Shame

by Alan Russell

  The Kipper offered his question while stroking the large microphone in front of him. There was a good reason, Elizabeth thought, why many radio personalities did much better as voices than as people. Kip thought he was God’s gift to women. During the break he’d suggested that Elizabeth hang around until he was off at 1:00 a.m., at which time they “could catch a bite, or whatever.”

  That’s why very long bubble baths had been invented, Elizabeth thought. To wash away certain days.

  “I’m afraid the reports of Gray Parker’s body parts,” Elizabeth said, “have been greatly exaggerated.”

  Even Shakespeare, Elizabeth comforted herself, had often resorted to ribaldry to amuse the groundlings. Over Kipper’s laughter, she continued. “I’m not referring to the size of his organ. Of that, I have no knowledge to offer. But the rumors of his bodily remains have persisted for years.

  “The basis for the talk, I’m fairly certain, stems from his attempts to have his organs donated. Parker wanted his death to have some meaning, or at least that’s what he publicly stated, but his method of execution didn’t allow that. To be usable, organs have to be removed while the donor’s blood is still circulating, and his being electrocuted eliminated that possibility.”

  “You don’t think there’s any chance, then,” Dave asked, “that someone collected a souvenir?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “He was cremated just a short time after his execution.”

  “Then how’s come I keep hearing there’s a big market out there trafficking in everything from his fingers to his ears to his, well, you know?”

  “Guess we’d call that a Gray market,” Kip said.

  Elizabeth let their laughter die down before answering. “No part or parts of Gray Parker survived his execution,” she said, “but that’s not to say there hasn’t been a morbid history to collecting of such souvenirs. There was a hanging in Kentucky in the thirties where people fought over the disposition of the death mask, and worse, hacked off pieces of the body as keepsakes.”

  “You got whut in your freezer?” said Kip.

  “And it wasn’t that long ago when sideshow exhibits displayed the bodies of executed criminals. But luckily, those days have passed.

  “Incidentally, Dave, the rumor about Parker and his supposedly gargantuan organ isn’t anything new. The same stories were told about John Dillinger. It seems that every generation wants its villain to be some sort of superman. Why that is, I don’t know.”

  “Thank you,” Dave said.

  He sounded sort of breathless, Elizabeth thought. She hated to think what might be exciting him.

  “In the pursuit of science,” Kip said, “I think I should take this opportunity to offer a twenty-five-dollar reward to anyone who can produce Gray Parker’s penis in a bottle. It’d make a hell of a centerpiece at a cocktail party I’m having next week.”

  Kip gave Elizabeth his best “Ain’t I a bad boy?” look. She mentally added another five minutes to her long-awaited bath.

  “And now,” Kip said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to kill a little time with a commercial. Stay tuned for more of Elizabeth Line and true crime.”

  Kip patted Elizabeth on her knee, took off his headphones, and stood up. The removal of his headphones caused his toupee to tilt. “Got to powwow for a minute with Chief Engineer,” he said.

  Elizabeth didn’t tell him it looked as if he had already been scalped. He patted her shoulder before leaving the room, and she began to reconsider her stand on the death penalty.

  The broadcast room was in semidarkness. Elizabeth didn’t know whether the Kipper liked to do his show in a dimly lit studio or whether the lights were low for her benefit. She rolled her head but couldn’t get a crick out of her neck. With a sharp movement of her head, she was able to produce a resounding crack. It was a good thing the sound hadn’t been broadcast, Elizabeth thought. Chiropractors would have been flooding the lines. She closed her eyes and felt the tiredness in her body. It was her job, she reminded herself, to remain upbeat, to sound as if every question was new to her. She was supposed to be a professional cheerleader. Give me an M, give me a U, give me an R...

  “Miss me?” asked Kip.

  D, E, R, she thought.

  He didn’t wait for an answer, merely settled into his broadcast paraphernalia, signaled the engineer, and started talking.

  “We have the pleasure of hosting the Queen of True Crime tonight, Ms. Elizabeth Line. She’s here to talk about her latest book, A Magnolia Hanging. It’s the story of a young Kentucky woman found hanging in a small town’s showcase magnolia tree. The circumstances of this woman’s death are, to say the least, mysterious. No one’s quite sure whether she hung herself or went unwillingly to the noose. But there she was found one June morning, swaying in the midst of all those resplendent magnolia blossoms.

  “You stayed for a time in the town of Little River, Kentucky, where all this happened, didn’t you, Elizabeth?”

  “I was there for six months,” she said. “Whenever I write a book, I always include a lot of background and history of the area.”

  “The local color,” said Kip.

  “That,” she said, “and more. Sometimes there are histories and patterns to certain locales that seem to repeat themselves. It’s almost as if people get caught up in webs they’re not even aware of.”

  Kip’s eyes glazed over. There was no way he was going to be drawn into some metaphysical discussion. He changed the subject, offering a safer question.

  “What did people think of you, an outsider, coming in and nosing around?”

  “Most of them realized I was there to do a job. On the whole the citizens of Little River were very accommodating to me.”

  “Well, we have a lot of listeners waiting for you to accommodate them, Elizabeth. Here’s Ken calling from the city of angels, Los Angeles, California.”

  “Hello, Ken.”

  “You’re attracted to the rough stuff,” he said, “aren’t you?”

  Ken’s voice was gravelly, making his question sound all the more harsh. His words were slightly slurred.

  Another caller emboldened by alcohol, Elizabeth thought. “Violence is unfortunately a fact of life in this country,” she said. “There are over twenty thousand homicides in America every year, and at any given moment the FBI estimates there are more than thirty-five serial killers out there trolling for victims. That’s my beat, so to speak, and yes, it is a rough one.”

  “Ever stop to think a lot of bitches out there need killing?”

  Elizabeth took a long breath. She and Kip exchanged glances. His hand signal deferred to her.

  “Is that your opinion, Ken?”

  The caller laughed—harsh, barking, mirthless. “It’s more than my opinion,” he said, his voice mocking.

  “Do you know anything about such killings, Ken?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’ve got a couple notches on my belt. Plan to get a few more, too.”

  “Have you murdered any women?”

  “I’ve done me a few bitches,” he said.

  Elizabeth suddenly heard the engineer’s voice in her right headphone: “We just bleeped that out, Kip, and we’ll be going from the jingle to commercial break. But if Ms. Line can keep him talking, we’ll put a trace on the line.”

  She turned to the engineer and signaled that she understood. She was glad that half a million listeners weren’t going to be privy to this particular conversation.

  “Can you tell me about what you did?” she asked.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m curious as to what those women did to anger you.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” he said, then laughed. “Here kitty, kitty.”

  “You didn’t really kill anyone, did you, Ken?”

  “I got two ex-wives, and I do mean ex, who’d beg to differ, lady.”

  “You’re saying you killed your wives?”

  “Yeah. And a couple whirly-girlies aren’t trading anymore because I pu
t them out of business in a permanent way.”

  “Whirly-girlies?”

  “Whores. Hookers.”

  “Have you been convicted for any of those crimes?”

  He laughed. “Haven’t you heard? Wives run away all the time. That’s what the cops told me, and I believed them, oh, yes, I did. And who cares about hookers?”

  “What’s prompted you to act as you have?”

  “Like my daddy always said, ‘If bitches didn’t have a pussy, there’d be a bounty on them.’ I never run short of no reasons to do away with them.”

  Elizabeth could see the engineer working feverishly, doing his best, she was sure, to land her fish.

  “What reasons?”

  “They’re nosy, like you.”

  “And for that you killed them?”

  “And sometimes they acted high and mighty, like you’re acting now.”

  “How did you murder them?”

  “That’s a trade secret. But I’m always willing to learn new tricks. I like the way Shame took care of business. You was real good about describing that in your book. Made me feel like I was right there.”

  She had wanted readers to be sickened by those passages. His reaction, his exultation over the violence, made her feel ill. She didn’t want to continue talking, but Kip kept gesturing to her, his hands coming together and apart, imploring her to stretch the conversation just a little longer.

  “So you admire Gray Parker?” she asked.

  “He had the right idea, that’s for sure. The only mistake he made was not doing you when he had the chance.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t agree with you.”

  “I’m not sure if I will. I’m not sure if I don’t owe you one for Shame. The way I see it, you’re just unfinished business.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I don’t make threats. I just do what I do.”

  “And if we’re to believe you, what you do is murder.”

  “If you get rid of vermin, you’re an exterminator, not a murderer.”

  Somehow Elizabeth was keeping her voice steady. Unflappable. Behind the calm voice, though, were shaking knees and a face gone pale. The caller was scary. She half believed him.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, poetry lady, that’s so. Think you’re so goddamn superior, don’t you? Well, reciting poetry in the middle of the night isn’t always gonna save your ass. Fact is, I’ve been working on a poem for you, seeing’s how you like poetry so much. I’m thinking of carving it somewhere. Maybe on your ass.”

  “I hope it’s a short poem then,” Elizabeth said. “I’d hate to think that part of my anatomy could support a really long poem.”

  “You’re a smart-mouthed cunt.”

  “Do you really have a poem, Kenny? Or is that just another one of your lies?”

  “You’re afraid of my truth, lady. And you should be.”

  “You’re wrong there. That’s my job. I look into dark corners. I open doors that most people would leave shut.”

  “If I were you, I’d be shitting in my pants, bitch.”

  “I’m sure you would, Kenny.”

  He started cursing, didn’t stop until he needed a long breath.

  “Did that make you feel better?” she asked.

  “Cutting off your head will make me feel better.”

  “I think only one of us has lost our head in this conversation.”

  “Talk is cheap. Bitch like you thinks you’re so smart, spouting off words. I’ve got a few words for you.”

  “I thought you had a poem.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Ken didn’t say anything for several seconds. Elizabeth didn’t offer him an out, just waited in silence. Then he started reciting:

  “I hear your heart beating,

  Awaiting our meeting,

  I wonder at your greeting,

  When my knife meets your flesh.

  Will you scream out in pain,

  Will your tears run like rain,

  Will your blood gush from a vein,

  When my knife meets your flesh.”

  He wanted her to react; Elizabeth knew that with certainty. He wanted her to be afraid, to plead with him that he shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts. He hoped she would scream, or shout that he was a sick bastard, or hang up in fear.

  Instead, she asked, “You know what, Kenny?”

  Suspiciously: “What?”

  “I think you should take your knife to the poem before you direct it my way. We’re talking major-league awful.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “But you know what I like best about that poem, Kenny?”

  He hesitated before asking, but he had to know: “What?”

  “That it’s over.”

  Sounds of raw anger came over the phone, inarticulate, guttural hatred, and then another sound—a dial tone.

  3

  THE PHONE TRACE proved successful but only to the extent that they learned where the call had been made.

  “Pay phone in Anaheim, California,” the engineer announced. “Near Disneyland, I’m told.”

  “Must have been Mickey Mouse calling,” Elizabeth said.

  They continued with the show, making no on-air references to the call. There was no reason to encourage other kooks. At the show’s conclusion, Elizabeth declined Kipper’s offer to escort her personally up to her hotel room “just to make sure everything is okay.” Everything would be okay once she got her bubble bath.

  As the bath was running, Elizabeth called her service for messages. The deputy’s call finally caught up with her at 2:32 a.m. She found it much more upsetting than Ken’s call.

  “Shit,” she said, punching in her code to replay the message and listening to the deputy sheriff’s information a second time. “Shit,” she said again, then called the airport to get the first flight out to San Diego.

  She never did get her bubble bath.

  The jet shook yet again. More turbulence. The pilot came on over the intercom.

  “Sorry about those bumps, folks, but we’re going to be experiencing some Rocky Mountain love taps for a while yet. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened.”

  Elizabeth thought that the turbulence suited her frame of mind. She remembered how Gray Parker—Shame—had turned her life upside down. Parker had been the impetus for Elizabeth’s becoming the Queen of True Crime (a label her publisher insisted upon putting on every one of her books—all twelve of them).

  Shame had been her first book. Even with all her books since, Elizabeth’s name was still linked with Parker’s nickname, so much so that she was convinced there was some unwritten rule that emcees and announcers and interviewers were obligated to link their names in the same breath.

  The jet dipped again. Stomachs lurched, and anxious voices called out. The man sitting next to her reached for his air-sickness bag. But Elizabeth didn’t feel the topsy-turvy motion in her stomach so much as in her head. Thinking about Gray Parker did that to her. With the new developments there was this sense of things past, even if that wasn’t appropriate. Any mirror could tell her that. She had been twenty when he came into her life, and now she was forty-five. Besides, this wasn’t Parker. He was dead. This was just a copycat murderer.

  Elizabeth had first heard from the officer the week before when he’d called to tell her about the young woman’s body that had been left in the desert, her back to an ocotillo, the word SHAME written on her naked flesh. At the time, she had hoped it wasn’t the beginning of a pattern, had thought it possible that someone had just written the word to mislead the authorities, to divert attention.

  So much for her wishful thinking.

  The timing was bad, she told herself. She was halfway through another book. She didn’t like the idea of stopping and starting, of literary coitus interruptus. But that wasn’t really it. She had closed a lot of personal doors on the original Shame murders and had no desire to open them. At the same
time she had a proprietary attitude about anything having to do with Gray Parker. It was her beat, and she wanted to stake her claim.

  She wondered at the timing of the new murders. Parker had been executed over twenty years earlier, and copycat killers usually strike while the headlines are large, while they can be part of the notoriety. Old murders were yesterday’s news, forgotten by everyone save those close to the victims.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, remembering the night Gray Parker had come into her life. She had awakened to him saying, “Don’t scream.”

  Her first thought was that her boyfriend, Dan, had come over to apologize. They’d had a fight the week before, and in that time neither of them had offered an olive branch to the other. But Dan wouldn’t have sneaked into the sorority so late at night. The room was dark, but there was enough light for Elizabeth to make out the shape of the man’s head. It definitely wasn’t Dan sitting on the bed next to her, but she was suddenly sure who it was.

  “I won’t scream,” she said.

  I won’t give you that satisfaction, Barry Gilbert, she had thought. But you’re never going to come into my room uninvited again. Whenever Barry came over to see Tracy his eyes always lingered on her, and though Elizabeth had tried to ignore his attentions, he had always made a point of seeking her out. Tracy seemed oblivious to his flirting, and Elizabeth hadn’t wanted to make an issue of it, so nothing had ever been said.

  “I’m tired,” he said. “I’ve never been so tired before.”

  Everyone was tired, Elizabeth thought. She had little sympathy for him. It was finals week, and she had allocated herself only four hours of sleep. “What are you doing in my room?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer her question. “All the other times were so exhilarating. They made me feel so...connected. The power went from my fingertips to my spine and then up and down my body.”

  Elizabeth had to will herself to continue breathing. Her chest felt frozen. It wasn’t Barry who was sitting on her bed. Barry was from New Jersey and sounded like it. This man had a Southern accent. Did she know him? Should she scream? She wanted to believe he was a drunken student just blowing off steam from the pressures of finals, a friend of Tracy’s or Paula’s.