Dark Eye

by William Bernhardt

  If it became necessary, the young man would have to be removed. For Susan’s sake. And his own. And that of the world to come.

  By the end of the day, several more FBI agents had made the scene. In addition to our rent-a-behaviorist, we now had agents from CIU-the Critical Incident Unit. From the shadowed basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building to the sunny Vegas strip. We also had some liaisons with VICAP-the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program-some of them pretty famous, names I recognized from the Law Enforcement Bulletin. They were cataloging and analyzing data, comparing these crimes with others the feds had encountered. Patrick had them all gathered in a back room and was bringing them up to date on the case.

  I saw a thick stack of paper on the corner of my desk-summary reports on all the confessions that had arrived in the last few days. We’d been getting them since murder number one, but they were skyrocketing now that a TV celeb was involved. If I worked this job till doomsday, I would never understand what it was about high-profile media cases that made perfectly harmless people crawl down to the station to give false confessions. Unless they were obviously bogus, they had to be checked out, at least a little, which diverted our already strained time and manpower.

  I scooped up a stapled document that someone had dropped on my chair. Looked like the Feebs had been busy.

  SECONDARY VICTIMOLOGY REPORT, BSS04-67

  SUBJECT: EDGAR

  I had to grin a little. I knew the feds always gave their serial killers a pet name. So this one was Edgar. Cute. I scanned the report.

  VICT1-Helen Collier, Clark County Police Dept, homicide

  WF, DOB 1-9-87, DOD 10-4-04

  DEATH: Asphyxiation

  WEAPON: Coffin

  POD: Transylvania Hotel ballroom

  BODY FOUND: Transylvania Hotel

  No witnesses. Forced entry. No trace evidence attributable to assailant.

  VICT2-Annabel Spencer, Clark County Police Dept, homicide

  WF, DOB 8-15-86, DOD 10-8-04

  DEATH: Exsanguination

  WEAPON: Dental tools

  POD: Unknown

  BODY FOUND: McCarran Airport, retired aircraft field

  No witnesses. No forced entry necessary. Only trace evidence attributable to assailant is a tire track and a partial palm print.

  VICT3-Lenore Johnson, Clark County Police Dept, homicide

  WF, DOB 7-13-85, DOD 10-13-04

  DEATH: Decapitation

  WEAPON: Axe

  POD: Unknown

  BODY FOUND: Neon sign graveyard

  No witnesses. No forced entry. No evidence attributable to assailant.

  VICT4-Harvey Bradford

  WM, DOB: 01-04-60 DOD: 10-17-04

  DEATH: Massive bodily trauma

  WEAPON: Automobile

  POD: Hotel parking lot

  BODY FOUND: Hotel parking lot

  Security guard at Transylvania Hotel. Killed by impact of his own car. Died instantly.

  VICT5-Fara Spencer

  WF, DOB: 10-16-61 DOA: 10-17-04

  STATUS: Unknown

  Mother of Vict2. Abducted after car incident with Vict4. No witnesses. Unidentified partial forefinger print possibly attributable to assailant.

  Pretty damn thin, when you got right down to it. I thumbed through the additional material attached to the cover report. Not much there. Was it any wonder we hadn’t caught this clown yet? About the only thing this report didn’t cover was the phone call I’d gotten from Edgar-great, now they had me calling him that-and his present. And I received a detailed analysis on those barely an hour later.

  “The lab found nothing useful on the box, the wrapper, or the teeth,” Tony Crenshaw explained. “Neither did Latent Prints.”

  “Voiceprints?”

  “Nothing. We have a pattern now we can compare against any future communications. But even maximum volume magnification failed to turn up any useful background noises. There were few clues in his language other than the obvious one-neon. No distinctive patterns. Southern accent, to be sure, but the experts think he was affecting that.”

  “Because he wants to be like Poe. But he isn’t really from Virginia.”

  “That’s our guess. Other than that, no real clues. He chose his words carefully. Probably rehearsed what he was going to say before he called.”

  That would be consistent with the organized sociopath I had in my head. “I’d like a copy of the tape of the phone call.”

  “Sure.” Tony seemed hesitant. “You know he was trying to rattle your cage, right? Talking about your bad habits and all. Doesn’t mean he knows anything. It was an easy shot. Everyone has some secret. He wants to scare you. Chase you off the case.”

  Did he? Maybe. But to me, it seemed more like he was trying to impress me. To win me over.

  “But you’re not going to let him get to you, right?”

  My eyes lifted. “What’s this? A trace of concern? For moi?”

  His eyes darted to the carpet. “Granger doesn’t speak for the whole department, Susan. You still have friends around here. Lots of them.”

  Well, that was cheering. “Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it.”

  “All the guys loved David. You know that. And we think what happened… wasn’t right. The way you were treated.”

  “Tony, I really don’t care to-”

  “Just wanted you to know.” He gave me a mock salute. “Back to the trenches.”

  I thrust my nose into my paperwork, trying not to be resentful. Of course, that was what it would be about. David, not me. Everyone had loved David. Everyone.

  I’d loved David, too, damn it. But that wouldn’t bring him back.

  I was on the phone with my lawyer, which is about as unpleasant as life gets.

  “If the judge isn’t going to decide anything, why do I have to be there? I’m in the middle of a major investigation.”

  “Do you want custody of Rachel or not?”

  “That’s why I got this job! On your advice.”

  “Then you must be there. Dressed conservatively. Sparing makeup. You need to sit next to me and be untempermental, cool, and well mannered.”

  “In other words, exactly not like myself.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I can’t believe this judge is so shallow he’s going to make a decision based upon whether I wear red.”

  “He might not do it consciously. But judges are influenced by their subconscious impressions, just like everyone else in the world. The most important part is that you remain calm. NDHS will try to convince the judge that you’re unreliable. You have to show him that you can be restrained and responsible, fit to raise your niece. You have to tell him you’ve sworn off booze and you’re working to stay clean.”

  I felt an itching in my chest that wouldn’t go away. “I can do that.”

  “Good. See you there.”

  Damn everything. As if I didn’t already have enough on my plate. Now I was going to have to deal with the American legal system. The tenth circle of hell.

  “Eureka!”

  I glanced up. Darcy was standing at the edge of my desk, grinning like a sheepdog.

  “Eureka!” he repeated.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”

  “Eureka means ‘I found it.’ Did you know that historians say that’s what Archimedes said when he discovered about the displacement of liquid? He jumped out of the bathtub yelling, ‘Eureka! Eureka!’ ” Darcy giggled. “He was strange.”

  “Thanks for the ancient Greek perspective, Darce. Why are you telling me this?”

  “It’s the name of a thing by Edgar Allan Poe.”

  “What? I read his complete works-”

  Darcy corrected me as gently as possible. “I think maybe you read his Complete Stories and Poems. That’s what everyone reads. No one reads Eureka. Even my dad doesn’t have a copy.”

  “Then how do you know-”

  “I ran that code message that the bad man left with the teeth through the Internet.” I sw
ore silently. I should have thought of that myself. “Even Dad says I’m good with computers. Do you Google? I love to Google. You never know what you’ll get. This one time-”

  I cut in. “So what is it?”

  “Poe called it a prose-poem.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Darcy’s face reddened. “I don’t know. It’s like about stars and stuff.”

  “Stars?”

  “Science. Where the stars come from. Planets. Heaven.”

  I was thoroughly confused, and Darcy wasn’t making it any better. “Can you get me a copy?”

  “I could not find the whole thing on the Internet, only some parts. Then I went to the library, but they don’t have it.”

  “Keep trying. And Darce-I owe you a custard.”

  “When do you think that will be? Sooner than a blue moon, I hope, because a blue moon-”

  “I remember. We’ll do it, Darcy, promise. But first I think I need to read that book.”

  He left, and a few minutes later my phone rang, as it always seems to do at the most annoying and least convenient times. “Yeah?”

  “You look lovely in a black turtleneck. You should wear that more often.”

  Him.

  I stood up, waved at the boys on the lower floor. I pointed to the receiver, trying to get the message across. Men can be so slow-witted. Eventually enough ribs were jabbed and the tracing began.

  “Uh, sorry. I was… distracted.”

  He laughed. “Have they instigated the trace now? Can we talk?”

  I tried to concentrate. I had to learn as much as possible. And I had to keep him talking. “I don’t suppose you plan to stay on long enough for us to trace the call, so why bother?”

  “Oh, you never know, dear. I might give you a sporting chance.”

  Damn straight of you. “Look, I don’t know what to call you.”

  “The FBI agents call me Edgar, don’t they?”

  And how the hell did he know that? “Is that okay?”

  “It’s as good a name as any.”

  “Is that who you are?”

  Another pause. “I’m an acolyte. Not a prophet.”

  Oooo-kayyy. “Can you explain to me what that means?”

  “I’d like to. Because you don’t have to remain behind, mired in this miserable life you’ve made for yourself. I can help you. I have only your best interests at heart.”

  I knew my goal-not only to keep him talking, but to keep him off whatever prepared script he had in his head. The more he extemporized, the more likely he was to tell us something useful. “Have you hurt Fara Spencer?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question.”

  I tried something else. “I got your note. Tracked down the quote, too.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Yeah. Eureka, right? I’m trying to find a copy.”

  “Don’t bother, dear. I’ve brought you one.”

  At that point, I looked up and saw three Feebs standing in front of me, waving their arms. Meddlers. Couldn’t they see I was trying to focus?

  I covered the talk end of the receiver and mouthed: “What?”

  One of them held up a note he’d scribbled furiously on a legal pad. WE’VE TRACED THE CALL.

  Why the hell tell me? Just go already.

  Then came the follow-up message. HE’S IN YOUR APARTMENT.

  I felt my heart stop. I uncovered the receiver, breathless. “Edgar?”

  The line was dead.

  Of course, he was long gone by the time the police arrived. True to form, he had gotten in and out without leaving a trace of himself behind. All he’d left was a paperback Dover Press edition of Eureka: A Prose-Poem by Edgar Allan Poe, which the techs were treating to a microscopic scrutiny. I knew they wouldn’t find anything-nothing useful, anyway. Although he’d left no evidence, we could tell where he had been. Footprints in the carpet. My underwear drawer left open. An indentation on my bedspread.

  None of my neighbors had seen him. One reported spotting a nondescript meter reader, so we were guessing Edgar had used that disguise. But he’d only seen the man from a distance, so he had no useful information.

  “I don’t get it,” Patrick said. “He’s been so careful before. So calculated. Why would he come here? Why take the risk?”

  I thought about that. In the early days, all his actions had seemed well planned. Careful. But he was becoming increasingly impulsive, or at least more varied in his approaches. Acting on emotion. Kidnapping Fara Spencer, essentially for spite, even though she didn’t fit his profile. And now this. How could burglarizing my apartment fit into his fabulous master plan?

  Of course, there had been other cases of serial killers who became involved, even obsessed, with one or more of the officers trying to catch them. But just as there was something very different about this killer, there was something unusual about the attention he was paying to me. Like I’d told Tony before, I didn’t get the sense that he was perpetuating a cat-and-mouse game for his own amusement. It was more like he was trying to… win me over. Seduce me. Even this in-your-face power play had an element of seduction about it. I have only your best interests at heart.

  “You’re getting round-the-clock security,” Patrick said. “Don’t bother arguing. Should’ve done it after those damn teeth arrived with your name on the package.”

  “Does this mean you think-”

  “You already know what I think. He’ll only be content with presents and phone messages for so long. He’s working up his nerve. Till he comes after you.”

  He could almost pity her as she lay on the table, her eyes closed. If only he could forget all that she had said and done. Forgive. But he could not. That power was no longer his.

  At last she awoke, blinking, a dumbfounded expression creasing her brow.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning into her face. “Welcome to Hell.”

  She gasped. “You.”

  “Did you enjoy your nap, Dr. Spencer?”

  “But I-I thought-”

  “I know. You thought you were dead.”

  “I remember the wall. And…” Her words came slowly, as she retrieved them through a dense fog. “It was hard to breathe. And then-hard to think.” Lines formed around her eyes. “Then I don’t remember anything.”

  “You passed out,” he explained. “All but asphyxiated. Yes, you were a goner, as the moderns say.” He opened his black bag and began laying out the instruments. “But I rescued you. Am I your hero?”

  She tried to struggle but soon realized it was useless. She had regained control of her body, but she was firmly affixed to the table. “Why?”

  “What fun would it be simply to kill you? A mere two hours of torment. When you deserve ever so much more.” He held the instruments up before her face. They glistened in the light from a large overhead lamp. “Do you recognize these?”

  She squinted. “Are those-surgical instruments?”

  “Indeed. Have you ever seen a straight razor?” he asked, swishing a scalpel in the air. “One sometimes reads about them in books-an orangutan did great damage with one in ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’ ”

  “What-what are you going to do with that?”

  “Don’t you know? You’re the doctor.” He smiled. “Ah, but you’re one of those odd television doctors who aren’t actually doctors.”

  “I want to know what you’re planning to do!”

  “Apologies in advance. I don’t have a hospital gown for you.”

  She craned her neck, realizing for the first time that she was naked. “Why have you taken my clothes?”

  “Standard pre-op procedure,” he replied.

  She closed her eyes tightly. She was trembling, but despite her fear, she kept her voice remarkably strong. “Is this another pathetic attempt to scare me?”

  “Alas, no. I have to move on to other responsibilities. This time you’re going to die.”

  “Of course you have to
say that. To terrorize me.”

  “Believe whatever makes you happy, Doctor.”

  “Listen to me-you’re a sick man. Ill. You’re-”

  He pressed the razor against her throat. “Stop it!”

  She quieted. But her eyes continued to peer at him, refusing to look away.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of open heart surgery, as I’m sure was that orangutan,” he said jauntily.

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “I must admit I have butterflies in my tummy. I’ve done a lot of reading on the subject, mind you. But this is my first attempt.”

  “Please.”

  “Tell me if I have this correct, Doctor. Are you knowledgeable about cardiopulmonary bypass? Percutaneous transluminal coronary angioplasty? Can you say that three times fast?”

  The doctor did not respond.

  “I gather the typical heart operation begins with the all-important opening of the chest to expose the heart. Is that right?”

  “God, no. Please.”

  “And the most common way to do that is to slice down the middle of the chest, dividing the breastbone. Am I going to need a bigger knife?”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Then I expose the heart by dividing the protective covering-the pericardium.” He clapped his hands together. “This is going to be delightful.”

  “At least put me out. Show me that mercy. I know you have the drugs for it.”

  “Ah, but that would spoil the fun. Tell me, Doctor-do you use a pump oxygenator? I’m fascinated by those little machines.”

  “This is wrong. You’re not thinking rationally or you wouldn’t want to do this.”

  “I’m not sure where to make the first incision. My books don’t show. Do I go through the rib cage? I think I’ll try. I’ll start here. Then here.” He stair-stepped the scalpel down her rib cage, stopping to press in at the valley between each rib. “Then here, then here, then here. And when we’re done, your lungs will be thoroughly punctured. Will your heart stop? Because I know it’s important that the heart stop before we take it out.”

  “Take it out?”

  “Come now, Doctor-you didn’t think I’d go to all this trouble and not come away with a souvenir, did you?”

  “Please listen to me. You need help.”