.i.n.a. She'd shrieked as her climax spasmed, then purred grinning in the dark as the lovely pulses drew on. She'd had several bouts of o.r.g.a.s.ms, but the best came when he finished her off. He'd slid her b.u.t.tocks to the edge of the bed and knelt on the floor, laving her c.l.i.toris with his tongue while two fingers stroked in and out of her v.a.g.i.n.a. She'd shrieked as her climax spasmed, then purred grinning in the dark as the lovely pulses drew on.

Platt kept his condoms-a brand called Sheik-in an odd little cup with a hinged lid atop the nightstand. She took one and very carefully crouched at his hips. The deflated p.e.n.i.s lay across his pubic patch like something exhausted. She touched its underside very gently-she didn't want to wake him-then leaned forward and began to lick it. She could smell her own musk laced with the scent of the condom lubricant and sperm.

It came erect fast as a spring popping. She rolled the condom over it, then shook him.

"Maxwell?" she said. Or did he prefer to be called Max? How do I know? How do I know? "Maxwell? Wake up." "Maxwell? Wake up."

She leaned up and kissed him on the mouth as his eyes slowly opened. Her fingers gently kneaded the sheathed p.e.n.i.s. "Maxwell? I have to go soon."

"Hmm?" he said.

"I have to go home soon. But can we do it one more time first?"

He leaned up and groggily glanced down at his groin. "It looks like the decision has already been made," he remarked.

(II).

Earlier that morning at the CES morgue, Kohls told Spence, "What we've got here, Lieutenant, is a little of the old Human Jigsaw."

Spence was familiar with the jargon; he'd seen stuff like this before. This was what crack dealers did to stools, or other dealers moving on the wrong turf. Bodies taken apart with chainsaws or axes. Parts often stacked up like cordwood.

Kohls, the MCS evidence tech, had lain the body parts found in the Audi's trunk onto three stainless steel dissection tables. The tables came complete with runoff gutters and filter traps. "Three bodies," he said. "We'll call them One, Two, and Three. One"-he pointed-"has been dead about a week according to the pota.s.s levels in the humor. Two and Three several weeks, maybe a month. T.O.D. is always tough to pinpoint this time of year, the heat and all. Depends on where the parts were kept."

"Where are the heads?" Spence asked.

"In the fridge. You want to see them?"

"Uh, no. All I want from you now is the quickest read you can give me. I want any significant similarities and differences."

"You mean between these three and Calabrice?"

"That's right."

Kohls always seemed full of some weird downplayed vigor, which was not what Spence would expect from a man who made his living histologizing human brains, weighing organs, and forensically a.n.a.lyzing carnage. He drank a can of c.o.ke. "Similarities? Lips sewn shut with hospitalspec suture, eyes Crazy Glued, eardrums p.r.i.c.ked."