The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

  Reflecting for a moment, he saw a chubby little boy with blond hair and a malevolent smile. Licking the blood from his lips, he was holding a large shiny carving knife which held within the highly polished stainless steel a pair of wild green eyes.

  One minute he was sure that he was reliving the past and the next that he was just dredging up scenes from a horror movie. What he couldn’t deny, however, was the fact that at some level he had wanted Gomez dead, and even while he explained it away as a natural reaction to having been smashed in the head with an iron rod, he couldn’t help but wonder whether there was something deeper going on, something inherent, something evil.

  “Shit!” he moaned in frustration. Trying to get comfortable, he kept repositioning his head, but the pillow case was thick and course.

  Scratching the side of his face, he turned on his back and looked toward the ceiling, which full of cracks and water stains reminded him of how far he had fallen.

  “Fuck’n loser,” he said in a whisper.

  On the heating vent was a small black spider, which only seemed to move when he took his eyes off of it. Turning back to it every now and again, he noted how statue like it seemed, how immobile. Nevertheless, it was always in a different spot.

  Jack felt dazed and sore, but as much as he would have liked to have been doing something, doing anything, his body wouldn’t comply.

  On the night stand next to the bed was a pack of cinnamon chewing gum. Placing a piece on his tongue, he quickly began working his jaw muscles and before long his sinuses started to clear. With a head full of squishes and crackles and a mouth feeling all warm and tingly, he almost felt as if he were engaged, thinking, accomplishing something.

  The uptick in his mood, however, was just as transient as the burst of flavor. Still cognizant of the enigma that was his past and the uncertainty that was his future, he again began to flounder.

  He had just tortured a man and but for a fortuitous turn might have even killed him, all while conscious of his every move and thought – but what about when he wasn’t conscious? That’s what really scared him, the unbroken path to his deepest most primitive impulses.

  Pulling at his hair, Jack set off on a wild jag of waking nightmares and before long he was absolutely convinced that he was the killer.

  The laws of consciousness, however, are powerful, and for each and every thought there is an equal and opposite thought, the effect of which is often times an even greater sense of equilibrium.

  “Come on,” he told himself. For what did he really know? Aside from waking up in the middle of the night covered in blood, the rest was sheer speculation.

  Chomping vigorously on what was now nothing more than a tasteless ball of rubber, his jaw began to click. As a result, he spit it across the room in the direction of the waste paper basket. Miraculously, it struck the target, and for a moment he felt somewhat pleased with himself. Nevertheless, his failure to come up with any leads had begun to take its toll.

  Bundy was a liar, a skunk, and in all likelihood a sociopath. He may have even murdered his wife, but that was it. Jack was no closer to capturing the serial killer than when he had started.

  But what about Janet? How’d the killer know they had dated?

  “Don’t be stupid! Jack told himself. “You’re a detective.”

  Indeed, once you’ve got a person’s name these days, you can find out just about anything you want, especially when most yearbooks are now posted online. One quick look at Jack and Janet holding hands at the prom and that would have been it, but who knows, the killer could have checked out social networks, corresponded with old acquaintances, or most simply just broken into his apartment. In any event, Jack felt foolish. For yet again he hadn’t considered the various possibilities.

  With the heating system letting out a series of creaks and bangs, the room had become hot and stuffy, so much so that Jack felt dehydrated and weak. Nevertheless, he managed to limp his way into the bathroom, where upon clearing his bladder, he washed his hands, splashed his face, and began drinking from the faucet. Having bent over, however, he suddenly became dizzy. Grasping the sink to keep himself from falling down, he put his head down and waited for the blood to return, yet even then, on the verge of passing out, he couldn’t help but contemplate just how bad things were.

  His parentage, his sleep disorder, his idiosyncratic personality – it all added up. Especially troubling, however, was the fact that as a child he had been institutionalized. Was it possible that he was walking around crazy and didn’t even know it?

  Grabbing his wallet, he pulled out a tattered piece of paper – something he had found amongst his father’s things after he died. On it was the name, address, and phone number of a woman, along with the heading, “Medical History.” It noted, “No H problems. Stomach C on both sides. MI, mother.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  As much as it didn’t make sense, given that the “H” must have stood for “heart,” Jack still liked to think that the initials “MI” were an abbreviation for myocardial infarction – a term he had often heard as an insurance adjuster – but the truth was that the abbreviations could’ve meant anything. Who knows what his father was thinking.

  In any event it wasn’t like the note was some well thought out legal document. Stuck at the bottom of a shoe box amongst some playing cards, spare change, and some petrified Sen-Sen, its importance could probably be judged by the company it kept.

  Nevertheless, it was all he had to go on. If “MI” did indeed stand for “mental illness,” he was about to find out.

  “Christina Christine,” he scornfully whispered. Clearly made up, the name over the years had inspired quite a bit of speculation, none of which was pleasant.

  Not surprisingly, the phone number was no longer in service. This being the case, he decided to check out the address, which involved heading back to Manhattan. Oddly, it turned out to be a business – an art gallery as a matter of fact.

  Jack was intrigued. Could it be that his artistic pursuits were nothing more than an attempt to be reunited with his biological mother.

  Perhaps as child he had overheard a conversation or saw something that let him know what she did, but was too young for it to register. In any event he was not about to allow another minute pass without finding out.

  Located in SoHo the gallery was immediately obnoxious for its lack of a sign. Rather it was set off by a primitive wrought iron sculpture that hung over the entrance. Rolling his eyes, Jack likened it to a rusted over stick figure.

  Displayed within the front window, however, were several stylized urban pieces. Both vibrant and colorful, they depicted children playing basketball, vagabonds arguing over a jug of wine, and people dancing at some sort of block party. With intense expressions and flawed facial features, the subjects possessed just enough detail to meet Jack’s approval.

  “Could that be her?” he reflected.

  Inside he noted a woman trying to remove a heavy looking metal frame from a large canvass consisting of nothing more than red, black, and yellow stripes.

  “Can I help you,” asked the woman, as she tossed the now frameless painting into a garbage pail.

  Looking to be in her early sixties, she had short grey hair, light green eyes, and flaxen skin. With black capris, a comfortable looking pair of ballerina flats, and a white smock that hung loosely over her long boney frame, she glided across the floor like a ghost.

  Jack told her that he was looking for a gift – something modern, yet representational.

  “That covers a lot of territory,” she chuckled.

  Having been caught staring at her, he quickly turned toward a painting – a strange cubist piece involving what appeared to be a man butchering a steer. “Maybe a landscape?” he responded.

  From her pinched nose to her pursed but well proportioned lips, everything about her was small and delicate – everything but her eyes, which both large and heavy had the sad but noble look of someone who’d been through hell yet som
ehow managed to survive. “You have no idea do you?”

  “Well I know I don’t want that,” he blurted, pointing toward a rather by the numbers watercolor of a stream surrounded by trees.

  Despite her age she was still comely, with a refined chin and well delineated cheekbones that reminded him of his own. “I don’t blame you,” she said, with a confidential tone. “It was done by a friend. I just put it up as a favor.”

  “Nepotism in art?” uttered Jack. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “A rare deviation.”

  “I hope so.” he responded, wondering what she thought of him.

  As Bundy and Gomez knew that he had shaved his head, he was wearing a ski cap. Nevertheless, not wanting to look more foolish than necessary, he left the false eyelashes and brows at the motel.

  “Is this for a man or a woman?”

  “Good point,” replied Jack, looking almost trim in loose fitting jeans and a black pullover sweatshirt. Having lost nearly thirty pounds in less than two weeks, he was feeling a bit fey. “It’s for a woman. So any suggestions would be most appreciated.”

  Looking back at Jack, she searched his face in the same way he searched hers. “Women can handle abstract,” she joked. “Within the worst mess we can always find something that appeals to us.”

  “I guess that’s how people wind up getting married.”

  “Take a look at this,” she told him, holding up a small oil painting consisting of what appeared to be a pile of multicolored twigs. “It’s by Darren Tatum; he’s a comer. In a few years it’ll probably be worth something. Are you looking for appreciation?”

  “Not really. Do you have anything a bit more conventional?”

  Leading him to the other side of the room, she seemed preoccupied. “How about something impressionistic or maybe a Japanese watercolor?”

  Jack paused for a moment to look at what appeared to be a Magritte rip off. It consisted of distorted faces, truncated bodies, and a prolific number of golf balls.

  Noticing Jack’s interest, she commented, “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? I kind of like it.”

  “I could be wrong, but based on my experience, I don’t think it’s the type of thing most women would find pleasing.”

  “It’s like a puzzle,” noted Jack.

  “It is, isn’t it?” she commented. “Are you familiar with Braque?”

  “Sure, he was like Picasso, but kind of muted, a lot of earth tones.”

  “Pretty much,” she responded, somewhat surprised. “Did you ever see one of his Billiard Table paintings?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “His point was that art was like a game.”

  “More like a battle,” declared Jack, as she led him over to a 19th century Japanese piece. Consisting mostly of soft blues and greens, it depicted an old man with a white beard and crooked stick that he used as a fishing pole. The point of view was from above, on a diagonal, as if it were painted from a helicopter.

  “What about this?” commented Jack, referring to a piece depicting melted bottles, broken mirrors, and sneaky expressions.

  “Oh no,” said the woman. “I’m not going to let you do that to her. Too spooky, too blunt. Where would she put it?”

  “I suppose. Are you an artist?”

  “I paint.”

  Taking in her mantis colored eyes, he found nothing telling about them, nothing familiar. “What’s your name,” he asked.

  “Christina.”

  “Christina what? Would I know you?”

  “Vincent, but I’m afraid not. That’s why I run a gallery.”

  For years Jack had assumed that she was a hooker, dope fiend, or schizophrenic, making the person before him a pleasant surprise. The problem, however, was that aside from the prominent cheek bones, she really didn’t look like him. “I’m Robert, by the way, Robert Thompson.”

  The woman pulled a small painting from a bin. “Pleased to meet you Robert.”

  Jack saw that she was eager to show him something. “What’s that?”

  “Something I did about ten years ago.”

  Jack was breathless. It was a painting of a mother and child walking through a field of yellow grass.

  “That’s pretty good,” he nervously told her, even while the conception reminded him a bit too much of Andrew Wyeth.

  The platinum haired little boy appeared to be around five or six, but had already lost most of his baby fat, making his big blue eyes and puffy red lips seem almost too large for his face.

  As for his mother, she also had prominent features, but not so much as to detract from her overall appearance. Possessing large grey eyes and pasty white skin that stood out against an oil spill of cascading black hair, she had a wide face, muscular jaws, and a rather long boney nose.

  “It’s very realistic,” commented Jack, who saw in her style definite comparisons to his own.

  “I suppose, but why not just take a picture, right? Although I do like the colors.”

  Jack’s head was askew. “A lot of yellows and blues.”

  “I wanted the surroundings to kind of merge with the subjects; you see the blue in her hair?”

  “I do,” said Jack. “How much are you asking for it?”

  “The woman seemed surprised. “You want to buy it?

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not for sale. I painted this for my grandson’s fifth birthday. The woman is my daughter. The only reason I have it here is to change the frame.”

  Jack wasn’t surprised. The straight nose, the distinct jaw line, the almost bleached looking hair – except for the dimpled chin and rather circular eyes, the boy could have passed for himself at that age. “Do you have a big family?”

  “Three daughters and eight grandchildren.”

  “So you finally got a boy.”

  The woman’s eyes conveyed a definite sense of fulfillment. “Two.”

  Mustering up a knowing smile, he saw an opening. “That’s a lot of kids, are you sure you haven’t left anyone out?”

  Immediately she understood. Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed her eyes. “I knew there was something familiar about you.”

  “I didn’t mean to shock you?”

  “So it’s really true, you’re my son?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Jack nervously responded.

  Averting her glance, she asked him if he would like to sit down and talk. “Let’s go to my office,” she told him.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  More like a den than a place of business, the room contained a sofa, small refrigerator and even a throw rug, which as far as Jack could tell was a true Persian. On the walls were dozens of paintings of various genres intermixed with photographs of her family.

  Having instructed him to sit on the couch, the fragile looking woman rolled the chair from her desk toward the sofa. “Would you like a drink?”

  Jack was surprised at how sad he felt. After years of speculation, he had finally confirmed that he was adopted. “That’s ok.”

  “I think I need some water. Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine,” said Jack, glad that he had left the false lashes and brows at the motel.

  Having taken a bottle from the refrigerator, she positioned her chair across from Jack and sat down. “Robert is it?”

  Fortunately, she had never learned his name. “That’s right,” he told her.

  “I had all but given up on you. I figured if you were going to come, it would have been years ago.”

  Before appearing at the gallery Jack had been worried about who he was and what he was becoming, but five minutes with this woman and all of his fears were allayed. “Better late than never.”

  Christina cracked the water bottle and took a loud swig. “I guess you’re wondering why I gave you up.”

  Jack hadn’t even considered this, but now that she had mentioned it, he needed to know. “Well I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.”

  “Ar
e you sure you wouldn’t like something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Speaking rather quickly, with a fluency that betrayed years of rehearsals, she again dabbed her eyes. “I never considered myself a selfish person, but the fact is all I could think about was how unfair it was. I wanted to travel, see the world, become a famous artist. I couldn’t have a baby. Now days being single and pregnant is no big deal, but back then it was quite the scandal. I had to drop out of school, avoid my friends, quit my job, and the result was that I became angry. I know it sounds terrible, which is exactly what it was, but all I wanted to do was put it behind me.”

  “I understand,” said Jack, somewhat disappointed.

  The woman took another sip of water. “When you were born, I didn’t even look at you, not even for a second.”

  Noticing that she had begun to tremble, Jack tried to comfort her. “I went to a nice family; it worked out.”

  “I figured it would, and for a lot of women it’s probably the right thing to do, but for me it just didn’t add up, and the fact was I knew it. Even so, I thought I could move on, forget about it, go on exactly as I did before, and that’s when I learned that nothing’s for free. Weather I was traveling, meeting new people, or just sketching someone, nothing was the same, because I wasn’t the same, and the more I denied it, the more I suffered.”

  “All for nothing,” insisted Jack. “I was very happy.”

  “I knew you were in good hands, but it didn’t matter. Before I was even discharged from the hospital I had already slipped into a terrible depression. I can’t tell you how bad I felt, how black, how hopeless. For a good two years I don’t believe I experienced a second of happiness .”

  The soft cushion exacerbated Jack’s already sore back, causing him to cross and uncross his legs and prop himself up with his hands. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m not saying this just to unload, but to let you see that right from the start your life had meaning to it. Before you, I could only see what I wanted to see, but then came the suffering, and for a time it was absolutely unbearable. Truly, I wouldn’t have wished it on my worst enemy. What happened though was that I began to see more, listen more, feel more. That’s when I began to think about opening up a gallery. Suddenly I could appreciate the talent in others, even while I realized that my own work didn’t quite measure up. It’s like I was finally able to step away from myself and view things from a distance. Never underestimate suffering,” she chuckled. “It can work miracles.”