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

by phuc

  She laughed in spite of the consequences; it had seemed so unconscious, and so easy all of a sudden. Kathleen rarely said things she didn't mean to people close to her.

  I guess I meant it, she realized.

  The city remained empty all the way home, the pallid sodium darkness deepening its alleys, its littered streets and cement. Back in her own parking lot, she stuck her tongue out at the van.

  Randolph Carter Contractors my ass, she thought. They moved the van every afternoon; it wasn't hard to figure. Solely for my protection, huh, Spence? Just more bullshit. Spence needed someone close by in case the killer decided to drop in for a visit, that was all. In fact she felt sure Spence hoped that would happen. He could care less what happens to me, so long as he catches his killer.

  She shouldn't even think of him; the mere sound of his name in her head Spence, Spence pummeled her mood.

  Up in her apartment, she bolted the door, opened the slider and some windows, and shed the hot tank dress. She lit a Now 100, poured some iced tea, then sat down to appraise the disheveled papers on her desk. Yeah, she decided. I'll start tonight. The book's first segment should detail the sociological considerations of mental illnesses, and their effect on long term pattern behavior things she already knew about from college, and from her experience at the magazine.

  But what should I call it? There was a question. What title would she give the book? How about... Female Serial Killer? Ridiculous. Or... Murderess? No, no, that stank too. Too generic.

  How about... She paused on the thought. How about... Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman? She paused further, then: Yes, she thought.

  And at that same moment, as she confirmed the book's title, she looked at the clock, saw that it was 4:12 a.m., and realized that the phone was ringing.

  (II)

  Spence awoke from a deafening dream of the sound of helicopters, looked at the clock, saw that it was 4:18 a.m., and realized that the phone was ringing.

  Helicopters? he queried. Why dream of those? The night conspired to confuse him: the phone ringing, his grogginess, and also the sound of his beeper going off. He blinked himself awake, in the cloying dark, tried to shove away the dream's sonic thud.

  Then he answered the phone. "Yeah," he said.

  "This is Central Commo," a brisk male voice announced. "Lieutenant Spence?"

  "Yeah," he said, and suddenly it occurred to him that the heavy whopping sound of the dream the helicopter was still in his ears.

  "Six minutes ago, the killer made telephone contact with Kathleen Shade," the commo man said.

  Spence moved as fast as his heart, jerking up, turning on the lights, clearing his mind. "Trace the call through the public index," he ordered. "Did you trace the call?"

  "Trying, sir, but "

  "What the fuck do you mean trying?" Spence profaned. "It only takes two or three seconds to trace a station nowadays. Are the fucking computers down?"

  "No sir."

  "The MSC flag is locked into the program; the mainframe will lock onto the signal binaries. If the trace isn't coming up on the public station index, then it's got to be cellular. It's either a portable phone or a mobile phone. Do I gotta tell you guys everything? DF the fucking signal."

  "That's what I'm doing, sir. A cellular trace takes time."

  Spence was pissed. "How long did the phone contact last?"

  "That's what I'm trying to tell you, sir. The conversation is still in progress."

  Spence yelled "Call S.O.D. right now and "

  "I've got six triangulators on the road already, Lieutenant, and every patrol car in the city on priority standby. I've also got three helicopters up. One of them should be at your address any minute now."

  It was no dream at all. The sound of helicopter rotors grew closer, louder. "It's already here,"

  Spence said and hung up. He dashed about the bedroom, hauled on slacks and a shirt, stepped into his shoes without socks. He grabbed his gun, his ID, and, inexplicably, a tie. Then he was out the door and jumping down the stairwell three steps at a time.

  The neighbors'll love me, he thought, and then stepped out into what had to be the most ludicrous scenario of his life. He could imagine how he looked: A man in crushed clothes and unbuttoned shirt, hair sticking up, waving his police badge into a one million candle power helicopter spotlight. In the middle of a quiet apartment parking lot. In the middle of the night. The spotlight swelled. The helicopter a rebuilt white Bell JetRanger descended amid the chugging cacophony of its props, and a mad wind siphoned about Spence, which nearly sucked his unbuttoned Christian Dior shirt off his back.

  A ladder rolled out of the open cabin, and Spence climbed in.

  "Lieutenant Spence, I presume," the pilot shouted, in a bulging black PAC helmet that looked like and insect's head.

  "Get this thing up," Spence said. He fumbled to button his shirt. "You're going to raise my condo fees."

  "Welcome aboard. I'm Geralds, Aviation Section night commander." He thumbed over his shoulder. "The cowboy behind you's Fisher."

  A black guy in tac utilities nodded from the seat behind the pilot. Headset under a Kevlar helmet.

  Ballistic glasses. A long semi automatic rifle with a mean scope in his lap. S.O.D. sniper, Spence realized. Probably itching to blow something away.

  "Strap in, Lieutenant, unless you want to go through the roof of Constitution Hall." Geralds pulled back on the pedals, jammed throttle, and the helicopter rocketed off and up. Spence saw lights blinking on in his apartment building as he fastened his belt.

  "Got Central Commo screaming for you, sir." Geralds handed over a headset. Fisher plugged him in, then gave clipped instructions as to the assignations of the mode selector. "One is Central Commo, sir. Two, Cabin. Three and four Airborne units and All Units, respectively. Five, Auxiliary."

  Like I'm supposed to remember that? Spence thought. He felt for the selector switch, clicked it to One. "You've DF'd the signal, right?" he said.

  "The triangulation reads positive," Central Communications told him, "but it's not holding long enough to put a tack on the board."

  "That means it's definitely a mobile phone; that means she's moving. Keep the fucking DF on the fucking signal."

  Spence, not ordinarily a profane man, imagined every profanity. Beyond the windshield there was only blackness, oblivion, yet somewhere in that void, the killer was awake, alive, talking...

  "Lieutenant? You there?" the dispatcher asked.

  "Yeah, quiet," Spence said, rubbing his eyes. "Let me think a minute. I can't think in a helicopter."

  The sound of the turboshaft beat against his skull, and his stomach tossed against Geralds' over the top piloting. "Is the connection still in progress?" Spence asked.

  "Affirmative," replied the dispatch.

  "How long for a positive direction find?"

  "Depends on the lay. Couple of minutes if the weather's clear but she's got to stop or at least slow down. And the second she hangs up, we lose the DF."

  "Fuck, piss," Spence said. "Of all the fucking things."

  "I'm keeping on it."

  Spence thought of a T-bone steak being dangled before a chained dog. The universe is walking all over me, he thought.

  "We just got something on the DF board," Central Commo announced. "Then we lost it."

  "Well then find it again!" Spence yelled. "This is a fucking disgrace!"

  Geralds' brow rose. Fisher stared blank faced.

  "There it goes again, Lieutenant," the dispatcher affirmed. "We just got another positive DF, but it winked out before the board could process it."

  "Fuck!" Spence yelled.

  "And yeah there's another one."

  "So the killer's still on the line with Shade?"

  "Affirmative."

  This was infuriating. "There's gotta be some way you can at least grab a general loke."

  No reply, just a pause shuddering with the props. Then:

  "Got it!" the dispatcher rejoiced. "Upper east Nor
theast, it looks like, sir."

  Spence's heart was racing. The prop chugged like a flak cannon. He knew he must look to Geralds and Fisher like a pansy sweating the schoolyard bully. His stomach wobbled vigorously.

  He sat back in the hard metal seat, to catch his breath, to try and regain his cool. I'm running this whole show and I'm almost pissing my pants, he thought. Geralds frowned as Spence began to put on his tie.

  Then the commo dispatcher confirmed: "You're right, sir. The trace came through, Bell Atlantic Cellular, listed subscriber is a Jonathan Richards Duff, address "

  "I don't give a shit where he lives," Spence said. "Give me his car. Give me something we can see."

  "Subscriber vehicle listed as a ‘96 Nissan 2 door, 300ZX, 6 cylinder, orange."

  "Put an all points out on that vehicle now," Spence commanded. "I want everything that moves heading upper east Northeast."

  "Roger," confirmed the dispatcher.

  "You got that, Geralds?" Spence asked.

  "Upper east Northeast, yes sir."

  "So start flying this thing like you got a pair. Make me throw up."

  Geralds and Fisher smiled. The pilot's hands and feet jerked to opposite positions; suddenly the prop noise revved and Spence's heart was in his intestines. Geralds veered to such an extreme that the helicopter made the turn on its side. "I'm falling help!" Spence cried. Gravity snapped him against the seat straps. His gun flew out of his lap and began to bounce around the cabin.

  Geralds and Fisher were laughing aloud.

  Then the helicopter evened out, soaring through dark. Spence had been one pulse short of vomiting.

  "Here's your weapon, sir." Fisher gave Spence back his snub. "You all right?"

  Spence gulped, nodding. In the observation ports, the city's streets looked like an arteriogram, lit blood passages coursing through cluttered darkness. Tiny flashing red and blue lights, dozens of sets, could be seen racing along the veins all in the same direction. I got three helicopters, six commo vans, God knows how many S.O.D. vehicles, and every patrol car in the city under me, Spence inventoried. If I can't catch her with all of that, then I should be pumping gas.

  In another second, Central Commo was back on his headset. "I gotta positive DF, Lieutenant.

  Shade's still on the line. The signal isn't moving anymore."

  Again, Spence bellowed: "Give us a "

  "All units," the dispatcher announced, "Signal 5 to 2500 block South Dakota Avenue, 31st Street and Ames. Orange Nissan 300ZX. Confirm ID and standby."

  Spence's free ride through the heavens felt like a trolley on bad tracks. Geralds had one eye on radar and the other on a small terminal roving a D.C. grid map. The city was less than six miles wide. "How long 'til we're there?" he asked.

  "Thirty, forty," Gerald's answered.

  "You're shitting me! Thirty to forty minutes?"

  "No sir. Seconds... Hold on."

  The helicopter plummeted. Now they were close to rooftops; below looked like an industrial section. Come on, Spence thought, come on, come on.

  "Will you be unassing, sir?" Fisher asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Will you be getting off the aircraft?"

  "Uh, yeah," Spence said.

  "Hook him up with a hand held and earphone," Geralds advised. "Gonna be louder than the Super Bowl down there. Give him the megaphone too."

  Fisher affixed both to Spence's beltloops, then plugged in the earphone. Spence, pointing to Fisher's scoped rifle, said, "I may need you to use that."

  "Just tell me which eyeball, sir," Fisher replied. "But try to get me in close, like not past 300

  meters."

  Jesus, Spence thought. These guys think in meters.

  Long flat buildings swept past them below, giving way to darkly lit streets. Patrol units were easily seen now flying through turns and around corners. Then Geralds said, "There it is."

  Spence pressed his face against the door window. A residential section opened up past the industrial park. Beyond that, through building alleys, he could see South Dakota Avenue. Parked on a main street, by itself, sat the orange Nissan.

  "You run the radio show from here," Spence ordered Geralds. "Nobody shoots unless I say so.

  Got it?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Now let me out of this thing."

  "Sir, it might not be such a hot idea for you to go down there. Let Fisher go, he's gotta vest."

  "Let me out," Spence ordered.

  "Unbutton," the pilot said to Fisher. "You heard the man. Then take your firing post."

  The spotlight grew on the street, and the Nissan. Suddenly it looked like daylight. Another helicopter appeared like magic to their right. Fisher, umbilicaled by canvas straps to metal hooks, slid open the cabin door and threw out the ladder. The helicopter hitched down in jagged increments...

  "Commo check," Spence heard Geralds say through the earphone on his handheld. Spence pressed his mike button, said "Test," for lack of anything else. Geralds nodded and Spence climbed out.

  Fisher sat out on the edge of the cabin, aiming the rifle. Spence took three or four rungs down the ladder, then dropped the rest of the way to the street. What good were all those years of weight training if he couldn't take an eight foot drop? He hit the street, stumbled, and fell, tearing the knee out of his slacks. Come on, Curly! he thought. Mobile units poured in all around him, tires screeching, cops spilling out of doors to assume defensive positions behind their vehicles. When Spence got up, he was standing in a lake of insane, throbbing light and noise. He heard Geralds delegating orders in his earphone: "All units hold your fire until you've received the firing command. Acquire target: occupant of orange Nissan, white female, red hair, passenger side..."

  Yes, Spence could see her now. He stood twenty feet before the car, and he could see her, the tumult of red hair, the unearthly face staring back at him through the windshield.

  "Watch for crossfire and standby," Geralds was saying. "Do not fire until you've received the firing command. If you receive the firing command, do not shoot the guy in the white shirt..."

  Stepping forward, Spence raised his small revolver. To his rear, waves of guns cocked, and more vehicles screeched to halts, popping with lights. Then the third helicopter appeared above the alley which sided the car, a sniper with a laser sight aiming down from the cabin.

  Spence's stare seemed to pour over the pallid face behind the windshield. Something premonitory assured him that if he emptied his Smith snub right now, all five rounds would land in the visage that opposed him. However...

  "Get out of the car!" he yelled into the GE megaphone.

  The face, like a big pale egg lain in a crimson nest, only stared back in reply. Spence could see her blinking slowly. His gun felt like a component part of his hand. Not at his professional best, he yelled again into the megaphone: "Get out of the car right now goddamn it and put your hands up in plain sight or I'll fucking kill you! Do you hear me? I'll fucking kill you!"

  But again the only response was that uncanny and nearly astral blank stare.

  "Lieutenant," Geralds radioed. "Fisher's got a perfect bead..."

  Spence was thinking of Simmons, and the phase classifications of this particular insanity. The last phase, the Capture Phase. Is this it? he wondered. A reactive depression leaving the killer helpless against a sweeping urge to die? In the windshield, the woman continued to blink. Her discolored mouth seemed to droop.

  A moment later, though, Spence thought: No, no.

  "We gotta bead, Lieutenant. Just give the word."

  No, no, no, he went on thinking. He dropped the megaphone and unclipped the handheld. "Hold your fire," he directed.

  Then the woman lurched

  "She's moving!" Geralds yelled. "You better let us

  "Hold your fucking fire!" Spence yelled back. He could've cried. "It's...not...her," he said.

  No, he could see that it wasn't her. He could see that it wasn't even a woman...

  Spence put his g
un in his pocket. As he walked around to the Nissan's passenger side, a half circle of gun pointing cops followed him up.

  He opened the door. The occupant fell out onto the curb. Not a woman at all but a lean man in red panties and a stuffed, red lace bra. His skin looked fishbelly white. The sprawling red wig slid off against the cement.

  Despite the scene's din, Spence heard nothing now. He knelt down. Blood was running like an open tap from somewhere. The dying man's cool hands groped up as if to fondle oblivion.