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

by phuc

How many people were dying right now, at the hands of killers? How many innocents, this instant as Spence's shoes carried him across a parking lot, expired to torture, to atrocity? And what of other monsters pedophiles like Kathleen Shade's uncle? Did such a monster's lust rage now with each beat of Spence's heart? Was the spirit of some child somewhere, right now as Spence drew another breath being crushed to irrevocability? Spence felt sure of it.

  Some world, he thought. He'd been thinking of the world a lot of late. The world made little sense on nights like these.

  He stopped before getting into the car. He recalled his dream: being chased by something. But what? His ambitions? His failures? His success?

  No, there didn't seem to be much point in anything. The world didn't care. It left people with nothing beyond their dreams.

  He looked up at Kathleen Shade's windows, and wondered about her dreams.

  (III)

  The dream congealed, the darkness reformed into flesh by her horror. Kathleen's legs lay spread, paralytic. The sephulchral figure knelt beside her, its features not hidden by shadows but composed of them. Once again the hands of ink black bones displayed the morbid Polaroids one after another: the cigar box with the snake in it, the snake dumped out onto the bed, the snake uncoiling, then inching photo by photo toward Kathleen's sex.

  "The pictures, look," the figure whispered.

  It wasn't a malicious whisper; it seemed instead consoling, compassionate, despite what Kathleen was being shown.

  "They're still the same," the figure whispered. "The pictures are still the same. Look what's being done to you. Look, and see what you're letting someone do..."

  Kathleen grit her teeth, straining against the manacles of her terror. The darkness churned before the moonlight. Her sweat ran cold.

  "Such sad pictures..."

  The gun! Kathleen instantly thought. She remembered the gun Maxwell had given her. If she could only break out of this paralysis, if she could only get the gun...

  But...

  "What would you do then?" the figure bid. "What would you do with the gun?"

  Kathleen wasn't sure.

  "Would you kill me?"

  "I "

  The figure's black, grave dirt smile broadened. "You need to look harder at the pictures."

  "I've already seen the goddamn pictures!" Kathleen shrieked. Her muscles cramped as she jerked against the force which pinned her down. Tendons seemed to pop, cartilage seemed to tear. But, still, she couldn't move. "This is only a dream!" she shrieked on. "It's not real!"

  "But the dream comes from you, and you're real. So the dream must be real too."

  "No!"

  "And what about these pictures?"

  Flecks of spit shot off Kathleen's lips. "They're just a bunch of Freudian representations, symbols of my fears, and my "

  "Your past?"

  "Yes! They're symbols, just symbols! They're not real!"

  "But you haven't looked at the last one yet."

  In her struggles, Kathleen bit through her tongue. The figure's hands displayed more pictures of the fat, black snake crawling forward and, eventually, burrowing itself into Kathleen's sex. The third to last photo showed only an inch of the snake's tail dangling out, and in the second to last, the snake was gone.

  "You're sure that the snake is just a symbol?"

  "Yes!" Kathleen shrieked with blood in her mouth.

  "But a symbol of what?"

  "My uncle! My Uncle Sammy!"

  The second to last photograph drifted: Kathleen's bare legs splayed open. No snake.

  It's inside me now, she thought.

  "Look at the last one."

  Her eyes could not move away, her gaze paralyzed as surely as her arms and legs. In that last photograph, a second figure a male figure stood at the front of the bed. A black, boney silhouette shape against the moonlight. A caliginous, featureless face. Red lit pits for eyes. In its black hands it held a cigar box.

  Kathleen screamed blood.

  "Embrace your hatred," oozed the words.

  | |

  Chapter 21

  (I)

  When the phone on his desk rang, Spence stared at it. A muse made him go rigid an aural image.

  It was inexplicable.

  Spence's mother had died of a massive myocardial infarction back when he was still in college.

  They'd never understood each other very well; they were never really close. When they buried her, he remembered standing blank faced at the graveside. The service concluded, and Spence walked away. It was only an hour later, in his car backed up on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, that Spence suddenly burst into tears.

  He hadn't been crying as much for her as for himself his concreteness, his inability to feel anything for anyone.

  The memory returned now, as the phone rang and rang. His face felt cold while the back of his head bristled with heat from the sun in the window. He imagined something chilling. He imagined that if he picked up the phone, it would be his mother on the other end.

  "Spence," he said into the phone. "Major Case Section."

  Jeffrey, he imagined. You never loved me, did you?

  Yes I did! he suddenly wanted to scream into the phone.

  "Got second pass chromatography back from the McCrone labs in Chicago."

  "Who is this?" Spence whispered.

  "It's me, Kohls. I'm down here in workup." Kohls chuckled. "Who'd you think it was? Hillary?

  Vince Foster?"

  I did love my mother, Spence thought. But I never told her.

  "You there?"

  "Yeah, sorry." Spence wiped his brow. Even the killer had loved her mother, to the extent that she saw her ghost. He squeezed his eyes shut, then popped them back open. "What's that about McCrone?"

  "Got second pass source spectrums. Remember the first three victims, the human jigsaw? Plus Calabrice, the lawyer. Source specs on the tox screen read positive for a solvent compound called dimethylsulfoxide. It's an osmotic agent; they use it in hospitals and morgues to preserve histology samples. It's also a topical analgesic, a penetrating emollient. It makes anti inflammatory salves work better."

  "I don't follow."

  "Say you tear ligaments in your knee. This stuff, dimethylsulfoxide DMSO for short they rub it on your knee. Then, on top of it, they rub on an anti inflammatory. The DMSO bonds with the anti inflammatory and carries it deep into the torn ligaments, to reduce the swelling."

  Think, Spence thought. Why would she...

  "And that might explain my own tox screens that detected traces of isopropanol "

  "Rubbing alcohol," Spence translated.

  "Right. For some reason, she's using DMSO to carry something into their bloodstreams, then she's wiping them down with isopropanol to clear their skin for any prints she might've left. For a psychopath, she's pretty thorough."

  Spence would have to think about this. If he pondered it now, too quickly, he might miss it. Why use something like DMSO when she had free access to hypodermic needles?

  "Then there's your partner ‘Rome, the pimp. Remember the other day you where down in the shop?"

  Spence remembered. The tacky black skin freshly stripped of the mysterious duct tape used to cocoon the victim, to completely immobilize him. A mummy, he remembered. It looked like a mummy.

  "And I told you I found something asporous and crimson lining the insides of the nostrils?"

  Kohls was going on. "Well, the AFM computer matched it to a spectrum index."

  "What was it?"

  "Powdered red pepper. She blew the stuff into his nasal passages all the way down to his lower bronchi. Can you imagine that?"

  "No," Spence croaked.

  "I mean, the guy's wrapped up head to foot in duct tape. He can't move a muscle; the only thing exposed are his fuckin' nostrils and she's burning up his entire respiratory tract with powdered red pepper. Can you imagine the pain?"

  Spence didn't want to imagine it. He refused to.

  "And that's all before she cu
ts off the guy's works. Jesus to Pete, Lieutenant. You got yourself a real winner here. This chick knows more about torture than Einstein knew about relativity.

  Makes Adolf Eichmann look like fuckin' Dick Van Dyke."

  Suddenly Spence's head felt like a huge weight against his neck. He didn't want to think now about anything. He felt wholly incapable of it. He didn't want to deduce. He didn't want to speculate. He didn't want to make a single contemplation about anything in the world...

  "But I guess we'll get the blow by blow eventually."

  "What?" Spence said.

  "The exact details on what she did to ‘Rome. The killer should be sending her account to Shade any day now, right?"

  "Yeah," Spence said, rubbing his eyes. "Any day now."

  (II)

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE MUMMY

  You read about it once in Newsweek, a fascinating article about the Chilean secret police. They were masters of torture. Political prisoners would be handcuffed to chairs in a room. There was a hole in the wall. One by one, each prisoner would be taken to the wall, and his head would be inserted into the hole, and two soldiers would hold him there. On the other side of the wall were several starved dogs. The dogs would eat off their faces. By the time half the prisoners had been given the treatment, the remaining prisoners would be more than happy to reveal any secrets they might have. Often the service would abduct a prisoner's wife and children. The prisoner would be forced to watch as soldiers raped his family, and then tortured them with power tools. They were big on power tools. They liked to drill through joints. They also liked to perform amputations. A limb would be anesthetized, removed with an electric saw and then shown to the prisoner.

  Sometimes the limb would be thrown to a starved dog, and the prisoner was forced to watch it be eaten. As for female prisoners, their hands would be cut off. Then they'd be gang raped, tortured with needles and electric prods, and strangled, while other prisoners were made to watch.

  Religious radicals were frequently sodomized by soldiers in frocks, and then forced to perform fellatio. These scenes were taped and then sent to the subversive's headquarters. One time a subversive's wife had been abducted. She'd been forced to have sex with animals, which was also taped and sent to the husband. To soften prisoners before an interrogation, they'd be handcuffed to a chair in a brightly lit room for days. All the prisoner had to look at were dead children hung by their necks from the ceiling. Prisoners were categorized into three groups. There were those who were systematically tortured for information on subversive activities. Then there were those who were used for sexual recreation and to train the torture squads. And then there were those who were deemed simply as extreme enemies of the state. It was for this latter group that the very special procedures were reserved. Flensing, exsanguination, live brain probes, non anesthetic surgery. Blow torches would be applied to genitals. Spinal taps would be administered, and the drained fluid would be replaced by mild acids. Heads would be slowly crushed in steel presses.

  But one procedure appeals to you more than any of the others. It is perfect for ‘Rome. It involves red pepper extract and heavy gauge utility tape.

  You make him drive you home. Daddy's big pistol in his crotch is quite a persuader. You get him cuffed to the bed. The Amytal puts him out in seconds. First you put a packaged tourniquet on his right wrist and you cut off the defiling hand with a Deavers bonesaw. You'll use the hand later.

  Then you begin to wrap him up. This takes quite a while. You must do a neat job. You want him to look good when the police find him. You need to roll him along the floor to keep the tape tight and straight. When you're done he is completely wrapped up in the utility tape from head to foot.

  He looks like a mummy! That's what you'll call this chapter. You'll call it THE MUMMY. It sounds scary. The only thing not covered by the tape is his nose, so he can breathe. You put him back up on the bed in Daddy's Room, where the couch used to be, the couch Daddy fucked you on while The Cross glowed in your eyes. The bundle is moving a little now, and you can hear muffled sounds beneath the tape. You give him a shot of Desoxyn so you don't have to wait.

  You're fascinated by what he must be thinking, to suddenly wake up as a mummy. Sightless, speechless. He can't hear or move. All he can to is breathe and think and be afraid. You're ready now. You think about all the things he's done to women like your mother, and the things he would do to you if he could, and you're ready. You pinch his nostrils shut. The mummy begins to shake. On his upper lip, you sprinkle a line of McCormick ground red pepper. Then you release his nostrils. The red pepper disappears like magic when he is finally allowed to inhale. Now the mummy shakes and shakes, the smothered scream exploding and going nowhere. It's funny the way the mummy vibrates. You clamp the nostrils shut again, sprinkle on more red pepper, wait a little longer, then release. Pinch, sprinkle, release. Pinch, sprinkle, release. Each time you hold the pinch a little longer, to make him inhale the red pepper more deeply. You do this for almost an hour. Don't die yet, you think. With a pair of Doyen bandage scissors, you carefully cut a small square of tape off of the space between his legs. You see that he has urinated. Through the square you pull out his penis and scrotum. You caress it. The penis is shrunken in terror. You give him another shot of Desoxyn so he won't pass out. You're caressing, caressing. Then you quickly cut it all off with the Bruns shears and stand back to watch the mummy lurch like a frog on a hot plate. Then you pinch his nostrils shut again very hard. You wait and wait and wait, squeezing his nose shut until the mummy stops lurching and it dies.

  Kathleen let the pages slip from her hands onto the floor.

  (III)

  Man without a country, he thought. The streets smelled sweet. They'd confiscated all the cash at his motel in Newark. That's where he'd lived most of the time when he was making a run motel to motel to keep the feds off his trail. A few of his associates put him up, and he had various other places to stay between his treks to and from Jersey. In the business, a permanent residence eventually marked you if someone stooled. At least the goddamn cops couldn't touch his inheritance, which had been rolling over in the CD year after year. He'd paid his debt, goddamn it. People didn't understand anything. He had rights, too.

  Samuel Curtis Shade walked into the First American Bank on Pennsylvania Avenue. He looked slimmer in the rust brown suit, and older than his 47 years. This was reasonable; you turned to porridge in PC. They only let you out two hours a day, but that was better than general pop.

  Pedophiles didn't last long on the mainline the players ground you up. At least in PC they couldn't turn him into a cell block bitch. "I kin smell yo pussy, honk!" they'd yell on his escort to the showers or the quad. "Hey, kiddie fucker! You be my bitch when they put choo outa PC!

  We'se gonna bust you up!"

  At least in protective custody, he could think. He could remember.

  Especially Kathleen...

  "There's a penalty on early withdrawal," the teller, a long faced but otherwise attractive brunette, informed him.

  "I don't care." He closed one certificate and transferred it to savings, then withdrew 15,000 in cash. So what if he lost a little interest? As the teller commenced with the transaction, Sammy spied school snapshots of her children on her cubby wall. Cute kids, he thought. And mama's making another one. The teller was pregnant. It reminded him of some of the flicks he'd made.

  Natal Attraction, one was called. A couple of log boys double fucking some coked up blonde who was so pregnant she looked like she might break her water before the cumshot. Sammy's circuit produced all kinds of stuff what the feds called "Underground," the stuff you couldn't get from an ad in Hustler. Animal tapes, "wet" S&M, rape loops, a little snuff. But most of the circuit's orders were for kp. A lot of it came from the Netherlands; the rest they made themselves in the Jersey suburbs. None of the point people wanted the shit from Mexico and South America.

  They wanted white kids. Private mail drops paid as much as a grand for
a 15 minute 3/4 inch master if the resolution was good; from there they made mass duplications at each point. A mob guy named Vinchetti ran the works. His net duped a few hundred masters per month, and each dupe was ordered hundreds of times. Big money. Sammy was a production man and a mule; each month he'd drive up to Jersey with orders from the D.C. region, he'd help make the videos, then he'd transport the masters back to D.C. They paid well, a couple of grand per run, but Sammy wasn't in it just for the money.

  He liked to see the shit.

  The down and dirty, ball busting shit...

  Many a time he'd held the lights while Vinchetti's crew had done a snuff or a wet S&M job on some Jersey junkie. Many a time he'd been cameraman for such bits of cinematic excellence as My Lover, My Trunk; Lassie's Lucky Day; Legless in Seattle; Fist Party; Suzy Likes Showers.