Bitter Instinct jc-8

by Robert W. Walker

  “We're exhausted, Dr. Vladoc, and we're going home now, aren't we, Kim?” was Jessica's only answer. “Sounds like a plan,” replied Kim.

  “More than magic thinking… magic itself exists, if you believe in angels and hobgoblins, little people and aliens,” continued Vladoc, undaunted by the indifference of his audience. “And I believe your victims held such beliefs. They're all relatives in this sense, members of a same-thinking group.”

  “Are you suggesting the victims were members of a cult?”

  “No, not really, but rather members of society that finds it comforting to believe in what you and I would call fairies or angels.”

  Nodding, Jessica added, “Elves of old have become the aliens of today? Nothing a few lines of a chant or an old-fashioned curse couldn't accomplish, so, too, a TV show like The X-Files. What was it Carl Sagan said-something about as mankind's campfire grows larger, so, too, do the imaginings of what's out there in the darkness beyond the flames?”

  “Wish I knew a chant now to dispel this dizziness in my head,” Kim interjected.

  Jessica teased, “I should think that being psychic, you'd know beforehand when you'd had your last drink.”

  “That's funny. You know it doesn't work that way.”

  “Oh, excuse me, ladies, I see someone I must speak to across the room,” said Vladoc, attempting to make a graceful exit. “It's been interesting chatting with you. Doctors, and good luck on the case. Do send me everything you find pertinent, and I will assist in any way I can.” He even bowed before leaving, and they watched him join a group of young women at another table, all college-aged kids, all appearing to know him.

  Jessica and Kim located their shoes, got to their feet, and made their way out of the pub.

  Outside, as the cool night breeze played through Jessica's hair, she said, “So we have a whole generation that believes in an invisible world surrounding us, an entire world in which magic thinking exists, in all its strange and bizarre permutations, while that strange little Peter Flavious Vladoc looks for a new conquest among the young?”

  “I predict he will come to a bad end, especially if he is popping Viagra.”

  “Do you think he's one of those men who will do anything, go anywhere, to sire a child, preferably a male child? And if so, has it to do with his being so short?”

  “I think he could well be our killer, Jessica, but then you know that.”

  “I do

  “He's here, isn't he? Scouting a late-adolescent prize? He may write poetry very close in style and content to that of the Killer Poet, and he appears to have a fascination with the case, all facts in evidence.”

  “It's his job.”

  “What's his job?”

  'To follow the close casely-I mean case closely, isn't he? Getting all his information from one source, Leanne Sturtevante, can't be good. He needs to see it from all sides, right?”

  “Ah,” joked Kim, “so… do you think that something's up between those two?”

  “Haven't a clue.”

  “Shocking, isn't it?”

  “No, not in and of itself, but Sturtevante's on thin ice with the pillow talk she's cooing to Dr. Vladoc.”

  They walked on toward the hotel. “You know it,” Jessica muttered. “She could sabotage our case against a suspect if too many of the details are made public.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So, can you predict how my and Richard's relationship will end?”

  “I wouldn't presume to go there, Jess. And you know it.” You mean I have to go to dial-a-psychic for that?”

  “Sure, give me a year or so and I'll give you a 1-800 number I trust.”

  “Hey, I've seen those ads. Everyone on them swears up and down that dial-a-psychic works.”

  “Yeah, like my one-eyed, one-legged cat works.”

  At PPD headquarters crime lab the next morning, Jessica found Parry on her doorstep, this time with news of a possible break in the case. A half grin played across his face as he said, “A call came to my office this morning from a distraught university dean. The woman believes she has a match up with the poetry. She's a dean of arts and sciences at the university here.”

  “The University of Philadelphia?”

  “Right.”

  “And she got our FBI packet, studied the killer's poetry, and-”

  “Bingo, a match.”

  “Then I guess we need to talk to her.”

  “She suspects a guy working under her at the university, and a check reveals that several of the victims were, at one time or another, in the guy's classes.”

  “Sounds close enough for a look-see to me. Let's get over there.”

  “I want you and Desinor to interview her, see what you can get.”

  “What will you be doing in the meantime?”

  “Sturtevante has set up the surveillance of a guy she's gotten some leads on from the street, a kind of Weird A1 Yankovic character that a lot of fingers keep pointing at. Sturtevante thinks she's onto something, and I need to review her findings. They're trying to get a warrant to search his apartment now.” So while you and Leanne are storming in to search and seize this Quasimodo's apartment and belongings, we're going to canvass the upper-crust possibilities, is that it?”

  “Just trying to cover all the bases. We don't know jack-shit about the Poet at this point. We have to follow up on citizen tips and anything that smacks of reliable.”

  “Sure, got it.”

  “You don't like Sturtevante, do you, Jess?”

  “She's a contradictory person; she wants a team effort, she heads a task force, but she's not a team player herself. I find her lack of interest in our autopsy findings curious and strange. She confides only in Shockley, and I find her reluctance to share information directly… well, a pain in the ass.”

  “Can't argue with you there. She's somehow, for some reason, developed a similar set of feelings for you, and somehow I find myself in the middle, a kind of referee.”

  “Don't put yourself out on my account.”

  “She's been a street cop for a long time, Jessica. This idea of working closely with the FBI, it's new to her, and her superiors forced us on her. You know how that goes.”

  “Meanwhile, she tells me she's so glad to have us aboard, so anxious to work with us, so full of shit.”

  “Get over it; you've seen it before. Now, how about getting over to the university, interview this Dr. Harriet Plummer.”

  “Yes, sir.” She gave him a mock salute. “I suspect our killer is far more likely to spring from that rarefied air than from some sleazy bar where street punks hustle babes.”

  “See if you can learn three things from Plummer. One, are the poems found on the bodies original or plagiarized? Two, stolen or not, does she recognize the poetry? Three, does she truly recognize the hand at work as this colleague of hers-who, by the way, is named Garrison Burrwith. Take her measurements, and be certain that she is acting out of something other than hurt, anger, or confusion. Meanwhile, I'm doing a background check on Burrwith.”

  Jessica's eyes met Parry's, and for a moment the look lingered. Then, to cover her sudden embarrassment, she asked, “Anything come of your reading of Maurice's diary?”

  “Nothing usable, no. Filled with a lot of whining.”

  “Whining? About what?”

  “Life.”

  “Life?” she asked. “What about life?”

  “You know, the usual soul-search stuff, and then the complaints, asking why can't life be kinder, gentler, all the usual claptrap from a person who can't handle life on its own terms. Guy needed a reality check big time. Reminds me of my college reading of Kafka's Metamorphosis. Who cares after a point to read on when the initial whine fest never ends?”

  “Perhaps Kim ought to do a reading on the boy's diary.” Jessica thought Kim might well be more sensitive than Parry to Maurice's plight.

  “Yeah, I'm sure she could get a lot more out of it than I did.”

  “You mean we actually agree?
” she asked, her eyes telling him she was only half kidding.

  Jessica immediately lifted the phone and called Kim from her office upstairs, a large closet of a place off the task-force operations room. She'd wanted to be close to all the paraphernalia of the crime scenes that Sturtevante's team had gathered. Getting Kim on the line, Jessica explained what Parry had brought them.

  “That sounds a lot more reasonable than rounding up street lowlifes like Sturtevante's people are doing,” Kim said, echoing Jessica's thoughts. “Most of whom appear too illiterate to write a letter home much less a poem.”

  “We'll leave that line of inquiry for Sturtevante and company. You never know what will drop out in a shakedown of this magnitude,” Jessica replied, not knowing why she felt compelled to defend Sturtevante's approach.

  “Are we any closer to determining any connections among the victims?” Kim asked. “Did you turn anything over to that house shrink, Vladoc?”

  “Fact is, I have. Sent him all the poetry we have, our suspicions, minus what Mr. Rocky J. Squirrel had to say, and he said he'd get back to me ASAP.”

  “What's he really like, Jess? I mean in the clear-and sober-light of day.”

  “Don't know. Didn't meet face-to-face this time; spoke to his secretary. She handled everything.”

  “You never saw him?”

  “No. He never came out of his office.”

  “Strange he wouldn't come out to meet you.”

  “Burrowed in. Had a patient in with him, a local cop, rookie who had to bring someone down with deadly force, I hear.”

  The entire way back out to the University of Philadelphia campus, Jessica and Kim discussed the victim profile. “Other than the geography, all living in and around Second Street,” Jessica said as she drove the PPD loaner, “and the fact that all were of the same approximate age and body type, they didn't appear to have known each other.”

  “Although they certainly frequented some of the same shops and possibly the same coffeehouses,” Kim noted.

  “They may well have been passing acquaintances.”

  “Many took courses at the local colleges and universities.”

  Jessica turned the vehicle off the main street and onto the lanes of the campus. “We know at least two of them used Ink, Line amp; Sinker for paper, pens, and art supplies, and several used Darkest Expectations for books, and Moulin Rouge for wall decorations and furnishings. “We need to question the people that work there.”

  “Being done, I'm told, by Sturtevante's people. Nothing anyone remembers out of the ordinary about any of the victims. Actually, on Second Street, you and me, we are the strange ones. Everyone else down there sees straight people wearing matching blouses and suit pants, and they know we don't belong.”

  “Agreed. “Maurice was taking classes at one of the colleges in town,” said Kim. “His diary makes mention of it.” She had skimmed the diary after Parry left it with her. “We need to find out who his instructors were, question them about Maurice. See what they knew about him, and see if they know anything about the poetic style of the killer. Might take less time and do more good to investigate the local boys than to ask for a national search on a student or other person whose writing style might ring a bell.”

  “Here we are, another foray into academia.”

  “Can't be any scarier than dealing with a Hungarian cowboy,” Kim replied.

  “I don't know about that. I had a chat with the woman we're about to meet. Called for an appointment, thinking it best.”

  “And?”

  “Dr. Harriet Plummer. She's convinced she knows who the Poet Killer is.”

  “Really?”

  “Works under her in the English department here.”

  “University of Philadelphia, where Maurice was enrolled.”

  “Really? Do we suspect he knew his killer?” asked Jessica.

  “We do, but it remains only a suspicion.”

  “Then perhaps someone here at the university who knew Maurice killed him?” It's possible they could have bumped into one another.”

  “We'll see what feathers we can ruffle on campus.”

  “Maybe we can get everyone in English, professors and students alike, to submit a writing sample for Wahlbore, and let him feed them to Rocky. See what the flying squirrel spits out.”

  “Sure, just try to get everyone to cooperate. You know how quick these academic types are to scream human rights violation?”

  Kim replied to this, “And you think the accused should have no rights?”

  “The known rapists and the known murderers ought to be stripped of anything resembling civil and human rights, just as they did to their victims.”

  “Careful of such views. Upper-level types don't care for them,” Kim cautioned. “I know from experience, and look what's happened to your friend Parry.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Jessica looked up to see the tall, imposing building that housed the English department, a three-story Disney-like turreted castle with six to ten times more space than the linguistics department's small cottage. “Feudal system still at work on college campuses,” she muttered. Kim laughed as Jessica stared out at Dean and Professor Harriet Plummer, who was at that very moment coming toward the car as if chased by a demon. The scene recalled to Jessica the phone conversation she'd had with the distraught dean of arts and sciences.

  When Plummer had come on the line and Jessica introduced herself, she had declared, “It's about time. I've been expecting you.” A faint trace of desperation, perhaps repressed fear, had laced the woman's businesslike tone.

  “Oh, and why is that, Dr. Plummer?” Jessica had wondered if perhaps they might not be closer to some solutions to this case than she'd previously thought.

  “I received a packet of information on this Poet Killer fiend a few days ago. I put it aside. Busy here, you know, extremely. I had no idea the killer's poems were being cut into the backs of his victims until I read the material from you people.”

  It'll be all over the evening news tonight, Jessica had thought. “I see,” she said.

  “I believe I know who your killer is. I believe he… he works under me here at the university.”

  “Do you have any evidence of this?”

  “The poems, the style, and the way they were left, yes. Now, will you come to speak to me, or do I have to come to you?” the dean had asked.

  “A colleague and I will be right over, Dr. Plummer.”

  “I'll change my schedule, put aside all else until we talk.”

  Now, as the dean pounded on the car window, Kim's eyes were alight with the same curiosity about her as Jessica had felt during their phone conversation.

  “He's here; in his office. Just so you know, just so in case he sees you and me together, well… I may need protection.”

  Dr. Harriet Plummer had already considered the possibility that something strange might be going on at the U. of Philadelphia. She had pulled the files on three of the victims, all of whom had taken basic-level courses there. The other victims, while not students at the university, the dean had found, were students at other colleges and universities in the area, and furthermore, they were all taking poetry-and fiction-writing courses, some with Dr. Garrison Burrwith, the man she suspected of being the Poet Killer. This they learned all in the time it took to climb the considerable number of steps to the miniature castle entryway of the English department. Atop the tallest turret of the castle, a clock tolled four p.m.

  Once they were inside the safe confines of Dr. Plummer's office, she confided, “He is a professor here at the university-our current writer-in-residence.”

  “Writer-in-residence? Really?” Kim looked impressed.

  “His specialty being poetic expression,” Professor Plummer informed them.

  “How did you know we would be coming?” asked Jessica. “On the phone you said you were expecting us.”

  “I got my packet from the FBI several days ago, asking if I recognized the poetry of this awful poiso
ner.”

  “Yes, of course. And you suspect this Dr. Burr…?”

  “Dr. Garrison Burrwith, yes, but it's awful; you see, he is a member of a prominent Philadelphia family, well known for philanthropy and public service. Dr. Burrwith is something of a prodigy. He's an accomplished violinist, fills in as needed at the Philadelphia Symphony Orchestra-he's that good. At only twenty-six years of age, he's an acknowledged scholar of the Romantic poets, in particular Shelley, Keats, Byron, and Wordsworth.”

  “And, as you say, you suspect he may be this killer of young people?”

  “The poetry is so… so like his. He's an accomplished poet with a great ability to capture the essence of the romanticism of the Byronic era, and I feel much of this murderer's poetry does the same. Here, have a look at some of Garrison's work. Compare it with the murderer's work yourself.”

  Jessica reached across to take the volume of poems that Dr. Plummer offered. The book was gilded and exquisitely bound; it must have cost a fortune to produce.

  On the cover she read Oration of the Gifts of Those Angels of the Four Quarters. Beneath this, Poems to Still the Forest Soul and Various Jottings by Garrison Burrwith III.

  “Old family name, huh?”

  “One of the oldest in Philadelphia. Father is on every board in the city having to do with the arts.”

  Enough to scar any child, Jessica thought but did not say. “Did you find the poems left on the bodies unique, original, Dr. Plummer?” she asked instead. “Yes, quite. Then we may assume they are from the killer's mind and hand, and not something he picked up somewhere?”

  The professor stared back, confused.

  “Lifted, plagiarized,” Kim clarified.