“Premature burial was a widespread and much discussed phobia in the nineteenth century. Not just with Poe. There had purportedly been a true incident that got great play in the papers. People began buying coffins with escape hatches that could be activated from the interior or that had a bell the interred could ring if consciousness returned.”
“Okay, and how about that teeth-pulling business?”
The professor held up his hands. “Make no mistake about it-Poe wrote some strange tales. His imagination was given to the macabre and sensationalistic. But he was trailblazing-writing a kind of story that had never been attempted before. And to some extent, all of his work is united by his strange belief system. Poe believed that there was another world, a better one, that we saw glimpses of when we dreamed. Poe even believed it was possible…”
He switched channels to the press conference, which was late in starting. No doubt they had woodshedded Susan, drilling her on what could and could not be revealed. With so many eyes watching, they must be concerned about her somewhat mercurial temperament. Either that or they were pouring coffee down her gullet, sobering her up, poor thing.
How interesting that she should share the prophet’s infirmity. Remarkable-or a sign of shared destiny?
At last, Susan approached the podium, looking elegant in a sleek blue jacket and white slacks. In the background, he spotted Lieutenant Granger and that new companion, the one who looked as if he barely knew where he was. Susan adjusted the microphone and began.
“My name is Susan Pulaski. I’m a behavioral expert and consultant to Lieutenant Barry Granger and the Vegas PD. I have a prepared statement, and then I’ll be able to answer some questions.
“Let me make one point up front. Our investigation into these murders is ongoing. All available resources have been assigned to this case, and we are also working in consultation with federal authorities and various experts in the fields of serial crime and sexual deviancy.”
He raised an eyebrow. Sexual deviancy? He had never touched any of these girls in that way. Surely she must know that.
“All our available manpower and then some is working around the clock to bring this killer to justice. While we are not prepared to make an arrest at this time, we have several very promising leads. We are working closely with a top FBI profiler and we hope to be in a position to make an arrest soon.”
A bit of bravado? he wondered. Probably fed to her by O’Bannon, necessary to keep the press at bay. But unwise. He had no intention of being apprehended.
“This is what we know for certain. The first victim, as I believe most of you already are aware, has been identified as Helen Collier. She died of asphyxiation after being buried in a mock coffin at the Transylvania hotel. The second victim was Annabel Spencer, a mathematics student from MIT, apparently a weekend visitor who had been gambling at some of the local casinos. She died from acute blood loss. Her body was hidden in an abandoned aircraft stowed on a back lot at McCarran International. We have one possible eyewitness and a host of physical evidence.”
Hands shot up, but Susan ignored them, continuing with her statement.
“It is true, as has been speculated in the press, that the killer obtains inspiration from the works of nineteenth-century American writer Edgar Allan Poe. Both bodies were left with cryptic messages drawn from the works of Poe. The murders appear to be reenactments of scenes from Poe. While this is colorful and good for headlines, it is not particularly helpful in tracking the killer, nor is it unprecedented. Past serial offenders have been known to derive inspiration from the zodiac, old movies, The Catcher in the Rye, even Beatles songs. What is important is that we focus not on the superficial trappings but on the personality that lies beneath it. Understanding that personality, we believe, is the key to preventing future crimes.”
She folded her notes and looked out into the crowd. “I can take a few questions now.”
Again, the hands flew upward. Susan scanned the gallery. She’s looking for something, he realized, but what? A familiar face? A friend somewhere in the valley of the vultures?
She pointed.
“Lieutenant Pulaski, do you have a description of the killer?”
“I’m not prepared to provide that information at this time.”
“Does that mean you don’t? Because if you do-”
“I’m not prepared to provide that information at this time.”
He supposed she was hesitant to reveal the description he gave her when he was disguised as Ethan. Very smart, Susan. He hadn’t given her enough detail to make it possible for anyone to find the killer (even were it accurate). Revealing it now only risked potential embarrassment if (when) it turned out to be wrong.
“Do you have a psychological profile of the killer?”
“We are developing and refining our profile every hour of every day. I am not authorized to provide details of the current profile to you.”
An anorexic reporter in the front row cut in. “You know, Lieutenant Pulaski, that will lead some to speculate that you have no valid profile.”
Such thinly disguised calumny. Susan was doing a good job of masking her reaction, but he felt it, all the same. “I can assure you, ma’am, that my colleagues and I are more than able to perform our jobs, and as I mentioned, we have been working in consultation with federal specialists. But we do not feel it would be advantageous to reveal everything we know about the killer at this time.” She apparently couldn’t resist adding, “Use your brain. It isn’t hard to figure out why.”
“What’s his motive?” someone else asked.
“We can only speculate. Certainly we do not believe there is any rational motive, such as greed or jealousy. Given the vagaries and inconstancies of the psychotic mind, determining what delusion motivates him can be extremely difficult.”
He felt a flash of anger-psychotic?-then checked it. No, he told himself, don’t blame her. She doesn’t understand, not yet. She couldn’t possibly know.
A handsome middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee spoke up. “Jonathan Wooley, Vegas Courier.”
He inched forward. Wooley had written all the best pieces he had pasted into his History.
“Ms. Pulaski, I respect that you don’t want to reveal everything you know-you don’t want to force the killer to change his MO, and you probably need some undisclosed details to distinguish crank informants from people with actual knowledge. But surely you can understand our position. Basically we’re asking: are we safe?”
“The LVPD is taking all possible steps to ensure-”
“Pardon me, but you weren’t able to stop the previous killings and you’ve given us no reason to believe you can prevent any future ones. Are the citizens of Las Vegas safe?”
He noticed that Susan’s fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly, on the lectern. He knew what she was thinking. She wanted a drink.
“The LVPD is advising citizens to take extreme caution until the assailant is apprehended, particularly young women who are-or look-ages fourteen to twenty.”
“Should we close the casinos? Are the discos safe? How can people protect themselves?”
The hesitation in her voice-first time yet-told him this was something that had been discussed before the conference. He suspected that she favored telling people to lock themselves in their homes and shutting down the whole city. But of course the powers that be would never permit that.
“We have to keep our heads on straight and not let fear get the best of us. For the most part, people should proceed with their normal lives. But they should exercise extreme caution, particularly those in the target gender and age group. Don’t travel alone. Have someone walk you to your car. Don’t speak to strangers. And most especially, don’t get in a car-or truck-with someone you don’t know.”
“But how can we know what situations create jeopardy, when we know so little about the killer?” This Wooley was relentless. He supposed that was why the man was a successful reporter, but it was beginning to wear a bit th
in. “Are his victims chosen at random?”
“I’ve said all I have to say on the matter,” Susan replied firmly. “Now if there’s nothing more, I-”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind answering this question, Lieutenant Pulaski. That is, former Lieutenant Pulaski.” A camera pivot revealed a woman barreling her way through the heart of the assembled press corps. “Are you qualified to work on this investigation?”
He edged toward the television. It was that woman, the TV host. Annabel’s mother.
Susan cleared her throat. “Mrs. Spencer, as I think you know, Lieutenant Granger is in charge of the investigation. I’m only consulting on-”
“You’re the behavioral expert. The only one on the force.”
“Actually, I’m working with a representative from the FBI who-”
“But so far, you haven’t come up with anything. My daughter’s killer is still at large. And I am outraged.”
The reporters drank up this unexpected bit of conflict. Pens scribbled madly. The minicams shifted their gaze from the podium to the aggrieved mother.
“Mrs. Spencer, everyone at the LVPD is sorry for your loss-”
“But not sorry enough to do anything about it, apparently. Why hasn’t this man been caught? Why aren’t you doing more?”
Solipsistic firebrand. Quarrelsome quidnunc. She had no right to embarrass Susan in public. She was just trying to steal the limelight, the glory hound. Everything Annabel had said about her was true. She was unworthy, as was this behavior. She’d be better served to consider how her daughter could be with child and in Las Vegas without her knowing about it.
“Again, let me make it clear that everyone is doing their best-”
“But that’s not good enough, is it?” The mother stepped up on the raised platform. “I am publicly calling here and now for a clean sweep of the LVPD team and full federal assumption of this investigation.”
“That isn’t even constitutional and it wouldn’t-”
“Talk is meaningless. We’re looking for a deranged killer, a psychopath. We’re not going to catch him with these Deputy Fife officers.”
Susan’s cheeks burned. “I can assure you, ma’am-”
“In the meantime, I’m demanding the immediate removal of several LVPD personnel who have done nothing but obstruct reasoned efforts to bring this fiend into custody. Beginning with Robert O’Bannon.”
“That’s uncalled for. Chief O’Bannon has years of-”
“His conduct has been grossly negligent.”
“He knows more about police work than you could learn in-”
“He hired a drunk to work on my daughter’s case!”
The harsh words sliced through the press conference like a laser. Susan took a step back, almost staggered.
“I guess you didn’t cover that in your opening statement, did you, Ms. Pulaski? Perhaps you’d like to explain why you are no longer a member of the LVPD. Why your employment was terminated. Perhaps you’d like to explain where you were residing only ten days ago or why you have a bandage on your wrist.”
Susan’s teeth were tightly clenched. “This conference is over.”
“I’m calling a press conference of my own!” the mother all but shouted. “I want some action! And I’m willing to put up my own money to see that it happens.”
“I don’t need this,” Susan said, folding up her materials.
The mother grabbed her arm. “I want my daughter’s killer found!”
Susan pushed her away. “We all do, ma’am.” She left the stage, and the live feed gave way to background commentators rattling about the “surprising and dramatic turn of events” at the press conference. Although they didn’t come right out and say they agreed with the mother, they were quick to note that she was not the only one who had criticized the way this investigation was being handled. They couldn’t resist adding that there were many unanswered questions about Susan Pulaski’s involvement, suggesting that they had known all along about her alcohol addiction and time in detox which, of course, none of the lazy mouthpieces had.
He shut off the television in disgust. His anger at that hideous woman and the ignorant press was intense, but not so intense as the sorrow he felt for his poor damaged Susan. She must be devastated. She would try to act tough, as if it didn’t bother her. But it would. It would eat away at her like an earwig burrowing through her brain. And before the day was done, she would drink.
The department would be all over her, pressuring her, just as they would now be pressured to terminate her. His resolve was redoubled: he had to give her something. Something to make her indispensable to the investigation.
That contemptible Spencer woman-how he loathed her. She was projecting, of course. Annabel had said she was a wretched, inattentive mother. No doubt she was trying to sublimate her guilt by lashing out at others. She had slandered him and, more importantly, his Susan. If it happened again, he would be forced to take action. For Susan’s sake. And that of the world to come.
I don’t like that one with the frozen hair and the painted face and the big glasses and the guitar calluses on her left-hand fingers. I didn’t like it when that one was mean to Susan there was no reason she should not be mean and that’s what they taught me in Sunday school didn’t she ever go to Sunday school that one was mean I’m sorry she lost her little girl but maybe if she’d been watching she wouldn’t have lost her and it isn’t Susan’s fault. She was mean to Susan and said lots of loud things I didn’t understand and she smelled bad too like something out of one of those bottles at J. C. Penney’s where the lady is always asking if you want a sample and I don’t I don’t I hate those smells get those smells away from me and I screamed and knocked over her tray and my dad was so mad at me and she smelled just like that. I didn’t think my dad would let me come to his office today but he did and he said I could come again if I wanted to if I didn’t get in Susan’s way because Susan has problems and he doesn’t want me to make them worse like I would. The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes. I got to see Susan and I know she likes coffee even though it’s bad for you so I read up everything about coffee so I could tell her and I think maybe it made her happy but I saw her talk to those camera people and saw the glasses lady be so mean and for no reason. Bad lady! I bet she likes spiders and I bet she has a dog.
She shouldn’t have been mean to Susan. No one should ever be mean to Susan. I want her to be happy. I want to have her babies.
I turned on the water, stepped into the shower fully clothed, and screamed. Screamed like a banshee, an elemental force of nature. Everything that had been pent up inside me I tried to release in one piercing blast. All my anger at the lawyers, at the people who took Rachel from me. At Dr. Coutant. At O’Bannon. And most of all at that obscene television gorgon Fara Spencer.
And David. David, David, David. I shouted and shouted until my throat hurt.
It wasn’t enough. It was still with me. It would always be with me.
What had that hideous bitch thought she was doing? As if nothing mattered but her own self-centered quest for vengeance? Normally, I was scrupulously considerate of the feelings of the bereaved, however their actions might complicate my work. But this woman had crossed the boundaries. She was using her celebrity status to interfere with the detective work. Worse, she was threatening my job. I knew that O’Bannon would be under all kinds of pressure to cut me loose. It would be the easiest thing to do, especially now that he had a federal behaviorist working on the case. And if I lost this job, my chances of getting Rachel back were less than zero.
I stumbled out of the shower, dripping water all over the floor. I didn’t know what I should do. I didn’t know what I could do. I dreaded going back to work tomorrow, knowing what everyone would be saying, or at least whispering. Knowing it was just a matter of time before the word was given. Before I was pink-slipped into oblivion.
I tore through the sacks in the kitchen, all the shopping I had done on my way h
ome from the office. I thought about calling Patrick-after the conference, he had more than hinted that he would be available if I wanted to get together tonight. But I couldn’t, not now, not on these terms. Not when I was so goddamned vulnerable. There was only one thing I could do under these circumstances.
I had swallowed half the bottle before I came up for air. After that, I don’t remember much of anything.
14
I skulked into the office feeling like death on a plate, wondering if they could tell. If they would suspect. Everyone always suspects the worst, don’t they? At least about me they do.
I had not gone by the O’Bannons’ to pick up Darcy this morning-for a reason-so I was surprised to see him sitting beside my desk.
“Morning, Darce,” I said.
He scrunched his face up. “You smell funny.”
“I do?” I had showered, groomed, perfumed, brushed my teeth about six times, and consumed Altoids as if they were a breakfast food. “Must be my perfume.”
“Chanel No. 5?”
I stared at him. “That’s right. How did you-”
“One of the ladies at my day care wears Chanel No. 5. Till she stopped ’cause they use animals to test stuff.”
“I see,” I said, amazed. We were a good five feet apart. “You like it?”
He shook his head. “Stinky.”
I laughed.
“I like the normal way you smell better.”
“Okay. I’ll lay off the Chanel.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Because that explains why you thought I smelled bad.”
He fidgeted with a lock of hair curled behind his ear. “Did you know that a bottle of vodka contains more sugar than a Giant-Size Snickers?”
I slid behind my desk.
“That’s fascinating, Darcy. Did you get that from one of your almanacs?”
He shook his head. “Hollywood Squares.”
I was relieved to see a kid from the mail room loping up to my desk with a small package. “We found this on the front counter. It’s addressed to you. Someone must’ve dropped it off when no one was looking.”
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