The Pressure of Darkness

by Harry Shannon

  Bowden shrugs. He is not above a little gossip, but he's also not about to trust a motor mouth like Tanner. "I've caught a couple of missing-persons cases around here lately, and I just pulled an all-nighter in the area. When I caught a piece of this over the radio, figured I'd come over and have a look." Then, as casually as possible: "So how did the guy check out?"

  "The assistant ME says somebody strangled the dude, probably with a piece of rope or something. So far, it looks like no big deal. You get used to that. Shit, these ass-wipes will off each other over a pack of cigarettes or a porn rag. But catch this part. Our boy takes a knife to the vic, right? And I mean does him good. He tugs down his pants and cuts him up like a side of beef."

  "Before, or after?"

  "ME says probably after, from the splatters and preliminary tissue samples. Which makes it, like, why the fuck bother doing it?"

  "Rage."

  "More than that." Tanner chews the foul cigar butt, a whimsical smile tugging at his upper lip. He is enjoying this.

  Bowden lets him have the moment, waits for the secret to build pressure. If Tanner knows more than he's letting on, he is bound to let it slip eventually. Bowden raises his left eyebrow high enough to indicate a question mark.

  "Okay, you didn't get this from me but it looks like the perp carted away a few chunks of his leg." Tanner says this in a low, amused voice. "Now hear this, though. The ME found a couple of good sized baggies lying in the fucking mud!"

  "Like refrigerator baggies?"

  "The very same. So this may be some crazy Hannibal the cannibal shit. Nucking futs, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  "Have a good double shift, Scotty," Tanner says. "I'm out of here."

  Bowden pats Tanner on the shoulder and crosses in front of him. His eyes are on the far end of the alley, where the yellow tape has sealed off the area and the corpse lays waiting in a partially zipped black body bag. The ME wagon guys are standing, smoking, careful to catch the ashes in their hands. They are a Mutt and Jeff duo, one tall and acne-ridden and the other short and chubby. Bowden squints, but he does not recognize either man.

  "Let me take a look."

  Mutt squats down, opens the bag the rest of the way. The man inside is naked, his body surprisingly hairy and quite simian. His face is twisted in a death grimace and his face darkened and mottled. The veins in his eyes are occluded with spider-webbed blood. His neck bears the indentation of something hard, yet flexible, like a bungee cord. Bowden wrinkles his nose at the stench. He looks around the area and notes a small picnic blanket, a candle, some fast food sacks, and a large, empty wine bottle.

  "What kind is it?"

  The short ME cocks his head, bewildered.

  "The wine," Bowden says patiently. "Can you tell what kind it is?"

  "Sutter Home, sir. White zinfandel, I think."

  Strange choice for an old man with no money. That means the perp probably sprang for the wine, even offered some kind of low-rent night on the town. Bowden motions with his hand and Mutt unzips the body bag the rest of the way. The stench is palpable, the sight grotesque. The body has been butchered below the waist, chunks of flesh removed, probably by something extraordinarily sharp, possibly medical in nature. Bowden swallows and leans back. This is no ordinary killing. The sight brings back buried memories of combat, and is surprisingly disturbing—especially to a man who used to collect human ears. Bowden nods and Mutt begins to zip the bag up for removal to the coroner's office.

  "You know something?"

  Bowden knows what is coming. His bad reaction to the carnage was obvious. He plays along anyway. "What?"

  "I think I'm hungry," Jeff says, smirking. "How about a nice, juicy rare steak over at the Sizzler?"

  Mutt snickers. They both watch Bowden closely, but he just grins. "I think steak tartar would be better, maybe with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."

  The meat wagon boys roar their approval. Bowden gets to his feet, dusts off his knees, and starts back up the alley. The air feels heavy with the possibility of rain. A frigid breeze, lightly scented with ozone and mold, twirls down the alley. It moves a small pile of litter with a sound like fingernails scratching the concrete. Three yards away, Bowden pauses, turns. "By the way, who found the body?"

  "I did."

  The voice comes from the shadows behind him. Bowden whirls, one hand grabbing for the 9mm Glock at his waist. His heart kicks jackrabbit fast and his mouth sours with fear. "Who's there?"

  A tall, gaunt black man in filthy clothes emerges from a triangular section of bricked wall. His scalp excretes long, matted dreadlocks and his sallow face sags like heated clay. Only the eyes seem alive. His flesh is covered with burn scars, pink blossoms on black enamel. "You ain't never gonna catch him, you."

  "And why is that?"

  "'Cause I tink you all fools," the man says. Bowden struggles with the accent, but then places it as Cajun. The dude is from Louisiana bayou country, or a damned good actor.

  The black man points at the corpse down the alley. "This man got a curse on him, else nobody do him this way, butcher him up like a fucking cow."

  "What's your name, sir?"

  "I done give my name to the fat one with the cigar already. You don't talk to your friends, cop?" Bowden considers a knee to the balls, but the man—as if reading his mind—holds up one hand, palm out. "Peace, mon. My name be Jean-Pierre Ladice, but in the life dey call me JP."

  Bowden takes his foot off the gas, forces one plastic Jesus of a smile. "So the man with the cigar got your full statement, name and address?"

  JP coughs a sandpaper laugh. "Dis was my address, mon. Not after what I found. I tink maybe the shelter, or I go home again."

  "You don't go anywhere without our permission," Bowden scolds. "We might need to talk to you again."

  JP offers wide-eyed innocence. "I'm staying right here, me. I'm a good citizen, officer. Cross my black heart." When he laughs again his breath carries gum disease and tooth decay.

  Bowden wants to leave. But a hearty breakfast is no longer an option. Maybe another drink. Behind him he hears the meat wagon start its engine. "You see anything, hear anything?"

  "Not a ting, boss."

  "What was the victim's name, JP?"

  "Called hisself Bruno, sir. Never heard another name."

  "How well did you know Bruno?"

  The tall black man shrugs. He steps back, leans against the wall. Bowden unconsciously imitates him directly across the alley. They allow the ME boys to drive by slowly, tail pipe farting smoke. The driver is listening to some classic rock on the radio. Bowden shivers, tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

  "I told dem fools this already," JP says. "Only ting I can say may be good for you is the man I seen wit him."

  Bowden feels his heart twist. "What man? Describe him."

  "He not a man. He a demon."

  "JP, don't fuck with me. Describe him."

  "Dis man not small not big, but very strong wit tattoos all over. Wear navy clothes, you know? All blue, cap down over de eyes. That's it, all I saw."

  "What kind of tattoos?"

  "Never got close. Blue, maybe black. All over his arms."

  "And he was with the vic, Bruno?"

  "Last night, buy him wine. They laughing, talking. Seen him around before, but never up close."

  "Did they ask you to help us by sitting down with an artist, maybe about making a sketch at the station?"

  JP shrugs, shakes his head. "That all I know, big mon. Never saw his face, never got close to him. Can't help you more than that wit how he looks."

  Bowden sighs. "Be easy for us to find, okay?"

  "Okay." The tall man melts back into the eerie shadows. "Bruno, he say one ting, though. While he dying in the dirt, he say 'the end begins.'"

  "The end begins?"

  "I hear him clear, mon. He say 'the end begins.'"

  Bowden shivers again, thinks I better not be coming down with something. Says: "JP?"

  "Yeah, boss
?"

  "If you never saw the man up close, never got next to him, how come you said he was some kind of demon?"

  "Tings in my world you don't see in yours, mon," JP said. His voice echoes strangely in the dark, damply bricked corner.

  Bowden backs a little closer to the light at the mouth of the alley, where the L.A. sun is now rising, the day turning toasty warm. JP's voice follows him like a wraith. "Dis man feel evil. You tink I'm crazy, maybe, that's okay. Truth is I didn't want to get no closer to him. He feel like a big spider in clothes, mon. And who else but a demon do something like dat to a fellow man, you? I ask you that."

  Bowden continues to back away and does not stop until he feels the heat of sunshine on the back of his neck.

  "Policeman?"

  Bowden turns. The bum called JP is now invisible in the shadows. Bowden imagines he's the Cheshire cat, nothing but large, white teeth.

  "You take good care of dat little girl you got, eh?"

  Bowden sputters. "H-h-how did you . . . ? Hey! Come back here!"

  But JP has dissolved into the chuckling black.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  No answer. In fact, no one is there. Bowden shivers and hugs himself again. When he turns, he sees a few street people watching and whispering among themselves. He wonders if he looks ill. His face is streaming with perspiration and the color has left his cheeks. Bowden has never been a man inclined to give in to fear, but this morning his nerves are shot. Head down, hands in his pockets, he walks back to his car, slams the door. He drives away, mind a whirling dervish, and only when he is on the already crowded freeway does he speed-dial his cell phone.

  "It's happened again," he says, tersely. And after a long moment, "Yeah, but this time he left something behind."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Across town, Burke sat on the floor of his home office, trying to stay busy and literally up to his ears in research papers, cassette tapes, and books taken from Peter Stryker's residence. He had opened volumes on mass-murderers, serial killers, and sexual psychopaths of all stripes, shapes, and colors. He slammed a cassette into his portable system and leaned back to listen to the voice of Peter Stryker, horror author extraordinaire.

  Some hissing and fumbling, then a man's baritone voice: "Why would Carter hang around town, knowing what he knows? Maybe give him a woman he wants to fuck, or some motivation for revenge against the mayor. Maybe make it both. Check, make sure last couple of novels not too close to that in subplot." The voice was stiff, self-conscious and somehow grating all at the same time. It droned on with reminders, ideas, commentary, self-criticism, changes. Most of what Burke heard was boring, repetitive, and occasionally brazenly self-congratulatory. He had no idea what he was listening for; he was just hoping to find something. The labels on the tapes indicated that they contained notes on the novel Stryker was working on when he died. A click from the tape. "Great idea. See if their brains were ever dissected for abnormalities," Stryker drones. "Specifically those creatures covered by Schechter. Might be interesting to theorize an enzyme irregularity related to serotonin, dopamine, and thus perhaps tie to the murderous rages and grandiose religiosity of the paranoid schizophrenic. One should carefully scrutinize the compounds in methamphetamine and lysergic acid and PCP particularly as it relates to auditory hallucinations followed by fully homicidal ideation and action. Find a book on 'Son of Sam' for reference."

  Burke couldn't recall the subject matter, an unusual event. He stopped the recorder and thumbed through his own notes, many of which had been written on yellow note paper in a slanted scrawl. He found no mention of religious delusions in any other section, yet this was a specific and highly detailed reference. Stryker's interest in the collection of artifacts predated his work on this particular book, but Burke could not help but wonder if there was a connection. He wrote: Grandiosity, paranoid rages, religiosity in serial killers?

  He knuckled his eyes and stacked the reference material. He had already written down the specific pages which were marked with post-it notes, and the passages outlined. Some of the books related to one another. Harold Schechter's works Deviant, Depraved, and Deranged were each about different serial killers. Ed Gein, who served as the inspiration for the movie "Psycho," made lampshades and masks from human skin and gutted and butchered several women like deer. Gein was a mild farmer driven mad by his overbearing and demanding mother. He died in a mental institution. H.H. Holmes, America's first serial killer, created a house the press dubbed 'the castle of horror' because of its horrific hidden rooms, trapdoors, greased body chutes, and dissecting table and instruments of torture and disposal. He died on the gallows in 1896, and although his neck broke immediately it is said it took him nearly fifteen minutes, kicking and twitching, to fully expire. As Professor Pal would have said: "Karma, no?"

  Seeing the reference to a 'castle of horror' which contained secret rooms and hidden trapdoors, Burke made another note. It interested him that Stryker's house had some hidden panels and rooms, so he scribbled Perhaps we should go back and look for more evidence?

  He sped through Deranged. An elderly man named Albert Fish kidnapped and butchered perhaps fifteen young children in the 1920s and 1930s. What he did to their flesh bordered on unspeakable. Fish was so sadomasochistic that he'd inserted needles into his own anus; they were finally discovered during a routine x-ray exam. He ate human feces and drank urine. "None of us are saints," Fish explained, rather blandly. "I am not insane, I am just queer." He died in the electric chair at Sing Sing in 1936.

  Burke read several of the books, ignoring things that seem irrelevant to the notes Stryker was working with, notes that seem to suggest a book on ritual murder and/or serial killing, possibly with religious overtones. The "organized" serial murderer generally killed at random. He was meticulous in both design and execution, very into the use of handcuffs, restraints, and the enjoyment of the terror and humiliation experienced by his victim. Death brought an end to the experience, and he promptly lost interest in his subject. He was a psychopath who left few clues, and watched his pursuit with amusement. By contrast, the "disorganized" type, typified by Gein and Jeffrey Dahmer, was psychotic at the core. His fantasies involved acts performed with the dead body. This is how he exerted his need for domination. The disorganized type would have sex with the body, disfigure or dismember it for no logical reason, and generally knew his victims. Dahmer devoured human flesh.

  Burke read and studied all day long. The window was darkening when he finally finished. He vaguely remembered stopping to use the bathroom or make fresh coffee, but other than that the day had been a blur of pages and nightmarish black and white photographs. He did some slow stretching, collected some of the mess into one large pile. He remembered that he had turned off the telephone, saw that his answering machine was blinking. His heart pounded a bit. Burke settled himself, touched the machine. He studied the red light as if it could tell his future. He rewound the tape.

  Beep. "Red, this is Doc. I have a couple of things I need to go over with you. Get back to me as soon as you can, okay?" Beep. "Burke? It's Scotty Bowden, man. Just checking in, figured we could grab a beer. Hey, you ready for a new side job yet? I might have something. Let me know if you have wrapped that silly-ass Stryker thing. Okay. Later."

  Beep. "It's me asshole, that little dyke who is supposed to be your trusted partner. Call me." Beep. A voice captured by his tape recorder in mid-sentence: "And if you come and see this beautiful resort you will automatically be eligible for a three-day weekend getaway in Palm Desert, just for showing up. Remember, that number is 800—" Burke fast-forwarded. "Mr. Burke? It's Nicole. Stryker. I would like to talk a little, okay? Call me." She sounded a little flirty, and an awful lot drunk. Burke felt a responsive twitch in his loins, but mentally slapped his own wrist. Not with a client.

  Beep. "Hello?"

  Somehow he'd known this call would come, even prayed it would. Burke's legs deserted him and he sat down heavily. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry if that h
urt you," the voice said quietly, tearfully, gently. "You can call me around dark tonight. I should be alone by then. We should meet."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  An hour later, Jack Burke—showered, clean shaven, and dressed in reasonably clean clothes—was seated at La Pergola. He sampled ice water, hummed tunelessly and fidgeted while staring out at the last of the rush hour traffic on Ventura. Each pedestrian was her for a split second, statuesque, exotic, and refined, but then morphing into someone disappointingly normal. Then the side door opened. Burke felt a primal quickening, caught the brisk scent of her perfume. She ran her fingers along the nape of his neck, sat down across the table. His throat seized, eyes softened.

  "I am so sorry," Indira Pal whispered. She stroked his palm. "I was so hurtful and rude. I prayed you would understand why."

  "You told him."

  Her dark eyes closed. She released his hand. "I never meant to tell him, I swore I would take the secret to my grave, but somehow he already knew."

  "How?" Burke heard his voice continuing the conversation, but watched as if from high up in one corner of the room. He saw the weathered, still somewhat youngish man in the corner of the patio area, seated by a gargantuan clay flowerpot filled with roses—a big man, with short, reddish hair, scarred knuckles, and the broken eyes of a combat soldier. But more importantly he viewed the striking woman seated across, her black eyes moist with tears that shimmered in the candlelight.

  Indira was beyond beautiful. Her clothing was not spectacular—she wore a purple pants suit of vaguely oriental origin, efficient black shoes, and minimal jewelry—but her body thrilled. She was trim, muscular, feline as a coiled jaguar. Her beauty seemed timeless, her facial features nearly flawless; Indira Pal was the sort of woman who could start a war—or drive a man to murder.

  "Jack?"

  He'd been lost somewhere, in another time and place. His face betrayed his confusion, his hands were trembling. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"