"Go where?" Milo was sweating B.B.'s now.
"Home, of course. Where else?" Clark smiled broadly.
"You're not . . ."
"Going to turn you in? No. I don't think so. Listen, Milo. We don't need the newspaper working on this case along with us, you know."
"Just a few dollars. That's all I was taking, Joe. I wasn't givin' him much."
"Don't care if it was for free. Let's get out of here before I do turn you in."
"Maybe it's good with the paper printing this stuff and all. Fires us up. Maybe the paper comes up with some new leads and angles."
"Milo," Clark said calmly.
"Yes." Milo's voice was as thin as a communion wafer.
"Shut up. If it wasn't for your kid I'd turn you over so fast it'd make your head swim. I've a big urge just to send you home across your saddle, and believe me, if Gorilla knew you were the one—and I'm sure he suspectssince he's no fool—he'd snap you in half like a fortune cookie."
Milo put his coat on.
"Git!" Clark said.
"How'd you know?"
"Why I'm a trained detective, Milo. Hunches, observation. If Gorilla wasn't so rattled these days he'd already have nabbed you. Thank the Lord for his preoccupation. And Milo, you look guilty as hell. You look about as calm these days as a blood-soaked rat in a cage full of hungry cats. In other words—you do not have a poker face. Go!"
"About locking up?"
Clark held out his hand. "Toss me the keys. I'll do it for you."
"It's my job. I'm not supposed to . . ."
"You're kidding. You're not supposed to pass out evidence either."
"But . . ."
"Give me the goddamned keys, Milo, 'cause if you don't, I'm gonna see you in one hell of a fine mess." Clark bobbed his open palm up and down. "Come on. I'll give them back in the morning . . . Maybe. That's if I don't decide to turn you in. Right now I trust my locking up better than yours. I've got a key, but somehow I'll sleep better knowing you don't."
Milo took the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Clark. He said. "Thanks for not saying anything, Joe."
"Isn't for you, Milo. It's for your boy. Now get the hell out . . . And Milo—if you want to be sneaky, don't act so sneaky. Know why I'm not worried about the light? It's because I went down to evidence and signed in as soon as I saw you go in here. I signed in to look at The Hacker material."
"I didn't want my name on the register after hours."
"It's more stupid to come in here with your pass key, not signed in and after hours." Clark made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Stupid, Milo. Real stupid. Now go."
Milo went.
When he was gone, Clark began to look through the files on The Hacker again.
THURSDAY . . . 7:05 p.m.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Hanson said.
"Just five minutes," Doc Warren said opening the door wider. "Come in, come in."
Warren's house was warm and comfortable looking. The furniture was expensive, but it didn't have a show room look. The place looked lived in.
"I hope this little appointment isn't disturbing anything," Hanson said.
"Not at all, Lieutenant, not at all. I live alone and company's nice for a change.
Haven't had much of that since Juanita died."
"Sorry."
"Quite all right. Been three years now. Come, this way into the study. I've marked a few things that might interest you."
"Thank you . . . And call me Marvin or Hanson, but not Lieutenant."
"Very well, Marvin." Warren opened a door before them, held it to allow Hanson to enter first. It was a room full of books. The carpet was rust colored and matched well with the redwood bookshelves. There was a large desk in front of a window at one end, an old, battered typing chair drawn up before it, and in the middle of the room was a huge wire spool that had been turned into a table. Two comfortable and fairly worn chairs were drawn up to it. The spool was littered with old moisture rings from glasses and bottles. An ashtray full of ash and cigar butts was on the table.
"Juanita gave me this room to do as I pleased," Warren said. "I pleased to keep it a mess. Pardon the old furniture."
"Not at all," Hanson said. "I like the hell out of it. I have a den, not private, but it's a place to relax. This looks like a hell of a fine place to relax."
"Sit down ... Or look at the books . . . You a book man, Marvin?"
"Very."
"Good. That's good. A man that loves books—or a woman—is the salt of the earth.
If they don't love books then they aren't worth knowing." Warren smiled. "You may quote me on that. I'm getting so I babble."
Hanson smiled. "I'll look at the books."
"Good, good. Right back . . . Miller beer okay?"
"Wouldn't have any other if I had a choice."
"All the better." Warren went out and closed the door.
Hanson walked down the rows of books. They went from a shelf height of six-feet to floor level. The majority of the books were on crime, violent crime. There were also a few novels by Hemingway, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald. There was a six-foot-long shelf full of Eighty-seventh Precinct mysteries.
"Ah, good man," Hanson said aloud as his eyes came to rest on a favorite of his, Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep, and here was John Ball's In the Heat of the Night. He took that one down and flipped it open.
The door opened and Warren came in with the beers, both held in one hand between fingers. He walked over to Hanson, looked at the book he held, handed the detective a beer. "Ball," he said. "I like his stuff."
"Me too," Hanson said. "This book especially. It seems a bit more hardboiled than the later ones in the series."
"Agreed," Warren said. "The character changes a bit, becomes more Sherlockian. But I like that too. I think he might have been trying for a more serious tone in the first one."
Hanson slipped the book back into place, then twisted the top off his beer.
"Let's sit," Warren said. "Cigar?"
"That would be nice," Hanson said. Hanson sat down in one of the comfortable chairs, put his beer on the spool table.
Warren set his down and went over to his desk. He came back with a few books under his arm and a box full of cigars. "Not the most expensive cigars in the world, certainly they're not the kind you roll around in your fingers next to your ear and listen for the crispness, but they're tasty and smoke good."
"I used to smoke grapevines, so what do I know about cigars. They're tobacco. That's enough. I like one occasionally."
Warren set the books on the table, lifted the lid on the cigar box, selected two long, brown cigars. He gave Hanson one and himself one. He took a book of matches from the corner of the cigar box and once the detective had the cigar unwrapped and in his mouth, lit Hanson's. He lit his own with the same match.
"Now," Warren said, "let's get down to business."
"Tell me about this guy, about necrophilia."
Warren swigged his beer, puffed his cigar, then pursed his lips. After a moment of thought he repeated the performance, one, two, three. Then: "Well, Marvin. I think this guy is more than a necrophiliac. If what hesaid in his note about frying the breast is true, he shows cannibalistic tendencies as well. Not to mention a horde of other symptoms. His is the most exaggerated form of necrophilia. You see, the real purpose behind necrophilous killers is not to kill, but to dismember the body. Of course, to do that the victim must die. With this killer, however, I feel he is an odd and uncomfortable mixture of necro- philiac and sadist. He enjoys his crimes. He taunts the police with notes. He writes the newspapers. This man is no fool, he's sick, sick, sick . . . You're frowning ..."
"Sorry. Just to me sickness means something else. I don't want to help the guy ... I want to catch him, not because he's sick, but because he's a coldblooded murderer."
"I understand fully," Warren said. "Another beer?"
"No. Go on."
"I'd say this man is one that has recently gone over the edge."
"Correct. He . . . right off let me say I'm not a psychiatrist and don't claim knowledge in that area . . . but he may well be a split personality. That sort of thing doesn't happen as often as you think. The movies and books we read sometimes lead us to believe otherwise, but it's just not true. It does happen occasionally however, and this just might be a classic case. If he is a split personality, a true split. He may not even be aware of what he does when he's not The Hacker. He could be anybody. You. Me."
"Not me. This guy's white."
Warren leaned back in his chair and smoked his cigar. "Oh."
"The greasepaint we found. His references to niggers in his notes. A black man wouldn't need a greasepaint disguise, and we feel certain that's what that was, and he wouldn't refer to his own kind as niggers . . . not likely anyway, least not in the context of the notes."
"I don't know," Warren said. "You see, if this guy is a true split personality, he might well be a black man with a separate white existence."
"Come again."
"Well. When he's the murderer, he might think of himself as white. He might have rubbed grease paint on a black face and not even be aware that he's already black. Even if he looked in a mirror he would see a white face if that is the identity he was living at the moment. It may even be some deep dark racial conflict that sent him over the edge."
"Jesus."
"I said he could be a split personality. Not that he was. Most likely, considering the few true cases, he's not. He's calculating, intelligent and resourceful. He could have been carrying this around with him for years. One day he just couldn't hold it back anymore, and presto, The Houston Hacker is born."
"I think maybe it's a cop."
Warren nodded his head. "Possible. Or maybe someone connected with the cops indirectly."
"I think he's right out of the department. He seems to know our every move."
"It's a thought," Warren said.
"This necrophilia stuff," Hanson asked, "is it common?"
"More common than you think. All abnormalities spring out of normalities."
"Come again. That's a little heavy for me."
"I mean we all have tendencies for such things . . . even necrophilia. You and I are excellent examples. We're in jobs that deal with death, and I, of course, work bodies over in the same way The Hacker does, but for other reasons. You see death constantly. Perhaps you and I have a bit stronger necrophiliac tendencies than most, or otherwise we'd be in a different business. People that gather around car wrecks, that's a mild example. Basically, an attraction to dead things or items dealing with death: coffins, graveyards, that sort of thing. Perhaps even sexual excitment induced by a dead body."
"But ..." Warren didn't hear him. He was wrapped up in his thoughts, his presentation.
"... common enough. Take the example from this book," Warren picked up On the Nightmare by Ernest Jones. "It mentions the case of Periander, the Corinthian tyrant who murdered his wife, Melissa, and had sexual intercourse with the corpse." Warren put the book down. The cigar between his fingers was dead. "And then there's the Biblical Herod who was said to have slept with his wife's body for quite some time after she died. This is more than bereavement, this is necrophiliac character. Take Faulkner's short story, 'A Rose For Emily,' more of the same."
"Then these crimes, though not necessarily performed for the intent of murder, are sexual."
"These crimes, unlike most necrophilous intentions that result in the death of the victim, are performed for the satisfaction of both sadistic lust and necrophilous desire. They are definitely sexual in nature, born out of some sort of sexual frustration. And not just the old classic school of can't get any, or can't get it up. It's more than that. Deeper. Much deeper. The problem with this man may well date back to childhood, if I may indulge in a bit of backyard Freud. It has finally boiled to the surface."
"And he'll kill and kill and kill."
"Unless it satiates itself. Dies within."
"You mean he could just quit?"
"It's not an accepted thought, and not likely, I admit, but possible. Or so I think."
"He could just stop all of this? Blend back in?"
"I'm saying it's possible. Jack the Ripper may well have done just that. There are a number of theories concerning the Whitechapel murders, none any better than another. Some think that a man found drowned with stones in his pocket, Druitt," Warren picked from the books on the table The Complete Jack the Ripper and shook it, "I believe was his name, might have been the ripper, and that with his death, suicide, or perhaps execution performed by his family who were aware of his nocturnal prowlings, the murders came to an end. Of course there are other suspects. Some say he may have migrated to America. I think he just stopped. This necrophilous appetite manifested itself, he satisfied it and it died, at least temporarily. Perhaps he surfaced again later, performed more crimes. But what I'm saying is that perhaps this oddball character, to put it mildly, comes in waves. Maybe it only washes to shore once, fills the already frustrated necrophiliac with overwhelming urges, which he performs, and away it goes, low tide, never to roll in again."
"That's rather contrary to what's thought by most, isn't it?"
"It is. I told you I wasn't a psychologist or a psychiatrist, just an interested party. Very interested."
"Thank you. You've been a great help. Now for the last and most important question. How can I find this man? What would he be like?"
"Like you or me. He could have a family ..."
"A family?"
"Think of the infamous Boston Strangler, if they have the right person. He was a good family man. Wife and children . . . Part-time murderer. I'd say chances are, however, that our man doesn't have a family. Maybe he once did. Perhaps this part of his grief, or that little something that has given his compulsion fuel. He's probably a lonely man. Perfectly normal man on the outside, but inside . . . turmoil. Good chance that he lives in a section of town that's rundown. This would be in keeping with his necrophilous character. It would help to control his impulses. He might even have a job with garbage, sewer . . . the morgue. Anything that contains putrid odors, as this is often an attraction. Maybe the place where he lives is near something like a graveyard, a funeral home ... Or if he's a split personality, perhaps he goes home to his family, and then, by means of some excuse, perhaps not conscious, he leaves them and goes to another home, the one more in character with his other personality."
"He could be living a secret life?"
"Correct. And not even be aware of it. When he's with his family he's John Doe, good husband and father. When he's the other, and in the abode of the other . . . Well, he wouldn't even be aware of his normal existence. If he's a split personality."
"The ghetto might be a place to look."
"Uh huh. But what are you going to do. Knock on doors, say, pardon me is this the residence of The Hacker?"
"I don't know. I'm still holding to that idea about a cop. Matter of fact, something you said tonight worries me a bit. Reminds me of something."
"What's that?"
"You'll excuse me for not saying just now, I hope. I mean it is just a thought and I don't want to go off halfcocked. As a matter of fact it bothers me that I'm even thinking it."
"I understand."
Hanson put the remaining portion of his cigar out in the ashtray with a smash and a twist, stood up and held out his hand. Warren took it. They shook. "Thank you," Hanson said.
"By all means. And do come back. I'm pretty lonely sometimes. The wife gone and all, nothing but my work. But I'm not squawking. I like my job . . . Still."
"I understand. And I will come back. See you at work."
"Over another body I presume."
Hanson smiled thinly. "Most likely."
"Come, let me show you out."
*
On the way out Warren said, "Marvin, remember. The man is sick."
&
nbsp; "I'll try to remember that."
"It's in all of us, each and every one of us."
"But only the weak ones become the crazies, The Hacker."
"It has nothing to do with weakness," Warren said.
"My theory. I think it does. Like always, the weak, at least in a case like this where the beast is a detriment to society, should be weeded out."
"It could be anybody, Marvin. If he's a split, it could be you."
Hanson didn't say anything.
"We all have that character of necrophilia deep within us. One of those books I had in there, A History of Torture and Death, shows the atrocities that we did in the name of justice and vengeance. They were more often worse than the original crimes. Man is a bloody animal."
"Was. We have laws now."
"Man is the same as always, Marvin."
"I'm sorry. I can't accept that. If there's no order then there's no purpose. I'd as soon not get up in the morning."
"Very well," Warren said leaning his hand against the door sill. "But remember, if you catch him ..."
"When," Hanson interrupted, "when."
Warren smiled. "When . . . Try to remember that he is a human being."
"It'll be hard," Hanson admitted.
'Try. Promise me you'll try."
"All right, then," Hanson said slowly. "I promise to try." Hanson thought, didn't I make this promise to someone else recently?
"Thank you," Warren said.
"And thank you again for your time."
"I don't think I've been much help."
"Maybe you have. Maybe a lot more than you think. It's got me thinking. That's something. It's made me move a few trees so I can see the forest."
"I hope so."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Marvin."
When Hanson was almost to his car Warren called after him. "And be careful, Marvin. Be careful."
Hanson turned. "I will."
Warren thought, but didn't say, "You better."
Hanson climbed in his car, started it up, turned on the lights and drove away.
Warren watched until Hanson's car was out of sight.
Joe R Lansdale Page 10
