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

by phuc

  you say, "keep it open," and he does, his eyes squeezed shut as spoonful after spoonful you put the pale ground meat into his mouth. "Close," you say next. His mouth closes. "Swallow," you say. His face freezes, his mouth frozen full of the strange meat, but his throat doesn't move. Make him do it! your mother yells. "Swallow it! Be a good boy and swallow it!" His throat doesn't move. "Okay, okay," you say. You plant your palm against his chin, push back hard so he can't spit the meat out, and you straddle him, and you keep pushing back on his chin, jamming his jaw shut, and then he lurches twice when you snip off the tips of his nipples with the Heath scissors.

  "Swallow it!" you yell, pushing, pushing back and eventually you see the single throb of his throat as he swallows the meat. You climb off him, smiling. "That's a good, good boy," you say, patting his stomach. You turn to your mother and say, "See, I told you Johnny was a good boy.

  He ate his manburger all up."

  Kathleen put the manuscript down, stood up shakily, and trudged to the bathroom. She hadn't eaten anything today (and it was unlikely that she'd eat for some time) but she slid down to her knees before the toilet and threw up regardless, just a few strings of liquid. Her face felt pasty, not from the vomiting but from what she'd just read: the imagery, the words, and the contemplations that lay beyond all that. Had the killer really done these things? Could anyone?

  According to Spence, the killer's deeds had thus far been authenticated by medical examination of the bodies. What am I getting myself into? she finally asked herself. I'm collaborating on a book with a psycho killer. This was the first time that the impact of that fact hit her. A murderer.

  A crazy person...

  When she meandered back to her desk, she noticed that still more remained of the manuscript; the killer had sent two chapters this time, the second entitled CHAPTER FIVE, MORE

  CHILDHOOD MEMORIES. Impossible, Kathleen thought. There was no way she could read anymore now. She was simply not up to it.

  Maxwell, she thought. Did the thought arrive merely as a diversion? She hated that about herself: never knowing the true reason that things occurred to her. Perhaps the thought arrived because she loved him. I wish I knew, she thought.

  She photocopied the entire manuscript on the copier she rented from Shields. Then she slipped off the absurd "evidence" gloves, and called Spence. "Lieutenant Spence," she was told by a man with a voice like gravel falling out of a dump truck, "is having a meeting with Dr. Simmons." I'm supposed to know who Dr. Simmons is? she thought. "Tell him the militant feminist columnist Kathleen Shade called, will you?" she said and hung up. Good, she thought. Now I have an excuse to go to Maxwell's. But why would she need an excuse? Why couldn't she call up Maxwell right now and say I'm coming over. I want to see you?

  I'm insecure, I'm emotionally unstable, she rendered to herself. I'll make up an excuse like, Maxwell, I just got another manuscript and Spence wasn't in, so I thought I'd drop by. It was easier. It was easier to make excuses than to reveal her true self. At least for now. She hoped the day came when she'd feel uncomfortable making excuses.

  The traffic didn't fray her nerves like it usually did when she drove to Maxwell's. A Pakistani grinned when she pulled into the pay lot and doled out seven dollars. When she crossed P Street and stepped into Maxwell's lobby she stopped cold. A man with a ponytail and a woman with hair cut short as a Marine's jabbered before the elevator. A dim corridor behind the empty guard's desk was barred by a proverbial yellow ribbon which read POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS.

  "What happened?" she asked. The man with the ponytail answered, "The security guard got shot to death about an hour ago. They found his body in the alley out back." "That's terrible!"

  Kathleen exclaimed. Death so close, she thought. Was it the same guard she'd seen last night reading the magazine? Had Maxwell heard the gunfire? My God, Kathleen thought. Death is so close all the time and nobody ever realizes it.

  She took the stairs up, leaving the couple to wait for the elevator. More images questioned her.

  Diversions? she wondered. Suddenly her head felt stuffed with visual sensations of sex. She wanted to feel Maxwell's mouth between her legs. She wanted to feel his penis in her. She wanted to come. But were these her true feelings, or just more pleas to distract her from the killer's newest account of atrocity? Somehow, it didn't seem to matter. To hell with reasons. Her lewdness, or her love, wrapped about her. She wanted to be in bed with him. Now, she thought.

  Right now.

  She knocked on Maxwell's door. She decided she would kiss him before saying a word. That's right, she thought. I'll put my tongue in his mouth and reach around and squeeze his ass before I say anything.

  But when the door opened, she could've screamed. It was not Maxwell who'd answered her knocks.

  It was Spence.

  | |

  Chapter 29

  (I)

  "Hi," she says. "I'm a friend of Kathleen's. I have a message she wants me to give you."

  The blond man looks back.

  He's slim, almost svelte.

  He's reasonably attractive, but she thinks, What does she see in him?

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Come on in."

  She accepts the invitation. "So how do you know Kathleen?" he asks once he lets you inside.

  "We both work for the magazine."

  "You said she has a message for me?"

  "Yes," she says. "This."

  "What the "

  From her purse, she's pulled the big revolver.

  She's pointing it right in his face.

  "This," she repeated.

  "Wait a minute. I "

  "Don't say another word," she instructs. "Lie down on your stomach and don't make a sound,"

  and at the same time she grabs him by the hair, keeping the gun to his head, and throws him to the floor, and she's straddling him, her knees pressed into the backs of his shoulders.

  He's pinned, his face in the floor.

  "Not a sound," she says.

  He doesn't struggle.

  She presses the barrel against the back of his skull with her right hand and with her left hand she removes the implement from her purse, a spring operated device called a Busch Automatic Injector, also known as a "chicken stick," mainly for diabetics who don't like to give themselves their insulin injections with a conventional hypodermic. She presses the injector into the side of his neck and it goes snap! and in a fraction of a second automatically expels 200mgs. of sodium amobarbital into his bloodstream.

  "You're...," he mumbles.

  She flips him over. "What?"

  "You're the woman...who's been writing to Kathleen."

  "Yes."

  "You're...the killer."

  "I'm The Purifier," she corrects. "Kathleen is a great woman, but she needs to be purified. She needs to be purged."

  He's out.

  She leaves a brief message, slings her purse, then puts him over her shoulder. He's not that heavy.

  She should have no trouble getting him downstairs.

  She's going down the stairs.

  "Help me!" she pleads in the lobby.

  The security guard at the desk looks up from a magazine called Cemetery Dance.

  "What "

  "My friend's in epileptic shock, I need to get him to the hospital!"

  The guard picks up the phone. "I'll call an amb "

  "There's no time! My car's right out back. Help me!"

  The guard takes the blond man off her shoulder.

  She frantically leads him down the hall behind the desk to the fire exit and bangs through the door.

  "Quickly!" she says and opens her car door.

  The guard puts the blond man in the front seat.

  "Thank you!" she exclaims.

  "I hope he'll be all right."

  "Don't worry."

  "Holy sh " the guard says when he turns to find the gun pointing at the bridge of his nose.

  The big revolver jumps and emits a huge sound.

  The guard's h
ead ruptures.

  She gets into the little blue Festiva and drives down the vacant alley.

  Away.

  (II)

  "What the hell are you "

  Spence showed her in. "Maxwell Platt has been abducted "

  "No!" Kathleen shrieked.

  " by the killer. About an hour ago. She took him out the back of the building. She killed the security guard with a large caliber weapon."

  "It's not possible," Kathleen stammered. "It's got to be a mistake."

  "There's no doubt," Spence said. He pointed to the wall.

  Very slowly, Kathleen's gaze crawled up the white sheetrock. Behind Maxwell's desk, and the pillar of magazines in which he'd been published, were the following words, written in lipstick: YOU MUST BE PURGED OF YOUR CORRUPTION.

  YOU ARE TOO GREAT A WOMAN.

  EVENTUALLY YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.

  "So now we know," Spence said, "exactly what she meant when she called you. Somehow she found out about your relationship with Platt. Platt's a man. She considers any man to be a blight, an element of corruption. Before she can trust you completely, she feels that she must purge you of your corruption." He turned to the slider, erect as a handsome men's wear mannequin in the finely cut dark suit. "I hope you're happy," he said.

  Kathleen glared. "What do you mean?"

  "You knew how dangerous the situation was. I warned you. I even told you it was grossly irresponsible to pursue a relationship with Platt while the killer was at large. I told you you were jeopardizing his life, and all you did was scoff. Are you scoffing now? Platt's gone, and it's all your fault."

  "Go to hell, Spence!" she spat back. "And where were your people? You could've prevented this!

  You should've been staking out Maxwell's apartment too!"

  "Oh, sure. In fact, we should be staking out every apartment building in the city. We should have a cop in every bar, every alley, every staircase and street corner. Every shopping center and convenience store. Every bathroom. Every closet." He looked at her in genuine disgust. "I barely have the authorization to procure funds for one stake out assignment much less two. You had to persist, didn't you? You had to egg this guy on when you knew full well what could happen.

  What the hell do you care? Now your book will be even more exciting, won't it? The biographer's lover actually kidnapped by the psychopath..."

  "I hate you," Kathleen whispered. She sat down on the couch. She felt mummified, dried out by shock. But Spence was right. It is, she thought. It is my fault. It's all my fault. Somehow she found out about Maxwell, she saw him leaving one morning, followed the cab home. He's...with her now.

  Beyond that fact, she could think no more. She began to cry, gritting her teeth, clenching her fists

  'til her nails dug into her palms. Her tightened face was a rock from which tears were wrung.

  "No witnesses," Spence related. "Except for the guard, but she took care of him. Third District Homicide got the gunshot call. Then they called me. I got a TSD crew coming out now, for all the good it'll do. She obviously parked out back in the service alley, to reduce the possibility of a passerby seeing the vehicle."

  But as hard as she tried to resist it, the question bloomed as a steady pressure in her head, like an artery swelling to burst. Kathleen quelled the silent sobs, her throat shriveling. "What," she asked, and gulped, biting off each word, "do you think she'll do to him?"

  Spence's brow crooked. A bald reluctance flushed his face. "Who knows?" he responded.

  "Is she going to kill him?"

  "He's lost. There's nothing anyone can do about it."

  "Is she going to kill him!" she shouted.

  Spence seemed to chew the inside of his cheek. "You're going to have to come to grips with the reality of this entire scenario. In the killer's delusion, you are a great woman whose only flaw is allowing yourself to be corrupted by inviting a man into your life Platt. She exterminates anything she deems as corruptive. It's all part of the delusion. Compassion is an alien trait to killers of this type. They've been shown no real compassion in their own lives; therefore, they can't demonstrate compassion themselves. People aren't people to them. They're objectified things, either to be envied, or despised. She despises men because they symbolize the objects of her trauma."

  The question, defeated now, famished, etched out of her mouth. "Is she going to kill him?"

  "Yes," Spence said.

  Every bone in Kathleen's body seemed to fuse. Her jaw fused. Her teeth fused. Her eyes melted.

  "In all likelihood," Spence continued, "she will kill him after a protracted period of torture. The extent of her torture will probably surpass that of any of her victims thus far, which is compliant with her psychological profile. For whatever reason, she envies you; you are something she sees as being greater than herself, and anything that dares to corrupt you, or interfere with her fantasy of being allied with you, will call for a particularly ferocious extermination. With each murder so far, she has out done herself. With Platt she will no doubt out do herself ten fold. I'm not saying this to upset you, I'm not saying this to amplify your grief. I'm only telling you this because it's important for you to accept and therefore adapt to the gravity of this situation."

  All she could do was look up at him, her teeth ground shut, her throat sealed.

  "Furthermore," Spence went on, "you must prepare yourself for the rest."

  "The rest of what?"

  "After she dispatches Platt, she will undoubtedly send you her written account. Down to every last detail."

  Needle Work, she thought.

  The Mummy, she thought.

  Manburger, she thought.

  Her face fell into her knees.

  All...my...fault...

  Spence was walking away from her, then back. His voice sounded a 100 feet above her as she stared between her knees into the carpet. "I know how you feel about privacy, and I know that you feel I have invaded yours to reckless abandon," he said. "I contest that I have I'm only doing my job. Nevertheless, I read this only because it happened to be in the perimeter of the crime scene. If I had known what it was, I wouldn't have read it."

  "What are you talking about?" came Kathleen's parched whisper.

  "This is obviously for you."

  "What?"

  "It's obviously something he wrote for you. It's unfortunate that he never had the opportunity to give it to you."

  Kathleen raised her head. Spence was holding an envelope.

  "I found it on his desk," he said.

  The envelope read KATHLEEN. It hadn't been sealed. The poem, she realized when she slipped the piece of paper from the envelope. She blinked hard, to clear her vision, and read: A KEATSIAN INQUIRY by Maxwell Platt

  Quickened to this heaven, and so enspelled,

  the poet looked at her asleep in bed.

  He heard her breathe, and beyond befelled

  the myriad verities he never said.

  Dare he wake her beauty in the moon?

  For what he spied such love! and in

  that precious moment didst nearly swoon.

  Yet on she slept a lovely sleep;

  here is the image his love doth reap.

  Oh, where is she now, and what are her dreams?

  And he remembers how the moonlight gleams,

  a resplendent angel in fine light dressed.

  And the poet thinks: Yes, I am blessed.

  Only a moment in the quiet of the night,

  an angel yes! in linens of light.

  And now, my love, my Kathleen, awake.

  Open thine eyes for providence' sake,

  and for my joy now adrift in nether.

  My love for you goes on forever.

  All passion's night, and Muses' day,

  and to his heart he then did pray

  for the power to speak!

  So shall he say it now, so the truth shall be:

  Kathleen, will you marry me?

  Kathleen reread the last line through fisheye tear
s. Then she looked up at Spence. He was standing away from her, facing her. His suit jacket hung unbuttoned, and inside of his waistband she could see the small clip on holster and his gun. She wasn't sure how long the moment lasted, or the desire, but she wanted to reach inside his jacket, take the gun, put it to her head, and pull the trigger.