Silent Victim

by C. E. Lawrence

  “Hey, listen, my family is Scottish, and that’s even worse.” Butts stared at him, a piece of grilled onion clinging to his chin. “Really?”

  “They say that all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.” “'Zat so?” Butts murmured, plunging his face deeper into his sandwich.

  Lee thought the detective’s unself-conscious enjoyment of food was a way of keeping his sanity amid the constant barrage of death and destruction he dealt with in his line of work.

  “We’re meeting first thing tomorrow in Chuck Morton’s office to report on what we have.”

  “Okay,” Butts said, licking sauce from his fingers. “Shall I call Krieger and tell her, or do you want to?” Butts snorted. “Oh, be my guest, by all means. I got a few leads of my own to track down tonight.” “Great,” Lee said. “Thanks a lot. “You asked,” Butts said, wolfing down the rest of his sandwich. He got up stiffly, stretched his pudgy body, and brushed crumbs from his clothes. “Okay, I’m off—see you tomorrow.”

  “Right,” Lee said, and watched the detective shoulder his way through the crowd of people swarming up Sixth Avenue. But his mind was not on them, nor on the unfinished sandwich in his hand. He kept turning the words over and over in his brain:

  Ask about the red dress.

  If only there was someone to ask, he thought. Of course his unconscious mind must have been controlling the pointer—that was the obvious explanation for what happened. But he was so tormented by the idea that he found himself wishing the answer were somehow buried in the wistful promise of a children’s game.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Okay,” Butts said, slapping a bag of doughnuts onto Chuck’s desk. “Here’s what I found out. Vic Number One liked to get all lacy and decked out as a girl—pretty in pink. Wigs, makeup, heels—the whole nine yards.”

  It was just after nine o’clock Monday morning, and they were all there—Butts, Lee, Chuck, and Krieger. She was looking more sulky and sultry than usual, in a gray silk blouse and tight black skirt.

  Butts flipped open the lid of his coffee cup and slurped loudly. “So assumin’ this is the same perp, sounds like you were right on target, Doc,” he told Lee.

  “Good work,” said Chuck. “That may shed some light on the victim profile.”

  “It took some digging,” Butts said, gulping down more coffee.

  Krieger frowned. “Why didn’t a search of his apartment turn up the women’s clothing?”

  “Because he didn’t keep them in his apartment,” Butts announced triumphantly. “Apparently he was worried his wife would find out, so he had a little storage unit Midtown where he kept all his fancy dresses. But you figure he had to wear them somewhere, otherwise—”

  “He’d be all dressed up and nowhere to go,” Lee said.

  “Exactly!” Butts said, raising his coffee cup as though it were a glass of champagne. “His sister finally spilled the beans, after a little persuasion that it would help find his killer.”

  “Well done, Detective,” said Morton.

  “Wait—there’s more,” Butts said, setting down his coffee. He was clearly enjoying himself. “Get this: Vic Number Two liked to hang out in tranny bars.” He looked at them, awaiting their response.

  “Wow,” Lee said. “How did you get that information?”

  “Let’s just say that it involved a trip to Christopher Street and about a day’s salary in tips to a certain bartender.”

  “How did you know where to go?” Krieger asked.

  Butts shrugged. “I got friends in vice downtown—they know all the tranny hookers. Some of them work outta this place.”

  Lee always found it ironic that “vice” in law enforcement referred to illegal sex and drugs, as though those were the only offenses deserving that description.

  “Do we have an ID on yesterday’s victim yet?” Krieger asked.

  “Yep,” said Chuck. “Name’s Joe Grieco, twenty-four years old, contractor working in his dad’s business in Nutley, New Jersey. He was arrested for drunk driving on Friday, held overnight in the Tombs, then disappeared until he turned up yesterday with his head buried in a men’s room toilet. He was ID’d by his friend he’d been out partying with on Friday.”

  “We should interview the friend as soon as possible,” Lee said.

  “As soon as we’re done here,” Chuck said. “I’ve got his cell number and address in Jersey.”

  “I’ll do it,” Butts said. “I live just down the road.”

  “Okay,” Chuck said, picking up a manila envelope from his desk. “Now, this is what we’re not going to release to the media.” He fished out an eight-by-ten glossy crime-scene photo and pinned it up on the bulletin board next to the others.

  Krieger put her hand to her mouth. “Jesus,” Butts murmured, staring at it. The crime-scene photo showed a young man with his eyes neatly cut out of their sockets.

  “That’s Joe—the latest vic?” Butts asked.

  “Yeah,” said Chuck.

  They all looked at Lee.

  “What do you think it means?” Chuck asked.

  Lee stared at the photo, thinking of Ana—at least he didn’t have to see her face this way. A shiver wormed its way down his back.

  “It could be something specific to this victim. Or—” Krieger looked intently at him. “Or what?” “His signature is evolving.” “That’s not good,” Butts said.

  “In either case, it means something—the question is what?” Chuck asked.

  “With the eyes, my first thought is there’s an association with watching or being watched,” Lee answered.

  Krieger cocked her elegant head to one side and crossed her arms. “You mean he doesn’t want the victim looking at him?”

  “Or he does want to be looked at, which is why he took the eyes as trophies.”

  “Or maybe he’s conflicted about that, too,” Chuck offered.

  “Either way, it’s a good bet that it’s linked to a specific trauma in his past,” Lee said.

  “Perhaps someone he loved went blind,” Krieger suggested.

  Lee rubbed his left temple, which was beginning to throb. “Could be. But whatever happened, it became sexualized for him—and filled him with rage.”

  “You really know all that from what he did?” Krieger asked. Like her smile, her tone was half challenge and half flirtation.

  “There are certain constants you learn to recognize,” Lee said.

  “Such as?” Krieger leaned on the windowsill so that the afternoon sun fell on her upswept hair, bringing out the gold highlights. Lee wondered whether the move was conscious or not—he still was undecided about some aspects of Elena Krieger’s personality.

  “Mutilation of a corpse almost always has a sexual element,” he replied.

  “The mutilations are postmortem,” Chuck pointed out.

  “What does that tell you?”

  “That he wasn’t driven by sadism—otherwise he would have done it when they were alive.”

  “Assuming he could control them that well,” Butts pointed out, digging through his jacket pockets, looking for something. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Strangulation,” Chuck said.

  “So he’s strong,” Krieger mused.

  “Or he takes his victims by surprise,” Lee added.

  “So he didn’t want them looking at him after they were dead,” Krieger said.

  “That don’t make sense,” Butts said, taking a bite of a powdered doughnut. “They can’t see him once they’re dead.”

  “Exactly,” Lee agreed. “Or hear him.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Chuck.

  “Hey, I think I know what you’re gettin’ at,” Butts said. “When I was a kid, I had to go to my uncle’s funeral, which was open casket. It freaked me out, lookin’ at this dead guy lyin’ there, and I kept waiting for his eyes to open. It was creepy—I had nightmares about it for weeks.”

  “So maybe something like that happened to him when he was a child?” Krieger suggested.
She looked really engaged now, and had dropped her confrontational manner.

  “Whatever it was,” Lee said, “it filled him with a rage so deep that he has to kill over and over.” He looked at the picture of poor Joe, his empty eye sockets blind as Justice herself.

  “And the note?” he said.

  Chuck handed him a photocopy of a handwritten note, in the same block letters as the others.

  Next time I’ll look twice before being such a bad boy – not.

  “So now he’s a comedian,” Butts remarked with disgust. “It’s time for some undercover work,” Krieger said to

  Chuck.

  He frowned at her, then scratched the back of his neck.

  “I don’t know. It sounds too dangerous, especially—”

  “For a woman?” she said, challenging him.

  “I was going to say especially after so many deaths in so short a time. We’re dealing with either a particularly driven or desperate killer.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Krieger snorted.

  “You may not be,” Chuck said, “but—”

  Krieger wheeled around to face Lee. “Do you agree?” she demanded.

  “I guess I do,” he said. “Some serial killers wait weeks or months between victims, but this one is working very fast. That could indicate he’s very confident or becoming more and more enraged, and heading for a breakdown. Either way, it means he’s extremely dangerous.”

  Krieger snorted and whipped around to focus her attention on Butts, who was calmly munching on a Bavarian crème doughnut.

  “And what do you think?”

  Butts held up the doughnut and inspected it as if it were a precious gem.

  “I say if that’s what you want, go for it.” Krieger turned to the others triumphantly. “Well?” Chuck shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

  “But that’s what I do,” she protested, her voice sharp with impatience.

  “I thought you were a linguistic forensic specialist,” Butts said.

  “That, too,” she snapped back.

  “Okay,” Chuck said reluctantly. “But you carry a cell phone and you have a uniformed and plainclothes officer on your tail every second. See Sergeant Ruggles and he’ll arrange it.”

  Krieger’s face broke into a broad smile, showing large, somewhat horsy teeth. Lee realized this was the first time he had seen her really smile. He hoped it wasn’t going to be the last.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “I was wondering,” Dr. Williams said, “if it’s ever occurred to you that you may never find your sister’s killer?”

  It was early evening, and the sun snaking through the yellow curtains threw thin fingers of light onto the vase of white carnations on the table next to her. She sat with her long legs crossed at the ankles, her hands folded calmly in her lap.

  Lee felt his throat constricting at her words, and the heat of shame rising from his neck.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “Well, it’s a possibility you may have to face at some point, and I was just wondering if it was something you’ve considered.” Her voice was mild and nonconfrontational, but his neck hairs bristled at the remark.

  “That’s a rather punitive question, isn’t it?” he replied, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  “Why would I want to punish you?”

  “You would know that better than I would.”

  She leaned back in her chair, the tips of her long fingers touching.

  “Actually, I was wondering if your continued search for Laura’s killer could be a form of self-punishment.”

  He stared at her. “Why on earth would you say that?”

  “Well, it is keeping open a wound, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t see any way that would change until her killer is found.”

  “Other people might have decided to move on by now, that’s all.”

  “They haven’t even found her body, for God’s sake! How am I supposed to ‘move on'?” The blood vessels in his head were pulsating. The headache he’d been fighting all day was getting worse.

  “It’s interesting you’re having such a strong reaction—”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!” he exploded. “What kind of reaction do you expect? We’re talking about my sister’s death—how am I supposed to react?”

  “It’s your reaction to my suggestion I’m talking about. You could have just said that was an interesting observation, and moved on. But you didn’t—you saw it as an attack.”

  The light was directly behind her now, surrounding her head like a gauzy halo. He blinked and rubbed his temple. The light seemed to pulsate at the same speed as the throbbing in his head.

  “Okay,” he said, “I know where you’re going with this—it’s Therapy 101. The force of my reaction means that you struck a nerve, which means that the more I protest, the more you have a point. Ergo, I am using my sister’s death to serve my own masochistic need to punish myself because I feel responsible somehow.”

  His words hung in the air, the harshness of his voice echoing in his ears. But Dr. Williams merely smiled.

  “All right,” she said. “Shall I write you a check this week?”

  “Touché,” he said, ashamed of his outburst. “But why do you always have to be so goddamn right all the time?” “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, taking a sip from her sports bottle, which was usually filled with iced tea. He was wondering if she sometimes wished it were filled with whiskey. She opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

  “Please don’t say that my anger at you is all about my mother.”

  “Actually, I was going to observe that your anger at your mother is somewhat ironic,” she said, crossing her legs.

  “How so?”

  “Well, you’re mad at her because she refuses to believe your sister is dead.”

  “And?”

  “Hasn’t it ever struck you that your profession is in some ways an attempt to keep your sister alive?” He took a deep breath.

  “I don’t see it that way. I know she’s dead—I’ve accepted that. I just want to find out who killed her. And if I can’t do that, then I can at least catch the people who are out there killing other people’s sisters.”

  “Or wives, or husbands—”

  “Right.”

  “So we’re back to my first point.” “That I may never catch him.”

  “Or her.”

  Or her. Funny, but he had assumed from the first that Laura’s killer would be a man—even now the idea of it being a woman struck him as odd and unlikely. Not that he believed women were incapable of great violence and evil deeds—he had too much experience for that—but he felt Laura would never have fallen victim to anyone unless she was vastly overmatched in size and physical strength.

  He looked at Dr. Williams, who was smoothing her long maroon skirt as she rose from her chair.

  “I’m afraid our time is up.”

  Later, on the walk home, as he calmed down, he realized that—as usual—there was something to what she said. He remembered as a child the feeling of worrying a scab, and the perverse satisfaction at the sight of his own blood as he pulled it away from his skin. He recalled the summer after his father left, when he had skinned his elbow jumping from the tree house next door on a dare from Drew Apthorp. She was a slim girl with smooth, straight-as-a-stick sandy hair and freckle-mottled skin who came to spend summers with her grandparents, and he had a crush on her.

  He would lie in bed at night thinking of Drew, picking at his scab while listening to the buzzing of moths as they hurtled their hairy bodies against the window screens. He wondered why they were so desperate to get into the lighted room that they were willing to risk self-destruction. He remembered his fascination with the gathering globule of bright blood on his arm, and his odd enjoyment of the stinging sensation as he pulled back the scab.

  He was irritated with the fact that once again Dr. Williams was right, but he was even more irritated at
his own reaction. For God’s sake, it was Therapy 101. Hit a nerve, and the patient will respond emotionally. Good Lord, he’d done it scores of times with his own patients, and knew all the signs, but when it came to his own unconscious … Physician heal thyself, indeed.

  It was only now that he made the connection between his father’s disappearance and the odd satisfaction he took inflicting pain on himself—as though the physical pain lightened the heaviness inside him. It was exactly the same mechanism with the “cutters"—teenagers who nicked their skin with knives or razors until the blood flowed. They too were suffering, whether from garden-variety adolescent angst or something more sinister. But somehow physical pain was preferable to the emotional kind and served as a distraction—the cutters had figured this out, and, bizarre as it looked, were actually self-medicating.

  He passed the Cooper Union building, its square, redbrick facade stately and solid against the dimming evening sky. He felt a drop of rain on his cheek as he rounded the corner and swung out onto the Bowery. As he headed toward Seventh Street, he felt another drop, and then another. This was no misty autumn rain—the droplets were fat and full, falling faster and faster as he hurried toward his apartment.

  A stooped old Asian woman scurried along the sidewalk, trailing a garbage bag full of plastic bottles and soda cans behind her in a rickety shopping cart. He wondered how many hours she had spent rooting through trash bins and Dumpsters in search of bottles and cans to recycle at five cents each. Her face was weathered, wizened, worried looking. Her thin brows were drawn together in a frown as she bent her head under the rapidly increasing rain.

  So much misery in the world, he thought, so much suffering. He looked at the woman’s retreating figure, her thin chicken legs and scrawny body, her feet stuffed into cheap shoes. She stopped to fish a battered green raincoat out of her shopping cart before continuing on her way. As he trudged through the rain to his building, he wondered what she was going home to. What kind of life did she have? What twists of fate had brought her to collecting discarded cans and bottles on the Bowery in the rain on a Friday night?