Every Wickedness

by Cathy Vasas-Brown

  As if he couldn’t count.

  “Your annual salary is how much again?”

  Not enough, Kearns thought bitterly.

  Whether Lloyd had spent his youth compensating for his physical puniness, Kearns didn’t know, but somewhere along the way the captain had practised the art of intimidation and had perfected a stare so icy it could freeze the devil in hell.

  The Spiderman wasn’t a conventional criminal, Kearns wanted to say, and no amount of conventional investigating would smoke this snake from his hole. But Lloyd was levelling another stare at him, so Kearns had remained mute.

  Kearns shook off the residue of his job, parked his Crown Victoria, and made his way along the sidewalk toward his one-bedroom apartment above the Russian bakery.

  Here was where real people lived. The aroma of Asian cuisine assailed his nostrils mingling with a rich tomato-basil odour from an Italian bistretto. The German deli where he bought his favourite knackwurst on a bun was closed, but the Irish pub, where he used to quaff a Harp lager (or seven), was still going strong. It paid for a cop to live in this kind of neighbourhood where he could kibitz with shop owners and customers of all kinds and colours. It helped him understand both the perpetrators as well as the victims of crime.

  “Hullo, Jimmy!” Ahead, Henry Ng appeared on the sidewalk, a soiled apron around his waist. In his hand was a decapitated duck. “Graduating night school next week. You come for supper. English pretty good, yes?”

  Kearns smiled. “You’re a regular Richard Burton, Henry.”

  “I know. Focking amazing, heh? You catch spider yet?”

  “Only a few under my sink, Henry,” Kearns said, then crossed over to the other side of the street.

  Henry hollered after him. “You catch bastard, Jimmy. I make him like this!” Henry waved the headless duck in the air.

  Kearns nodded, and the crush of responsibility returned. It didn’t matter that the fourteen officers on his task force were immersed in the Spiderman, inhaling the minutiae of the case files until they were cross-eyed; as long as the madman was loose, it was Kearns’s ass on the line.

  He remembered his earlier promise that the public would have no more deaths to mourn. Yet he knew, deep down, that for him to catch the lunatic’s scent, another murder was exactly what he needed.

  Inside his apartment, he called out, “I’m home, Mary,” and untied his shoes, leaving them, as always, heels to the baseboard, in the hallway. It had always been one of the things they chuckled about — why he would insist on lining his shoes up like twin soldiers, when there was a perfectly decent closet not two feet away.

  He wiggled his toes, sure his swollen feet would never fit inside shoes again. The TV came on next, as always. He didn’t care much what was on. The company of human voices, no matter how inane the chatter, dissipated the funereal quiet of the apartment.

  He checked his voice mail. His therapist had been playing phone tag with him all week, and this was her third attempt to get him an appointment. He erased her message and shuddered to think what would happen if his visits to a shrink became known by his squad. For all his pontificating about coming clean with feelings and encouraging his men to communicate, Kearns knew he couldn’t do the same.

  He was a bald-faced hypocrite, plain and simple, but a cop who took antidepressants and participated in therapy sessions also became a full-fledged member of the Rubber Gun Squad, complete with accompanying whispers and a quiet desk job. Until Kearns’s superiors got in step with the times, he was safer locking his blues in the closet.

  Kearns got organized — bottle of ginger ale, remote control, and a bag of pretzels on the end table beside his chair, his daily dose of Paxil from the bathroom, the video taken at the Fairmont popped into the VCR. Once he sunk into his favourite chair, he knew it would be game over. Probably fall asleep there, like most nights, fully clothed. Mary had been gone five years now, and it was still a toss-up as to what was worse — sleeping alone or eating breakfast alone.

  Exhaustion had burrowed through to his bones, that awful whacked-out, rag-doll feeling brought on by his medication and the depression that crouched in wait for him.

  The naugahyde recliner squeaked when he settled into it. The ginger ale didn’t fizz. The video made him more miserable, with its sea of anonymous faces staring at him, counting on him to bring in the killer. And was he among those faces, the lunatic who preyed on the vulnerable? If he was, Kearns couldn’t tell. The video camera wasn’t likely to catch a fleeting glimpse of some Manson lookalike, with a big red X on his forehead.

  He wanted others to stop calling the killer a monster, stop making him larger than life. Kearns loathed the name Devereaux had invented. Spiderman, to Kearns, endowed the killer with animal powers, a superhuman ability to entice prey, mutilate, then skitter away. Devereaux wasn’t the only one who had christened the killer. A journalist from the San Francisco Independent referred to him as a homicide machine, citing the coldly mechanical way in which he entrapped his victims, subjected them to days of terror, then tossed them away like a used Q-Tip.

  Kearns was adamant that no special title be bestowed upon the killer. He rejected the beast/machine analogies and ordered his task force never to use the name “Spiderman” in conversation or in print. People still wanted, even needed, to trust one another. This desire to believe in the goodness of other humans had once spawned the birth of vampire and werewolf legends. To savage a body for the sheer pleasure of it could not be the work of an ordinary mortal.

  But this killer was human. Nothing more. He stood in line at the Safeway, paid his hydro bill, got holes in his socks just like everybody else. He probably owned a microwave. His shit stank. He looked like your brother, your nephew, your uncle. Because he was a human being, he could be caught by a human being. It wouldn’t take a superhero to cut him down. Kearns, a member of his task force, or some blue-haired lady from Fresno would be in the right place at the right time and adios, araña.

  Kearns clung hard to that belief. As long as the killer was on equal footing with Kearns and his team, there was hope. Without that belief, all the Paxil in the world wouldn’t be able to pull Kearns from the murky pit that beckoned to him.

  He was rewinding the tape, intending to watch it again to see if he’d missed anything, when the phone rang.

  “Jim? Can you come? I’ve got another one.”

  9

  One coupon offered free leg waxing with the purchase of a facial, pedicure, and manicure. Another advertised a one-time-only deal on cleaning broadloom — three rooms for $59.99. A dubious environmental group begged for donations. It was innocuous junk mail, yet when Jim Kearns rifled through the stack, he felt as though he’d just discovered Beth Wells’s underwear drawer. At the bottom of the pile was the plain white envelope — no return address, just her name typewritten on the front. Inside, the message was simple, direct.

  I’M WATCHING YOU BITCH.

  Beneath it was a crude drawing of a spider.

  Kearns set the pile on Beth’s kitchen counter. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “That the killer wrote this.”

  “Can you blame me, Jim? Once, I can pass off as a practical joke, but twice? This isn’t funny.”

  “No. You’re right.”

  Together, they carried a coffeepot, a pair of mugs, and a plate of oatmeal cookies into the living room. Kearns sunk into the downy cushions of a chintz-covered loveseat and surveyed the room. Every lamp glowed. Even a small accent lamp on the antique desk in the corner contributed its forty watts’ worth, as did a pair of brass sconces flanking a painting over the mantel. This woman didn’t want any shadows in the corners.

  At one o’clock in the morning, without makeup, Beth Wells still looked gorgeous. In any light. Her long dark hair, still damp from the shower, was clasped in an upsweep. Tiny tendrils framed her face. She sat beside him, poured decaf, then tucked her feet under her.

  Her first letter had come a week ago, exactly one month after Anne’s body
had been discovered. THE KISS OF THE SPIDERMAN, it had read. Kearns had understood her concern, made note of the incident, but reassured Beth by saying it was some crackpot looking for a quick bit of excitement. Still, it had shaken her up, and when he gave her his home phone number, she seemed to feel better. “Watch the ones you know,” he had told her at the time. It was the same advice he’d given to his audience at the Fairmont earlier this evening.

  Beth Wells was right. Twice wasn’t funny, and he knew the minute he’d received her call he had to come over. The night he’d told her Anne Spalding’s body had been found was, perversely, the night he and Beth had somehow become friends. She had wanted to help, had searched her memory for any worthwhile scrap of information about Anne, but in the end, there was nothing. She felt guilty for not knowing her roommate better. And she was afraid. Now here, in her own home, she was scared shitless all over again, but in spite of that, she was still acting the part of hostess. She nudged the plate of cookies toward him.

  “Tell me about the evening, how you came across the note,” Kearns said, helping himself to a cookie.

  “I’d been at the Fairmont,” she began. “You were great, by the way. Came home, talked to the neighbours, grabbed the mail, and came inside. I didn’t think about the mail again until half an hour ago.”

  “What made you remember?”

  “The usual. I couldn’t sleep, so I figured a good thick book might do the trick. That’s when I thought about the mail. I belong to a book club and thought the new listings might have arrived.” She sipped her coffee. “Jim, I really hesitated calling. I saw how exhausted you looked earlier. But I was ready to jump out of my skin.”

  Jim Kearns noticed the tremor in Beth’s hands as she gripped her ironstone mug. “Once you read the note, what did you do?”

  She flushed. “What any hysterical female would do. Turned on all the lights, checked under the bed. Tried to pretend the note didn’t matter. I looked out at the street too, through the slats in the shutters. There wasn’t anyone there, of course — no scar-faced villain standing under the lamppost — yet I felt I was being watched.”

  “Just what the bastard wants you to feel.” Kearns gulped the coffee, allowed Beth to refill his mug, and wished for a snifter of Napoleon brandy. “It’s not the killer, Beth.”

  “How can you be so sure? The spiders —”

  Kearns shook his head. “The other victims didn’t receive notes. Our man charms ’em, he doesn’t scare ’em off. He’d want to savour the fear first-hand. It’s part of the ritual high. If he was writing letters, he’d want to see you open the envelope.”

  “Maybe he’s changed strategies to throw you off.”

  Kearns smiled. The glut of fiction about serial killers made everyone an armchair detective. Beth’s pained expression made him lose his grin. He didn’t want her to think he was laughing at her. The last thing she needed now was a patronizing cop.

  “I’d say the killer’s current strategy is working just fine. We’re no closer to the bastard than we were months ago.”

  “I thought you said you were working on several leads.”

  “Sure. All five thousand of them. All dead ends. Let’s see, there was Carl from Cucamonga who has a friend whose cousin has a collection of dead spiders mounted on pins in a trophy case. There was Peter from South Pisspot who, neighbours say, has a penchant for women’s shoes. And I can’t forget Glen from Gonadsville, Bob from Barfdom, Damian from Dick City … you get the picture?”

  Beth nodded. “I guess if we all started looking around, we’d discover a lot of weirdos.”

  “And if we started locking ’em up, there wouldn’t be a soul left walking around. Myself included. This case is making me as nutty as everybody else.”

  “Still, Jim, all the drudgery has to be paying off. Look at all the people you can cross off your list of suspects.”

  “Nice try, Beth, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate your enthusiasm, but this wouldn’t be the first time a suspect got crossed off when he should have stayed on. For all we know, our man could be Peter from Cucamonga.”

  “Pisspot.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pisspot. Peter was from Pisspot. South, I believe. Carl was from Cucamonga.” She smiled.

  “No one can fault your listening skills, that’s for sure.” He helped himself to another cookie. “But these stranger crimes are a bitch. We feel like we’re running in circles. Just once, I’d like to pull my tail out from between my legs so I can see it better when I chase it.”

  He was glad she was gracious enough not to laugh.

  “Jim, I’m sorry. This must be terrible for you. The pressure, I mean.”

  A faint trace of her shampoo, a sweet apricot scent, drifted toward him. He inhaled deeply.

  “Yeah,” he sighed, “between the crap in the papers, my boss, and the mayor on my back, I’m skewered. And don’t even talk to me about that bitch, Sondra Devereaux. She wants my balls for shish kebab.” Kearns cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

  “Any idea why she’s being so hard on you?”

  He shrugged. “At first I thought it was all about ratings. Now, I think Devereaux’s got some kind of hate-on for the police. Everybody needs somebody to talk to, I wonder who Devereaux tells her troubles to? And by the way, when did this turn into my therapy session?”

  “You just said everyone needs someone to talk to, Jim. And you’re entitled to feel a little sorry for yourself.”

  “Whenever I do too much of that, I think of the victims, their families, what that madman has put them through. With Devereaux perpetuating the Spiderman mystique, giving the guy the identity he craves — well, it pisses me right off. Under Devereaux’s hornet’s nest of a hairdo lurks the brain of a flea.” He drained his second mug of coffee, then grinned. “We were supposed to be discussing your letters. Put your fear aside for moment and forget about the Spiderman signature. Someone sends you anonymous notes. What kind of person comes to mind? You meet all sorts of people in your line of work. Think.”

  Beth pressed an index finger to her lips and Kearns waited.

  Finally she spoke. “A coward. An immature coward.”

  “Exactly.”

  10

  Personal Touch Interiors on Sacramento was immediately recognizable by its crisp green-and-white striped awning. Brain-weary though she was this morning, Beth still felt a rush of pride at the sight of her shop. During the seven years Beth had been open for business, Personal Touch had been transformed from quaint and casual to citified chic. Now, the affluent clientele streamed in steadily, and Beth’s reputation as one of the area’s most innovative designers was sealed. Thankful for her good fortune, Beth turned the key in the lock and stepped inside.

  As she did so, she heard a crunch. Looking down, she saw a white envelope, the front of it now marred by her dirty shoeprint. For a moment, her stomach knotted, and she remembered the last white envelope she had opened not so long ago. Then she relaxed. The word landlord was scrawled across the front.

  Rex McKenna, the insurance agent who leased the office upstairs, had come through with October’s rent. And on time for a change. Beth stooped, retrieved the envelope, then closed the shop door behind her.

  She scrutinized the cheque’s date, the signature, the amount. It wouldn’t be the first time Rex had fouled something up, forcing her to chase him down. Satisfied that everything was in order, Beth put the cheque in her purse and resolved to deposit it in a bank machine before meeting Ginny for supper.

  In less than an hour, customers would begin their Saturday browsing routine along the stretch between Spruce and Divisadero, and Beth would be ready. Quickly, she grabbed a watering can from the storage area at the rear of her shop, filled it, then returned to the front sidewalk. She gave the brilliant red geraniums blooming in huge cast-iron urns a good soaking and pinched off the dead flowers. When she looked up, she was surprised to see Rex McKenna making his way along the sidewalk.

  “Working on Saturd
ay, Rex?” she called out in her friendliest tone. She didn’t like the man but still believed in the sugar-versus-vinegar philosophy.

  “Hardly,” he grunted, brushing by her. “Just came for a few papers.”

  Usually, Rex wore one of two checked suits, but today he was clad in lime green slacks, a plaid shirt, orange windbreaker, white belt, and shoes. Beth blinked as Rex made his way up the stairs to his office. Too soon, he was back, as surly as ever. “See you haven’t fixed that ceiling fan yet. Gets hotter ’n hell up there. Seems for what I pay in rent —”

  “You’re right, Rex,” Beth said quickly. “I’ll have someone come out early next week.”

  A rusty Honda Civic pulled alongside the curb. “For chrissakes, Rex! Hurry the hell up. We tee off in twenty minutes. Maybe you can charm your landlord some other time, huh, Tarzan?”

  Ida McKenna tapped on the steering wheel. Permed blonde hair sprouted from beneath a fuchsia sun visor. If ever two people deserved each other, Beth thought. Her father would say that at least they weren’t spoiling two marriages.

  Meekly, Rex approached the car, and Beth detected a slight limp as he walked. Rex would need an electric cart if he hoped to play a full eighteen today, she thought, and returned inside.

  Beth frowned inwardly at the arrival of her first customer, Horace Furwell, who had a specific design project in mind. He wanted his condominium to be transformed into a replica of a bordello he’d frequented in France during the war, complete with red velvet bedcovers, black fringed lamps, and gilt-framed mirrors. Beth had politely turned down the project before and would be firmer in her refusal this time. Though she was able to efficiently eject Furwell from her showroom, the image of the grandfatherly type with the St. Nicholas face stayed with her long after he’d gone. Hardly the sort Beth would have guessed to have such bacchanalian tastes, but then, most people had secrets.

  The rest of Beth’s day passed quickly. In fact she was too busy to realize just how tired she was, but at five thirty when she tallied up her sales — one inlaid butler’s table, a pair of porcelain lamps, two fireside chairs, and two sofas on order — she realized there wasn’t a muscle group in her body that didn’t ache.