He was also a kleptomaniac.
“How long have you been here?” I asked, dreading the answer.
He blinked. “Just got here.”
“Then what’s . . . this?” I groped for his suit pocket and withdrew . . . the wrapper to a pack of Sno Balls.
“Jerry, oh good sweet Christ!” George looked like he was going to make Jerry eat the Sno Ball wrapper, and I moved so I was between them.
“Where’d you get it, Jer?”
“The trash can by the door.”
“You got that from the scene?” Lynn asked, horrified. “You—you took that out of the trash can at a scene we’re still processing? But—”
“Bad Jerry!” George was yelling, trying to reach around me to punch Jerry’s balding head. “Bad bad bad! We’ve been over this! And over it! You idiotic pervy nerdy sticky-fingered asshole!”
“It’s not the killer’s,” Jerry explained. “A customer from the bar left it.” I had no idea how Jerry knew that; I only knew he was correct. He was always right about stuff like that. As I said, invaluable on scene. Also aggravating—he couldn’t not lift something.
George and I knew how important Jerry Nance was to BOFFO by the complete lack of trouble he got in when he interfered with crime scenes. But the locals were staring, so I got moving.
“Thank you, Agent Nance,” I said with exquisite charm and politeness. “I—I hadn’t realized your point until you, um, acted it out by showing us how the killer, um, didn’t eat Sno Balls at the scene.”
Jerry blinked at me again. “He didn’t eat anything. But he read the crossword and did the whole thing in—”
“Fas-ih-fuckin’-ating,” George said. “Get lost, Nance. Go count staplers in the office supply store across the street.”
Jerry brightened and hurried away. I struggled to get back to my train of thought. Ah! The poster. “Why change the MO so quickly?”
“Because he thinks we’re stupid.”
“And why is he—or she—escalating?”
“What are you, new in school? Why do they all escalate? They get off on being God. Who could give that up? Believe me, I know of what I speak,” George added, but I didn’t rise to the bait. I had zero interest in how George had ended up in BOFFO. Shiro knew but wouldn’t tell me. It was probably just as well.
Besides, he was right. Our killer was escalating and sowing more clues because he was frustrated—we, the stupid cops and Feebs, weren’t getting it. So he had to show us. And show us. And show us.
And he was escalating because he thought we were stupid, unworthy of his genius, and besides—he was God in his universe. We were only the audience.
I sighed and stood. “George, get on the horn with Michaela and make sure the other victims in the Dakotas didn’t have any paperwork on them.”
“But you know damned well they—”
“Just call, okay?” I puffed hair out of my eyes and made a conscious effort to lower my voice. “Will you just please follow procedure without being asked three times? Or five? Or agreeing you’ll do it if I show you my breasts?”
“Will you show me your breasts?”
“George . . .”
“Okay, okay, just don’t bring Shiro here, for Christ’s sake.” He was holding his hands up and backing away from me. “I’m doing it, okay? I don’t think I’ve said okay this much in my entire life, okay, but I’m doing it, okay? So just calm down, okay?”
As if Shiro would ever get her hands dirty pounding George’s face into new and interesting shapes. Ah well. A girl could dream.
“This probably isn’t the time or place,” Clapp said cheerfully, “but are we still on for tonight?”
Ah! Tonight. Yes, after running into each other at dozens of crime scenes, Clapp had finally asked me out. I’d said yes, which was proof that I was crazy. See, Jim Clapp didn’t know about my sisters. He just thought I was part of some elite FBI bad-guy unit. Also he was cute and single. And so was I. Well, single, anyway. Sort of.
Clapp had wild red hair which stuck up in all directions, no matter how much gel he lathered on it. He was famous for his gel. . . . He kept three tubes in his cruiser and God only knew how many in his locker. He had the pale face of the natural redhead, and gobs of freckles. He looked like Opie. Opie who could bench 270. He had to have his suits custom made, which was awful on his salary.
“Yeah.” George leered. “Are ya?”
With an effort, I ignored my partner. “Yes, of course. Why don’t I pick you up at the Cop Shop? Who wants to fight rush hour just to drive to Burnsville?” I was a sucker for gobs of pasta and mojitos, so I had established two days ago it was Buca Di Beppo or nothing.
“Cop Shop it is . . . seven o’clock okay?”
“Sure,” I replied, hoping one of my sisters wouldn’t arrive by then. I was nuts, agreeing to dinner with someone who had no idea I was clinically insane.
I was lonesome, too. So. There was that to consider.
Lynn was saying something, but I was being rude and not listening. I had turned to look at the crime scene again. There was something about it. Well, there’s something about every scene. Even at the most banal, even at a scene I’d
(we’d)
seen a dozen times before, something always reached out and plucked at
(us)
me.
Even in domestics, the most commonplace violent crime, something plucked. Wife beater crossed state lines and killed her in Minnesota? There wasn’t a cop who’d been on the force two years who hadn’t seen dozens of domestics. But why that night, why that woman, why that city? Why did they move? Why did the stress of unpacking not set him off, but the stress of her being late with McDonald’s did?
Like I said before: Why now? Why these guys? Why this spot? Why again?
But this. The ThreeFer Killer. This was something else. And I didn’t know what it was. It was like a tickle in my brain that wouldn’t leave me alone. Tickle, heck—it was a fishhook in my brain that wouldn’t leave me alone, digging and churning and scraping and—
I’m sorry. That was a disgusting image, wasn’t it?
Could it be—was there something almost . . . familiar about this setup? The scenes in Pierre, Des Moines, and Minot? Familiar beyond the obvious?
Mysteries, mysteries.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps there wasn’t a mystery here at all
(oh, but that’s impossible)
it’s possible that you already know everything you need to solve the crime
(it’s not true it’s not it’s)
Go to sleep, Cadence.
“We’ve . . .
“. . . we have seen
Chapter Six
“This before.”
Clapp’s head tilted; I doubted he’d heard my dry voice before. George had, though, and was sidling close to me, a pained expression on his face.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Shiro, you horrible horrible thing?” George was smiling at me. Well. Showing his teeth. Odious man.
“As I said, we have seen this before. There is something here.”
“Duh, there’s something here. The Three goddamned Tenors are here, another stupid sonnet is here, not to mention a hundred cops who have no idea how completely fucked-up crazy you are. Will you please pretty please let Cadence come back now?”
It was amusing that Cadence had no idea why she had been partnered with George, why he never went off on her, why he respected her (as much as he could) and not anyone else at BOFFO. I knew but would not tell. George was afraid of me. He was right to be afraid of me.
“Pretty please?” He was still babbling.
I gave him a long stare, and, since “sociopath” wasn’t a synonym for “stupid,” he actually backed off a step and dropped his gaze. Really, Cadence was too easy on this thug.
“I cannot let her back right now; she is no use when in denial.” Cadence, Cadence. What a child you are.
I ducked under more crime tapes to take a closer look.
The Three Tenors.
January 1, 2003.
December 15, 2003.
Three victims—again. Stabbed through the heart—again. Left with calendars and posters—something new.
Something new in Minnesota.
Something new where I lived with my sisters. Where the three of us lived.
I walked past Clapp and said, “Our date is off.” If I were nicer, the stricken look on his face might have moved me. But I am not. And so it did not.
“Wha—Wait. Cadence? You look funny. Are you feeling all right?”
He was not talking to me, so I ignored him. I turned in time to see Agent Nance on his knees, carefully going over the ground in front of the trash with the methodical, tireless precision he brought to everything. A man I could appreciate, though the compulsive stealing was puzzling. Ah well. A problem for another day.
I passed Cadence’s local officer friend and said, “She warned you no fewer than six times.”
Lynn, standing in approved cop mode (arms on hips, eyes narrow and squinty), did a double take. A silly, clichéd double take, like this was a comedy instead of real life. “What?”
“Six times, Officer Rivers. Your warnings. Six. And she should not have had to, even once. Thirty-eights are awful in the field. Just awful. It has been documented. Many times.”
“Cadence, are you feeling all right?”
I managed not to roll my eyes. “You deserved worse.” I paused, considering. “Though I am glad you lived. It would have been annoying and not at all cost-effective to pay your family death benefits and hire and train a new recruit.”
Then—ugh! She was touching me. They were touching me. “I think it’s the heat,” Clapp said, looming on my left.
“You look pale. Are you gonna throw up, honey?” The female officer menacingly clutched my right hand.
“I am not going to throw up. I—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” George warned them, smiling.
“—have never thrown up. Now take your hands off me at—at—”
Geese.
“I have a point to make. We have seen this before. Stop touching me at once. My point—I have a point and you will listen!”
Geese.
Clapp’s slimy grip, tightening. Too close. Rivers’s wide face, leering. Coffee breath. George was the only one carefully backing off, which for some reason made me feel
geese
more out of control.
There were three geese flying overhead. Were they Canada geese? Oh God, were they? I could not I did not I would not would not would not I I I I I I iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Chapter Seven
this before.”
“This before.”
“This before.”
The man-boy Clapp now tilts his head,
tilts his head, tilts his head . . .
He does not know that I am here, I am here . . .
. . . allll daaaay looong, ’cause
The wheels on the bus go round and round . . .
. . . I am here . . .
. . . round and round . . .
George the Crotch gets closer now, closer now,
closer now, and the wheels on the bus . . .
“What the fuck
are you doing
here?”
He hisses.
I hiss back
“Hush,
There’s something here,”
Something here,
Something here,
“Of course there is,”
he grumbles back.
“Three goddamned fucking Tenors are here, and
a hundred fucking cops with no idea how completely
fucked up you are yes I said it you’re fucked up
and if you don’t let Cadence back I’m going to stop
whispering and say it louder and cute Jimmy Clapp
will cancel your date and they’ll put you in a
padded room where you belong and I’m not afraid of
you fucking bitch I don’t care what you think and
don’t look at me like that you know I hate that look
I’m just trying to solve this case like you we’ve
got a job to do so can you get Cadence back here
so we can fucking do it?”
Alllllllllllll
Daaaaaaaaaaay
Loooooooooong
Wait.
We did that part already. He talked to Shiro. He doesn’t know it’s me
Know it’s me
Know it’s me
Surprise!
George the Crotch won’t look me in the eye
Look me in the eye
Look me in the geese
And the wheels on the bus go
“Cadence can’t come back,
she’s not ready.”
So I step up to a body and
See three tenors.
See how they sing.
Calendars and posters, calendars and posters,
Calendars and posters, calendars and posters,
Something borrowed, something new,
Something new, something new.
“It all looks cutie, but
Cadence?”
It’s man-boy Clapp, who doesn’t know,
Doesn’t know,
Doesn’t know.
“Date’s off,” I say,
and walk away.
Alllll daaaaay loooooong.
Heeeey . . . hellooooo, sis!
Chapter Eight
FROM THE PATIENT FILES OF DR. CHRISTOPHER NESSMAN
CASE FILE #216B
SUBJECT: SHIRO JONES
Shiro Jones, hereafter 216B (see Case files 216A and 216C, as well as Root file Jones-216, code-named HYDRA, EYES ONLY; written and verbal authorization from MOTHER required before access allowed), suffers from multiple personality disorder.
Though arguably the personality with the most serenity and emotional strength, 216B is also the most volatile.
216A is the group’s most socially integrated member of the trio. She has friends, understands basic social mores, and conducts effective if limited engagement with local law personnel and other key partners.
216B is the group’s secure hiding place . . . and usually (but not always) the first to emerge from 216A. She keeps 216A safe, emotionally and physically. She plays an enforcement role at times, both internally and externally.
216B’s relationship to 216C is more difficult to characterize. If my suspicion is true—the “C” personality was created at the moment of defining trauma which caused dissociation—then “B” may have emerged later, as a “buffer” between the two dramatically different personalities. This would correspond with their perceived ages (B is the youngest at 23, C believes herself to be 24, and only A is correct in believing herself to be 27).
The personalities are as different physiologically as they are emotionally. Valium dosages appropriate for 216B generally risk overdose when administered to 216A and are not nearly enough to sedate 216C.
While hypnotism has had some enlightening and calming effects with 216B and her “sisters,” I have noticed increasing resistance to hypnotic sessions. This is troubling, as switching personalities is quite a bit like a hypnotic suggestion in the first place; it is for that reason multiples exist. More disquieting, their resistance is a major roadblock to reintegration.
If they succeed in throwing off their interest and willingness to be put under, we will need to find some other way to (a) communicate with all three, (b) keep the two less socially adept personalities under control, and (c) find out another method to encourage integration. 216B was the first to develop resistant behavior—perhaps, again, a protective or mediating tactic, meant to keep the other two personalities separate.
Many of these findings have greater detail elsewhere in this file, but their examination is useful in reviewing the transcript of June 26 (attached).
TRANSCRIPT: AGENT INCIDENT REVIEW
01:20, SEPT 26, 2010
BOFFO
REGIONAL OFFICE, MINNEAPOLIS
PSYCHIATRIST: NESSMAN
COMMENTS: Expectations were for agent 216A to arrive. Instead, 216B was dominant at the time. This is irregular behavior, as 216A is generally fastidious about keeping appointments.
Session begins 3120 hours, BOFFO building, Minneapolis, Minnesota
DR. NESSMAN: I won’t waste time with small talk, Shiro.
SHIRO: What an astonishing surprise. Are you well?
NESSMAN: What happened at the crime scene?
SHIRO: You know what happened. Do not waste my time.
NESSMAN: I heard from others. I’d like to hear from you.
SHIRO: Which part?
NESSMAN: You arrived shortly before BOFFO staff left the scene.
SHIRO: So? I come to help Cadence occasionally at crime scenes.
NESSMAN: Yes, well, that’s the point. It wasn’t Cadence who asked you to come.
Chapter Nine
Why had I showed up? Nessman might be an unimaginative bore in Sears suits and bad cologne, but it was a fair question.
One I knew was coming. The man was as subtle as a brick to the frontal lobe. Which just about explains modern psychiatry.
“Shiro? Did you hear me?”
“I have not gone deaf since our last interminable session. She could not see it. I could.”
He pretended to doodle. It was shorthand. Old shrink trick. I could read and write shorthand by the time I was six. I could read it upside down by the time I was six and a half. Cadence could not, but occasionally she would glance at Nessman’s pad of meaningless (to her) squiggles, which I could decipher later. Her photographic memory came in handy now and again, which almost made up for her cowardly inhibitions.
“Something about the crime scene bothered her. She became upset.”
“What was upsetting her?”
Yes, that was the question.
“Shiro?”
“Something about the number three,” I muttered, nibbling on a knuckle. I quickly stopped; the knuckle was scabbed and swollen. My sister was up to her old tricks, no doubt. I wondered if she had killed someone. Why was I thinking about her?
“It’s not like either of your sisters to disappear out of a crime scene,” he was jabbering. Among other things, Dr. Nessman enjoyed sharing facts I already knew. Next he would tell me the forecast called for breezy and seventy-six degrees.
Me, Myself and Why? Page 4
