Collecting Cooper

by Paul Cleave

  “Who the hell are you?” Cooper asks.

  “The. . the first rule of a serial killer,” he says, thankful for the words-God, he’s so nervous he wants to be sick again-“is, is to. . to depersonalize his victims,” he says, looking down at the floor.

  “Is that what I am? One of your victims?” Cooper asks.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s why I’m in this cage, right?”

  Adrian is confused. “Cage? No, this is a basement,” he says, looking around. Can’t Cooper see that? “You can tell because there are concrete blocks and no bars.”

  “It was a metaphor.”

  Adrian frowns. “A what?”

  “Let me out.”

  “No.”

  “What do you want? Did you send me the thumb?”

  “What?”

  “The thumb. Are you the one who sold it to me?”

  “I. . I don’t understand. What thumb? The one in the jar that you cut off one of your victims?”

  “One of my victims? What the hell are you talking about?” Cooper asks.

  “What are you talking about?” Adrian asks.

  “Why am I here? Are you going to kill me?”

  “I. .”

  “Let me out,” Cooper repeats. “Whatever is going on here, this needs to stop. You have to let me go. Whatever you have planned, it can’t happen. I don’t know what you want. I’m not a rich person. I can’t give you money. Please, please, you have to let me go.”

  “I. .” he starts, then something catches in his throat and he can’t continue.

  “What do you intend to do with me?”

  “Umm. .”

  “You said welcome to your collection. Is that what all of this is? Is that what I am? A collector’s piece?” Cooper asks, his voice sounding more angry than scared.

  “You’re asking too many questions all at once,” Adrian says, getting confused. He lifts his hands up to his face and pushes his palms against his cheeks.

  “Am I a collector’s item?”

  “No, no, certainly not,” Adrian answers, upset Cooper would think that way. “You’re more than just a piece. You’re. . you’re everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “You are the collection.”

  “So all of this,” Cooper says, and Adrian thinks he’s spreading his arms but he can’t know for sure because all he can see is Cooper’s face, “is some kind of zoo?”

  “What? No, this isn’t a zoo,” he says, pulling his hands from his face and pointing them toward the opposite walls. “There would be animals here if it were, like monkeys and penguins and it would smell, and zoos have cages and. . and you still think this is a cage? This is a collection and you’re the main. . the main attraction.”

  “As what? A criminology professor?”

  “Partly that, and partly because of the stories you can tell me. And the fact you’re a serial killer makes you even more valuable.”

  Cooper’s face pales. A frown appears, the lines deep enough to look like long scars. “What? What did you just say?”

  “A storyteller. You’re here to tell me stories about killers you know. I find them interesting.”

  “You said I was a serial killer. Explain yourself.”

  He never had to explain himself in the past to his cassette collection, or the collection of comics he had as a kid. This is tough work. “A serial killer is a person who. .”

  “Yes, yes, I know what a serial killer is, you twit, but I’m not a killer.”

  Adrian doesn’t know what a twit is, but he does know he doesn’t like being called one. “Don’t you get it?” he asks, thrilled he knows something Cooper does not, because Cooper is one of those people who knows everything. His mother called those people good-for-nothing know-it-alls, but of course Cooper is good for everything. “You study killers, you know killers, and you are a killer. You are an entire collection in one piece.”

  Cooper takes a deep breath then slowly exhales. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and rubs the side of his head with his fingers. Adrian thinks the man is either trying to collect his thoughts or fall asleep while standing. He decides on the first of the two options because it’s not late enough in the day to start sleeping. Then he decides the collecting your thoughts trick might work for him too, so he closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, and it helps, just a little.

  “I’m not a serial killer,” Cooper says.

  Adrian opens his eyes back up. “Yes you are. I know you are. That’s why you’re here.”

  “No, I’m here because you abducted me, and because you’re delusional.”

  “I am no such thing.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “What?”

  “Your name. Surely you have one.”

  “The first rule of a. .”

  “Shut up about the damn rule,” Cooper says, banging the door. “Just tell me your bloody name,” he says.

  “But. .”

  “Your name. Tell me your name,” he shouts.

  “Adrian,” he answers. He didn’t want to answer, he certainly had the intent to always keep his name to himself, but he hates being shouted at, always has, and his name comes out before he can stop himself.

  “Does Adrian have a last name?”

  “You have to stop,” he says, getting mad now. “No more, no more questions.” He covers his ears and shuts his eyes, but he can still hear Cooper asking him things. He takes a few steps away from the door. After a minute Cooper goes quiet and Adrian moves his hands away.

  “I made you something to eat.”

  “I don’t want anything to eat. I want you to let me out of here.”

  “You get used to the cell,” Adrian says. He starts scratching at a sudden itch on the side of his head. “And I’m going to try and make it more comfortable for you. See all of this?” he asks, spreading his arms and encompassing the small view. “I brought these things from your house, all your serial killer memorabilia, I brought it here so you could have your own collection nearby because I know how important it is to you, just as you are important to me. It’s still all yours,” he says, “I don’t want it, I want you to still have it. If you think about it, we’re not that unalike really. You collect serial killer memorabilia, and. .”

  “And you collect serial killers. I get the point.”

  “I am so lucky to own you,” he says, hardly hearing what Cooper said at all.

  “You don’t own me, you crazy son of a bitch,” Cooper says, the defiance in his voice is annoying.

  “Don’t be mean,” Adrian says, then remembers that of the two of them, it really is his job to be the calm one. After all, he has had days to think about this, and Cooper has only had a few minutes. This is going to be quite an adjustment for Cooper. He can’t just expect the man to wake up and accept it. “You should eat,” he says, hoping the change in topic and the food he made will hasten the bonding they have to do.

  “Listen, Adrian, Adrian, I can’t stay here. This isn’t going to work. You’re going to see that soon, and then you’re going to let me go, but by then it’ll be too late and the police will lock you away and. .”

  “You need to keep your strength up.”

  “Jesus,” Cooper yells, and bangs something against the window that looks like a shoe. “Doesn’t anything get through to you?”

  “Stop with the questions,” Adrian yells, and before he can stop himself, he kicks out at the coffee table, sending the sandwich he’d made all over the wall and floor. The lantern hits the floor, flickers for a few seconds but doesn’t go out, just rolls across the ground sending shadows moving over the walls.

  “Great, just great,” he screams, “now look at what you’ve done? That’s it-that’s it-no more lunch for you today. Now you go hungry,” he says, and he kicks at the coffee table one more time, picks up the lantern, and heads upstairs. He wanted nothing more than to make a good impression, a lasting first impression, and he’s failed, all because of Cooper.

&nb
sp; “You can’t keep me here,” Cooper shouts out from the basement.

  Adrian stops at the door and looks back down at the cell. Cooper is staring up at him through the window. “We’ll make it work,” he says. “Soon we’ll be friends. I forgive you for making me make a mess.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “I’m. Not. Delusional,” he says, biting down on each word. Why do people always think he’s crazy? He’s had to deal with that his whole life and he’s sick of it. He looks down at his feet, at his polished shoes. He cleaned his shoes as part of his attempt to make a good impression, and now he isn’t even sure why he bothered. Did he not clean them enough? Is that the problem? The right one is scuffed up from kicking the coffee table. The fifteen dollars he paid last week for his shirt and tie from the thrift store is looking like a waste of money. He flicks the hair out of his eyes. He can feel the tears starting to come. This has gone nothing like he expected.

  He slams the basement door on Cooper’s shouts, angry, embarrassed, wondering if it wouldn’t just be easier to set fire to his collection the same way he set fire to his mother.

  He races down the hallway and up the stairs to the first landing, his hip hitting the wall and the radio bouncing off his belt onto the floor. He wouldn’t really set fire to Cooper, that’s just his frustration talking and trying to convince him to do something stupid. He bends down to pick up the radio and is relieved it hasn’t broken. He rewinds the tape a little and can hear Cooper’s voice, then rewinds it the rest of the way so he can record over it. He doesn’t want to hear any of the conversation.

  If he wanted to, he could give Cooper the gift he got for him to smooth things over, but he wanted that to be a surprise for tomorrow. He quietly opens one of the bedroom doors in case Cooper’s gift is sleeping, and she is. There are other, perhaps more appropriate rooms for her, but he liked the idea of keeping her more comfortable, of giving her a bed. Her hands are bound to the rails of the bed in the same place he tied them two nights ago. Her skin is flushed and the skin around her lips is dry and has chipped and there’s a plastic drinking straw hanging from her mouth. There’s a pitcher of water on the floor next to her that he helps her drink from, but unfortunately there’s no bathroom in here and he didn’t want to risk untying her all the time for her to urinate, so the room smells from where she’s soiled herself, and the smell reminds him of his days at school, which makes him smile, but then reminds him of the day he got beaten into a coma and the smile disappears. The girl is no more than twenty, he thinks; he isn’t sure of her name and the time for asking was before he glued her lips together around the straw, but he had to do the gluing before she could say mean things to him. She looked the type that could be pretty nasty if she wanted to be. Right now she just looks unhealthy, and he doesn’t think Cooper will be happy with his gift covered in sweat and urine, and he’s going to have to do something about it. Probably he’ll just hose her down and leave her naked. Cooper will like her that way.

  chapter nine

  Donovan Green leaves me the car he arrived in-a rental-and catches a taxi. The rental is a white four-door sedan about a year old. It tells me Green knew I would take on the case, that he knew I had no car, and from the moment he realized his daughter was missing he knew he would be contacting me if she didn’t show up. If there had even been any doubt, he would have decided that Fate or Destiny played a part in this-his daughter going missing thirty-six hours before I’m released from jail-there has to be something in that, and thank God it wasn’t the other way around, otherwise, instead of coming to me for help, he may have come to blame me for her disappearance. He’s given me a thousand dollars in cash for expenses with the promise of more if I need it. The cash is to smooth any wheels that grind to a halt along the way. He’s given me the gun he threatened to shoot me with last year. It brings back memories. I hide it beneath my wife’s side of the mattress. He’s given me a photograph of Emma when she was ten years old, taken at her birthday party. He’s asked me to carry it with me until I find her. He wants that photograph burning in my pocket as a constant reminder to find Emma, as if I need reminding. I fold it into my wallet. And he’s told me how he thinks Emma would react. She’s a smart kid, he said, one who wanted to study psychology because she thought she was good at figuring out what people thought. He said no matter what the situation, she would adapt and she would survive it. I just kept nodding the entire time hoping he was right, but knowing there wasn’t a lot a young girl like Emma could say to talk her way out of the situation some sick bastard has put her in.

  He’s also given me a photograph of Emma taken a month ago. She’s an attractive girl. Last time I saw her she was lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of her body. She was awake and didn’t know who I was. I didn’t go into the room, just stood outside it arguing with her father, telling him I was sorry. Her black hair is hanging to her shoulders, framing a face with an easygoing smile, the kind you love to see on any attractive girl, but the kind you don’t see on many of them. There’s no doubt that smile could break some hearts. Her eyes are squinting a little on account of the sun, the background a park or a backyard somewhere.

  My parents arrive only moments after my lawyer leaves. I hear them pull up and go back outside and meet them. They climb out of the car and Mum runs over and hugs me and Dad, who has never hugged a man in his life, shakes my hand and I invite them inside and we sit down drinking cold drinks while we catch up on all the same things we caught up on when they visited me twice a week in jail. Dad is in his midseventies, his hair white but full, no signs of it receding out of existence, a fact he’s proud of. He has a beard with no mustache, which is a real shame. He is relieved when I tell him I no longer need to borrow a car. Mum is in her early seventies and knows she may not be around in twenty years, and is making up for that by getting in as many words as she can before passing away. She has thick glasses that hang around her neck, a holdover from her years working as a librarian in town, and dark blond hair that’s been coming out of a bottle for the last twenty years. She offers to stay longer so she can help me around the house but I turn her down. My parents are lovely people, but spending the last four months without them calling me every day or popping in all the time certainly gave jail an upside. There aren’t any uncomfortable silences because my mum doesn’t give them time to develop. Mostly she updates us on what other family members are doing. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but I wish I did because it’d spread Mum’s attention toward me a little thinner. I hear about my cousins, uncles, and aunts; new jobs; new additions to the family; who’s sick. I almost need to take notes just so I can keep up.

  It’s nice seeing them, but it’s also nice seeing them leave. When they’re gone I drive to a nearby mall. I was once told that Christ-church has more mall space per capita than anywhere else in the Southern Hemisphere. The rental is quiet and easy to speed in by accident. The air-conditioning works a treat and the seats are comfortable enough to fall asleep in. There’s a huge bouncy castle set up in the parking lot, with dozens of laughing children jumping in or around it, a couple of clowns making balloon animals, and a few barbecues endlessly cooking hot dogs that nobody seems to be eating, all of it covered by large sun sails set up to make shade. Parents are standing around and chatting while keeping an eye on their kids, the occasional calm down, Billy or a don’t sit on her, Judy coming from them.

  I find a parking space and head inside and spend two minutes looking at cell phones before deciding on a cheap model, figuring any extra features won’t do me any good with the luck I have when it comes to keeping a cell phone in one piece. The guy behind the counter has earrings in each ear and a small one in his left nostril and to be honest I just don’t get the point. He tries to sell me an expensive plan to make the phone cheaper and I have to turn him down four times before he lets it go. He puts in a new SIM card and lets me know my phone will take about an hour to connect to the network. I use some of the cash Donovan Green gave me. S
omehow I manage to leave my wallet on the counter, and don’t realize it until the guy who sold me the phone catches up with me in the parking lot and hands it over in what looks like a reverse mugging. I try to offer him some money as a reward, and he waves it away and tells me that’s not why he returned it, that doing the right thing is about doing the right thing, not about getting something out of it.

  From the mall I hit a thin flow of traffic, which gets even thinner the closer I get to the care home. The driveway leading up to it has been paved since the last time I was here. The trees on each side of it are drooping in the heat. The building is gray brick and about forty years old and doesn’t have the kind of appeal to make you think you could live here. The grounds are scenic, there are five hectares of them, beautiful enough to be on postcards. I step through the doors into an air-conditioned foyer and nothing in here has changed and I figure nothing ever will, including the nurses. Nurse Hamilton greets me with a small hug and tells me it’s good to see me and I think she means it. She’s been looking after my wife for three years, and before my jail sentence I would try to come out here every day. I’ve seen Nurse Hamilton hundreds of times and there’s nothing I know about her other than the fact that she’s a woman and a nurse and never wears any perfume and is at that timeless age where you can’t tell whether somebody is fifty or sixty or seventy. She follows me to Bridget’s room and updates me-but there isn’t much to update. Bridget has gotten four months older and nothing else. She’s sitting in a chair looking out over the grounds where a gardener without a shirt is riding a lawn mower, cutting stripes into the lawn. She has a slight tan, so before the heat wave struck somebody was wheeling her outside to sit in the sun for small periods at a time. I hold Bridget’s hand and it’s as warm as it was the last time I held it, and I spend an hour with her. In the room are photos of our daughter.