Bitter Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Jessica replaced the albums on the shelf where they had sat gathering dust, dust that she had disturbed. She had wanted to find a stash of victim shots, a diary perhaps, a running tally of his victims, maybe some newspaper clip­pings that referred to the ongoing investigation, but none of these had surfaced, only the telltale shots of the child with the writing on his back.

  Parry continued his tirade. “And to prematurely abscond with anything from the house will open up a legal hole in a later trial that any defense lawyer could run a tractor trailer through.”

  “Allow the creep time to incriminate himself fully,” Sturtevante said, putting her hand on Jessica's shoulder to emphasize her words. “It's time you took your own advice, Jessica. I wish I had heeded it earlier.”

  Parry tugged at her now, losing patience. “We've already broken the law by being here and bugging his place. Let's not compound that. This gets out and my next assignment will be in Podunk.”

  “It's the first break we've had, and you're asking me to just walk away from it?” Jessica demanded. “Suppose he bums all the stuff tonight?”

  “We all want to nail this bastard, Jessica,” soothed Sturtevante, “but we need to do it by the book to make it stick. Desinor has the warrant in hand, but she isn't here, and it isn't kosher until she gets here with it. Besides, we've bugged the place. Jim's right. Let's do the rest of this by the book.”

  Jessica knew they were right, yet she found it difficult to let go of the only incriminating evidence in the case any­one had seen. On their way out of Gordonn's bungalow residence, she told Sturtevante, who hadn't taken the time to look, what she had shown to Parry.

  “Then at least we know we have the right suspect this time,” the detective replied. “We won't let him out of our sight.”

  “Or hearing,” Parry added. They climbed into the surveillance van and closed the doors just as Gordonn pulled into sight.

  “It sure was hard to leave those photos behind,” Jessica said in frustration.

  “You didn't leave much behind, Jessica,” Parry said, one eye on the returning Gordonn. Carrying a small plastic grocery bag, he stepped casually up to his door, unlocked it, took a moment to glance about to see if anyone was watching his comings and goings, and then disappeared through the door.

  Parry continued to soothe Jessica. “What those photos represent is... well, it's just too nebulous, and a strong defense-team shrink could paint it as a healthy sign that Gordonn was strong enough, despite the trauma he suf­fered, to go back to research how his parents died.”

  “And the part he played in their deaths?”

  “He had no part in it. He was a child.”

  “The dysfunctional family on overdrive involves every member.”

  Parry shook his head. “The child was an innocent victim in a suicide pact made by his parents.”

  “I am talking about the sordid, twisted family matrix of these three people. No, the child did not have any con­scious part in it, but the parents were motivated by the child's being... just being, in every sense of the word. Ex­isting in innocence, his angelic nature. They did it for him, seeing themselves as heroically saving the boy. His very innocence set his parents on the deadly path. And by now he knows this.”

  “Sounds like a candidate for some serious psychoanaly­sis,” said Sturtevante.

  “According to the story, each of them, including the child, had a poem incised on their back.”

  “We'll have to get copies of the articles from the news­paper library.” Said that the mother wrote the poem into the back of her husband, and the husband into the back of the mother.”

  “And the child?”

  “No way to tell for certain which of the parents wrote on the child's back, but whichever parent it was, he or she in­tentionally withheld the poison, allowing the son to survive the suicide pact.”

  “And the poems are similar to the ones the killer is using today,” added Parry.

  “Whoever did the writing had not given the child the poison. Therefore, one of the parents must have balked at ending the child's life. Possibly as the partner lay dying, making the decision to allow the child to live at the last moment, possibly while feeling the first effects of the poi­soned ink himself or herself.”

  “Mother or father?” wondered Sturtevante, echoing Jes­sica's theory.

  “And what difference does this make to Gordonn?” Parry asked.

  “Possibly the answer to the question, the answer he is so desperately searching for. But for us, the more important question to our case, now that we're seeing victims all being poisoned in exactly the same manner, is why Gor­donn sees a need to reenact such killings. I say there's enough evidence to involve the DA's office, maybe get an indictment,” Jessica told Parry.

  “No, not necessarily,” Sturtevante said. “This story is public knowledge. Likely can be accessed through on-line sources—hell, likely isn't the word, absolutely can be ac­cessed via the Inquirer's dot-com.”

  Parry scratched his chin. “If Gordonn has shared this tale of the suicide pact of his parents and his own near death at their hands with people around him, any one of them could have taken the idea and run with it, including our friends at the college, Locke and Leare, or for that mat­ter someone in the photography department, or Harriet Plummer, Professor Burrwith, anyone with whom George Gordonn may have had any dealings.”

  “Or it could be Gordonn himself, acting out, repeating the twisted logic of his parents, who set him on this path as an infant,” Jessica insisted.

  Parry calmed her, placing a gentle hand on each shoul­der. “Remember your profiler training, Jess.”

  “Of course I remember it. What about it?”

  “It taught you that a killer will have a circle of attach­ments, acquaintances, friends or people he thinks are friends, relatives. Any one of these people could be using Gordonn, or Gordonn's story, for his own twisted ends.”

  “According to records, Gordonn took photography courses at one of the local colleges. The University of Philadelphia—coincidentally.”

  “It occurs to me he had to learn his specialty some­where, yes. What are you getting at?”

  “It's pretty obvious, Jim. All roads seem to lead us back to the university.”

  Before Parry could respond to her words, Sturtevante in­terrupted. “Message coming through from Dr. Desinor. She has the warrant and is a block off. We have a go on bugging the place but a no-go on search and seizure. Best she could do. It would've been a serious mistake to have taken anything out of the home.”

  Jessica nodded. “Got it.”

  TWENTY

  We are ne 'er like angels till our passions die.

  —Thomas Dekker (1572-1632)

  Leaving George Gordonn to a fresh surveillance team,

  Jessica, Sturtevante, Parry, and Kim regrouped at PPD headquarters. There Jessica called in Peter Vladoc to look at the latest findings and make an assessment of George Gordonn, openly and honestly.

  “My dear, Lord Byron's given name was George Gor­don. Gordonn's mother's maiden name was Byron. Byron marries Harold Gordonn and the two would-be artists ro­mantically concoct a quick exit from this world. As a pho­tographic artist, Gordonn senior would have known the properties of selenium. The killings are based on this inci­dent, but the story had been told in and around Philadel­phia for so long that everyone considers it just another urban legend. Only thing is, young Gordonn researched his parents' death, and he learned that they intended for him to go out with them.”

  “And you didn't think it relevant to tell us about this?”

  “He's never threatened anyone in my presence; he's never admitted to being the Poet Killer, and he comes off as ex­tremely well grounded, mentally speaking, for someone who began life as he did. Harmless, searching... these are words to describe George. Patient-doctor privilege forbids me to discuss our sessions in any but the most general of terms.”

  “Ironic,” said Sturtevante.

  “More
like Byronic,” Vladoc countered. “Someone too fine, too delicate, too good for this world, too heroic in the sense of having the most exquisite of human sensibilities, an angelic nature too sublime to withstand the slings and arrows of this existence. That's what your killer thinks of his victims. Gordonn, on the other hand, detests what his parents did to him, leaving him alone in the world, and he hates them for attempting to kill him as well. A Byronic personality would be the last thing he would emulate.”

  “But one of the parents actually saved him,” Jessica said. “Exactly, and he is wrestling with his ambivalence, and has from the outset of our talks attempted to leam which one showed him more mercy. You see, he has a right to be angry with his parents for deserting him as they did, leav­ing him to grow up alone.”

  “Was he given to foster care?” asked Kim.

  “His foster parents have since passed on; natural causes.”

  “You're speaking as if you are certain Gordonn is not our killer,” said Sturtevante.

  Jessica added, “As if the killer is a heroic person by mere virtue of being... sensitive to the supposed needs of his victims, Dr. Vladoc, and you don't believe Gordonn sensitive enough to be this killer?”

  “Your killer is a worshiper of the angelic,” Vladoc coun­tered. He nodded, his eyes going from Parry to each of the women investigators. “He sees himself this way, and sees each of his victims the same way.” His pause allowed them time to digest this.

  Sturtevante found a seat and fell into it. Clearing her throat, her eyes glassy, she said, “Maybe it's in their na­ture—the poets; the real ones, I mean—to feel only resent­ment for this world and all the sorrow it brings down around them.”

  “The ideals of beauty and spiritual wholeness subjected to ugliness and fragmentation,” said Jessica, “are the same that are expressed in Leare's poetry.”

  “As well as Locke's,” added Sturtevante. “And doubtless countless others'.”

  “We still need to catch George Gordonn in the act or speaking about the act, Jess,” said Parry. “We need some­one to get him to open up.”

  Vladoc quickly agreed. “While you have some impres­sive patterns emerging here, the dots have yet to be con­nected, and I sincerely believe, from all my time spent with Gordonn, that he is incapable of such heinous acts.”

  “Perhaps you can locate some of the dots,” suggested Jessica, an edge to her voice.

  “In point of fact, I have one major dot for you. I know this George Gordonn and have known him as a patient for almost a year now.”

  “You've treated him?” asked Sturtevante, this news being new to her.

  “That's certainly a strange coincidence, Dr. Vladoc,” Parry observed dryly. He then asked, “Why didn't you tell us about him sooner?”

  “I have never known him to be violent; it never occurred to me that he could be a killer. I am still having trouble grasping the idea. He just doesn't fit the profile, despite all the business with his ruined family life.”Parry nearly shouted, “You didn't think it relevant to tell us about the man whose parents started the urban legend that began this back-writing fad among the young?”

  “I had and still have patient privilege to consider. But I tell you, Gordonn never gave me the least concern. I can't see him perpetrating the very act which took his parents' lives and nearly took his.”

  “He doesn't appear to have enough money to pay the normal household bills, Dr. Vladoc,” said Jessica. “How does he afford your sessions?” He pays with cash, always. I've never seen him use a check or credit card. He always insists on cash.”

  “Isn't that a bit strange?” asked Parry.

  “What isn't strange about this entire business?” Sturte­vante put in.

  “Perhaps, since Dr. Desinor is also a psychiatrist,” began Jessica, a fist balled up and held against her teeth, “sharing information on Gordonn's case would only amount to con­sultation with a... a consultant, a colleague. That may not be a violation of the young man's civil rights or a breaking of your code of conduct.”

  “Yes, perhaps with Dr. Desinor's help, I'm sure you two can and will help this case along,” agreed Parry.

  “Then, after, we can do more research in the archives at the Inquirer.”

  “I'll be glad to help you in any way possible, Dr. Vladoc,” said Kim, striking a match and lighting the el­derly psychiatrist's pipe.

  “And you have no idea where he's getting the money to pay your bills?” pressed Sturtevante.

  Jessica stood, nodding. “All right, while Dr. Vladoc and Kim make their determinations, we will pursue a line of ques­tioning with Dr. Throckmorton at the university.”

  “It appears Gordonn took some classes in the photogra­phy department at the University of Philadelphia,” Sturte­vante informed the others, and Vladoc knowingly nodded.

  “We'll rendezvous back here at five p.m.,” said Jessica, “if everyone is in agreement.”

  “Five it is,” said Vladoc. “We must get past this wrong direction you have all taken so that we can get back to the real madman, checkmate him before his next move.”

  By now, Jessica had become a familiar face on campus, but Parry and Sturtevante drew a few stares from students passing them in the hallways. They had returned to the photography department, where they spoke with Leonard Throckmorton, who informed them that Gordonn had in­deed taken classes in the department with Professor Zachary Goldfarb, and that he had begun but not finished an ambitious film project on the life of Lord Byron.

  “What kind of film do you mean?”

  “Why, a documentary about the poet's greatest accom­plishments. Do you know that it is impossible to find a bust of Lord Byron anywhere? You can get Beethoven, Mozart, but try to find Shelley, Keats, Byron, or any of the major poets—except for Shakespeare, of course. Not a large enough market, I suppose. Meanwhile, you can't throw a stone without hitting the bust of a composer.”

  “What can you tell us about Gordonn?”

  “Very little, I'm afraid.”

  “Start by telling us how much you knew of this Byron film he was intending to make.”

  “He was nearly finished with the project when he sud­denly disappeared, dropped out, and as far as I know, the project went with him. But then, Dr. Goldfarb can tell you more about that than I can.”

  “Where is Goldfarb now?”

  “Presumably in class.”

  “We need to see him. When's class out?”

  'Twenty minutes. If you care to wait, I'll have him sent for.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “There's a lounge just down the hallway if you care to wait there.”

  “No, I'm quite sure the twenty minutes will be filled up right here, Dr. Throckmorton, because I have more ques­tions.” Jessica sat down in a chair opposite the man's desk. “Since you know little about George Gordonn, then perhaps you can tell us about another suspect. ”Another suspect?”

  “The original George Gordon—Lord Byron.”

  “What do you now wish to know about Byron?” he asked, confused. “And how is a dead poet—one dead for well over a hundred and fifty years, I believe, a suspect in a murder investigation today?”

  “I was hoping you could tell us that.”

  Parry plopped down in the plush leather chair beside Jessica. He explained the connection they'd made between the Byron volume found at one of the victim's homes, George Gordonn, and Gordonn's “twisted, deceased” par­ents. Finally, after explaining about the suicide-pact death that was meant to take little George out as well, Parry told the other man about the poem on the six-year-old's back.

  “And now he's been making a film homage to Byron,” said Throckmorton. “I see why you are interested in Gor­donn.” The department chairman then said, “Actually, Byron has become a kind of cult hero for many of Amer­ica's youth, particularly those given over to the goth lifestyle, those black-trench-coated legions whose preoc­cupation with romanticism, heroism, and death have cata­pulted the Byron type and the B
yronic hero into a kind of... well, I guess you'd call it godhead.”

  “Byronic hero?” asked Sturtevante, who'd remained standing. “Now I need a cup of coffee.”

  “Well, the Byronic hero... he occurs in many guises, taking on different characteristics in Byron's poetry, you know, the extremes of passion, the fervent and moody antihero, solitary, doomed, the one who stands outside or above ordinary criteria and jurisdictions or notions of right and wrong, good and evil.”

  “Yeah, I know what Byronism is if I search my memory banks from college lit courses,” said Sturtevante, sounding more frustrated than skeptical. “I just didn't expect this.”

  “Nor I,” the professor replied. “Are you detectives sure you weren't simply influenced by the volume of Byron's work you saw placed alongside the body?”

  “The Byron book was found with pages marked and lying on the nightstand,” Parry returned. “We think it's a strong, unifying element in George's twisted logic.”

  “What're you saying, Dr. Throckmorton?” put in Sturte­vante. “That we have a killer with a Byron complex?” She turned to the others. “By the way, is there any such thing as a Byron complex?”

  “Why, yes,” Throckmorton explained. “A person with a Byron complex sees himself as a doomed and tragic figure, a kind of Prometheus who is pecked to death not by an eagle but by the smug, indifferent, and uncomprehending world to which, like the Prometheus of myth, he has brought light. Perhaps you ought to talk to a shrink about this, not a photography professor,” he finished.

  “We are, as we speak, getting support from that quarter,” Jessica informed him.

  “How amazing. I had no idea that Lord Byron had any connection whatsoever to... to these deaths.”

  The twenty-minute wait for Dr. Goldfarb was up, and so Dr. Throckmorton, fearing he'd miss Zach, as he called the other man, rushed out himself to fetch him.

  “Not a very forthcoming fellow at first but once he gets to know you...” Jessica observed with a smile to lighten Parry's mood.

  “Rather uptight, I agree.”