Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman - Edward Lee.wps

by phuc

  "Thank you."

  This is very nice of him.

  But she still would like to pull his eyes out with the Duplay 3 prong cervical forceps.

  Later she's downstairs with her cleaning cart.

  The ER is empty.

  People must not be killing each other tonight, she thinks.

  Sometimes she gets depressed.

  She wishes she could just sleep and maybe never wake up.

  Why are you sad? her mother asks.

  "I don't know."

  "What?" asks an x ray tech coming out of the staff elevator.

  "I was just thinking out loud," she says.

  I was just thinking about maybe doing a torso job on you. I'd put S,K,&F tourniquets on your arms and legs and then saw them off. I did that once. I'd like to do it to you.

  The technician is gone.

  She feels better when some EMTs wheel in a bleeding black man on a gurney.

  The man is screaming in gusts.

  There's a bandage taped to his head, and he's screaming.

  A crash nurse takes the bandage off to change it.

  There's a small bullet hole in the man's head.

  Blood is jumping out of the hole.

  In moments several masked doctors are surrounding the man.

  "Heart rate's saying bye bye," one doctor says.

  "Code Blue!" another yells.

  They converge on the man to revive him.

  Prod paddles slide briskly over Redux conductant paste.

  "Charge up!"

  "Clear!"

  The LIFEPAK 4 defibrillator buzzes, then thunks.

  After five attempts someone says, "School's out."

  "Been a veggie anyway. Christ, they execute each other in the street these days."

  "So what? Saves tax dollars. These gunshot players we see every night? They're all on welfare, they're all knocking each other off in drug deals."

  "Come on," one of the doctors objects. "How do you know this guy's on welfare? What, just because he's black means he's on welfare? Just because he's black means he got shot in a drug deal?"

  "He got popped in the head with an SNS, for Christ's sake. And 10 to one when you read about it in the Metro section tomorrow, it won't even say he's black. If you say he's black, then that's considered racist."

  "You're the racist, Mike. Jesus "

  "And you ever notice in the Crime Beat, whenever someone gets charged or convicted, they never say if they're black."

  "Maybe it's because they aren't."

  "Come on "

  "You should start wearing a white sheet into the ER, Mike."

  "Yeah, well, I'll still bet my Porsche that the papers don't say this guy's black..."

  "Give it a rest, will ya, fellas? What is this, the ‘Geraldo Show?' Every night we gotta listen to the ACLU versus the Grand Wizard."

  They all laugh.

  "But how about those Skins beating Buffalo?"

  "Big deal, it's only exhibition. And what are the Bills anyway, 'cept a bunch of busted assholes who lose four Super Bowls in a row. Just wait 'til the real season starts. Watch the Eagles use the Skins for toidy paper. And Mike can bet his Porsche that Dallas'll roll right over them."

  "Dallas? Those milquetoast Texas queers? They trade undies with the cheerleaders, probably blow each other in their pickup trucks. Emmit, Emmit! Pay me four mil a year and I'll rush for a 150 yards a game, too. Just wait'll the Redskins' defensive line gets their hands on that earring wearing creamcake. The guy puts a potato in his pants before each game, and so do the rest of them. Bunch of cowboy faggots is what they are. Spend the off season swapping spit and holding hands. If Dallas beats the Skins, I'll move."

  "Hey, and let me tell you guys something about football. Look close at the stats. You ever notice how the teams with the most blacks on the first string have the best records?"

  "Give it a rest, will ya!"

  "Hey, anybody got an ID on this guy?"

  "Yeah. John something. Doe."

  They all laugh and disband.

  She begins to mop up, wishing the man had lived longer.

  She liked the way the blood squirted out of his head.

  Skulls mean death, her mother says.

  She watches her mother carefully injecting heroin into a vein in her foot.

  Earlier, she'd seen the resident walking down the empty hall toward the phlebotomy lab.

  WALLACE, M. PHLEBOTOMY his name tag read. He is the one who fucks the charge nurse up in the new ICU at night. He'd smiled at her and nodded as he'd passed in the hall.

  He'd like to fuck us, her mother says.

  "I know."

  He's just like Daddy, they all are.

  I'd love to sew his lips shut and cut off his cock with the Bruns shears, she thinks.

  When he'd passed her in the antiseptic hall, his skull glowed beneath his face like a Halloween mask.

  Skulls mean death, she thinks.

  Now she's up in the new ICU wing which still isn't open yet because of the refurbishments.

  The privacy curtains are a nice pastel slate blue color.

  It's very dark.

  She's peeking around the corner.

  She's watching the resident fuck the heavy charge nurse whose white skirt is pushed up over her buttocks.

  The nurse's hand reaches under her to play with his testicles.

  The resident is standing up pumping her on the edge of the convalescent bed.

  He slaps her buttocks every so often.

  Look at them, her mother says.

  I know, she thinks back.

  In her left hand she holds an Arista #12 scalpel.

  The blade is like a little hook.

  She knows she could kill them both probably before either of them had time to scream.

  She'd come up behind him, slide the blade across his subclavian artery, then get the nurse right across the throat.

  Then she'd dissect them both on the bed.

  She looks at the little sharp hook blade on the scalpel in her hand.

  Honestly! her mother says. Don't you ever think anymore?

  Her mother isn't in a very good mood today.

  No, of course she can't kill them.

  She can't kill anyone at the hospital.

  She can't kill anyone tonight.

  She'll have to wait 'til tomorrow night.

  She puts the cover back on the scalpel and slips it back into her pocket.

  Tomorrow night, her mother says.

  (II)

  Spence couldn't sleep. He'd waked repeatedly from an eerie, subterranean dream. A faraway red light was throbbing, like a heart. Spence was being chased through narrow stone corridor whose walls seemed to shed sweat or blood. He could only see by the pulsing light around each corner.

  Rapid footfalls pursued him, and panting. Running, he drew his Smith snub, but when he checked the five shot cylinder he found each chamber empty.

  Wait a minute, he thought in the dream. What the hell am I running from?

  He'd never found out, for next he lay awake in his bed. The clock ticked, though, in time with the dream's throbbing light. It was 2:30 in the morning; moonlight hung like a pale film on the window.

  It wasn't really a nightmare. Spence didn't have them he hadn't had a genuine nightmare in years.

  In the dream, he hadn't even been scared he was just running.

  He rose and padded naked to the bathroom. The fluorescent tube buzzed in snatches, then blinked on. Bleaching light made him look ghastly in the mirror: a muscular cadaver with hole punch eyes.

  He shook a can of shave cream Edge Gel and squirted a cross onto the mirror. Squinting, he tried to visualize it as the killer did, through Simmons' hallucinotic aura of light. But no revelatory totem occurred to him. Just a cross of Edge Gel, lime green.

  Next he wrote the word NASCENT into the glass. Exposed to the air, the gel fizzed and grew larger, limpening.

  Simmons had told him to find the nascent.

  N
ascent, he contemplated. It was an awkward word, stifled. It seemed cryptic. Was it in Kathleen Shade's work? Tomorrow Spence would read every back issue of '90s Woman since Shade had been writing for them. He would read every "Verdict" column. Perhaps the killer had written in once, and been responded to by Shade. Or perhaps the killer identified with Shade's response to some other reader's problem.

  Or maybe there's no nascent at all, he weighed.

  He didn't feel like going back to sleep. Instead, he showered and dressed and brushed his teeth.

  He checked his gun timid from the dream and found the cylinder full of Q loads. Then he left his apartment and drove to Kathleen Shade's.

  Spence's own mother haunted him during the ride. Diced thoughts irritating as pollen in the eye.

  He could only blame himself that his mother had died never really knowing him. He could still hear her voice from his senior year in high school. How come you don't go out with friends, Jeffrey? What could he ever say? He never liked anybody. I'm so proud of you, she'd said when they'd beat the shit out of Parkdale High at homecoming. Spence had played middle guard; he'd tackled Parkdale's star RB so hard in the first quarter, the guy had been out cold for the rest of the game. Cracked his fuckin' lights out. Spence was a hero. But how come you never go out with girls? You have your pick of the cheerleaders! Then his mother had laughed. You don't want people thinking you're one of those queer boys.

  No, Mom, I am one of those queer boys, he came very close to telling her.

  She'd have died right then and there, Spence thought now.

  The tac van read RANDOLPH CARTER CONTRACTORS along the sides, with a district phone number. S.O.D. even had a special line; if someone they were staking found the van suspicious and called the number, the S.O.D. operator had a phony spiel all ready.

  Intermittent lights in the parking lot seemed to prop the night's hot weight up over the complex; most of the three story apartment buildings appeared abandoned lightless, drab, their windows dead. Spence parked and got out. The parking lot swallowed him in its utter silence. He'd radioed ahead through the S.O.D. switchboard to announce himself, rather than risk being drawn down on by whoever their tac cowboy was in the van. A black guy, even more muscular than Spence, stood waiting in a utility shirt which bore the name of the phony contractor.

  "Lieutenant Spence?"

  Spence showed his badge and ID. "How's it going?"

  "Dead night," he was answered. "But the overtime's great. I'm Larkins. Come on into the war wagon."

  The van had been parked in the second row, facing Kathleen Shade's building entrance. War wagon is right, Spence thought once inside. A locked gunrack on the left shackled a variety of weapons: an AR 15A2 with a Starlight, an automatic shotgun, a Heckler & Koch MP5

  submachine gun, and an obscure bolt action sniper rifle with an ART IV 1.5 6x scope. Another rack was hung with several pistols, a Glock with an extended mag, and some pocket pieces.

  Larkins closed the van's back doors, sealing them into a cubby tinted by red night vision lights.

  "Anybody made you yet?" Spence asked.

  "Naw. We move the van every day. This place is pretty quiet, nine to fivers. No punks and not many kids." Larkins offered Spence a fold-down seat hinged to the van wall. The right side, before which Larkins lounged in a swing chair, sported all the van's electronics: three low light video screens, a triangulator made by General Electric, hash scanners for U.S. Park Police, EPS

  Uniform Branch, and some of the closer county departments in Maryland and Virginia. There was a lot of microwave equipment too, which tapped into cordless phones, and recording hardware. Mugshots of Heather B. Willet had been posted between the video screens. One screen showed the apartment entrance, another Kathleen Shade's balcony, from concealed cameras mounted behind the seats up front. A blackout curtain prevented anyone from viewing them through the windshield.

  "She up there now?" Spence asked.

  "Yep. Hasn't come out all day. A cab dropped the blond guy off about 7:30. Lights went out around midnight."

  "Love in the evening," Spence remarked. He thumbed through the operating log, noticing different colored ink for each shift. Then he looked at the balcony screen. They're up there now, in bed, he thought. Has she told him everything? Anything? What do they talk about? What do they do?

  It was hard to picture her sexually. He wondered how traumatized her uncle's sexual abuse had left her. How much of that seeped into her sex life now, with Platt? She'd never seemed traumatized at all, nor had she ever displayed the least bit of fear about the killer.

  What are you really like? Spence wondered.

  "She's got a piece," Larkins said.

  Spence's ponderings snapped. "What's that?"

  "Looks like a .38, four inch, kind of old. I think the blond guy brought it over for her. Somebody should tell them handguns are illegal in D.C."

  This interested Spence. Had Platt brought the gun by his own insistence, or had Kathleen Shade asked for it? And, in either case, why? As protection from the killer, or from her uncle? "I think we'll let her keep it," he decided. "It'll give me something to bust her chops about."

  "I'm sitting here all night waiting for something to go down," Larkins observed, "but I got this feeling nothing will."

  "You're probably right. The killer has to know we're on to her. But she's psychopathic. Lotta times psychopaths get fuzzy on the dividing line between fantasy and reality. And they make mistakes. That's what we're counting on. She might come here in a fugue state, or when she's deep in one of her delusions. Then we've got her."

  Larkins inclined back, his lat muscles expanding massively as he laced his fingers behind his head. "It's almost like we're using Shade for bait," he said.

  Spence's face ticked in the red light. Simmons had implied the same thing, but directly toward Spence. Am I that desperate? he asked himself. "Whatever the fascination the killer has for Shade," he said, "that's what we're using for bait. Might all be for nothing now, though."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Bad timing. Shade seemed very enthused about being contacted by the killer I hoped to be able to use that, too. But now I'm not so sure. When she was a kid, she was sexually abused by her uncle. She got over it pretty good in therapy... But yesterday her uncle got out of the joint on early release. So now " Beside the mugshot of Heather B. Willet, Spence posted an 8x10 of Samuel Curtis Shade. " you've got two people to be on watch for."

  "A pedo, huh? Goddamn short eyes." Larkins scrutinized the photograph. "It's funny how you can tell a person's skell just by how they look."

  "Yeah," Spence agreed. Kathleen Shade's Uncle Sammy looked like a big angular head on a long neck, beady eyes too close together, bald on top. The face was all cheekbones and hollows, and he had a tight little twist for a mouth. His Adam's apple jutted like a walnut in his throat. "Real sick fuck material here. You think he might cruise by to peep on her?"

  Spence shrugged. "I doubt it, not while he's on parole. But just because the corrections board let him out doesn't mean he's not still fucked up. I got a big problem with any guy who diddles with kids. He made a lot of kiddie porn for the mob."

  "I hope he's got the balls to come by here," Larkins said. "I'll make sure to read him his rights before I kick his ass up and down the street. Yeah, he and I would party... Kind of sucks for Shade, though. Like she hasn't got enough problems with some killer buzzing her. Now she's got to worry about this scumbucket."

  Larkins was right. Sometimes the past could be very haunting. The last thing Kathleen Shade needed right now was a revisitation of her past. It wasn't fair. Any released felon had an automatic restraining order; they were free to walk the streets as long as they didn't go near their victims. Any reasonable intent whatsoever, and they were back in the slam. But Spence also knew that was hardly a protection.

  "I'm out of here," Spence said. "Don't die of boredom."

  "I'll try not to, Lieutenant." Larkins let him out the back of the van. He looked
like a black ghost in the blood red light. Then the doors pulled shut, leaving Larkins to his monitors and his cache of guns.

  Spence walked back to the unmarked. The heat cloyed him, even this late; the only breeze felt like a furnace draft. The world was abed, but did monsters dream? It was a frightening thought.