American Devil th&dl-1

by Oliver Stark

  ‘See this cell: it knows nothing of what’s around it. Its relationship to the world is non-existent. It does not know what’s out there. How do we, as human beings, experience this darkness in our own minds? Why do these dark areas matter?’

  Denise thought it was going reasonably well. Some faces seemed genuinely interested. She clicked again. ‘This is the brain scan of a child who has suffered serious neglect between the ages of zero and three. I think that you’ll find it quite interesting.’

  The slide came up. A gasp of fascination rippled through the assembled crowd. The scan showed a neural network with a dark hole in the centre.

  ‘In circumstances of serious abuse and neglect, the brain does not form correctly, and vast areas remain unconnected — like unexplored regions. What this means is that for some abused or neglected individuals, there is simply no connection between the parts of the brain that create normal behaviour. Some people do not have the mental capacity for empathy, control of impulse or fear of consequence — the roads simply don’t go there.’

  She leaned closer to the microphone. ‘Of course, behaviour can be learned. An individual can observe what empathy looks like and appear to display it. But it is not necessarily genuine. It is merely mimicry of external signs. It is shadow play, like a painting. There are people out there who have set up a whole ghost personality to allow them to cope and act within society. Many of our violent criminals have these black holes and my conjecture is that it is these unconnected parts of the mind that make their behaviour so abhorrent, so alien, and make treating them so difficult. In very real terms, ladies and gentlemen, they know not what they do.’

  The final slide came up. It showed five brain scans, each with at least one very noticeable area of darkness. ‘Here are five brains. You know who they belong to? These five brains belong to five different serial killers.’

  The faces of the killers themselves came up on the screen one after the other.

  ‘Killers or brain damage victims? These are the pattern killers — ghosts with darkness at their centre who try to gain meaning by repeated sensation. Sensation as an attempt to fulfil a hole left by a lack of capacity to feel emotion, empathy or concern.’ Denise took a drink of water. The man in the black suit sat impassively, his eyes picking out the single diamond hanging in the dip of Denise’s neck.

  ‘We have often tried to imagine the mind of a killer,’ continued Dr Levene, ‘and I can think of no better image than a brain that seeks but can’t feel emotion — it is like a hand without nerve endings reaching into a fire. It does not feel the heat but it is burned none the less. But there are many of these brain types amongst us. Our contention is that they are like sleeper cells, indicating potential violence. And our next steps will be to look at how to reactivate these black holes. With science, to pour light into the heart of darkness. My apologies to Conrad.’

  There was a murmur of laughter. Dr Levene looked out at the crowd. She was pleased. She summed up with a flourish of her right arm.

  ‘For want of better language, what we have found here is a place of neural silence, of isolation — of darkness. What we have found, ladies and gentlemen, is that there really is a dark heart at the centre of violent men and women. Violence is not caused by an experience of pain, but by the lack of an experience of human empathy. An absence, my friends, of love. Violence is neurologically the negative image of love, ladies and gentlemen. An unloved brain is only ever half formed.’

  The man in the black suit smiled and stood up. He was love’s shadow, that was it. Love’s fucking shadow. That felt just about right. He would have liked to stay to talk to Dr Levene about his own theories, but instead he rose and started to make his way along the row of seats.

  In the restroom of the lecture block, the man turned the handle of the glistening chrome faucet and washed his hands. He was pleased that he could feel the sting of the hot water. No problem there, he thought. He leaned forward and carefully splashed water over his face and then looked at himself in the mirror. Denise Levene was not half as clever as she thought she was. She had no idea about the true causes of violence. Only he did. Him and others like him. The causes of violence were very simple. So simple that killers never told anyone about them. Reasons were private, outcomes were public. He wanted to give Dr Levene an opportunity to see the truth. One day, he would.

  He looked in the mirror and smiled broadly.

  He picked up his black briefcase and put it on the vanity unit. He had another thirty minutes before the lecture would end and the inspired academics would stream into the lavatory with their vomit-inducing praise for what was, in his mind, a rudimentary and facile account. He opened his case and looked down with a smile.

  He had liked the part about the ghost personality. Of course, most actors had the capacity to feign emotion. It was not a feature of some kind of sociological brain damage. He looked down at the make-up, wigs, prosthetics, hair colourings and various other items in the case. He had been in touch with a good theatrical warehouse in Boston. They had supplied everything he needed.

  He looked at himself. Not a big change required, he thought. A bit of ageing, that was all.

  He took out a bottle of latex, pulled the skin around his left eye taut, spread it over the stretched skin. He repeated the operation for the other eye and then around the corners of his mouth, and his forehead.

  As the latex dried, his skin wrinkled up. He took out a brown-grey wig and placed it on his head. He looked up; the effect was immediate. Ten years older, at least.

  He put in brown contact lenses and with a small tube of tooth colour he tinted his teeth a deeper shade of ivory.

  All in all, his transformation took less than twenty minutes. It was not a perfect job, but he didn’t need perfection at the moment. The key to success, he knew, was in costume. People read your clothes quicker than anything. He took out a folded green jacket and a pair of trousers, both with gold braiding. He put them on and closed his case. He looked in the mirror at his assumed identity, smiled broadly and looked at his watch. Time was short.

  He had things to do, deadlines to meet, people to kill.

  Chapter Six

  Barnard College

  November 16, 5.10 p.m.

  After her lecture, Denise Levene spent the rest of the day doing the rounds of the department, catching up with her former colleagues, and then drinking a good Sancerre with them well into the evening. The general consensus was that Denise had been a great colleague and she was sorely missed. She was a profoundly good communicator, but at thirty-two she was still young enough for the science community to patronize her. A woman had to produce twice as many papers and work twice as hard to get the recognition of a man with half her talent, but that was the way of the world.

  It wasn’t right, but it was true, like many things in life.

  It was partly the endless pats on the head while the glass ceiling was closing over it that had motivated her to move out of research and try to get direct law enforcement experience with the police or the Feds. She’d found a position as psychotherapist for the NYPD almost at once. Those jobs didn’t usually attract people as well qualified as Denise and they bit her hand off at the first interview. They offered her a nice office and enough bad cops to keep her interested, and they’d even let her continue her research and maybe find a way to fund it. She’d taken the job on the spot. The head of department at Columbia called her a ‘reactionary masochist’. She’d known then that she’d made the right decision. She wanted to be close to the real thing, not hiding away in the safety of academia her whole life.

  Her dad would’ve approved too, to a degree. He was a practical man, a man who liked to get right in. She didn’t know how he’d feel about her working for the police, though. That would’ve been an interesting conversation if he’d still been alive.

  The truth was that the NYPD offered her access to men and women who had seen these violent criminals first hand. They offered her access to the behavioural scienc
e unit at Quantico. She was excited, no doubt about it. It wasn’t the same, interviewing the convicted criminals in prison. Everyone thought it was, but she knew that these killers changed when they got caught. A murderer sitting in a cell, devoid of any targets, was not the same guy as the man still free in the world and open to the temptation of his desires.

  Denise was interested in the time before they were caught. It was behaviour prediction that really excited her. She wanted to know if it could be modelled. That was the most interesting thing of all. How these people managed their own minds when they were out there in the world. Was there something predictable in these unpredictable killers? It was understanding how they operated out there that would lead to real developments in profiling. And that would mean more guys like them getting caught.

  Denise smiled across the room at someone she didn’t recognize. She was tired now and wanted to get off home. As the party was slowing down, Denise managed to find an office off the reception room in which to call her partner, who was out somewhere on the campaign trail. Daniel was a fitness-obsessed, carrot-juice-loving liberal but he was hers. They’d been together five years. He worked long hours as an adviser on environmental issues to a Democrat senator. He was one of the good guys looking after the planet. Denise listened to the ringing. She could see him sitting on a lazy chair in his vest and shorts, a running magazine on his knees, the news on in the background. He picked up.

  ‘How did it go, darling?’ Daniel asked in his slow West Coast tones. He’d been unable to attend her lecture and had sent her flowers by way of an apology. The senator always came first, but Daniel made sure it never felt that way to Denise and she appreciated those little touches.

  ‘That’s my last one for a while,’ she said. ‘It felt hard seeing everyone again. But it went well. How was Fahrenheit when you left?’

  ‘He was missing you, but he’s got your sister with him now, so he’ll be in doggy heaven with chocolate biscuits at every meal.’

  Denise loved her dog and her partner in that order. Daniel was wonderful when he had the time but her spaniel offered her the unconditional, uncomplicated affection that she remembered from her childhood.

  ‘I might not stay long,’ Denise said. ‘I want to go home, get out of this suit and eat a tub of Ben and Jerry’s watching Angels with Dirty Faces.’

  ‘I’d love to join you.’

  ‘Let’s say a prayer to a boy who couldn’t run as fast as I could,’ said Denise in a terrible James Cagney impression.

  ‘It’s a good thing you’re not taking up acting.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s also a good thing you’re out of reach right now.’

  ‘Not like you to be violent,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s working with the NYPD.’

  Denise paused. ‘Heh, it’s the same cops who put their lives on the line trying to keep the city safe so that liberal assholes can make like they own the place.’

  ‘Apologies,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m sure they’re doing all those liberal assholes a great service.’

  ‘Apology accepted, you liberal asshole.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘God, I love it when you talk dirty. If I was with you right now-’

  ‘You’re big with the mouth, Daniel, but you’re never at home to follow these promises through.’

  ‘Saving the planet’s an important job. Can’t just switch it off.’

  ‘It’s not the job I want switched off, it’s you. You need to lie back once in a while.’

  ‘Hey, are you watching the news?’ Daniel leaned forward and watched the ticker tape crossing the bottom of Fox News.

  ‘No, I’m in an office. What’s going on?’

  ‘They’re reporting a homicide in New York.’

  ‘What happened? When was this?’

  ‘It’s just breaking now. A woman was found dead out on Ward’s Island.’

  Denise focused. ‘Is it linked to Mary-Jane’s murder?’

  ‘They’re speculating. Fox News are right on the scene with live feeds. You should take a look.’

  ‘I can’t here. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Like I said, a woman killed and dumped on the rocks. It looks as though you might have your work cut out, Denise.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I want to help.’

  She remained on the phone to Daniel for another minute, until she signed off with her usual ending: ‘Love you till tomorrow.’

  She opened the door and looked into the crowded reception room, full of bright and smiling faces, all there to wish her well. Denise’s eyes were not focused on any of them. She had to leave quickly. She wanted to see the homicide report.

  Chapter Seven

  East Harlem

  November 16, 6.00 p.m.

  Harper’s suitcase was sitting packed on a chair, but he hadn’t gone anywhere. Not yet, at least. In the background the radio crackled updates on the pattern killer they were calling all kinds of names. Harper had been listening and watching closely since he’d seen the victim’s face the day before.

  The murder had kept him awake all night. After four hours of restless turning, he just couldn’t shake the image of the girl on the rocks from floating around his head. She wouldn’t go away. Harper wanted to get out there. He wanted to know how a killer got cherry blossom in the fall. Unlike his endless thoughts about Lisa, he knew what to do with homicide cases. He knew the right questions to ask.

  His head buzzed with ideas and possible leads already, but he had resisted a call to Lafayette. He had lost his cool once already with Officer Cob. He’d let the anger get the better of him — he still didn’t trust himself to be returned to the unsentimental wisecrackers of North Manhattan Homicide. Every weakness was fair game on the homicide squad.

  But there was a violent sociopath out there and one thing Tom Harper knew for certain was that he was only just creeping out of the shadows. It was clear that the killer seemed to have spent an extended time with each corpse. The killer had found his voice: a demented voice that wanted to be heard.

  Tom kept thinking as he walked down to the subway, took the south train to 51st Street and walked towards Fifth Avenue.

  The main entrance to St Patrick’s Cathedral was special to Tom. Lisa was a Catholic and loved the place more than any other. When she walked out on him, it was the first place he looked for her. If Lisa was in trouble, this was where she’d come. And on the odd occasion when they’d argued, this was where he knew to find her. This was the place where she lit candles for her grandmother and grandfather, where she attended Mass and went to confession. The cathedral had been her place of refuge and Harper had often wandered in by her side and watched her walk down the centre aisle towards the altar. What she thought about, Tom didn’t know.

  Outside, the Gothic spires and pointed arches thrust upwards between the big blue glass windows of the office blocks. Harper looked up at the rose window that formed a perfect point of focus like some magical point of connection, then walked through the great doors. Inside, you could disappear from New York into a vast space for reflection and thought. Harper wasn’t sure if he was religious or not, but the place moved him.

  The cathedral was just about emptying out. The stone still resonated with the voices of the crowds. Harper found a pew near the back, slipped across and felt the reassuring smooth wood against his hand. He stared up into the great open height and the stained glass. He needed to think about his life and this was the only place he could think of to come for some kind of direction. He put his elbows on the pew in front of him and lowered his head.

  He tried to push negative thoughts away and let his mind drift. He let recent images flit through his mind: Lafayette, the photographs, the girl on the rocks, Lisa, the nuthatch, a family of four all hand in hand by the lake…

  Half an hour later, a tall figure appeared at the back of the cathedral. He looked around, his eyes widening in surprise, and then he spotted Harper in the back pew. He slid in behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  Harper’s eyes opened as
a familiar voice whispered in his ear. ‘I heard on the grapevine that the department asked you back in. What you waiting for? You can’t refuse that. It’s not right. Fuck that. It’s serious. Come with me, my friend. I’ll save you from this cult.’

  Harper turned and smiled. His partner of three years, Eddie Kasper, was sitting there, his bright street clothes incongruous in the vast stone space, his voice even more so. No one in the department dared to rattle Harper, but this young black man had no fear at all, and, what’s more, he even seemed to like the big guy.

  ‘God, it is quiet in here! Is it like first one to talk has to stay in at play break?’

  ‘People are praying.’

  Eddie nodded in approbation. ‘I get you, man. You’re going through some kind of religious conversion, ain’t that right?’

  ‘Eddie. You can’t talk so loud in here.’

  ‘And that’s just how it is with you these days, isn’t it, Mr Silent? No hard feelings on my part, buddy, but you cut me off, don’t speak to me and don’t answer my calls. I’m not thin-skinned. I can take it, but even I got limits. See the tracks of my tears?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Screw busy, you ain’t been deep sea diving, you got a phone. I’m your best buddy.’ Other people from the pews in front of them were starting to look round.

  ‘What’s with the praying and shit?’

  ‘I’m looking for something.’

  ‘Well it ain’t in here, man, it’s out there, hiding behind every pretty face on the street.’

  ‘Lisa was a Catholic. Is a Catholic.’

  ‘My girlfriend wears false nails, but you don’t see me in the nail bar.’

  ‘I could imagine it.’

  ‘Come on. These Catholics, man, they believe in God and celibacy and all that. No sex before marriage. These are the ones I fear most of all. Do you think you can catch celibacy?’

  ‘I hope you do. I would love to see the look of disappointment on your face, Eddie.’