by Amy Cross
Sacrifice part II
Joanna Mason
"Jo," Dr. Gibbs says, his voice sounding a little crackly as we speak over the phone, "did you hear what I said? This is good news. If this other patient's cancellation is confirmed, I should be able to get you into the slot. You can be under the knife within a week."
Glancing over at Dr. Huston's secretary, I pause for a moment. "Totally," I say eventually, watching as the big-busted, overly-perfumed bitch continues to file her nails. "That's great."
"I know it's overwhelming," he continues, "but this is the right choice. If we're to have any chance of beating your cancer -"
"I agree with you," I say, interrupting him. "Just book it in and let me know what time to rock up to the hospital. I'll be there."
"You don't sound too certain."
"What do you want me to say?" I reply, a little exasperated by his continual demand for some kind of big emotional moment. "You just told me you should be able to cut my breasts off within a week. Yay. I'm very excited by the whole thing, and by the whole cancer-beating situation, but unfortunately I left my party horns at home this morning." I pause for a moment as I realize that perhaps my reaction is a little unusual. Still, there'll be time for that later. Right now, I have to focus on the case. "It's a good thing," I add eventually. "It's what I want, and what I need. Let's just get it done."
"I should be able to confirm in the next twenty-four hours," he continues. "Until then, focus on eating well, and keep taking your medication. You're still sticking to the pill regimen, right?"
"I just took my afternoon dose a few minutes ago."
"That's interesting," he replies sourly, "considering our system shows you haven't picked up your next week's prescription. You should have run out of pills by now."
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I realize that he's caught me red-handed.
"I had my secretary double-check," he continues, "because I told him there's no way Joanna Mason would be stupid enough to put her health in danger by not taking her medication."
"I might have missed one or two at the beginning," I tell him, annoyed at myself for not bothering to at least pick up the damn things, even if I have no intention of taking them. "I was planning to go pick up a fresh prescription tomorrow. Don't worry." I watch as Dr. Huston's door opens; there's a pause, and then Dr. Huston herself emerges, fixing me with a polite smile. "I have to go," I tell Dr. Gibbs, as I get to my feet. "Keep me posted."
"You need to -" he starts to say, but it's too late: I've cut the call.
Putting the phone away, I turn to Dr. Huston as she approaches with an outstretched hand.
"You must be Detective Mason," she says with a disarming smile that seems designed to put me at ease. "I'm so pleased to meet you. Will you come into my office, and we can talk about whatever it is that seems to have brought you here."
"I won't take up too much of your time," I reply, as she leads me through to the next room and then pushes the door shut. Lined with bustling bookshelves on all four walls, her office is fairly small, and the desk is overflowing with more books, papers and folders. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the Sam Gazade case," I continue. "You're not under suspicion, though. This is really just a casual interview, to clear up a few loose ends."
"The whole thing's quite shocking, really," she says as she walks over to her desk. "After all the discussions and debates regarding the death penalty, the whole thing gets derailed by a shortage of the necessary drugs. I'd like to say I'm surprised, but to be honest, I'm fully aware that incompetents are in far too many positions of power. If everyone did their job properly, so many of the world's problems would be cleared up overnight and those of us with half a brain wouldn't have to run around, putting out all the fires caused by morons."
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I spot a mug on Dr. Huston's desk, with Sam Gazade's face plastered on the side.
"A memento," she says with a smile. "I went down to the prison one night and people were selling these things. It's remarkable, isn't it?"
"I'm actually here about his diary," I continue, watching carefully to see if there's a flicker of recognition in her eyes. So far, I don't see anything suspicious. "I don't know how closely you followed Gazade's case, but twelve years ago there was claims that he'd kept a diary documenting all his murders. At the time, we carried out a thorough investigation and concluded that the diary was a figment of his imagination. Now it seems that we were wrong, and it's been found."
"I wrote a doctoral paper on Gazade's case a few years ago," she replies, "so I know the details of what happened quite well. I must say, I'm quite surprised to learn that the diary might have existed. From all the sources I read, I was under the impression that it was a wild goose chase. Gazade said there was a code that revealed its location, but all the trails ran cold. It seemed like classic obfuscation on his part."
"Apparently it existed after all," I reply, "and apparently it was recovered from the Lark Bermuda Hotel a few months ago. Someone evidently broke Gazade's code and was able to locate the diary."
"I see," she says, pausing for a moment. "It's quite fascinating, isn't it? And do you have any idea who has it now?"
"The diary was taken by a guest at the hotel, someone who seems to have booked in with the sole intention of discreetly checking each of the rooms. They knew it was in the building, but they didn't know exactly where" I pause for a moment, waiting for the perfect moment to start turning the screw. So far, Dr. Huston seems to have nothing to hide, but I've met enough good liars over the years to know that I need to be careful. "As it happens," I continue, "the person checked in under your name."
"Mine?" she replies, raising her eyebrows with a look of genuine shock. "What exactly do you mean by 'checked in'? Did they use false I.D. with my name?"
"No, nothing like that. I'm afraid the hotel's a little behind the times. The guest paid with cash, and there are no surveillance records, and it's been so long, I'm not convinced that a witness statement by the owner would be of much use. All we have to go on is the name, so although I don't want to make you feel that you're under any particular scrutiny, I was hoping you could help to clear this up by telling me where you were on April 8th this year, which is when the person using your name checked in at the hotel."
"April 8th?" She opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small black book, which she opens and starts flicking through. "You don't possibly think that I could have anything to do with this, do you?"
"Not at all," I reply. "The truth is, I'm certain that this person was checking in under a false name. I mean, you'd have to be insane to use your actual name for such a thing, but..." I pause for a moment, watching as she continues to look through the black book. Something about this woman just doesn't seem to be quite right, although I can't put my finger on the problem.
"April 8th," she says after a moment. "I remember now. I was in Utah, of all places, at a conference on criminal tendencies and sociological response. I left on the 7th, and I came back on the 11th. I'm quite sure I can dig out all manner of receipts and proof, plus I'm sure there are scores of people who could vouch for my presence." She slides the book over to me, so that I can see the handwritten note for myself. "I was pretty much on the other side of the country," she adds. "It's lucky, really. I don't travel much, but as it happens, this is one of the few periods this year for which I can absolutely prove where I was. Please, feel free to access my phone or email records, or anything that will help you to prove my whereabouts."
"It's fine," I reply, realizing that I was right when I assumed the person at the hotel must have used a false name.
"The big question," she continues, "is why they'd use my name in all of this. I mean, do you think someone's trying to frame me?"
"It's unlikely," I reply. "The odds of us making the link and finding the hotel were too small. I can only assume that the person, whoever she is, must have plucked your name out of thin air. Maybe she saw it somewhere and figured
it was as good as any other name. Maybe..." I pause. "Maybe it's someone you know, or at least someone you're acquainted with."
"I teach on several courses here at the university," she points out. "My circle of acquaintances is extraordinarily large, as you can imagine. Just students and faculty members. I've also been quoted in several news articles over the past few years, and I have three references books on the market. At the risk of sounding self-centered, it's by no means impossible that someone could have chanced upon my name and then, for whatever reason, decided to borrow it."
"I'm sorry for wasting your time," I say, getting to my feet.
"Might I ask why you're looking into all of this?" she asks. "As I explained, I've a professional interest in the Sam Gazade case, so I'd very much like to know what's happening." She pauses. "I should also admit that I'm familiar with your involvement in the original case, Detective Mason. When I was writing my thesis, I actually tried to get in touch with you. I wanted to talk to you about Gazade, to get a first-hand idea of what he was like and how he treated you, but you turned me down."
"I was getting a lot of requests back then," I reply, feeling deeply uncomfortable. In the months after my experience with Gazade, I was hounded by the media, and I had to get away for a while in order to wait out the scrum.
"It doesn't matter now," Dr. Huston continues. "I was able to complete my thesis without any problems. I scored very highly. In fact, it was eventually published. I don't know if you've read my book on -"
"No," I say firmly. "I haven't read any of the books on Sam Gazade."
"I can understand that," she says with a faint smile. "I'm sure you don't want to relive those awful experiences. In truth, my interview request back then was perhaps a little salacious. I didn't need to speak to you, not really. I just wanted to get closer to the case." She pauses again. "I'm so sorry that he was able to put you through such a traumatic experience."
"I'm fine," I reply, feeling a little tense. "It was a long time ago."
"Men do such horrific things to women," she continues. "I don't mean to sound vindictive or angry, but 90% of the time when something like this happens, it's the result of a man struggling with violent or obsessive compulsions relating to the female body. Women just don't have the same urge to torture and kill. Not usually, anyway."
"There's a copycat killer," I reply, figuring that Dr. Huston might actually be useful in the case. "It's not confirmed, but I think it's a woman who's replicating Sam Gazade's murders with the genders reversed. The victims are male, the perpetrator is female, and certain mutilations to the bodies have been very gender-specific. Where appropriate, the killer is altering the wounds. For example, whereas Gazade gouged out the vaginal opening of his second victim, this new killer removed the penis and performed a similar gouging act. It's also notable that in the first two cases, the new killer chose victims with well-developed pectoral muscles, in order to be able to remove breast-like material."
"Fascinating," she replies. "There have been so few genuine female serial killers in history. I discount the likes of Aileen Wuornos, because when I talk about serial killers, I'm really focused on the ones who plan things methodically, rather than those who simply go on a killing spree as a means to an end. There have been very few women in history who I'd categorize as belonging to the classical serial killer type."
"Or they're just better at not getting caught," I point out.
She smiles. "I've studied the links between gender and criminality extensively," she says. "I've even written books on the subject. There are so few people who are willing to look at this kind of thing. My latest book is about women and the torture porn film genre. I'm very much of the opinion that women have a much more unusual relationship to this kind of thing than men. The torture porn phenomenon is particularly interesting. The female body is treated as a much more explicit object. Something to be cut up and damaged, but at the same time something to be admired. It really reflects the human desire to kill things that we find beautiful. Or rather, perhaps I should say the male desire." She pauses. "Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be lecturing you, of all people, on such things."
I open my mouth to reply, but I'm not sure what to say.
"That's what he did to you, isn't it?" she asks, as if she's fascinated by the ordeal I suffered at Gazade's hands. "He tortured you, and from his point of view at least, there was undoubtedly something satisfying about the whole experience, perhaps even on a sexual level. I must say, Detective Mason, that I think most women - in fact, most people - would never have been able to get on with their lives after the things you went through. I'm sure they'd crumble to dust under the weight of all those memories."
"Maybe I'll give one of your books a try some time," I tell her, even though I figure she's just another academic blowhard who wouldn't know the real world if it bit her on the ass. The last thing I want is to get involved in a conversation that ends with me showing off my scars.
"I hope you catch this woman," she replies, "and I hope you're able to get some answers from her. From a psychological and sociological perspective, this could be a very interesting case. If there's any way at all that I can be of use to you, I'd be happy to offer my professional advice and guidance -"
"It's fine," I say, keen to keep her at a distance. "Please hold back from discussing any of this with anyone, though. I don't want any of the details reaching the public or the media."
"Of course not," she replies. "You can count on my absolute discretion."
I pause for a moment, and finally I decide to test her. "You want to know the weird thing about the code?" I ask eventually. "It turns out, it wasn't even that complicated. I feel completely dumb for having missed it."
She stares at me, as if suddenly she's a little unsettled. "Don't be too hard on yourself," she says finally. "I'm sure it was a great achievement to track down the location, even if you weren't able to be the first to do it."
"Nah," I reply, trying to sound pretty casual about the whole thing, "I'm pretty sure I was just being dumb. I was on some medication twelve years ago, which is why I didn't manage to notice the obvious patterns. Christ, the damn code was so obvious, only a complete idiot would have struggled for any length of time."
"I'm sure that's not true at all," she replies with a hint of bitterness in her voice. "I'm sure the person who cracked that code first must have been a singular genius."
"Maybe," I mutter. "I don't know, it doesn't seem that way to me, but I guess you might be right. Still, I have to admit, I've been on and off medication for years. I'm pretty sure that's why I didn't break Gazade's code. I'd have worked it out years ago if I'd had my head straight. It turned out to be so pathetically easy -"
"I'm sorry," she says, clearly annoyed as she interrupts me, "but I really have to get on with some work. I'm sure you'll be able to find your own way back to the car park."
"Sure, but -"
"Goodbye, Detective Mason," she adds, opening the door for me. "Good luck with your investigation, although it sounds like you won't need it. You seem to be on top of everything just fine."
Once I've left her office, I head outside and start the long walk back toward the car park. After a moment, however, I stop and glance back at the building. It's been a while since my mind was clear enough to have any kind of instinctive insight into a case, but thanks to the lack of medication in my system, I'm feeling as if I'm almost back to normal. The problem is, while everything Dr. Huston said was reasonable and made sense, I can't shake the feeling that she's hiding something. In fact, there's a voice at the back of my mind that keeps insisting that Dr. Huston is very much involved in this whole case, even if she can throw all the alibis in the world my way. After all, she clearly didn't like it when I dismissed the idea that the code was difficult. If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to believe that Dr. Huston herself was the one who figured out the code. Why else would she be so pissed off at the suggestion that it wasn't much of an achievement?
Stopping
by the reception area, I grab a prospectus for the university. Flicking through the pages, I find a photo of Dr. Huston. I think it might be time to show this to the guy at the hotel, and check to see if maybe Dr. Huston was the woman who checked in and found the diary after all.
Dr. Alice Huston
Standing at my window, I watch as Detective Morgan makes her way across the quad, away from the building. She pauses for a moment to look back this way, and I step to one side, just in case she might be able to see me. Finally, when I look outside again, I spot her heading toward the car park.
My heart is racing. I've read so much over the years about Joanna Morgan. I've pored over every book on the case, and every media reference. Mason was the only person who ever managed to escape from Sam Gazade, and in the process she was able to bring him down and get him handcuffed. It was a quite remarkable feat, but it came with a price. By all accounts, Mason was tortured by Gazade for a day or two, and she suffered some significant injuries. It's also believed that she was on the verge of being cut up when she managed to get away. It's hard to imagine the trauma she must have experienced, and in a way it's admirable that she's up and about, getting on with her life, rather than curled up in the corner of a padded cell somewhere.
In a way, I envy her.
After all, she had a perfect, first-hand experience with Sam Gazade, while the rest of us had to make do with reading about what happened and imagining the horror. I've read the files on Joanna Mason's injuries, and I know full well that Sam Gazade put her through some hideous experiences. She seems calm and pleasant enough, but I'm quite certain there must be deep scars in her soul, pushing their way to the surface. It's simply not possible for someone to go through something like that and come out the other end without certain emotional difficulties. There was a flicker of discomfort in her eyes, but I'm quite certain she has other problems. No matter how hard she tries to be normal, she's basically ruined for life.
