Silent Slaughter

by C. E. Lawrence

“Nothing. Just frightened.”

  “Shit,” Lee said, sitting on the side of the bed.

  “What is it? What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’re depressed.”

  Chuck looked stricken. “You mean this is what it’s like? It’s—it’s unbearable. I just want to fall asleep and never wake up. Good God, Lee, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You can’t really make another person understand,” Lee said. “If you haven’t been through it, you can’t really know.”

  “Goddamn it,” Chuck said. “I feel like I can’t face anyone. I just want to go back to sleep.”

  Lee stood up. “Okay, first thing is to deal with the anxiety.” He went to the bathroom cabinet, pulled out a bottle of pills and shook one into his palm. He went back into the bedroom and handed it to Chuck. “Here, take one of these.”

  “What is it?”

  “Xanax. You don’t have any drug allergies, right?”

  “No. What’ll it do?”

  “Calm you down, take away the anxiety.”

  “Cheers,” Chuck mumbled, popping it into his mouth.

  “Now, you could go back to sleep, but why don’t you come to the gym with me?”

  Chuck stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “What?”

  “Build up some endorphins—maybe get you through the day at work, if you’re up to it. Get out some of that anger and aggression you’re turning in on yourself.”

  “I can’t—” Chuck began, but Lee grabbed the sleeve of his pajamas and pulled.

  “Yes, you can. Trust me—I’ve been there. You can get out of bed.”

  “Goddamn it, Lee,” Chuck protested, but Lee refused to give up. He pushed and prodded until his friend made the few stumbling steps toward the bathroom. He waited in the hall until he heard the sound of water running.

  “I don’t have a meeting until ten,” he said when Chuck came out. “If we go now, we can both get to work by then.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Chuck muttered.

  “Yes, you are,” Lee replied, tossing him a sweatshirt and gym shorts. “Don’t think about what you feel like—just put one foot in front of the other.” He shoved a change of clothes for them both into a gym bag. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The Xanax kicked in pretty fast, and Chuck followed him meekly up First Avenue to the gym on Twenty-third Street. Lee signed him in as a guest, then escorted him to the punching bag. He found a couple of pairs of boxing gloves and put one on Chuck.

  “I haven’t done this since college,” Chuck protested.

  “You were pretty good back then,” said Lee. “Just hit that damn bag with everything you’ve got. Do it!” he commanded when his friend hesitated.

  Chuck began slowly, then got faster and faster, until finally he was whaling away at the bag, punching furiously, his breath coming in short gasps.

  “Sometimes it helps if you swear,” Lee suggested.

  “Goddamn—fucking—crap!” Chuck bellowed, his face crimson. “Goddamn fuck me!”

  Finally he stepped back, sweating, his blue eyes clearer.

  “How do you feel?” Lee asked.

  “Better. Not great, but better.”

  Lee got on the other side of the bag and slammed his own fists into it while Chuck took a break. They traded back and forth like that until their shoulders ached and the sweat poured down from them, landing in fat droplets on the floor. A couple of beefy weight lifters making the rounds of the Nautilus machines stared at Chuck from time to time as he whaled away, muttering curses under his breath. Finally he stepped away and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a towel.

  “Want to spar?” Lee asked.

  “Really?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Okay.”

  “You want headgear?”

  “Nah, I’m okay.”

  They faced off in a corner of the room, gloves up, eyes locked. They danced around each other for a while, until Chuck threw a tentative left hook.

  “Come on,” Lee muttered. “Do it like you mean it.”

  Chuck responded with a hefty uppercut followed by a series of quick jabs. The last punch landed in Lee’s ribs, throwing him off balance.

  “Nice,” he said, coming back with a combination he’d been working on: three jabs, a right hook, left uppercut. The uppercut landed on Chuck’s chin.

  Chuck smiled. “Oh, you wanna play rough?”

  He came in like a hurricane, throwing punches left and right in such quick succession, Lee had trouble parrying them. All the fury of the last few weeks of his life seemed to gather into Chuck’s upper body, sending him into a frenzy of blows. Lee took a hard punch to the stomach, followed by a left hook to his head that sent him reeling. He sank to his knees, his head spinning.

  “Oh, shit! Sorry,” Chuck said, bending down to help him up.

  “Hey, it was my idea,” Lee said. “I have only myself to blame.”

  “You might have a shiner,” Chuck said, examining his right eye.

  “Serves me right. So how do you feel?”

  “Better, thanks.”

  “Had enough, or shall I give you another licking?”

  “Can’t wait to see what Elena Krieger says about your black eye.”

  Lee rolled his eyes. “Just as long as she says it in German.”

  Chuck grinned. “Be still, my beating heart. That woman is trouble. Sexy but trouble.”

  So is your wife, Lee thought. They showered and changed into the clothes Lee had brought. Looking at his face in the locker room mirror, Lee didn’t see much of a bruise around his eye, though he was feeling a little dizzy. He didn’t mention the car accident and concussion to Chuck—it would only make him feel guilty.

  “Thanks,” Chuck said as they stood on the windswept plaza in front of the gym. “I won’t forget this.”

  “I’m glad you feel better,” Lee said. “This could be a single episode, but just be aware it might return.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Chuck said, his voice husky. “Thanks.” He reached out as if to shake Lee’s hand, then grabbed him in an awkward bear hug.

  When they stepped apart, neither of them made eye contact.

  “Okay, I’m going to catch the train to the Bronx,” said Chuck.

  “Oh, shit! I forgot to call Ruggles back.”

  “I’ll call him on my cell,” Chuck said. “Thanks again.”

  “Sure—anytime.”

  He watched his friend stride away in the direction of First Avenue, energy and bounce back in his step. He hoped Chuck would never again have to experience the deadening pain of clinical depression, but part of him—the part that knew too well how misery loves company—didn’t want his friend to get off quite so easily.

  Lee had been doing pretty well lately, but it wasn’t so long ago that he was frozen, immobile, on his couch, unable to move, surrounded by an eternity of pain, jittery and exhausted all at once. When he was having a bad episode, he had no memory of what life had been or might be without depression. There was no past and no future, only the gray haze of psychic pain and the unbearable burden of consciousness.

  He chided himself for wishing that kind of suffering on his friend as he crossed Twenty-third Street, heading toward the Thirteenth Precinct. He was early for the meeting and had just enough time to grab a bagel for himself and Butts at Ess-a-Bagel. He was curious to see if Butts had managed to get hold of their main suspect. Interviewing Edmund Moran would be interesting, to say the least, he thought as he headed south on First Avenue, the sun glinting on the damp pavement. There was a smell of expectation in the air, and he increased his pace as he loped past the rows of Christmas trees for sale, anticipation tight in his throat.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Edmund was excited. Tonight was the night. He would take her, ripping her away from everything and everyone she held dear, and make her his. He could hardly contain himself, humming as he went about his preparations in his spotless kitchen. It was important to be thorough, car
eful—he owed his success to his attention to detail.

  That and his superior IQ, of course. He remembered when he was in sixth form, when his teacher, Mrs. Fontaine, had told him it was “off the charts.” She had said he had a responsibility to use a gift like that. He smiled as he packed the long piece of rope into his kit. He was using it, all right—he wondered what soft little Mrs. Fontaine, with her lopsided wig and crooked teeth, would say if she saw precisely how he was using it.

  He prepared his tea with a dollop of cream—not a glug or a swirl or a slurp but a dollop—and watched the swirling pattern as it mixed with the hot liquid. He drank it slowly, savoring the moment of preparation for his next outing. He looked at the roses in the vase on the kitchen table, the white petals at their decadent peak—full, fragrant and pliant. He could detect the smell of decay lurking just beneath the sweetness. The transience of all things tugged at his heart, and a single tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away angrily. Loathsome emotion, sadness. That was one reason he loved Bach—the cold clarity and restrained emotion gave him room to breathe. Emotion was messy, unpredictable, uncontrolled.

  Finishing his tea, he wound the rope carefully before placing it into the duffel bag. He bought a new length of rope for each of them, pristine and white and untouched—just like the girls. Of course, he knew they had been touched, pawed by grimy adolescent boys who didn’t deserve them. But they had never been touched the way he would touch them—he was certain of that. He alone deserved them; he alone knew what they really needed. They just didn’t know it yet.

  He folded the silk blindfold with care, placing it next to the rope. He put the knife in last, fondling the blade for a moment before zipping the duffel closed. The logo on the front said Gold’s Gym. The bag had belonged to his first victim. He liked that little detail—it struck him as amusing. He slung the bag over his shoulder, turned off the kitchen light and stepped out into the night.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  “I can’t believe we got him!” Butts said the moment Lee entered the office. “He’s coming in for the interview in just a few minutes.”

  “You mean—?”

  “Professor Edmund Moran. I can’t believe how easy it was—I just called Columbia, they put me through to his office, and he said yes right away.”

  “Interesting, he agreed so quickly,” Lee said. “He probably knows we have no real evidence pointing to him.”

  “But he’s the guy, all right,” Butts insisted. “That voice—I’d never forget that voice.”

  “We have to be very careful. Did you call Detectives Chen or Krieger?”

  “Nope. Just you and me, Doc—we’ll crack this son of a bitch,” said Butts, his eyes burning with eagerness.

  “I admire your confidence,” Lee said. “But I should remind you, this man is the worst kind of sociopath. He has no conscience, no remorse, and he has a genius-level IQ.”

  Butts frowned. “Are you sayin’ we can’t handle him?”

  “I’m just saying, watch your step. Techniques that work on most people won’t work with him.”

  “So what’s your idea?” said Butts.

  “To start with, we get into the interrogation room first, establish it as our space. When he enters, he’ll feel less comfortable.”

  “You know, a lot of times if you leave a perp alone in the room for a while, they get nervous, and by the time you come in, they’re ready to confess.”

  Lee put a hand to his forehead, which was beginning to throb. “That won’t work with him. He doesn’t experience stress and anxiety like a normal person.”

  “So we go in first, then let the sergeant bring Moran in?”

  “Right. We don’t want to give him the impression we think he’s anything special. Just a run-of-the-mill suspect we’re not especially interested in.”

  “How are we gonna pull that off?” asked Butts.

  “Just let me take the lead, okay?”

  “Sure, Doc, whatever you say. Hey, you okay?” Butts asked, studying him. “You look a little green.”

  “You have any aspirin?”

  “I think so,” Butts said. Fishing around in his desk drawer, he produced a bottle of pills. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Lee popped two of them and gave the bottle back to Butts, who tossed it into the drawer. Then they walked down the hall to the interrogation room.

  Lee noticed that Butts immediately began pacing the cramped room like a matador about to enter the bullring. It occurred to him that a bullring might be a safer place to be right now.

  The desk sergeant poked his head into the room. “Guy here to see you—says his name is Moran.”

  “Fine,” Butts said. “Bring him on back.”

  Lee’s breath quickened, and white spots danced in front of his eyes. He sucked in a lungful of air, held it, then released it slowly.

  The door opened, and Edmund Moran entered the interrogation room.

  He was not what Lee had expected. The scar on his face was not as pronounced as Butts’s description had led him to believe, and even with the scar, the face was not ugly; in the right light, Lee imagined it could be rather handsome. The features were regular, well-formed, if severe, with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Lee realized with a shock that there was enough resemblance between him and Moran that they could be brothers. He was also taken aback by the physical poise of the man. Instead of evincing the nerdy shuffle of a classic math geek, he moved with athletic fluidity and grace.

  “Dr. Campbell, how nice to meet you. I quite enjoyed your lecture the other day,” Moran said, extending his hand. Lee had no choice but to shake it. There was nothing to be gained by starting off in a confrontational mode. Moran’s voice was cultivated and faintly British, just as Butts had reported. It was raspy around the edges, as though he had sustained an injury to his vocal cords.

  Phrases from the interrogation handbook floated through his head. Put him at ease; make him think you’re on his side. Edmund Moran was too intelligent to be fooled into thinking they were his allies, but it was too early to ruffle his feathers.

  “Please, have a seat,” Lee said, pulling over a chair. Butts remained in a corner, arms crossed, perhaps in case Moran might try to shake his hand. Their visitor carefully folded his coat over the chair Lee offered, then sat in it as if he were perfectly at home in his own living room. He was the picture of ease.

  He twisted around to look at Butts. “It’s good to see you again, Detective,” he said, removing a pair of expensive-looking kid gloves. He leaned back in his chair, regarding his interrogators through half-closed eyes. He reminded Lee of a sleeping crocodile. Subject appears calm. Attempting to establish and maintain control—classic psychopathic personality behavior.

  Edmund flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder. “So, am I under arrest?”

  “Why?” Butts asked. “Are you guilty of somethin’?”

  Moran smiled. “Isn’t that rather your job to find out?”

  “You can go anytime you want,” said Lee. “Do you want to leave?”

  “By no means. I’d like to help you with your investigation in any way I can.” He spoke earnestly, but the undertone of mockery was unmistakable.

  “Great,” Lee said. Subject inserting himself into investigation, even to the point of being exposed. Ego-driven, arrogant, attention-seeking. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I don’t think so. It wouldn’t do to leave traces of my DNA behind, would it?”

  Butts slapped a fistful of crime scene photos onto the table—the Alleyway Strangler’s victims, all young, all dead, photographed from various angles, their faces ashen, lips tinged with blue, their bodies a canvas for the depravity of a madman. Butts peered at Edmund.

  “So,” he said, “you know any of these girls?”

  Moran regarded the pictures with detachment, as one might study a mildly interesting math puzzle.

  “Can’t say I do. But then, I suppose people look different dead, eh?” />
  “Not all that different,” Butts shot back.

  Edmund looked at Lee and smiled but continued to address Butts. “Detective, your esteemed colleague here has no doubt told you that psychopaths don’t have the same physiological responses as ‘normal’ people. And the person who did this is clearly a psychopath. So if I did recognize these girls, you wouldn’t expect me to break into a sweat, now, would you?”

  Lee met his gaze. “Sometimes the lack of reaction is more telling than an emotional response.”

  “Oh, tut-tut, Dr. Campbell. No matter what my response is, you could regard it as suspicious. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t—isn’t that so?”

  “Why do you sign your notes the way you do?” Lee asked. “Isn’t that taking a risk?”

  “Well, now,” said the professor. “Since that information hasn’t been released to the public, the only person who knows what the signature is must be the killer. Isn’t that right, Detective Butts?”

  Butts looked at Lee, and Moran laughed.

  “Dear me—is that the best you’ve got?”

  “What about the wound designs on the girls?” Lee said. “We’re pretty sure we know what they mean. Care to tell us if we’re right?”

  “Are you profiling me, Dr. Campbell?” Moran crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “How’s it going?”

  “Disappointing, actually.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m afraid you’re more predictable than I thought.”

  Moran’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, really?”

  “I was hoping for a few surprises, but on the whole you’ve been rather dull so far.”

  Lee turned away but could feel the man’s gaze burning into his back. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax. His palms were sweating, and he felt another wave of dizziness sweep over him. He couldn’t let Moran see any vulnerability. Lee had the advantage now, playing on the man’s ego, his vanity—he knew what buttons to push. He just had to maintain control over himself, keep the outward appearance of calm....

  “You know, you’re looking a bit peaked, Dr. Campbell,” Moran said. “How’s the investigation into your sister’s death going?”