by Paul Levine
Oh shit, how do you follow that one up?
“In either case,” Dr. Metcalf said, “the killers have highly active fantasy lives. The fantasies often are of rape, torture, and murder. When they can no longer differentiate fantasy from reality, the two become one.”
And that upper-crust voice. Like Masterpiece Theatre.
Michelle cleared her throat, and the sound man cursed, his earpiece clacking like an enraged rattlesnake. “We seem to have more mass murderers in our country-”
“Serial murderers,” Pamela Metcalf corrected her. “Mass murderers kill many persons at the same time. Serial murderers kill many over time, usually at random.”
Michelle felt her face heat up. “Yes, of course. Is there something uniquely American about these serial killers? Something about our violent society?”
“Goodness no. In Britain we had Jack the Ripper, Germany its Peter Kurten. During the time of Joan of Arc France had the infamous Gilles de Rais, who killed hundreds. There have been serial killers throughout history.”
Damn. Like being lectured by Jane Seymour with a medical degree. Michelle racked her brain for news stories. “Yes, but here we’ve had Ted Bundy, the Hillside Strangler, the Night Stalker"- Michelle strained to keep up the patter- “the Son of Stan…”
“Son of Sam,” Dr. Metcalf helped out. “No doubt America has had its share. My primary interest is in understanding the reasons for these motiveless murders. We know that serial killers frequently cannot separate sex from aggression. We don’t know whether this psychological deficit is caused by genetic, chemical, or hormonal reasons.”
Thank God the director cut to a close-up of the British bitch.
Michelle caught a cue from the floor manager. “We’ll be back with Dr. Pamela Metcalf, author of The Murderer Within Us, right after this…”
***
The news director’s door was open, so Michelle walked in. Jerry Abrams was devouring a bacon cheeseburger. Late thirties, bushy mustache, disheveled, overweight. He chewed noisily, occasionally burping as he kept his eyes on one of three TV screens in his glass-enclosed cubicle.
“Hey, Michelle, get a load-”
“ Me-chelle.”
“Okay, Meeee-chelle, get a load of this turkey.”
On the screen a crew-cut blond man with a string tie was reciting baseball scores. The sound was turned low. Jerry Abrams always reviewed audition tapes this way. Watch the way they look, nobody listens anyway, he explained.
“Wanna play?” Jerry Abrams asked.
“I dunno, Jerry.”
“C’mon, guess.
“El Paso?”
He shook his head.
“Albuquerque?”
Jerry fished a french fry out of a paper sack. The office smelled of grease and charred meat. “The Wyatt Earp tie’s throwing you off. Smaller market, farther north.”
“North Platte, Nebraska,” she said.
“Good guess. Quad Cities, Iowa. Hayseed wants to come to Gomorrah-by-the-Sea.”
He punched a button on the remote control and grabbed another cassette. More than a hundred were stacked around his desk.
“Jerry, I’d like you to relieve me on the five o’clock. Just for a couple weeks.”
“What? During sweeps? Jesus, no!”
“But I’m working on an investigative piece…”
He stopped in mid-bite. A glob of ketchup clung to his mustache. “What investigative piece? Who assigned you?”
“No one. I’ve been working on my own. A blockbuster I can’t tell you about, yet. I’ve got a confidential source.”
Jerry loosened his tie, which was already at half-mast. He plugged another cassette into the VCR. After the color bars and the countdown, a petite Oriental woman appeared in front of a burning building. She held a microphone and showed a dazzling smile likely used for stories of quintuplet births and plane crashes alike. Michelle noticed that her orange helmet clashed with her green flak jacket. She wondered if the teeth were real.
“Meee-chelle, baby,” Jerry said, “you’re not Bob Friggin’ Woodward. You’re a face, a very good face, and your numbers are catching up with Gilligans Island reruns on Channel Four.”
She tried to give him a tough look she learned from numerous Jane Fonda films. It had the effect of crinkling her collagen-injected lips.
“Now, don’t pout at me,” Jerry said. “Hey, that was a great interview today. What’s a looker like that doing with mass murderers:
“Serial murderers.”
“Whatever,” Jerry Abrams said.
***
The bedroom’s jalousie windows were cranked open, and Michelle could hear nighttime traffic on Ocean Drive. The trendy club and barhopping crowd. Michelle smiled, relieved to be free of the feigned happiness of the South Beach full-time floating-disco-party team, junior varsity, second string. What with chlamydia, herpes, and gonorrhea creeping around, not to mention AIDS. Hadn’t they just done a show on the misery of venereal warts, images of rashes and itches giving her the willies right on the set.
Having one man-even a part-time married man-was better than a bunch of sweaty one-night stands. Even though her man was, more often than not, a thirty-minute slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am stand. Which is why she didn’t consider it cheating to spend an occasional night with a carefully chosen lover in a more leisurely mode.
Michelle stretched a hand across the sheets and touched a warm thigh. She heard the regular, measured breaths of peaceful sleep and smiled again. It had been wonderful for them both, better than she had dared hope for something so new, a warmth that had grown slowly, gently caressing her, building into a flame that had nearly consumed her. Better than with…
There was a stirring next to her and she watched her lover turn to one side. Great body, too. Silently, Michelle climbed out of bed. She had tossed her blue silk dress, specially chosen by her fashion consultant, across a chair. Her matching spike-heeled shoes, her panty hose, and discarded uplift bra formed a trail from living room to bedroom. Naked, Michelle entered the bathroom and closed the door. She removed the tinted contact lenses and scrubbed three layers of makeup from her face. There hadn’t been time before, it had happened so fast. She slipped into a black silk camisole, headed for the tiny kitchen, and grabbed a low-fat vanilla yogurt from the refrigerator. Then she sat down at a desk in a corner of the living room and turned on her computer.
Michelle punched up the directory labeled “INVST-1" and started typing:
When your platoon entered the village of Dak Sut on January 9, 1968, what orders did you give?
“No,” she said to herself. “Too direct.” Christ, this wasn’t like interviewing celebrity authors. She tried to imagine how Geraldo Rivera would do it.
For the next hour she kept typing and retyping questions.
Was there evidence of NVA or VC in the village?
He’s going to say yes. Then what? How do you follow up? This is harder than it looks.
The last time you saw Lieutenant Ferguson alive, was he-
Forget it. She could try again tomorrow. She punched a button and magically transported the questions to her computer’s hard memory. She exited the word-processing program, then hit the keys for the modem, which automatically dialed a local number. After a few seconds the computer tinkled a romantic ballad and the medical symbols for the male and female of the species appeared on the screen, the male’s arrow piercing the female’s circle. The symbols changed shape, becoming the figures of a nude man and woman, until they, too, electronically unwound and formed letters and then a word. “Compu-Mate.”
› DO YOU WISH TO ENTER THE MATING ROOM?
› YES.
› YOUR HANDLE, PLEASE.
› TV GAL.
She had been meaning to change her handle after several Compu-Mate correspondents asked whether she enjoyed cross dressing. She typed a numerical password, and after a moment the computer purred, and a new message scrolled down the monitor.
› HERE’S WHO’S IN
THE MATING ROOM NOW:
SUPER STUD
CANDY FEELGOOD
PASSION PRINCE
BUSH WHACKER
HELEN BED
ICE GODDESS
CHARLIE HORSE
BIGGUS DICKUS
TV GAL
ORAL ROBERT
HOT BUNS
A sound came from the bedroom. A sliver of light appeared under the door. Michelle punched into the chat mode and made some connections. Oral Robert told her he’d save her ass and to hell with her soul. Bush Whacker tried to type dirty but couldn’t spell any word over four letters. Biggus Dickus, a nearly normal guy she remembered from last week, asked about her work. Bor-ing! She brushed them off.
› HELLO, TV GAL. LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION-PASSION PRINCE.
A little jolt went through her, as it always did. A new name, a voice in the dark. Maybe this time. She heard the bathroom shower turning on. It wouldn’t be an all-nighter after all.
› HELLO, PASSION PRINCE. WHAT ARE YOU UP TO
› NO GOOD.
Just dancing around and she didn’t have all night.
› TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF, PP
› EIGHT FEET TALL, GREEN SCALY SKIN, A LONG SNOUT, AND LARGE TEETH …
Christ, a comedian. Why not just a sincere, single, self-sup porting male, thirty-five, gainfully employed, likes dining out, movies, and romantic walks on the beach?
›… AND YOU, TV PERSON?
Might as well give him a cheap thrill.
› FIVE-NINE WITH LONG, LONG LEGS. LARGE ROUND BREASTS, A FLAT, SMOOTH STOMACH, AND FULL HIPS.
She stared at the screen. Nothing. Maybe scared him off. She waited. Outside, an ocean breeze rattled the windows.
› WHAT ABOUT YOUR ASSHOLE?
Oh brother. One of those.
› IS IT NICE AND TIGHT?
She started to hit the escape button but stopped. In the bathroom, the water was turned off, the pipes clanking in the old apartment. The prince of passion was still typing.
› DO YOU LIKE POETRY?
› NOTHING DIRTY, PASSION GUY.
› WHEREOF MY FAME IS LOUD AMONGST MANKIND, CURED LAMENESS, PALSIES, CANCERS. THOU, O GOD, KNOWEST ALONE WHETHER THIS WAS OR NO. HAVE MERCY, MERCY! COVERALL MY SIN!
› THATS POETRY? SOUNDS LIKE FATHER McCORKLE IN WILKES BARRE.
She hoped that would stop him, but the electronic blips kept coming, the words marching across her screen.
› THEN, THAT I MIGHT BE MORE ALONE WITH THEE, THREE YEARS I LIVED UPON A PILLAR, HIGH.
› I BEEN STONED, TOO, BUT THREE YEARS? THATS HEAVY.
› NO, NO TV-GAL. DO YOU KNOW NOTHING OF THE STYLITES?
Jeez, I don’t know what’s worse, Michelle thought, a pervert or a bore. She looked toward the bedroom. The door was open, the light off.
› A MO-TOWN GROUP, RIGHT?
› AH, PERHAPS MUSIC IS MORE TO YOUR TASTE.
Ought to sign off now, Michelle thought, play hostess, offer a good-bye drink and exchange lies about next time. So quiet, the only sound the hum of the computer, the only light the luminous black-and-white display of the monitor. Now what was he typing? Rock ’n’ roll lyrics. What’s with this guy? Can’t he think for himself? Trying to tell me I shake his nerves and rattle his brain. He was rattled long before tonight. And don’t tell me what drives a man insane. But there he goes, hammering out the whole damn song. And he probably can’t even carry a tune. She heard footsteps behind her.
› OK, OK, PRINCE… I BROKE YOUR WILL AND GAVE YOU A SUPER-DUPER THRILL, BUT I REALLY GOT TO GO NOW.
A shadow crossed the screen, then stopped.
She didn’t turn.
She expected a caress, a lover’s hug.
“Hello, darling,” Michelle said.
There was no reply.
She hit the escape button, punching out of the program, and stared into the black background of the screen. The outline of shoulders…
Two hands grabbed Michelle’s neck from behind and yanked her out of the chair. For a moment she thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t funny, and rough sex after tender loving didn’t make sense. She thought of a man who wanted her to choke him just before he came. Oxygen deprivation to enhance the orgasm.
Weird. Now this.
The hands slipped from her neck, then closed again. Michelle clawed at the hands as they pressed harder. She kicked backward and tried to scream, but nothing came out. She gasped for air, fought off the nausea, and sucked in a breath as the hands relaxed again. But she was losing consciousness and her strength was gone.
She barely felt the hands this time, and her last memory would be a tiny sound, a sickening crack like a wishbone snapped in two.
The hands continued to squeeze for a full minute, then dropped her back into the chair. A moment later, they grabbed Mabel Dombrowsky by the hair and roughly jammed her head forward into the monitor, shattering the screen, shards of glass piercing her eyes. From inside the broken screen, an electronic pop and fizzle and a puff of flame.
“Great balls of fire!” sang a voice she never heard.
CHAPTER 1
A Matter of Honor
If Marvin the Maven tells me not to yell in closing argument, I don’t yell. Marvin knows. He’s never tried a case, but he’s seen more trials than most lawyers. Drifting from courtroom to courtroom in search of the best action, he glimpses eight or nine cases a day. Five days a week for the last seventeen years since he closed up his shoe store in Brooklyn and headed south.
Some lawyers don’t listen to Marvin and his friends-Saul the Tailor and Max (Just Plain) Seltzer-and they pay the price. Me, I listen. The courthouse regulars can’t read the fine print on the early-bird menus, but they can spot perjury from the third row of the gallery.
Marvin, Saul, and Max already told me I botched jury selection. Not that lawyers pick jurors anyway. We exclude those we fear, at least until we run out of challenges.
“You’re meshuga, you leave number four on,” Marvin told me on the first day of trial.
“He’s a hardworking butcher,” I said defensively. “Knows the value of a dollar. Won’t give the store away.”
Marvin ran a liver-spotted hand over his toupee, fingering the part. “Lookit his eyes, boychik. Like pissholes in the snow. Plus, I betcha he lays his fat belly on the scale with the lamb chops. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit.”
I told myself Marvin was wrong and that he hadn’t intended to shower me with spittle to make his point.
Some lawyers hire psychologists to help with jury selection. They’ll tell you that people who wear bright colors crave attention and feel for the underdog. Plaintiffs jurors. Dark colors are worn by introverts who don’t care about people. Defendant’s jurors. Hoop earrings and costume jewelry are good for the plaintiff, Rolex watches and three-karat diamonds for the defense. To me, that’s a lot of malarkey. I pick jurors who smile when I smile and don’t fold their bodies into tight balls when I stand close.
No second-guessing now. Closing argument. A time to sing the praises of freedom of the press, of the great newspaper that fulfills the constitutional function of blah-blah-blah. And Marvin said don’t yell. No emotion. The jury don’t care about the Foist Amendment. Besides, Nick Wolf is a great schmoozer, Marvin told me. The jurors love him. Number five, a Cuban receptionist, keeps batting her three-inch eyelashes at him.
And I thought she had trouble with her contacts.
The four men on the jury are your real problem, Marvin said. One black, two Cubans, one Anglo, all men’s men. Nick’s kind of guys.
So what am I, chopped liver?
He gave me that knowing look. Ey, Lassiter, it ain’t your jury; it ain’t your day. And with that, the gang took off, a kidnapping trial down the hall drawing them away.
Nick Wolf’s lawyer, H. T. Patterson, yelled in closing argument. Hell, he sang, chanted, ranted, rocked, and roiled. A spellbinder and a stemwinder, H.T. worked the jurors like a Holy Roller. Which he was at the Liberty City Colore
d Baptist Church while attending law school at night in the days before Martin Luther King.
“They subjected Nick Wolf, a dedicated public servant, to scorn and ridicule, to calumny, and obloquy,” Patterson now crooned in a seductive singsong. “They lied and distorted. They defamed and defiled. They took his honorable name and soiled it. Besmirched, tainted, and tarnished it! Debased, degraded, and disparaged it! And what should a man do when they stain, sully, and smear his good name?”
Change it, I thought.
“What should a man of honor do when those with pens sharp as daggers poison his reputation, not in whispers but in howls, five hundred three thousand, six hundred seventy-nine times?”
Five hundred three thousand, six hundred seventy-nine being the Sunday circulation of the Miami Journal, and Sunday being the day of choice for fifty-megaton, rock-’em-sock-’em, take-no-prisoners journalism. Which is what the Journal is noted for, though I thought the offending story-STATE ATTORNEY VIOLATED CAMPAIGN LAWS-lacked characteristic punch. Not sharing my opinion was Nicholas G. Wolf, bona fide local high-school football star, decorated Vietnam war hero, former policeman, and currently state attorney for the Seventeenth Judicial Circuit in and for Dade County, Florida. The article accused Wolf of various technical violations of the campaign contributions law plus one unfortunate reference to accepting money from a reputed drug dealer.
“The man should seek redress in a court of law,” Patterson solemnly declared, answering his own question, as lawyers are inclined to do. “He should come before a jury of his peers, citizens of the community. So, my friends and neighbors, ladies and gentlemen of this jury, it is time to pay the piper…”
I didn’t think the metaphor held up to scrutiny, but the jury didn’t seem to notice. The men all nodded, and number five stopped fluttering her eyelashes and now stared mournfully at poor, defamed Nick Wolf.
“It is time to assess damages; it is judgment day, it is time to levy the penalty for these knowing, reckless lies. And I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, is it too much to ask that the Miami Journal, that behemoth on the bay, that monster of malediction, pay ten dollars for each time it lied, yes, ten dollars for each time it sent its message of malice into our midst?”
