Dark Eye

by William Bernhardt

“They are all graveyards,” Darcy said.

  “Huh?” I snapped out of my reverie.

  “Did you notice that they are all graveyards? The make-believe graveyard at the Transylvania Hotel. The old airplane graveyard at McCarran. The neon sign graveyard.”

  I slapped myself for being such a stooge. It was obvious-after Darcy explained it to you. “What could be more natural for a Poe freak? Fake graveyards. He wouldn’t use a real one. That would be too ordinary. Too nonpsychotic. So he put a twist on it. His idea of a joke.”

  “Is this funny?” Darcy asked, and this time, I thought it was a valid question. It could be humorous, in a twisted sort of way. Dragging the police all over town, from one faux grave site to the next. What fun it would be for him to-

  I froze up. He wouldn’t want to miss all the action. He must be watching. Just so he could savor the fun a little longer.

  I looked all around. We were on the very outskirts of town, surrounded by high, dusty hills. Lots of potential vantage points.

  I waved for Granger. I wanted him to send his boys into the hills to see what they could find. But even as I told him, I knew they wouldn’t catch our killer. He was much too careful for that. He was already leaving.

  Because he’d been watching me all along. I was certain of it.

  A cold shudder coursed down my spine. He was way ahead of us. He had been way ahead of us all along. We were just playthings to him.

  I grabbed Darcy and tugged him back toward my car. I didn’t want to be here any longer. I didn’t want to be anywhere near here.

  How could I possibly catch this man when he was so much smarter than I was?

  I don’t like going to these dead places. I don’t like seeing dead people or touching them or thinking about them. I don’t like killing things. No one should ever kill someone. I would never kill someone.

  Susan was still stinky today. She smells like that yucky bottle with the brown stuff that looks like apple juice but isn’t that my dad opens at night when he’s reading or writing or thinking about Mom. It makes him stinky, too, but he never drinks enough of it to last long. I know Susan has brushed her teeth and crunched on mints and she has a pretty smile doesn’t she but she’s still stinky I can smell it even when she thinks it isn’t there anymore. I wish Susan wasn’t stinky because I like Susan but I don’t like stinky. People should not be stinky.

  Coffee is also stinky, but not as much stinky. I hope I never find the axe I hope no one does because I don’t want to see it like when Margaret Hayes bumped Alice Tucker at school and she cut her lip on the water fountain and the blood streamed everywhere and I thought it was funny and everyone told me it wasn’t funny but I couldn’t help but laugh because she looked so silly with her lip swollen and that red stuff all over her face. I got in trouble but I don’t know why because I didn’t push her and she wasn’t really hurt but I wish the bad man would not cut up his people I don’t like it when he cuts up people. I don’t like him at all but I like Susan and if Susan wants to take me to these places I guess I’ll go.

  Why doesn’t she see it? It is so obvious. I would tell her but I’m afraid then I’d get in trouble like I did with the water fountain because I don’t understand something like they always tell me I just don’t understand and I don’t want to get in trouble anymore ever again. Especially not with Susan.

  I wasn’t particularly upset when I returned to headquarters and found Patrick sitting at my desk. I’m not that easy to set off. But I was surprised-and enraged-to find daytime TV’s favorite non-doctorate-possessing doctor sitting on the opposite side.

  “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  Dr. Spencer barely even looked up. “I’m trying to catch the man who killed my daughter. Not to mention another-make that two other girls.”

  “Don’t you have some important housewives’ crisis you could be working on? The heartbreak of psoriasis or something.”

  That got her. “I’ve begun my own investigation. I’m setting up shop at the Transylvania, where this case began. I came here to inform the local authorities. Even though we are conducting separate inquiries, I hope we can still share information.”

  “I’ll bet you do. Since we have some and you don’t.”

  Patrick evidently thought this would be a good time to intervene, with the hope of possibly avoiding bloodshed. “Under instructions from Washington, I’ve given Dr. Spencer selected portions of our draft profile, Susan.”

  “What?”

  “Particularly those parts dealing with what we know about the killer’s preferred victims.”

  “Are you crazy? That could compromise the whole investigation! What if she reveals everything we’ve got to her television audience? She could force the killer to change his MO.”

  “That is a possibility, but-”

  “This stinks to high heaven, Patrick. Did she threaten the department?”

  Spencer rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Lieutenant. I simply informed your superiors that I will be giving a prominent prime-time interview tonight. They thought it best to arm me with information so that I could protect potential victims. Frankly, I don’t understand why you haven’t already done this yourself. I can only assume that it is another reflection of your… currently unstable condition.”

  The problem was, she said it so convincingly I almost believed it myself. “You’re just ticked off because you couldn’t get me fired.”

  “That was never my goal.”

  “Like hell. You gave it your best shot at that press conference. Turned out you didn’t have as much clout as you thought.”

  She rose out of the chair and looked me square in the face. “The only thing that saved you, Lieutenant Pulaski, is that timely care package that you say came from the killer. Since he has chosen to communicate with you directly, your superiors thought it would be unwise to dismiss you at this time. But that won’t last forever.”

  She grabbed her coat and purse but couldn’t resist a final addendum. “Not if I have anything to say about it. And believe me, I do.”

  They didn’t want to let her see me, damn it. And I had made a point of stopping at a gas station, checking my looks. My breath. Putting on makeup. Hell, I even tweezed! And Ozzie and Harriet still didn’t want to let me see her.

  “I called NDHS. They say I’m allowed.”

  “At designated times,” Ozzie said. He was standing tall, but his nervousness showed. We both knew I could knock him down like a bowling pin. But that probably wouldn’t be in my long-term best interests. “You’ve missed the last two.”

  “I’ve been very busy at work. Big murder case. Maybe you’ve read about it.”

  “We saw you on the TV,” Harriet said. She was barely visible under the crook of her husband’s arm. “I thought that Spencer woman was very rude.”

  “And honest,” her spouse groused.

  “Look, could I just see my niece? I’m not planning to take her away. I don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”

  I stared at the man. We were practically nose to nose. “You’re trying to sniff my breath.”

  He gave me a “Who, me?” look.

  “Here, let me make it easier for you.” I leaned forward and breathed on his nose. He winced. “Okay?”

  “You come back at your designated visitation time. You’ve got one on Monday after school.”

  I wanted to scream. “Why are you being like this?”

  “If we are to establish any order in young Rachel’s life, we have to maintain a schedule that she can depend upon and-”

  “Susan!” Without warning, Rachel surged past him. He reached for her, but she was too fast for him. She threw her arms around me and hugged tightly. I buried myself in her lovely auburn hair. “Susan! God, I’ve missed you!”

  “I’ve missed you, too, honey.” I stared at her, long and hard. “You look great. Is that a new dress?”

  “Yeah.” She whispered in my ear. “I think they’re trying to buy my good graces.
Of course, it isn’t working.”

  That was my Rachel.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been chasing this killer, sweetie. Have you read about it?”

  “Are you kidding? They don’t talk about anything else on television. Have you seen the guy?”

  “No. But I’ve talked to him.”

  “Really!”

  “Yup. Called me on the phone last night.”

  “Get out of here!” She was so pretty, so pure. God, but I loved this girl. “All my friends are jealous that I know the famous Susan Pulaski.”

  “Famous?”

  “Don’t you know? Everyone watched that press conference.”

  “Swell. All of it?”

  “Yes. Even when that cow attacked you. My friends are boycotting her show now.”

  “Well… don’t be too hard on her. She’s lost her only daughter.”

  She gave me another squeeze. “Susan, how long till I can come home with you?”

  Above us, I saw Ozzie’s frown intensify. “My lawyer is working on it. We’re supposed to have a hearing in a few days.” I pulled her away a bit and addressed her captors. “Mind if I take her to my car? I’d like to talk to her privately for a moment.”

  Ozzie was succinct. “No.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “You step off the front porch, I call the police.”

  I sighed heavily. He was probably bluffing. But given the current delicate circumstances, I couldn’t take the risk. “Rache, I’m sorry I haven’t been by. But it’s important that I work on this case.”

  “I know. He’s so sick.”

  “It’s more than that, honey. I have to be able to tell the court that… that I’m working. That I have a steady income. That I’m gainfully employed. I need good references.” I could see she didn’t really understand. But that was okay. Just so she knew I hadn’t forgotten about her. “But as soon as I get you back home, we’re going to spend some major time together.”

  She looked at me carefully. “Just the two of us?”

  I didn’t know what she meant. Well, I couldn’t be sure. “Just the two of us.”

  “You’ll come by again soon?”

  “Sure. How about tomorrow night?” Which of course was not my next scheduled visitation.

  I heard the tiniest hesitation in her voice. “Oh-geez. I have church tomorrow night.”

  “Church?” I gave Ozzie and Harriet the long look. “Trying to bring her to Jesus?”

  “They’ve got a big youth group,” Rachel explained. “It’s kind of cool, actually.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s real queer banana,” she added hastily. “Corny like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m tolerating it.”

  Uh-huh. I gave her foster parents another once-over. They were more dangerous than I realized.

  “You won’t let that crazy man hurt you, will you, Susan?”

  I stood and smiled. “Are you kidding? I’m going to put him behind bars where he can’t hurt anyone. Just a matter of time.”

  It was well past dark, but he continued reading, reading and rereading, poring over the prose-poem that for him held all the keys to understanding. The answers were there, buried beneath its cryptic passages. They had to be.

  Had he erred? Had he somehow misinterpreted the prophecies? Why had the Golden Age not begun?

  All along, he had been buoyed by an innate confidence, an ineffable sense of rightness. He had always been an edacious reader, but for years now he had perused nothing but the texts, reading them over and over, subjecting them to the most intense lucubration. He had discovered the truth and he would use it to work miracles. But the offerings had been made, the triumvirate had been sacrificed. Each of them-Helen, Annabel, and the lost Lenore-in turn had been translated in a manner prescribed by the texts. But there had been no passage to Dream-Land. No Golden Age.

  No Virginia.

  Why had it not happened as prophesied? The final globe of globes will instantaneously disappear, and God will remain in all.

  There must be something he was missing, something he had yet to do. But what was it? What could it be?

  He staggered away from his reading table, his hand pressed against his brow, his heart filled with sorrow. Why did it have to be so hard? Was this despair that the prophet had felt? Was this why he had ultimately failed? Why he had drunk himself to a crapulous demise on the streets of Baltimore?

  He threw his arms up toward the heavens. Why must the road to redemption be strewn with thorns? Would he never find peace?

  Don’t go near the ocean, Ernie. Nana told you not to go near the ocean.

  He closed the door to his bedroom and entered the living area, then turned on the television and began scanning channels. It was a little early for the news broadcasts, but perhaps there would be something to transport his mind for a brief time…

  In only a few moments, he had found a program of interest. That woman. The mother. And another man, prematurely gray hair, bulge around the center.

  They were talking about him. His work.

  That part didn’t interest him much. The media attention had ballooned to such an extent that he had almost tired of hearing about himself. Idle speculation, repetition, sidebars on other cases not remotely similar to his own. It was all the same uninformed claptrap, over and over again, signifying nothing.

  But this woman had something very different to say.

  “Dr. Spencer,” the host said, “you’ve been caught in the eye of the hurricane. After building a career based upon helping others, including those bereaved by violent crime, you find yourself crime’s victim. To the rest of the country, perhaps even the world, this is a fascinating, gruesome murder mystery. But to you-it’s personal. How are you dealing with the loss of your daughter?”

  She was wearing a red dress, he noticed, red like the blood of the offering, with a neckline more suitable for a prostitute than a mother. No doubt she had used that costume to get on the air, to excite impure thoughts in unsuspecting men. She cared nothing for sweet Annabel. She craved attention for herself.

  “It’s a struggle, Chet. I won’t lie to you. Pulling myself out of bed. Facing a new day. Confronting the horror of… of what happened to Annabel. A loss like this-it’s just devastating.”

  “I can only imagine,” he said, his eyes watery. “And yet you’ve managed to keep going.”

  “It’s been hard. But I-I have an obligation to Annabel. And her child-my unborn granddaughter. Annabel was a fighter, right to the very end.” As if she would know. “So I have to be, too. I have to be strong for her.”

  “I think you’re doing an impressive job of that, wouldn’t you agree?” The live audience unleashed a supportive round of applause.

  Spencer smiled slightly. “I’ve always thanked the Lord for my blessings-especially Annabel. No matter how busy things were in the world of television, I never forgot that Annabel was my top priority.”

  He choked. Not what she told me, you two-faced harridan. You were an absentee mother who didn’t even call on the weekends. She told me you couldn’t identify her boyfriend, didn’t even know she had one. Why don’t you explain to the man why you didn’t know your own daughter was pregnant? Why she flew to Vegas rather than to you for help?

  “Now Dr. Spencer, you’ve been quite active in the investigation into your daughter’s murder.”

  “Chet, I have no choice. She was the dearest thing in my life.”

  “And you haven’t been afraid to criticize the law enforcement officers investigating the case, either. You’ve been quite vocal about your objections.”

  She paused thoughtfully. “I never thought of myself as a tub-thumper. But how can I remain silent? This killer tortured and murdered my daughter! Most crimes are solved shortly after the crime is discovered or they aren’t solved at all. I first talked to the LVPD officers twenty-four hours after my daughter’s remains were discovered, and they knew nothing. That hasn�
�t changed-even now, when a third victim has been discovered. All my suggestions, all my offers to help fell on deaf ears. And they’ve made the most inexplicable, unforgivable personnel assignments.”

  “You’re talking about the behavioral expert, aren’t you? Susan Pulaski.”

  “Among others. God knows I hate to single out the only woman working on the case. But she’s an alcoholic. Barely out of rehab. It’s inexcusable.”

  She was doing it again. Making her ad hominem attacks on Susan for her own petty reasons. Spreading Susan’s secrets to every moron with a television. Had she no sense of decency? Of propriety? How would she like it if her secrets were bared on the open airwaves?

  “Now, to be fair, Dr. Spencer, my sources tell me that Lieutenant Pulaski does have some solid experience with aberrant criminal psychology. And she’s not exactly in charge of the case, is she?”

  The woman squinted slightly, but there was no wrinkle. Plastic surgery, he surmised. Probably lots of it. And she was barely middle-aged. How telling. “Any contact is too much, Chet. I want my daughter’s case to have the best. I insist upon it. That’s why I’ve taken steps.”

  He reached for his teacup, but his hand was shaking. Steps? What… steps?

  “Please tell the audience what you’ve done, Dr. Spencer.”

  “I can’t tell you everything. But I’ve hired private detectives, several of the best. They’re looking into this case, and they’ve already made several interesting discoveries. Things the police totally overlooked.”

  “Can you give us an example?”

  “Sorry, Chet, no. You never know who might be listening.”

  “I understand.”

  “I would like to say this, though.” She turned slightly, adjusting her seat so that she was looking not at her host but directly into the camera. “My first instinct was to make an appeal to the killer. But everything I’ve learned about this case, everything my detectives have discovered, suggests that it would be useless. This man is sick. A sexual deviant. Someone who likes to torture little girls. My experts tell me he probably started when he was young, maiming animals, deriving pleasure from it. Setting fires. They tell me he enjoys torturing his victims before killing them, that it makes him feel powerful, sexually gratified, taking off their clothes, doing-” Her voice choked. “Doing hideous things to them.”