by Edward Lee
“Sure,” Jack said, and sipped his coffee. “You work better when you’re pissed off. What else did Beck say?”
“Said she found some pubes that were ‘funny.’ And she’s sure the girl got it repeatedly — the killer left a lot of wax. There’s also some problem with the wounds but she didn’t say what.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Jack said. “Meantime, you shag ass out of my office and go earn your pay.”
“What are you, privileged? Why can’t you help out with some of the shit work?”
Jack shook his head. “The shit work’s all yours, partner. Wear your galoshes.” In his mind he saw the triangle. He saw the red. “I’ll be busy checking out some other angles.”
Chapter 5
“Don’t worry about your bags,” Khoronos said. “Gilles and Marzen will bring them up later. Let me show you around.”
Veronica and Ginny followed their host in. Further contrast dismayed them: the interior couldn’t have been more opposite of what one would expect. Khoronos was obviously a man who saw some principal purpose in contrast. The inside looked more colonial than anything else, or antiquarian. Lots of heavy paneling and stained, ornate trim. Lots of antiques. In the living room was the largest fireplace Veronica had ever seen.
Khoronos’ white suit seemed to project luminescence into the dark room. “The locals, I’m afraid, think that I’m quite eccentric,” he regarded.
“We’re all eccentric,” Ginny said.
Khoronos half smiled. “Perhaps, but maybe we’re dismissed as eccentrics only because others lack the courage to follow their hearts. We are not understood; therefore we are condemned. In truth, we’re not eccentrics at all.”
“What are we, then?” Veronica inquired.
“Superior.”
This rather pompous conclusion hung like static before them, as did Khoronos’ wraithlike smile.
“The will to create is what made the world, not logic, not reason,” he said. “Without the will — and the challenge — to create, free of the structure of what we call conformity, there would be nothing. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Ginny said.
“I don’t know,” Veronica said.
An equally large colonial kitchen came next on the tour, a pantry, and a palatial dining room. All these things compelled Veronica to continue to wonder. This huge place, all this room — what’s it for? They stepped through French doors onto a deck which overlooked the backyard. Trimmed topiary and hanging plants surrounded a large swimming pool. A tall fence and outer trees filled the entire yard with shade and quiet. Ginny was stunned, but Veronica remained more curious than impressed.
“Are you married?” she asked.
Khoronos laughed. “Heavens, no.”
“I only meant that—”
“What does a single man need all this space for?” Khoronos finished. “I don’t need it, but I can afford it. ‘Faith bestows treasure upon the faithful.’”
“Old Testament?” Ginny guessed.
“Indeed.”
“You’re saying faith made you rich?” Veronica couldn’t resist.
“Faith in my broker, Ms. Polk.” He laughed again. “I was being facetious, I don’t feel guilty about being rich.”
More pomposity. At least he was being honest.
Up the heavily banistered staircase, a single long hall seemed to be all that composed the upstairs. Poshly framed paintings lined the walls, but Veronica didn’t recognize any of them, nor their styles. Had Khoronos painted them? Maybe he pursued an interest in artists out of an artistic failure on his own part. That would explain a lot.
“Your bedrooms are sparse, but you’ll find them comfortable.”
Hers and Ginny’s were identical and side by side. A small bed, a nightstand, and a tiny dresser. Bare white walls and drab green curtains. Each contained a bayed morning room and balcony. In Ginny’s was a desk and a Smith Corona typewriter. In Veronica’s was a painting table, some blank canvases, and a box of supplies.
Veronica and Ginny only looked at each other.
“My only requirement is that, during your stay, you create something,” Khoronos informed them, “on a day-to-day basis.”
So that was it. Khoronos was just a proverbial patron of the arts. At once Veronica felt like a unique prostitute.
“But I don’t mean that you must create something for me,” the man countered. “Quite the opposite. I want you to create something solely for yourself.”
“That’ll be easy,” Ginny said. “I’ll write a porn story.”
“As you wish. Create whatever your heart compels. Passion is born of the heart, correct? That’s what thrills me. Particularly what is born of a woman’s heart.”
Is this guy for real? Veronica thought.
“But there’s one thing else, it’s very important. Whatever you create, I must ask that you show it to no one until it is finished.” Khoronos extended his hand. “And now I’d like to reveal a bit of my own heart.”
He took them into the last room.
Jesus, Veronica thought.
The room was windowless. Its walls, ceiling, and floor were heavy plate mirrors, projecting their images infinitely into a bright silver demesne. A wire chair faced a TV and VCR. Several tapes sat atop: The Lamia, The Seeker, The Woman in Black—all films by Amy Vandersteen. A wire stand contained all of Ginny’s novels. Veronica gasped when she looked up. Hanging on the front mirrored wall was Vertiginous Red.
“This is where I pursue my compulsions,” Khoronos said.
Veronica felt a sudden heat rush to her head, like mild shock. Khoronos stood in the center of the silver room, vivid in his white suit. His long grayish hair seemed to sift, and the gleam in his eyes revealed him now as something more than a rich man with misguided interests. He was a preceptor, a guide. He looked messiahlike in his thousand reflections.
Veronica and Ginny could only stare.
“I’m certain we will have an enlightening time together,” the man bid. His hands splayed before him. “We all have our quests, am I right? We’re looking for something that is greater than what we actually are. That is the reason I’ve asked you here. To help me find what I’m looking for and, hence, what I am. In return, I will do the same for you. I will help you discover what you really are — what you were really meant to be.”
Chapter 6
After the rain, the sun drew steam up Main Street’s bricks. Past the City Dock, boats rocked idly in their slips as the bay reflected clean light like slivers of shaved metal. Jack parked up by Church Circle, electing to walk.
He hoped the walk might clear his head. The after-storm air and salt breezes often revitalized him; that’s why he lived here. Every place he saw, though, and every place he passed reminded him of Veronica. He should’ve known. He should’ve driven.
There was the second-floor crab house he’d taken her to. That had been their first date, hadn’t it? Up ahead, he eyed Fran’s, which had been their last. He stared into the window of Pendragon’s, remembering the silver locket he’d bought for her there, then across the street to the art supply store where he’d bought her a bunch of pastels and things for her birthday. Two stores down was the record exchange where he’d found some obscure tape she’d mentioned — Cocteau Twins, a group he’d never heard of. Later they’d made love for hours to the layers of sedate, shifting music.
He felt disgusted with himself, a little boy pining over a first crush. Everywhere he looked, he saw Veronica.
He wondered about his guy Khoronos, and this retreat thing. He wondered when he’d see her again, and what seeing her again would be like. Strained smiles. False greetings…
A car horn blared, and a voice. “Is that pig I smell?”
Jack turned. Who the f—
“Hop in.”
It was Craig, grinning behind the wheel of a white Alfa Romeo Spider, a convertible. Vanity plates ALLINYT, and Sinatra crooning “Summer Wind” from the in-dash CD. Flawless white lacquer made the car look made o
f ice.
The door clicked shut like a well-oiled lock. “I see barkeeps in this town do pretty well. That or you’re a gigolo on the side.”
“Me? A kept man?” Craig shifted up to the light. “Haven’t met a woman yet who can afford to even look at the price tag.”
Jack shook his head, bemused. But oddly Craig went on, “You look like something’s bugging you.”
“What makes you think—”
“Yeah, something’s bugging you. Veronica, right?”
Now Jack frowned. “Since when do barkeeps read minds?”
“It’s part of the job, man.”
Veronica, Jack thought. It shows that much?
“Tell me if my keep’s wisdom is on the mark. You’ve been busted up with her for a couple weeks now, right? You’re depressed because she got over it quick, and you haven’t gotten over it at all. Right?”
Jack showed him a lackadaisical middle finger.
“You think she’s forgotten all about you. Right? And that makes it worse because you still love her. Right?”
Shut up, Jack wanted to say. “Yes,” he said. “How can you tell all that just by looking at me?”
“I’m a bartender. When you see things from the other side of the counter long enough, you know them at a glance. Trust me.”
“Fine. I’m impressed. What do I do?”
“Put yourself above it. If you don’t, you’re putting yourself down, and that’s a waste. You have to look at it this way: ‘I’m better than that. I’m better than her, and I’m better than whoever she’s balling now.’ You don’t have to have faith in other people, Jack. You only have to have faith in yourself.”
Faith in yourself. This sounded like good advice, but right now Jack didn’t feel better than anybody. “That’s kind of selfish, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” Craig said. The light changed, and the Spider jumped past the light. “But isn’t it more selfish to feel that your whole life’s falling apart because of a girl?”
Jack tried to assess the question. “I don’t get you.”
“We think we’ve got it tough? Shit, we don’t know what tough is. Ask people in Siberia about tough, ask people in India, in Africa. Ask all the poor fuckers who’re starving, or blind, or quadriplegic. They’ll tell you what tough is. What I’m saying is we shouldn’t take things for granted. My tuition just got hiked, and I’m pissed. You think your whole life’s shit because Veronica dumped you for some other guy. Poor us, huh? In Cuba, you’ve got to save three months to buy a pair of shoes that’ll fall apart in three weeks. In Chile, they torture people with power tools. Kids in Africa have to eat tree bark and dirt. And we think we’ve got it bad? Shit.”
Jack felt slimed in guilt. “I get you now.”
“When we take life for granted, we’re assholes. Every day we wake up and the world’s still turning — that’s a great day.”
Craig was right. Jack was taking things for granted. He was forgetting how lucky he was simply to be living in a free state. Usually simple things were the answers to the most complex questions.
The Spider’s engine hummed. Now Main Street came alive in the after-storm glitter. “So where you headed?” Craig asked.
“The Emerald Room. I’m meeting someone.”
“That’s the spirit. The best way to get over one girl is to go out with another.”
“Drop me off here is fine,” Jack said, indicating the corner of Calvert Street. “This isn’t what I’d call a hot date.”
“Who are you meeting?”
Jack began to get out. “Thanks for the pep talk, Craig. I’ll see you later tonight at the ’Croft.”
Craig’s sunglasses reflected duplicates of Jack’s face. “Don’t bullshit me, man. Who are you meeting?”
“A forensic psychiatrist whose specialty is criminal insanity.”
* * *
Of the city’s many outstanding restaurants, the Emerald Room was the best, and it had class without being stuck up, unlike certain other restaurants down on the Square. Immediately a stunning hostess smiled despite Jack’s attire, then noticed the shield clipped to his belt. He wore faded ink-stained jeans and a ratty dark raincoat through which his Smith.38 could easily be seen. “I’m here to meet a Ms. Panzram.”
“She’s right over here. Follow me, please.”
Jack had never actually met Karla W. W. Panzram, though he’d spoken to her many times on the phone. She was chief psychiatric consultant at the Clifford T. Perkins Evaluation Center. This was where all state criminals were evaluated for psychological profiles; whether they would be considered criminals or mental patients was decided here, and Karla Panzram was the one who did the deciding. She also consulted on the side for many outside police departments. Jack had couriered the TSD summary (of which there was very little) and the Barrington case file (of which there was even less) to Perkins that morning. On a psycho case, moving very quickly was very important, even when there was little to move with.
The voice on the phone had always showed him a large, even Amazonish woman. Reality showed him the opposite: delicate, if not frail, a petite woman. She had coiffed, steelish blond hair, and looked about forty. She wore a plain gray skirt and white blouse.
“Captain Cordesman, we finally meet,” she said, rising to shake hands. Her hand was cool, dry. “You don’t look like a cop.”
“I know. I look like a hippie who sleeps in a cement mixer.”
“Oh, but, you could never do that. You’re a claustrophobe.”
Jack flinched. This was true. “How did you know that?”
Her smile showed small even white teeth. “The way you walked to the table. As though something were hovering over you.”
She’s psychoanalyzing me before I can even sit down.
“You’re also sad about something,” she said.
Jack sat down. He was tired of everyone telling him about himself. “I appreciate you doing this for me on such short notice.”
“And whatever it is you’re sad about, confronting it, to yourself, or to others, makes you feel insecure.”
Jack laughed feebly. “Tell me about my killer, not me.”
“I think I can do that, Captain.”
“I know a little bit about the ins of these kinds of things, but you know the ins and outs.”
“You’ll probably never catch him,” Karla Panzram offered. “And you won’t luck out with a reactive suicide or a guilt-reversion.”
“You’re telling me he’s stable, right? And smart?”
“He’s very smart. Very ordered thought patterns, high IQ, and an attention for detail. He’s logical, and he’s a planner.”
Lots of sex killers had high IQs, well past genius levels. But this was ritual, and Jack knew nothing about that. “He’s not psychotic,” he said more than asked.
“No, and he’s not paranoid, psychopathic, or unsystematized. He’s not even acting like a sociopath.”
Jack let that one sit. The Emerald Room was not only known for the best food in town but also the best service. When their waitress arrived, a beautiful redhead in black pants and white blouse, Jack said, “Order whatever you want. Tab’s on the county.” This was a lie, however: Jack was picking this one up himself. Olsher could justify consulting fees but not dinners. Dr. Panzram ordered steamed mussels, crabmeat flan, and grilled Muscovy duck for appetizers, and blackened prime rib. Where’s she going to put it all? Jack wondered. He ordered a dozen oysters.
“Cocktails?” the waitress asked.
“I never drink on d—” He beamed at his watch: 4:01 P.M, “Fiddich, rocks, Dr. Panzram?”
“Just a Coke,” she said.
When the waitress left, Karla Panzram added, “You drink too much.”
Jack gritted his teeth. First Olsher, then Randy, then Craig, and now this woman. They knew more about him than he knew himself. “I haven’t even had one yet, and you’ve pegged me as—”
“Retraction of the mimetic muscle groups and lid margins, fluctuation of the front
alis and lateral pterygoid, and the usual facial inflections. It’s the best lie detector. It’s also a wonderful way to gauge subconscious excitement. Your face lit up like a pinball machine when you looked at your watch and saw you were off duty.”
This depressed him, but what else was new? When the waitress brought his drink he had to fight not to touch it.
“Let’s call him Charlie,” Karla Panzram said. “Let’s make him human instead of a shadow. Charlie is erotomanic but not in the same way as your usual sex killer. He’s not a sadist, a sexual sociopath, or some horny nutcase with the wrong levels of FSH and LH in the brain. Charlie’s compulsions are not founded by cerebral defect or biogenic deviations. He’s very…passionate. Passion, I think, is a key word here. He’s also deflectional.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means he didn’t want to kill the girl.”
“He did it for an outward reason, you mean? The ritual angle?”
“Yes, and whatever the ritual is, it’s not an unsystematized symbol or an idea of reference. Charlie’s very level-headed. The only way he’ll fuck up is if he lets his passion get in the way.”
Hearing this delicate woman use the word fuck unnerved Jack, like knocking over a vase in a crystal shop.
“Passion,” she repeated. “Remember that. It was his passion that allowed him to go through with the murder.”
Passion, Jack thought. He lit a Camel. Here is my love.
“It’s not the ritual itself, but his association with the ritual that’s important. It involves some personal belief mechanism that allows him to vent his passion. Did you run the M. O. through triple-I?”
“Yeah, nothing yet, but they’re working on it.”
“What about Interpol CCCS?”
Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t bother. You think he could’ve done this in another country?”
“Sure. Look where we are.”
“A seaport,” Jack acknowledged. He felt instantly stupid.
“If I were you, I’d be calling every port city on the coast. And run the M.O. with Interpol too.”
