“Don’t presume to psychoanalyze me. You’re the one on the couch.”
“I’m not qualified to psychoanalyze you, and I don’t really believe in all that bullshit anyway. But you should see a professional.”
“Doctors. Always making referrals.”
“I can’t believe anyone wants to live as you do. I know you must be tormented. Do you have hallucinations? Do you hear voices?”
“I’ve had about enough of-”
“We can block out those voices. We can suppress the irresistible impulses. We can help you.” She strained against her bonds. “I will personally ensure that the finest doctors are-”
“Stop it!”
He poured a drink down her throat and then, when the convulsions ceased, he raised the blade of the scalpel and thrust it downward, cutting between her top and second ribs. A terrible hissing sound followed as air escaped from her lungs. Blood rushed up her throat and out her mouth.
“Where is that heart? Where is it?”
The razor plunged again, this time between the second rib and the third.
Her body rocked. Gases seeped out of the gaping wounds. Despite the restraints, she jerked and spasmed as if she were in seizure. Blood gushed from the openings in her chest, her mouth, even her ears.
“Where is it?” he cried. “Where is it?” He stuck the blade into her body again and again, until blood streamed from more than a dozen places. “ ‘Dissemble no more!’ ” He slashed wildly with the knife, cutting her arms, her legs, her torso, slicing open her chest, drenching himself, staining everything in sight. “ ‘I admit the deed! It is the beating of the hideous heart!’ “
19
I didn’t get free of the cops till midnight, and even then, since my apartment had turned into a crime scene, sort of, I was going to have to stay at a hotel for a few days, with security detail in tow. Which was all right with me. As long as it wasn’t the Transylvania.
Thank God, Patrick agreed to meet me at The White Feather. I made some excuse about why we should go separately-the real reason, of course, was so I could leave the security guys posted outside the front door, dash to the bar in the back, grab a fifth, then down it in the ladies’ room. I knew I’d promised Lisa I wouldn’t, but these were pretty damn extenuating circumstances. I mean, the man had been on my bed, for God’s sake. He’d gone through my drawers. When I thought about this psycho pawing my underwear, I got physically ill. I felt like a rape victim, even though he hadn’t laid a finger on me.
Patrick was very good about it, very sweet. I knew he was tired and probably wanted to go home, but he stayed with me just the same. God, I wanted his arms around me. I just wanted to feel safe. I just wanted to feel.
The waitress came by. “Another whiskey?”
I stiffened. “I’m drinking club soda.”
“Okay. Want another one?”
I shook my head. Patrick got another beer. Half an hour later, we were still talking.
“You were pretty tough on the boys,” I said. “Back at my place.”
“With good reason. Someone does a home invasion on a member of the team, that’s serious business. We have to take care of our own.”
“Thanks for sticking up for me.”
He shrugged. “It’s what partners do.”
God, he was handsome. I felt an itching I couldn’t scratch and suddenly I didn’t want to be in this bar anymore. “Patrick? You did tell me you were unmarried, right?”
“Ye-es.”
“Do you think you could get rid of those security guys for a while?”
“I could, but why on earth-”
“Tell them you’re going to stay with me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I am?”
I gave him my best big long lusty. “Unless you still think it would damage our working relationship.”
“Probably would. But at the moment, I’m not sure I care.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “I’ll go talk to the uniforms.”
I’m sure he thought we were going back to his motel room, but we never made it that far, at least not at first. I led him by the hand to his car out back, slid onto the hood, and reeled him in.
“Now, wait a minute,” Patrick protested.
“What?” I said, grinning in what I hoped would seem a lascivious expression. “Don’t you wanna make a girl happy?”
“We’re professionals. We shouldn’t-”
“Don’t be a spoilsport.”
“But someone might come…”
“Who cares?” I bit him on the side of the neck.
He pulled away slightly. “It would be wrong of me to-”
“Oh, don’t be so damn good. Just this once.” I unbuckled his belt and reached inside. After that, I knew I had him. He didn’t care who was watching. I pulled him inside me and felt the warmth, felt the glow, felt good, felt safe. For a little while.
Oh, Susan. Oh, my dear, sweet Susan. I wanted so much for you. I wanted to elevate you, to cherish you, to escort you through the gates of Dream-Land. I tried to win you over, to help you see the light, to seduce you with the truth.
But now I see that you have been seduced by another master altogether.
I followed you because I wanted to help you, to learn more about you. Because I cared for you. And I was concerned, genuinely desperately concerned when I saw you enter that bar, knowing your weakness as I do. But that was nothing compared to the abject horror I experienced when you emerged. How could I know you had an addiction worse than alcohol, an addiction to decadence, to evil? I could never have believed it-until I saw you roll onto your car like the most debased jezebel, like the village harlot, an impure woman less worthy than the dust. Yes, I know you’ve been drinking again. But that is no excuse. There is no excuse.
I know now what I must do.
I must show you the error of your wanton ways. I must show you the result of indulging your passions, let you see your ultimate destiny if you continue on this wicked path. I must crush the spiritual depravity, modify your behavior with an experience so ghastly those old instincts will be dissipated, now and for all time. You must hit rock bottom before you can be cured.
I know you will not come of your own accord. You are willful, stubborn, eternally contumacious. But I can break you. And I will. Not because I want to. Not because I will enjoy it. But because it must be done.
I have only your best interests at heart.
20
I was used to waking up groggy, disoriented, not knowing where I was. I was used to a throbbing head, pulsing temples, dry cottony mouth. I was thoroughly familiar with finding I had forgotten to put on my jammies. And I was not altogether unaccustomed to finding myself in a strange bed.
But being handcuffed to it? That was different.
“Wha… tha…” My eyes felt as if they had been pasted shut, and I couldn’t wipe them clear since both wrists were cuffed to the headboard. What the hell had happened to me? Could I have been abducted by-
That’s when I felt it-the cold clutching at my heart. The paralyzing, stabbing pain in the chest. Shortness of breath. Panic.
Edgar. Had he found me? Had he given me his drug and chained me here, waiting for the right moment to begin whatever sick Poe-derived deprivation he had in store for me? I pulled at my bonds, but they were secure. I was chained down like a dog on a leash, utterly at his mercy, powerless to help myself. Any moment, he would return with his axe, his dental implements, his-
“Ready for some coffee?”
Patrick appeared in the doorway, carrying a small tray with two cups. “Maybe I’m wrong, but you seemed less the tall-glass-of-OJ type and more the stiff-cuppa-joe type.”
“Why the hell am I chained up?”
He looked up absently. “Oh. Right. Sorry about that.” He put the tray down and fumbled in his pockets for a key.
“You forgot? Is this some twisted power trip for you? You get your jollies by chaining up women with your big stud FBI toys?”
“I didn’t want to d
o it.”
I quieted. “You didn’t?”
“Do you remember anything about last night?”
Thinking hurt, but I made myself do it anyway. I recalled the phone call from Edgar, of course, the bar, the thing on the hood of the car. After that, it got a little hazy. Well, actually, it was a void.
“Maybe you’re used to, um, this sort of activity, Susan, but I have to tell you-I’m not.”
“Look, just undo the cuffs, okay?” He reached over and freed me. He smelled good. He was already scrubbed and dressed and aftershaved and ready to tackle the day.
I didn’t realize how stiff my arms were until I could move them again. They ached. I managed to work them back down to my side. They tingled as if they had been asleep for a thousand years. “Where are my clothes?”
He pointed. I crawled out, clutching the sheet to me, and started dressing. “I hope I didn’t-”
“No. You were great.”
“I… was?”
“Unpredictable. Intense. But great. Really.” He grinned. “Something like that is good for you every now and then. Shakes things up a little.”
“Yeah. I feel the same way,” I said, wondering what the hell had happened.
“I got some food from the diner downstairs if you want it. But my hunch is-” I made a gagging face. “Yeah. That was my hunch.” He smiled. “I’ll be in the next room. When you’re ready, I’ll drive you to work. You don’t have a car, remember?”
“Okay.” It went against the grain, but damn it, I had to say it. “Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.”
I actually ventured a slice of toast as we drove to the office. And even after we arrived, I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. We walked together to my desk.
“What’s this? Another package?” I picked it up. It was about the size of a bowling ball, wrapped in brown paper. “It has my name on it.”
“Susan! Get rid of it!” Patrick cried. He shouted for assistance, but I was already unwrapping it. “Susan! We need to have it-”
“It’s not a booby trap. He wants me alive.”
“Not again! For God’s sake-”
Too late. I lifted the lid.
The stench emanating from that box was unlike anything I had ever smelled in my life. And I’ve been around corpses, sickness, all kinds of filth.
“My God!” Patrick cried, covering his nose and mouth, staring at the wet, viscous, blackish red lump in the box. “What is it?”
There was a card, hand-lettered in block print. He hadn’t bothered to encode it.
DR. FARA AND I HAD A NICE HEART-TO-HEART. SEE?
BEHAVIORAL PROFILE-EDGAR
BY SUSAN PULASKI, M.A., LVPD,
AND PATRICK CHAFFEE, BSS, FBI
Based upon what is generally accepted about serial killers and their crimes, Edgar is probably a white man, between twenty and forty. He is more likely a book-reader than an athlete. He may have some physical deformity. He is literate, perhaps highly so. He is intelligent, as evidenced by his familiarity with and adoption of the works of Poe and his proficiency with ciphers. Various witness statements have described him as both tall and short, thin and wide. Although this could indicate that Edgar is in fact two people, it is more likely that some of the descriptions are inaccurate. At this time, we have no way of knowing which reports are erroneous.
Although he has used a southern accent in his telephone communications, that is probably an affectation associated with his idolization of Poe. If he has any natural accent at all, it is more likely that his origins are in the western United States, Nevada or the surrounding states. Although he has used many Vegas-area locations for his crimes, we cannot assume that he is a native or even that he currently resides here, especially given the propensity of serial killers to move from one place to another. It is possible that the Sin City reputation attracted him. Many of his actions-punishing strippers, removing body adornments or nail paint, dyed hair, etc.-evidence a desire to enforce old-fashioned values.
There are no indications of great wealth, but he must have some income flow. Several of his crimes have required unusual props or equipment. All have involved a drug that cannot be obtained legally in this country without a prescription. Tire tracks suggest that he drives a truck.
Serial killers commonly bear great hostility toward women, often triggered by a negative early female influence. In this case, however, despite the fact that he has murdered at least four women, there are some indications that he holds women in an almost Victorian-era reverence. His background may reflect the conflicted influence of both females he adored and females who abused him. In any case, he likely had a violent and chaotic childhood with little stability. Broken marriages, domestic violence, and early exposure to death are all likely. It is also likely that the male head of his household was absent for a protracted period during his childhood.
Given this rather bleak upbringing, detectives should look for an adult who as an adolescent, or even earlier, was lonely, isolated, withdrawn, angry, and violent. He likely had an active fantasy life in which he imagined himself an important or powerful personage. His fantasies may have involved domination and retribution against those who he felt wronged him. He was probably preoccupied with sex, even more so than most adolescent boys, and had no close friends, much less a girlfriend or sexual partner. During these years, his psychological disorder would have become progressively more apparent, making interpersonal relationships more unlikely. Sports, extracurricular activities, and hobbies would not have appealed to him. He may well have developed an interest in pornography, possibly involving young girls.
The psychological portrait of Edgar that emerges from all the information we have gathered is that of a narcissistic, self-absorbed, antisocial individual. He has an insatiable desire for attention. Despite his antisocial tendencies, deep down he wants to impress, wants people to be appreciative of his work. The crimes Edgar has committed evidence an ability to compartmentalize and rationalize extreme behavior. Thus far, he has acted in conformity with a preestablished pattern, but his recent variation from his previous victimology model-in order to wreak revenge on Fara Spencer-suggests that his innate psychological controls may be slipping.
Edgar’s demands for attention-the coded messages, the gifts, the phone conversations, depositing corpses in clever “theme” locations where they are certain to be found-are all classically infantile. Presumably his basic needs were not met early in life and he is psychologically overcompensating for that deficiency now. He has not progressed beyond the self-absorption that characterizes the infantile stage. Although he justifies his acts with some purpose we do not as yet understand, fundamentally he is trying to give himself the psychological nutrients he did not receive in youth.
A sense of superiority and a desire for control characterize the antisocial personality disorder and paranoid personality disorder. The DSM-IV does not require us to choose between the two diagnoses, and indeed, Edgar shows traits of both. Because Edgar is afraid of being controlled by outside forces, he will increasingly attempt to control others and subjugate them to his will.
Another disturbing possibility is dissociative personality disorder-what is commonly called multiple personality disorder. Although this has been used in the past as a legal defense by multiple murderers who showed no true pathology of it (Bianchi, Gacy), there are instances of it being a bona fide aspect of the psychological makeup of a serial killer. Of course, even normal personalities can develop imaginary friends and playmates, talk to themselves, etc. But for those suffering from the disorder, one or more alter personalities acquires a specific sense of self. The alter personality can become an outlet for the individual’s worst instincts and desires. Should such a personality emerge, the scale of Edgar’s activities could escalate to a horrifying degree…
O’Bannon looked up from the thirty-page document he held in both hands. “Good report, Susan. Damn good.”
I fluttered m
y eyelashes. “Well, I try. Do you mean you’ve actually read it?”
“Twice. And I plan to read it again tonight. I get something new out of it each time. I’m giving you a special commendation for it.”
“Well, be sure to give Patrick credit, too. He came in late, but he’s been a huge help.”
“Whoever did it, it’s brilliant. I think you’ve nailed him.”
“I think so, too.”
“Has the lab said whether that heart belonged to Fara Spencer or not?”
I sat on the opposite corner of his desk, facing him. “At this point all they can say for certain is that it came from an adult female of approximately her age. But they’re planning a DNA analysis-compared against a sample taken from her daughter’s corpse-as soon as possible. And of course it was pretty sliced up. In addition to all the other exclusionary factors in Edgar’s profile, I think we can rule out the possibility that he’s a trained surgeon.”
“And the coded message? The one in the bottom of the box.”
“To my astonishment, Darcy wasn’t able to solve it instantly. But he’s working on it. Apparently Edgar made this one even more devious than the previous ones.”
O’Bannon folded his hands in his lap. “The boys tell me you’re seeing Patrick Chaffee. Socially. True?”
I squirmed. “Sorta.”
He nodded. “Fine man. Solid. Far as I can see. He’d be good for you.” He nodded again, then turned his eyes toward the window. “Don’t hurt my boy.”
I rose to my feet. “I’ll take care of him, Chief. Promise.”
We were in a classroom setting-a private conference mandated by O’Bannon between me and all the detectives on Granger’s team. I didn’t know what the point was, with Granger so openly hostile to my work. When he was with his boys, at any rate. O’Bannon told me he’d seen Granger after hours marking up a copy of my report with a yellow highlighter.
“So we’re looking for some freak who’s talking to himself?”
“Well, perhaps,” I said, with a degree of tolerance that startled even me. “And there are other markers, too. The fake accent. The assumed Victorian sensibility. The obsession with the works of Poe.”
Dark Eye Page 28
