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The Venus Complex

Page 12

by Barbie Wilde

My orgasm was as powerful as the last time, if not more so.

  Afterwards, I took her into the en suite bathroom. I washed her body, dried her, took her back into the bedroom and went to work. After a while, I finished with the painting and commenced the clean-up operation. When I was done, I moved my car around the corner. I don’t know what possessed me to do that, but it must have been instinct. I paid one more visit to Katrin. I was in her room adjusting the room temperature, when I heard the front door open and shut.

  My heart felt like it had stopped beating.

  I heard someone bumbling around in the living room. Then a female voice calling, “Katrin?” I walked quickly over to the bedroom door and locked it. Two seconds later, the doorknob jiggled.

  I took the bull by the horns and said in a deep voice, “She’s got a visitor!”

  On the other side of the door, I heard a giggle and an apologetic “Sorry!”

  The sound of footsteps walking away.

  What the fuck was I going to do now?

  I was panting with anxiety. Then I calmed myself. This was just another problem to solve. So solve it.

  I looked around the room. There was a large window by the bed. I went over to inspect it and the view. The window was big enough for me to exit and it wasn’t that far to the ground, but I could tell that I would leave footprints in the mud around Katrin’s shrubbery if I decided to go out that way.

  I listened at the door. No sound. Perhaps Katrin’s guest had gone to sleep. (I knew that she had to be a houseguest and not a roommate, because I had made very sure that all my girls lived by themselves.)

  There was always the option of killing the guest and adding her to my pantheon of goddesses, but I felt uneasy about it. More time spent at the scene, more mistakes to be made because of the shock of the interruption, more possibilities of capture.

  I turned off the bedroom light and waited.

  After an hour, I carefully unlocked the door and opened it. The lights were off in the living room and I could hear gentle feminine snoring coming from the second bedroom.

  I slid out of Katrin’s room, shutting and locking the door behind me and made for the front door. I checked the neighborhood from the dark safety of the front porch before I strolled to my car.

  After the disposal of the evidence in the usual manner, I was on my way to the airport, safe and sound. No one saw me. I felt almost sick with the fear of discovery. I didn’t relax until I got home.

  Lying on my bed, I did not relive my time with Katrin. I did not masturbate to sweet fantasies and memories of sex and death. I just wondered at my pure, unadulterated luck. A minute before or after and the guest would have spotted me. But she didn’t. I was like a ghost, sliding in and out of my victims’ lives and sucking their spirits clean and dry.

  I had done it again. I moved amongst them like the shadow of death and no one knew, no one suspected. I had a close call, but I passed the test.

  I am unstoppable. I am untouchable. I will succeed.

  ENTRY 62:

  AN ALLEGORY OF VENUS AND CUPID:

  The goddess Venus is presented to us in one of Bronzino’s typically rigid, unnatural poses. She is not looking out at the viewer. On the contrary, her head is turned sharply to the right and she is looking at the arrow that she is grasping awkwardly between her fingers of her right hand like a paintbrush—her pinkie finger extended as if she were taking tea with the Queen. Her legs are curled up at the knee and if she wasn’t on her back, she would look as if she was kneeling. Her left arm extends down to her left leg, her fingers just grazing the surface of her porcelain calf muscle. The goddess is calm, regal, contained and controlled.

  My Additions:

  On Katrin’s abdomen, I wrote the following lines that are an excerpt from Cato, a play by the English writer Joseph Addison (1713):

  “The soul secure in her existence smiles at the drawn dagger and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself grow dim with age and nature sink in years, but thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, unhurt amid the war of elements, the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds.”

  It had nothing to do with alchemy, but the sense of the poem was close enough to my themes of transmutation and immortality. I found it at www.cnn.com in an article about Edgar Allan Poe. Poe had published two secret messages in 1841 that had been puzzling scholars for years. This one in particular had only been decoded in 1992 and the reason it had made the news was that experts had recently decoded the second one. The joke was that although Poe had converted the messages into cipher, they weren’t written by Poe at all, but by some other obscure writers. Always a practical joker that Edgar. All those scholars, for all those years, puzzling and calculating away, thinking Poe was leaving some meaningful message for posterity and all they got were some cryptic lines from a couple of unknown plays. What a laugh.

  On Katrin’s lovely left breast, I painted:

  In alchemy, this is the sign for Nitre, which is a combination of Saltpeter and Potassium Nitrate. It is made by the extravagantly named process of lixiviation. A pile of soil rich in animal dung is exposed to the air (though protected from rain) and a crust of Nitre eventually forms on the windward side of the pile. When purified by recrystallization, this forms a white crystalline powder. It is a powerful oxidizing agent and when heated with Vitriol (sulfuric acid), produces the “Strong Water” Aqua Fortis. In other words, nitric acid.

  On Katrin’s right breast, I painted:

  the sign for salt, which alchemists think of as the Contractive force in Nature. It symbolizes the processes of crystallization and condensation.

  On her chest, I wrote:

  the symbol for Aqua Regia, a mixture of one part nitric acid (aqua fortis) and three or four parts hydrochloric acid (spirit of salt). It is called the “King’s Water” because it is able to corrode and dissolve the king of metals, gold. Just as I corroded and dissolved Katrin’s sweet spirit into the ether.

  On the top of her right hand, I wrote:

  depicting Sulfur, the Expansive force in Nature. It also symbolizes Dissolution and Evaporation.

  On the top of her left hand, I wrote:

  which represents Mercury, which is thought of as the Integrative force, interweaving and balancing that of the Salt and Sulfur. It also stands for Circulation and Dynamic equilibrium.

  The addition of the prop arrow was dangerous poetic license, but I felt compelled to do it for art’s sake. It was a cheap, children’s arrow, easily obtained at any Toys “R” Us. I purchased it during my last shopping trip in New York. I made a point of buying it at a very busy time at the cash register, when the clerk would be too engaged to remember me.

  If all this doesn’t confuse them, then nothing will.

  ENTRY 63:

  I made the papers, finally. I suppose that the police had to eventually spill the beans, because now there could be no doubt that a serial killer was at work. There were too many links between the two crime scenes to ignore.

  It was fascinating reading. I felt very detached, as if I were reading about some other person. I wasn’t capable of such awful crimes, surely. The newspapers certainly made me out to be some perverted psychopath, that’s for sure. No mincing of words with the fine gentlemen of the Fourth Estate. “Psycho On The Loose” was one headline—admittedly from the more down-market Syracuse Sun.

  Still, details in the press were sketchy except for a vague reference to a possible occult tie-in. They weren’t going to give out too much information. This was to foil any fake confessions that always seem to be forthcoming in cases like these. Who is sicker, I wonder? The killer, or the loony-tunes who confess to crimes that they haven’t committed?

  The one thing the press did mention was Katrin’s hapless houseguest. She was currently under sedation at Crouse Memorial for shock, grief and nervous collapse. It must be quite shocking to have had a conversation (albeit a brief one) with the murderer who strangled your friend without you even being aware of it.

  H
opefully, I will learn more this Thursday during my dinner with Frank and Elene.

  ENTRY 64:

  They weren’t there. I waited a couple of hours, but Frank and Elene never showed up. For a while, I felt distinctly uneasy. Perhaps I had been noticed. Maybe they were watching me as I was eating my Teriyaki Salmon and wondering who I was.

  Then I realized that they were probably working late on the case. On my case. They were probably in a dingy Incident Room somewhere, looking at crime scene photographs and dining on soggy, take-away pizza. And arguing. Always arguing.

  I was disappointed, but I have to keep my cool. I have to remain fluid and adaptable. The more murders I commit, the more there is a chance of discovery.

  ENTRY 65:

  The next week passed uneventfully. After the initial spurt, the newspaper coverage was surprisingly minimal, but that is usually the case with serial killer reportage. No need to panic the man or woman in the street. God forbid that we keep reminding people that there is a killer on the rampage. It might hurt the convention trade. University admissions might go down. And what about the tourists? (What tourists? In Syracuse?)

  Tomorrow is Thursday and I hope that Frank and Elene are back at Kahunaville. I may even follow Elene to see where she goes after her five o’clock class ends.

  Maybe Frank and Elene decided to change venues. Perhaps they tired of Kahunaville’s menu of pseudo-Eastern Rim specialties. I hope not. I have just discovered their Riki Riki Rib-Eye Steak with extra hoi sin sauce.

  ENTRY 66:

  This morning I woke up feeling so paranoid that I was having heart palpitations. I had to spend at least ten minutes calming myself down, talking to myself, assuring myself that there wasn’t a SWAT team poised to swoop into my house the minute I opened my door to get the paper.

  It was very unpleasant.

  I finally managed to get out and retrieve the Herald Journal. I read everything I could about Katrin, but there weren’t any new developments.

  I went for a drive into Manlius to pick up a quart of milk, but in reality it was just a test to see if anyone was following me. If they were, I couldn’t spot them.

  I worked out for a while, but it didn’t help. I scanned the headlines on www.syracuse.com, but no relief there. I checked out the police scanner on the Internet as well, but nothing was happening except an altercation on Salina Street between two drunks. I turned on the TV for the lunchtime local news. Nada.

  I sat at the kitchen table and tried to remember what all my research (including copious re-runs of Law and Order) had taught me about murder investigations. I wanted to calm my mind and give it something to do. What would Frank and his band of merry men be up to? How would they investigate the murders of two women, killed in an identical manner?

  I imagined the crimes from their perspective. The first murder might perplex them, but not worry them unduly. As there was a nude female body involved, they would conclude straight away that this was a sex crime. It would be natural to assume that a boyfriend, family member or associate could have done it. They would interview all the victim’s friends, relatives and work mates, paying special attention to the men in the victim’s life. They would also interrogate the person who found the body and anyone who was in contact with her in her last hours.

  I suppose that was the only real worry. Could someone place me at the Liquid Lounge? However, the club had been so crowded and my appearance so nondescript that I think I covered myself well, even as far as possible monitoring by the club’s CCTV security cameras.

  The police would then construct what they call a victimology: a precise chronicle of the victim’s movements, habits, associations, hobbies and history. They would interview her neighbors to see if anyone suspicious had been seen hanging around her house recently. (I only checked out her place a couple of times over a month ago, so no problems there.) They would question her family to see if she had confessed to any worries about being stalked or threatened. They would ask her friends if they had seen anyone with her that night.

  The police would have all forensic evidence found at the scene tested for DNA. They would do an autopsy and conclude that the victim had died from asphyxiation due to strangulation. They would ascertain that she had sexual intercourse before her death, because of the vestiges of the lubricant from the condoms left in her vaginal cavity. (Even with my careful cleansing of the body, I couldn’t assume that they wouldn’t find some trace evidence.) They would assume that the intercourse was consensual, as there would be no trauma to the genitals or evidence of anyone breaking and entering the house of the victim. They would analyze the magic marker to see what brand it was and then they would check the art supply and stationary stores in town, for all the good it would do them.

  At first, they would be confident that they could probably catch the perpetrator. In a large percentage of these cases, the victim knows the killer and her friends were probably aware of him as well. Somewhere in her history there was a violent male who had come back to kill her. All the police had to do was look hard enough and they would find him.

  The second murder would put a new spin on the investigation. There would be no way to deny that the crimes were linked, even though it would be revealed that the victims did not know each other. There were too many similarities: the pick up, probable consensual intercourse, strangulation, the clean-up routine, the drawings and poems on the bodies. A serial killer had moved into the equation.

  So the man was a stranger. A stranger to both victims.

  After the first murder, the police probably filled in a VICAP form, as part of the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. All the details from the case, including M.O., autopsy results and victimology would be sent off to the FBI to be fed into their computer. The information would then be matched to any other cases of a similar nature that had been committed in the United States. I can’t imagine that they would come up with any hits, but if there were, that would work to my advantage. It would be wonderful if some killer in Salt Lake City got the blame for my crimes.

  After a second murder, the FBI might be called in. They would attempt to profile the killer based on the evidence that he may have left at the crime scene.

  Of course, Frank has already asked Elene to do a profile. I noticed from her records that she had attended some courses at the FBI’s Behavioral Unit at Quantico, so she would be familiar with their techniques. What conclusions would they draw in a profile of my crimes? I wonder what Elene would think about my works of art. Would she be able to see their beauty, or would she be blinded by the ordinary perspective of “normal” people. Who knows?

  Most serial killers share certain characteristics. Their behavior is a clue to their personality. By taking into account all the evidence, i.e., the crime scene photographs, victimology, the statements from witnesses, friends and relatives as well as the autopsy and police reports, the authorities would probably come to the following conclusions:

  1. The killer could be an organized, sexual serial killer. They would probably conclude that he is a cunning psychopath who has the ability to con a woman into allowing him into her home after only a brief meeting. (I don’t know about the psychopath bit, but even I was surprised at the ease with which I picked up my ladies.)

  2. The thoroughness of the clean-up operation would point to a methodical person who put a lot of thought into the planning and execution of these crimes. Someone who might be familiar with police procedural and forensic science and who might also have an interest in art. (Of course, anyone who has watched any of the CSI franchises or The FBI Files on the Discovery Channel would know about all that forensic stuff as well, but the police never seem to take things like that into consideration.)

  3. The killer would most probably be white as serial killers rarely cross race boundaries. He would be in his early to late thirties. (Younger killers very seldom leave such organized crime scenes, which is why the police would assume that the killer would be more mature.)

  4. He may
have a girlfriend, but it is more likely that he is divorced. (Violently divorced, in my case.)

  5. He is most probably the oldest son of divorced parents and had some difficulty at school. (I didn’t have any problems at school, unless you count that unfortunate incident with the fire hose.)

  6. He is in a white-collar profession, possibly self-employed, and drives a late model car. (This part of the profile would fit, as I am gainfully employed by the University.)

  7. He is a likable person and would be of medium to high intelligence. (High intelligence, please.)

  8. There would be a strong probability that some incident or incidents of stress propelled him to murder on the evenings in question. He also may have been under the influence of alcohol. (Not stress, but THE VENUS PROJECT. And, of course, there’s nothing like a couple of martinis to get you geared up for a bit of mischief.)

  9. They would show particular interest in the fact that the killer was wearing a condom. Most men hate to wear them, yet the perpetrator was so aware of forensic techniques that he would rather lessen his gratification by wearing a condom than be caught by trace evidence. They may wonder if his DNA is on record somewhere. (Luckily, my DNA isn’t, but why take any chances?)

  10. They would have to deduce that the poses of the bodies and the paintings are part of the killer’s scripted fantasy. The investigators wouldn’t have a clue about the meaning of the drawings and the poems. Elene would probably recommend that the police consult an art expert or art historian from the University who might be able to understand the symbols painted on the victims. (That’s where I come in, hopefully.)

  11. Anyone consulted on these cases would have to be thoroughly vetted and their backgrounds checked, as the police would suspect that the perpetrator would try to insert himself into the investigation in some way. Officers would be posted at the funerals of the victims and the crime scenes, as this kind of killer likes to visit these scenes to relive his fantasies. (My background is impeccable, with nothing to link me to the victims. And with my vivid imagination, I have no need to attend the funerals. As for returning to the scene, that’s how they caught Arthur Shawcross, the Rochester NY serial killer. A police helicopter spotted him in his car near a bridge over a river where he had dumped a body. They could even see the poor woman under the ice. Arthur was eating sandwiches and probably reliving his escapades. What is it about serial killers and sandwiches?)

 

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