by J. A. Kerley
“It was in a threatening letter, Jeremy. Donnie puked on it.”
My brother waved an invisible fan at his face, Scarlett O’Hara preparing to faint, right down to the voice. “Voh-mit on a let-tuh? Oh, mah goodness, Mistah Cahson, how very thee-atrical.” He switched to his regular voice. “I’m becoming diabetic from the sweetness of it all. The cuteness. Making sport of Captain Chubbywumper’s issues? That’s a pun. How many hate-addled poisoners have you heard pun, Carson?” He did the hands-mask thing. “And did you happen to notice what this is besides a goofy gesture? It’s the goddamn twin sign, Gemini. Just upside-down.”
“You’re reaching, Jeremy.”
“I never reach. Answers drop into my hands. Donnie’s not sane, Carson, not even close. He is, however, fiercely unhappy. Just not with El Gordo, at least not in the beginning. Donnie’s punishing those he feels have wronged him – likely a big list, at least in his mind – and his revenge is becoming deeply personal. I expect he’s approaching the point where he won’t need to drag victims off one at a time. He’ll set fire to a gay nightclub on Tank-top Tuesday, hide nearby and masturbate to the screaming.” He paused. “Do you think when gay men burn they give off rainbow smoke?”
“You said Donnie wasn’t angry with Gary, not at the beginning. What did you mean?”
Jeremy folded his hands behind his head and stared at the palm fronds above. “The two started as one, Carson, bruvers in armsies. But Donnie got tired of sharing. Or the boys had a falling out. So Donnie stopped making the sign. It was how he told Gravy they were no longer a team.”
“Sign? Team? What are you talking about?”
Jeremy leaned forward, riffled though the case materials, and held up the Gemini symbol. “This goofy, childish sign was for Little Lard Fauntleroy, not at him. Did you happen to notice the twinnies were kissing?” He performed the vapors thing again, waving at himself. “Oh, Mistah Cahson, if this whole af-fair got any moah sugary, I do b’lieve I would fay-ant dead away from the sweetness.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “You can’t be saying Gary and Donnie were in contact the whole time?”
“Not the whole time. Only until …” He shuffled through the photos, coming up with the shot of Harold Brighton. “Dancing boy. Here’s where Donnie stopped making the sign. They had a falling out and Donnie dissolved the marriage.”
“Donnie made the sign. Brighton was marked.”
“Because that was the first thing Donnie-boy did – mark them. I’ll bet he did it within five minutes of pulling them into his lair, even before he grabbed his first backdoor bonanza. It made the victims theirs: property of the twins. But some time during Brighton’s captivity, Donnie took another road.”
“Why?”
“He reached his bottom floor and found out what he truly needed. Fat twin became extraneous, an impediment.”
I stared at my brother. His theory was too wild, too improbable. I knew Gary Ocampo, Jeremy didn’t, thus he was postulating events that could never have happened. I wondered if he was just trying to humor me.
“Maybe you should take another look,” I said. “Fresh and in the morn—”
But he was up and heading for the door, looking at his watch. “I have to visit the docks for a few minutes, Carson. I’m auditioning various sea captains and inspecting their vessels. I won’t be gone long, so wipe that pissy look off your face.”
“Interviewing local skippers? Why? For what?”
“Speed. Seaworthiness of craft. Range. Amenities.”
I stared at him. “Don’t forget discretion.”
“Whatever for?”
“You’re planning for what happens if you get spotted, right? I imagine a fast and long-range craft might be nice. With a discreet and highly paid skipper taking you to … where? Mexico? Honduras?”
“Get spotted? You mean like a leopard?”
“I keep trying to tell you … your face is on the wall in cop houses across the country. If you insist on going outside, it’s not if you get seen, but when.”
My brother buttoned his jacket, flicking something unseen from a lapel. “You have such a creative imagination, Carson. Perhaps you should take up painting as well.” He tucked a knuckle under his chin and regarded me. “You’d be a Pointillist, I expect, using tiny dots to build your pictures.”
“You didn’t answer the question. What do you want from a boat?”
“To go fishing, of course.”
I waved him away. Hopeless.
44
Just like a coin once did in Gary Ocampo’s palm, Jeremy disappeared. I twirled my drink in circles, positive Gary knew nothing about his brother’s crimes. Jeremy was distracted, off his game. My trip was a waste of time, but at least I could honorably tell Roy I’d consulted with my expert and that he’d unfortunately been stymied.
Needing more than lemonade, I went inside and mixed a modest Scotch and soda and returned to the floral pyrotechnics of the courtyard, the noon sun dancing through the palm fronds. Gulls swooped and keened in air so blue the color alone could have kept them aloft. The tall vine-covered walls absorbed sounds of the street. I thought I heard a sound like a door closing, but when I listened toward the house all I heard was the whisper of fronds in the breeze.
A few seconds later I heard the rear door unlatch, followed by gentle footfalls. I didn’t turn, but waved my hand over my shoulder. “That was speedy, Brother,” I said. “Did you find a boat that can carry you to Ecuador?”
“Hello, Carson,” said a voice to my back.
It was a feminine voice, low and husky, and I turned to see a woman stepping my way with a glass of minted lemonade in hand, her hair as white as snow, though her motions were lithe and youthful. She wore a bright sundress and her skin was cream, seen in long arms, supple legs and a gentle face with eyes behind large sunglasses.
Something in the motion halted my breath. She removed the sunglasses.
“Ava,” I whispered.
It was Ava Davanelle, the alcoholic pathologist I’d worked with – and made love to – a decade ago. Lovely, brilliant Ava. Troubled, dark Ava. The woman who’d faced off in battle with my brother when his demons were their strongest, and who had sent them scurrying back beneath their rocks.
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Carson?”
She continued my way, framed in sunlight, orchids at her back. Except for the hair, white where once lay waves of auburn, little had changed. Her eyes were the green of a placid sea, her mouth wide and built to surprise when it smiled, her neck long and graceful.
“I … what are you …” The reality hit as I stood, the ground unsteady below my feet, trembling. Or maybe it was me. “You’re Jeremy’s … girlfriend?” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“Girlfriend? That’s the term he’s been using?”
“It’s wrong?”
The surprise of a smile. “It’s limited.”
I needed motion and arranged chairs around the table, pulling out a chair for Ava. She nodded and sat, the legs crossing as she relaxed.
“You realize I’m a bit taken aback,” I said, sitting. “And more than a little curious.”
She plucked a spring of mint from her lemonade and twirled it. “I’ll start at the beginning, when you took me to the Institute to meet Jeremy.” The smile again. “You recall that day, I expect.”
“I’ll never forget it. Jeremy lashed at you with every mind game he had, and you whipped him back with his own words. You were fearless.”
“Not fearless, Carson. As terrified as I’d ever been. I’d never seen anyone like Jeremy, felt an energy like that. The all-consuming emotion, the raw and blazing anger.”
“He might have killed you that day, Ava. I might not have been able to stop him.”
“I felt that threat, Carson. Could you understand that beneath my terror I also felt an exhilaration. That I felt joy?”
I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “Joy, Ava? That doesn’t make—”
She stoppe
d me with a raised hand. “Maybe it’s because I had nothing to lose that day, Carson. Or just didn’t care … busily drinking away my career. But the day became branded inside me, the most interesting of my life. The most interesting to Jeremy, as he later told me. Confusing to him, but …”
“Yes,” I nodded, a long-ago puzzle finally solved. “Jeremy would be fascinated by something that confused him. It explains why he always begged me to bring you back to the Institute, Ava. I told him you had moved away. When I lied and said I didn’t know where you were, he was distraught, but hid it under anger.”
“Then you know I went to Fort Wayne, Indiana. I’d found a job as a path assistant. I had a new life to build and I wanted to make sure I didn’t screw this one up. I worked in Fort Wayne for a couple years, then found a position in Illinois.”
She took a sip of the lemonade and continued. “Four years ago, Jeremy phoned in the middle of the night, finding me through a professional organization. He said you’d just helped him escape from the police in New York. He said he had used all of you he dared use.”
I stared, nonplussed. “He told you the full story? Everything?”
“I hung up. Then was sorry I did. A few days later Jeremy called and asked if he could see me. I asked where he was, and he said on my front porch. I pushed aside the curtain to see him sitting in the porch swing and smiling at the window. He was holding a bouquet and a box of candy.”
“He’s one of the most wanted men in the country. Why didn’t you call the cops?”
She studied the sprig of mint. “Could I not ask the same question of you, Carson?”
“I didn’t think him guilty of the crimes, Ava. Not to an extent to justify life-long incarceration.”
“He told me that was your judgement. I thought if that’s what you believed, it must be true. And if you could no longer keep Jeremy safe, perhaps I could.”
“You believed my brother? Trusted him?”
“Jeremy showed up on my porch knowing a single phone call could end his freedom. He trusted that I’d listen to his story before making that call. We spoke through the door for an hour before I opened it. By then, yes, I believed his every word.”
“You kept him safe him for me?”
“In the beginning. I owe you everything, Carson. You saved me from myself.”
“You saved you from yourself, Ava. I simply helped you find AA.”
A puzzled lift of eyebrow. “How is that not saving me?”
I had no answer and Ava continued. “Jeremy stayed with me for three months building the Charpentier persona. Chicago was unsafe and he never went out. We decided a rural setting was his best bet for safety.”
“Thus Kentucky.”
I heard the door slam at my back and turned to see my brother stepping outside with a lemonade in hand. “Which worked for years, Brother. But the times they are a-changing.”
He sat beside Ava and slung one long leg over the other, grinning, knowing seeing Ava had fried my circuits, at least for the first couple minutes.
“Find the right boat?” I asked my brother. He wanted rattled, I gave him nonchalance.
He lifted his glass in assent. I looked between my brother and my former girlfriend, stopping on Ava. “You’re going to live here, I take it, Ava? Key West?”
“I’m moving to Miami.”
Jeremy sipped and winked at me. “It’s not our nature to rub against one another on a daily basis, Carson. We’ve been meeting twice a year on average. It will now be several days a month.”
Ava had said she’d worked in Illinois, and was now moving to Miami. I hadn’t made the connection when she’d said Chicago, Illinois.
“You’re the new pathologist,” I said.
A beatific smile. “I start next week. Can’t wait.”
We talked for another half-hour, lighter conversation. Ava was staying in an apartment in Coral Gables until finding a home. She detailed several strange cases from Chicago and I felt at home discussing a world which intersected mine. Jeremy was, of course, equally fascinated, since the crimes Ava described involved mental aberrations.
After an hour I looked at my watch and stood, uncertain whether I was entering the real world or leaving it. Ava and Jeremy walked me back through the house, Jeremy stopping at the staircase. “See our esteemed visitor to the door, please, Ava.” He grinned at me. “I’m creating a painting for the living room and must get into zee arteestic mood. Do you think I should wear a beret?”
He laughed and headed upstairs, Ava walking me to the door. I opened it, turning to her. “It’s gonna take some getting used to, Ava. I still can’t quite understand you and my broth—”
She stilled my lips with her fingers. “What I learned in AA, Carson, is that I’m a hopeless drunk and will always be a hopeless drunk, rabid for the alcohol swoon, craving to fall into the delicious swirling well of booze. Alcohol made me feel loose and warm and free. But each time I took a drink, I also entered a world of dark shapes inside myself, fears and revelations and pieces of the past that crawled behind the shadows.”
“You stopped drinking because of the fear, Ava?”
She gave me a sad smile. “I loved alcohol’s comfort, Carson, but even more, I loved its danger.”
I absorbed her words, and had my own revelation. “Jeremy is your alcohol, Ava. Your drug.”
She closed her eyes and nodded her head.
“He keeps me ceaselessly drunk, Carson. And I love it.”
45
I started my drive back with the intention of going into Miami to salvage the remaining day, but a growling stomach pulled me into a seaside bar-restaurant on Marathon Key, ordering a beer, a flounder sandwich overhanging the platter, and a side of fries. I ate on a deck, dining to ship’s horns and gulls as I arranged my experience at Jeremy’s house into three distinct stacks of thoughts.
The first concerned Jeremy’s relationship with Ava. The surprise would take time to assimilate. Given Jeremy’s strange attraction to Ava so many years ago, it should not have been a total surprise that he had needed to see her again. And given Ava’s dysfunctional, addicted history, that she had needed to see him.
The second pile of thoughts related to Jeremy’s move and reshaping of his identity and history, especially his tying it to mine. I was deeply troubled by his attraction to a community of prominence, with thousands of eyes wandering the streets on a daily basis. I would not have been so worried if I knew my brother planned to live a hermit’s life, locked within his walls, but he seemed to be planning to venture into crowds, to live a normal life.
It could never happen. I had to convince him of that – for his sake and now Ava’s – but that lay in the future.
The final pile was his analysis of Donnie Ocampo, the stack of most pressing concern, and where my thoughts focused. That Donnie was not sane – my brother and I were in harmony there – but Jeremy’s conclusion that the Brothers Ocampo shared communication made no sense to me.
But as I ordered a second beer, I considered the times I’d gone to Jeremy for advice. They were few in number, and his analysis often made little sense at the moment offered, but in the end had been preternaturally accurate. So I sat and focused on feelings sparked by Gary, replaying the time I’d spent with him in my head, recalling moments when something had seemed a shade askew.
I had been surprised at Gary’s initial position that Donnie wasn’t really harming the victims, as if abduction and rape were lightweight crimes, and it wasn’t until Harold Brighton’s legs had been demolished that the horror of Donnie’s actions seemed to register in Gary’s mind.
“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Gary had wailed after I told him about Brighton. “He’s hurting people. Donnie’s actually hurting them!”
What wasn’t supposed to be like this? What was It?
Then there was Gary’s request for a meeting with the victims, the one I’d quashed, Gary then asking if he could meet with Derek Scott, since he had eluded Donnie and been only lightly
wounded. What had Gary put as his reason to meet the victims?
“I’m responsible for their pain and troubles.”
He wasn’t, Donnie was, and it seemed strange to put first-person-singular before the victims’ pain. I’d felt some of his words and perceptions were discordant myself, but the world itself veers from pitch, and I’d allowed latitude, perhaps because I felt sorry for Gary Ocampo.
I checked my watch: two hours had passed. I’d head home tonight and confront Gary Ocampo first thing in the morning. It was time to throw hardball questions and see how he responded.
46
It was almost three in the morning. The Miami moon soared high above Gary’s Fantasy World, FCLE investigators-in-training Mike Rasmussen and Terrence Longo back in surveillance position. They’d been spelled for six hours by a second unit, returning for a midnight-to-dawn stint, this time in a fifteen-year-old beater Caddy with smoked windows.
Rasmussen zipped up his fly – made difficult by the steering wheel between his thighs – and snapped the lid on a twenty-ounce Styrofoam coffee cup, now filled with urine. He set it carefully in a bag, turned in his seat and wedged it in a box with five other cups. Two held coffee.
“Don’t get ’em mixed up, partner,” Terrence Longo said. Both were in their late twenties and had been pulled from the investigative-trainee reserves on the twenty-second floor of Miami’s Clark Center, which they shared with the full-time investigators, whose ranks they craved to join. The twenty-third floor was reserved for the Big Dogs – like Roy McDermott – and the senior investigators like Lonnie Canseco, Celia Valdez, and the hulking, grunting Charlie Degan.
A couple of the major specialists also had offices there, like Carson Ryder who, it was rumored, could detect psychosis by the scent of one’s breath. The twenty-second-floor dicks laughed at that one, but several held their breath when passing Ryder in the hall. It was Ryder who had requested the surveillance, and both had been impressed that the guy had spoken to them that afternoon, cool trick, tying the shoe and talking perfectly clear without moving his lips.
