'I understand. During those infrequent times what kinds of things did he talk about?'
'Hurts, fears, insecurities. The usual plagues of childhood. He was curious about his parents and went through a period where he felt they'd rejected him. I tried to support him, to build up his sense of self-esteem.' 'How much did he know about them?' 'Do you mean about the kind of people they were? Pretty much all of it. At first I glossed over some of the rougher parts, but he could tell I was being elusive and kept pressing me. I thought it was best to be honest. The fact that they'd used drugs really bothered him, which is another reason - now that I'm thinking rationally - that I don't believe he would have taken anything.'
'Was he aware of the details of his father's suicide?' 'He knew that Peter had hanged himself, yes. He wanted to know why, which, of course, is an unanswerable question.'
'What kinds of feelings did he express about it?' 'It enraged him. He said that suicide was a wretched act and that he hated his father for destroying himself. I tried to tell him that Peter hadn't done it to hurt him, that he'd acted only out of tremendous inner pain. I emphasised his parents' good points, too - how charming and good-looking Peter had been, his mother's talent as a dancer. I wanted him to feel good about his roots and about himself.'
Uttering a raw sound that was half laugh, half sob, she breathed in sharply and dabbed at her eyes.
I waited for her to calm down before continuing. 'I'd like to hear about his childhood behaviour patterns.' 'Certainly. What would you like to know?' 'Let's start with sleep. Was he a good sleeper as a child?' 'No. He was always restless and easy to wake.' 'Did he have frequent nightmares, night terrors, or episodes of sleepwalking?'
'There were occasional bad dreams, nothing out of the ordinary. But several months before he was hospitalised, he began to wake up screaming. Dr. Mainwaring said those were night terrors and probably related to some neurological problem.'
'How often did this happen?'
'Several times a week. It's one of the reasons we let him move into the guesthouse; the noise was frightening the girls. I assume they continued or got worse after he moved out, but I can't be sure because he was out of earshot.'
'Did he ever say anything when he screamed?'
She shook her head.
'Only moans and shrieks.' She shuddered. 'Horrible.'
'Did he ever wet the bed?'
'Yes. At the time of my marriage he was a bed-wetter. I tried everything to help him stop - bribery, scolding, a bell and pad machine - but nothing worked. When he was nine or ten, it stopped by itself.'
'What about fire setting?' ,
'Never,' she said, puzzled.
'How did he get along with animals?'
'Animals?'
'Pets. Did he enjoy them?'
'We've never had dogs or cats because I'm allergic. There was an aquarium full of tropical fish in the library that he used to enjoy looking at. Is that what you mean?'
'Yes. Thank you.'
She continued to appear mystified, and I knew that my questions seemed disjointed. But I'd asked them for a reason. Bed-wetting is common in children and, by itself, not considered pathological. But bed-wetting, fire setting, and cruelty to animals constitute a predictive triad: Children who exhibit all three symptoms are more likely to develop a psychopathic behaviour pattern as adults than those who don't. It's a statistical phenomenon, and far from ironclad, but worth looking into when you're dealing with serial murder.
I finished the developmental history and asked her to review Jamey's breakdown. Her account matched her husband's with one exception: She described herself as having wanted to get psychiatric help for Jamey years before but having been stymied by Dwight's refusal.
Characteristically, she followed the implicit criticism of her husband by singing his praises as a spouse and father, and excusing his resistance as well-meaning stubbornness. When she was through, I thanked her and closed my notepad.
'Is that it?' she asked.
'Unless there's something else you want to tell me.'
She hesitated.
'There is one thing. Up until recently I hadn't told anyone about it because I wasn't sure if it would help Jamey or hurt him. But I talked to Horace yesterday, and he said it could be helpful in terms of establishing that Dig Chancellor was a pernicious influence. He also asked me to cooperate with you fully, so I guess I should.'
'I wouldn't do anything that would hurt Jamey if that's what you're worried about.'
'After meeting you, I know that's true. He called you when he was in pain, so you must have been a meaningful person in his life.'
She put her hand to her mouth and bit the inside surface of one finger.
I waited.
'I had a dress,' she said, 'an evening gown in lavender silk. One day I looked for it in my closet, and it was gone. I asked the maid about it, checked at the cleaner's. Their records showed it had been picked up, but it was nowhere to be found. I was very upset at the time, but eventually I forgot about it. Then, one night, when Dwight was out of town and I was sitting up reading in bed, I heard a car door slam and the sound of laughter from the rear of the house. There's a balcony outside my bedroom overlooking the street. I stepped out onto it and saw Dig and a young girl, which made no sense at all. He'd parked his car in the rear driveway and was sitting in it with the motor running. I could tell it was Dig because the car was a convertible with the top down - one of those little classic Thunderbirds - and the light over the garage was directly on his face. The girl was standing by the passenger door, as if she'd just got out. She was a cheap sort - bleached blonde, a lot of costume jewellery - and she was wearing my gown. She was taller than I am, and on her it looked like a minidress. I was furious at Jamey for stealing it and giving it to such a tawdry little tramp. It seemed such a malicious thing to do. I stood on the balcony and watched them laugh and talk, and then the girl leaned over and they kissed.'
She stopped talking. In an instant she'd snatched up the cigarette she rejected earlier, jammed it into her mouth, and picked up the lighter before I could get to it. Her hands were shaking, and it took several attempts before she produced a flame. Putting the lighter down with a clatter, she sucked greedily on the cigarette, holding the smoke down in her lungs before letting it out. Behind the haze I could see that her eyes had filled with tears. She let them brim over, and the water meandered down her cheeks in leaky rivulets.
'They kissed again,' she said hoarsely. 'Then the girl pulled away and looked up into the light. It was at that point I saw it wasn't a girl at all. It was Jamey, in a wig, high heels, and my lavender dress. He looked grotesque, ghoulish, like something out of a bad dream. Just talking about it makes me ill.'
As if to illustrate, she had a brief coughing fit. I searched for a tissue box and spied one made of cloisonne on a small table near the piano. I pulled out a tissue and handed it to her.
'Thank you.' She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. 'This is terrible, I thought I'd done all my crying.'
I patted her wrist and told her it was all right. It was a while before she was able to continue, and when she did, her voice was weak.
'I sat up all that night, frightened and sickened. The next day Jamey packed a suitcase and took it to Dig's. After he'd left, I rushed to the guesthouse and searched for the dress, wanting to rip it to shreds and burn it. As if by doing so I could destroy the memory. But it wasn't there. He'd taken it with him. As part of some kind of... trousseau.'
'Did you ever talk to him about the theft?'
'No. What would have been the point?'
I had no answer for that.
'When did this happen?' I asked.
'More than a year ago.'
Before the Lavender Slashings started.
She read my mind.
'A while later the murders began. I never made any connection. But when they picked him up at Dig's house and I found out what they were charging him with, it hit me like a blow. The thought of my dress being used tha
t way - '
Her words trailed off, and she put the cigarette in the ashtray without killing it.
'Horace says the transvestism could add to the picture of severe mental disturbance. He also thought the fact that the dress had been taken to Dig's was important: That it would show the killings had taken place there and that Dig was the mastermind. But he wanted to hear what you had to say.'
All that seemed to pale beside one essential fact: She'd produced another bit of evidence linking Jamey - and, by association, Chancellor - to the Lavender Slashings. Souza's logic was starting to baffle me.
'Was I wrong to bring it up, Doctor?'
'No, but for the time being, I wouldn't go any further with it.'
'I was hoping you'd say that,' she said, relieved.
I put away my notepad and stood. We exchanged pleasantries and begun walking out of the room. She'd composed herself and was once more the gracious hostess. On the way out I again noticed the carvings on the mantel and went over to take a closer look. Hefting one of the heads - a half-frog, half-human visage topped by some kind of plumed helmet - I examined it. Dense and stolid, crudely fashioned yet powerful, emitting a powerful sense of timelessness.
'Mexican?'
'Central American.'
'Did you pick it up while doing field work?'
She was amused.
'What gave you the idea I'd ever done field work?'
'Mr. Souza told me you were an anthropologist. And your Spanish is excellent. I played detective and guessed you'd studied a Hispanic culture.'
'Horace was exaggerating. After I graduated, I took a master's degree in anthropology because I didn't know what else to do with myself.'
'Cultural or physical?'
'A little of both. When I met Dwight, all that fell by the wayside. Without regrets. Making a home is what I really want to do.'
I sensed that she was asking for validation.
'It's an important job,' I said.
'I'm glad somebody recognises that. The home is everything. Most of the kids at the centre had no home life. If they had, they would never have got into trouble.'
She made the pronouncement with a false bravado born of despair. The irony seemed to elude her. I kept my thoughts to myself and smiled empathetically.
'No,' she said, looking up at the carving in my hand. 'I got these when I was a little girl. My father was in the Foreign Service in Latin America, and I grew up there. Until I was twelve, I was totally bilingual. It may sound fluent, but actually my Spanish is pretty rusty.'
I replaced the stone on the mantel.
'Why don't you use the side door again? Those vultures are still out there.'
We retraced my entrance and walked through the kitchen. The heavy-set guard was sitting at the table reading the Enquirer. When he saw Heather he stood and said, 'Ma'am.' She ignored him and walked me to the door. Up close she smelled of soap and water. We shook hands, and I thanked her for her time.
'Thank you, Doctor. And please excuse my loss of control. You know' - she smiled, placing one hand on a narrow hip - 'I was really dreading your visit, but I actually feel better, having spoken to you.'
'I'm glad.'
'Much better actually. Was it useful in terms of helping Jamey?'
'Sure,' I lied. 'Everything I learn helps.'
'Good.' She stepped closer, as if sharing a secret. 'We know he's done terrible things and shouldn't be walking the streets. But we want him placed where he'll be safe and cared for. Please, Dr. Delaware, help us get him there.'
I smiled, mumbled something that could have been mistaken for agreement, and took my leave.
I GOT home at seven and picked up a message from Sarita Flowers that had come in two hours before: If I still wanted to, I could meet with the Project 160 subjects at eight the next morning. Please confirm. I called the psych department message centre and did so. Robin arrived at seven-forty, and we threw together a dinner of leftovers. Afterward we took a basket of fruit out to the terrace and munched while looking at the stars. One thing led to another, and we got into bed early.
I was up at six the next morning and walked toward the campus an hour later. A flock of pigeons had massed on the steps of the psychology building. They clucked and pecked and soiled the cement, blissfully unaware of the dangers within: basement labs filled with cellblocks of Skinner boxes. The ultimate pigeon penitentiary.
The door to Sarita's office was locked. Karen heard my knock and emerged from around a corner, gliding like an Ibo princess. She frowned and handed me two pieces of paper stapled together.
'You won't be needing Dr. Flowers, will you?'
'No. Just the students.'
'Good. 'Cause she's tied up with data.'
We took the elevator two flights up to the group room. She unlocked the door, turned on her heel, and left.
I looked around. In five years the place hadn't changed: the same bilious green walls encrusted with posters and cartoons; the identical sagging thrift-shop sofas and plastic-veneered tables. Two high, dust-clouded windows embedded with wire dominated one wall. Through them, I knew, would be a view of the loading dock of the chemistry building, the swatch of oily asphalt where I'd handed Jamey his shoes and let him expel me from his life.
I took a seat on one of the sofas and examined the stapled papers. With characteristic thoroughness, Sarita had prepared a typed summary of her charges' accomplishments.
MEMO
To: A. Delaware, Ph.D.
From: S. Flowers, Ph.D., Director
Subject: ACHIEVEMENT STATUS OF PROJECT
160 SUBJECTS
Preface: As you know, Alex, six children between the ages of ten and fourteen were accepted for the project in the fall of 1982. All except Jamey participated until the summer of 1986, when Gary Yamaguchi dropped out to pursue a career as an artist. At that time Gary was eighteen and had completed three years of study toward a B.A. in psychology at UCLA. His last evaluation revealed a Stanford-Binet IQ score of 167 and verbal/quantitative skills at the postdoctoral level. Efforts to reach him regarding participation in today's meeting were unsuccessful. He has no phone and did not respond to a postcard mailed to his last known address.
You'll be talking to the following subjects:
1. Felicia Blocker: She is now fifteen years old, a senior at UCLA, and due to receive a B.A. in mathematics at the end of this year. She has been accepted into Ph.D. programmes at numerous universities and is leaning toward Princeton. She received the Hawley-Deckman Prize for undergraduate achievement in mathematics last year. Most current Stanford Binet IQ score: 188. Verbal skills at the postdoctoral level: quantitative skills beyond any known rating scale.
2. David Krohnglass: He is now nineteen years old and has earned a B.S. in physics and an M.S. in physical chemistry from Cal. Tech. He was among the top ten scorers, nationally, on the M-CAT test for admission to medical school. He plans to enter a joint M.D.-Ph.D. programme at the University of Chicago next fall. Most current SB IQ score: 177. Verbal skills at the post-doctoral level: quantitative skills beyond any known rating scale.
3. Jennifer Leavitt: She is now seventeen years old and a first-year graduate student in psychobiology at UCLA. She has published three scientific papers in peer-review journals, two as sole author. She is considering attending medical school after receiving her Ph.D. and expresses a strong interest in psychiatry. Most current SB IQ score: 169. Verbal and quantitative skills at the postdoctoral level.
4. Joshua Marciano: He is now eighteen years old and a senior at UCLA, due to receive joint B.A.'s in Russian and political science. He has created a computer programme that conducts simultaneous trend analyses of longitudinal changes in economics, world health, and international relations and is negotiating for its sale to the World Bank. He has been accepted into numerous graduate programmes and plans to take a year off to intern at the State Department before beginning graduate studies at the Kennedy School of International Relations at Harvard, where he will pursue a Ph.D. an
d, subsequently, a degree in law. Most current SB IQ score: 171. Verbal and quantitative skills at the postdoctoral level.
An impressive synopsis, worthy of a grant application and, considering the purpose of my visit, gratuitously detailed, even for Sarita. But the memo's true message insinuated itself between the lines: Jamey was a fluke, Alex. Look at what I've done with the rest of them.
The door swung open, and two young men came in.
David, whom I remembered as undersized and soft, had turned into a linebacker - six-three, about two thirty, most of it muscle. His ginger hair was styled in a new-wave crew cut - cropped short on top with a long sunburst fringe at the nape of the neck - and he'd produced sufficient blond fuzz to constitute a droopy moustache and chin beard. He wore rimless round glasses, baggy khaki pants, black running shoes with Day-Glo green trim, a stingily collared plaid shirt open at the neck, and a ribbon of leather tie that ended several inches above his belt. His hand gripped mine like a vapour lock.
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge Page 23
