by Rex Miller
“In circuit court,” he heard Marv Peletier say. “Yeah. He's a complete and total anus.” As he heard the word “anus,” he READ the word “Venus.” Weird.
“VENUS WITH THE NAKED EYE,” he read. “According to the United States Naval Observatory, Buckhead residents will see the planet Venus appear to kiss the earth's moon today, in a spectacular astronomical show that should take place shortly before sunset.” It was the third or fourth time he had read the sentence.
“Yeah. He gave him an affidavit for a wiretap—"
“With a good pair of binoculars, the planet that appears as a mere white speck to the naked eye will take on a crescent shape.” He thought about the boy. Then about a homicide. And he read “expansion of the nascent cosmos” and realized he had no idea what the hell he was reading and closed the paper.
Dana lumbered by. “Drunk again,” the fat detective mumbled.
“You know it."
“Sit there like that staring off into space or jacking off into space nobody will know it's Fill-’ em-up Marlowe, Supercop."
“Speaking of jacking off into space, did you know that the surface temperature on Venus is 830 degrees Fahrenheit?"
“Shit. That ain't nothin',” Tuny said, sorting through a pile of papers strewn across the slum area he called a desk, but his mind wandered before he could finish whatever Danaism he'd been about to impart.
It had been several days since Eichord had seen the old crime file on the Iceman Murders and reached out for everything MacTuff had. The task force was a high-tech miracle worker, but as the saying went, it couldn't take shit and give you apple sauce.
MCTF was a storehouse, a main-frame computer center, a decoder, a think tank, a search-and-transfer giant linked on-line to your data base. And it could make a machine, a snitch package, and that made it a copper's dream. But Eichord, tapped into all the stored data on the planet, didn't have J. Walter Diddley Zip.
The Iceman had been partial to women of a type: average in appearance. Mid-to-low-income demographics common to five dead women killed over a period of seven months, back in the 1960s. Mean age: 39.6, the five of them ranging from 36 to 43. One with money, but all of them living what might be described as a downscale middle-income life-style. Average middle-aged, middle-income, mid-Americans shaded to the low-rent side. Zero commonalities besides that and the age/wage demographics. The unsolved killings had occurred within a fifty-mile radius of Amarillo, Texas.
A teenage suspect had been identified in the ancient lineup and then the eyewitness had caved in on them. Turned out to be an airhead and the kid, a nineteen-year-old white boy, had walked. Eichord had poured over the old files and the related printout. Reading and sifting through the old homicides. Read a rocket from a dude in Amarillo Sex Crimes. Done a good bit of thinking about a thrill killer who liked to have middle-aged women give him head and then he'd take them down permanently.
Two strangulations, and then he'd found an icepick somewhere and used that on the other three. Quite a thumbprint, what they called a “try-and-catch-me” M.O. An icepick shoved into the victim's ear at the moment of discharge. His steel ejaculate. So the M.O. didn't fit Tina Hoyt.
Tina Hoyt was younger. Prettier. Upscale. But Eichord never threw any babies out with the bath-water. Could it be that some nutbasket found an old newspaper account of the killings, or an old detective magazine, or saw a TV documentary, and decided to do a copy-cat kill twenty years after the fact? Or was a serial killer alive and well and living in Buckhead? And if so, why stop for twenty years?
He reached out for all the recent parolees, all the cons released in recent months, anybody who'd been doing a long bit in the system, then went through the mental-health facilities and similar institutions. Who was suddenly back out after two decades? Cross-referencing with Amarillo arrest records and with other MCTF subscribers, he compiled a list of institutionalized individuals who'd been put away in the same time frame.
Something nudged him and he realized the night guys had been on duty for half an hour. He dialed his house and Donna answered.
“It's me."
“Hi."
“Just wanted to let you know I'm runnin’ a tad late."
“Hey. Guess what?"
“What?"
“Guess what our son just did today?"
“No telling."
“He said your name."
“What?"
“He said DADDY."
“Aw. Come on."
“I promise.” She was excited. “Clear as a BELL. He was sitting on the floor of the living room with Blackie, and he said DADDY just as clear. I almost fell over."
“You're sure about that.” He had a smile on his face. “Maybe he said Blackie, and it sounded like Daddy.” Blackie was what they were calling the stray mongrel.
“Jonathan,” her voice was suddenly hollow and off-mike, away from the phone mouthpiece, “come here to Mommy, honey. Come here. Listen sweetcheeks. Guess who's on the telephone. Come over here. That's a fine boy. Listen. Put this—here. Say DADDY. Can you say it for me. Say DAH-DEE."
“Garbage,” it sounded like.
“What?” he said, his ear pressing hard against the phone.
“Gargah."
“See! SEE!” Donna was ecstatic. “Daddy—his first two-syllable word."
“God! Amazing. The kid's talking at two! Say it again, son. Say daddy. Daaaaaaah-deeeee."
“Gaah."
“Wow! The kid talks!"
“It sounded just like Daddy a while ago.” Donna was laughing.
“It talks."
“Yeah, it talks. It likes Daddy. He said it about four hundred times. Say, Good-bye, Daddy.” She made a noise with the phone. But no more gargah noises.
“Oh, well. He has a few years to practice."
“Still. It's great. I can't wait to get home."
She could read the joy and humor and excitement in his voice, and they both whispered a couple of quick love-yous and hung up.
He couldn't wait to get home to his family. Eichord drove all the way with a fatuous smile plastered to his face, already thinking about teaching the kid how to pitch a slider. What a guy. Things were going to work out.
Donna still did it to him the same as she always had. He thought about how lucky he was to come home to her, and the thought warmed him. He remembered the way she'd looked that morning and he wondered if she'd still have on that thin, summery dress she'd had on when he'd left for work. He could never look at her in it without thinking of the two people under the marquee of Creature from the Black Lagoon. The scene where the blonde in the white dress stands over the air blowing up from below the grate and she says with that hot, red, kissably voluptuous Marilyn mouth of hers, “Isn't it delicious?"
Moss Grove
Pouring tea over ice cubes, the attractive woman glanced in at her friend seated in the small dining alcove. The white shades had been rolled down to keep out the blistering sun, a curse that came blasting out of the sky in the midafternoon, baking the flatland, cooking brains, making everybody tired and a little silly.
First the drought, then the rains, then the heat.
“Every year is supposed to get worse from now on,” her friend was telling her, and she detuned. Somebody had told her at the bank, “It's hot enough to fry an egg on the—” and she had finished the sentence snappishly, “hood of a car, I know. Yes!” Smiling, but saying it in a wise, tough voice that wasn't her at all.
It wasn't Diane talking, it was the heat talking. But you didn't deal with people that way in a small community like Moss Grove, and she softened it even as she smarted off to the nice lady, giving her a warm, sort of loopy smile and asking her, “So, why don't you make it rain?” A full shot of her best cutes on this last part of the exchange, hoping to take the sting out of her wise-ass lip. Remembering this, she bit her tongue this time, not telling Bonnie what she wanted to say, which was ... Talking about heat is boring.
“I wonder if it's something we're doing to the
atmosphere? You know, hurting the environment?” And Bonnie began one of her long and laborious explanations, a rehash of a half-recalled newspaper story. But it gave her time to breathe. Make the other glass of iced tea. Calm herself down a little. Cool off.
It was just the heat ... No, it wasn't. She knew that would be the next thing. It isn't the heat, it's the HUMIDITY. The fucking humidity. She was so bored.
The day had been a cliché day of nonconversations, little nondialogue with semistrangers, snatches of mouthings and empty phrases spoken a hundred times a day as one went around doing crappy little errands. Moving without thought or concentration, sliding in and out of hot car seats, walking across hard, baking parking lots, moving down the long walkways of malls. Nothing tough or physically demanding, but on a hot day like today you could do five things like run to the grocer's or to the post office, and you'd be wringing wet. Cranky. Starting to feel the edges of a headache starting back there in your neck, working its way north.
The phone jangled, snapping her out of it and she said, “'Scuse me, Bon.” Hand-picked up the receiver. “Hello?"
“Is this my princess?"
“Hi,” she said, softening instantly.
“Whatcha doon?"
“Melting,” she breathed.
“It's so good to know I have that effect on you,” he said to her in a deep, sexy voice, whispering into the mouthpiece miles away in Buckhead.
“Well, see. You do.” She smiled as she pulled an earring off. “Are you hot too?” She played with him.
“Is this what they mean by phone sex?"
“I guess so,” she said, still smiling. “I was thinking about you."
“Something we can talk about?"
“Not just this second,” she said, lowering her voice to a faint whisper.
“Oh,” he snarled on the other end, but didn't let the menace and disappointment creep into his voice. Kept his tone pleasant as he said, “Your friend Bonnie must be there."
“Yeah. We're having a glass of cold iced tea. Wanna come?” she teased him.
“Listen, Princess Di"—she loved the way he called her that—"you are my princess, aren't you, baby?"
“You better believe it."
“Well, Princess, you know how the song goes: ‘Someday your Prince will come.’”
“You're my Prince Charming,” she said huskily—stupidly, he thought, obviously missing his double entendre.
“I'm lonesome for you."
“Umm. Me too."
“Are you gonna make me come?” He quickly changed his direction. “Are you going to come over here and see me tonight?"
“Sure,” she said, “if you want me too."
“Absolutely. What would you say if I asked you to clear the decks so you could spend the night at my country place? And, you know, no strings or anything. You'd have your own room. We'd have some fun. Have some laughs. Spend the weekend with me. Catch some rays.” Go muff diving, he thought to himself. “Whatdya say? Sound good?"
“It sounds great,” she said after a beat. “Sounds fun.” Fun. She wondered about doing it with him. Wondered what he'd be like—that way. She couldn't help but think about it. She knew what he wanted her to do.
As if he could read her thoughts, he turned on his perfect Bela Lugosi voice and said, “Fun? Boodle-doodledah! You make me vant to suck your neck!"
She laughed with surprise. “You should be on TV. You missed your calling."
“I need some fresh blood,” Dracula said, but he wasn't kidding at all. It stiffened him to think about what he would do to Princess Di tonight. He said in his own voice, “Darlin', one thing, and don't say anything about this, you know, to your friend Bonnie, I want to send my secretary over to pick you up tonight, do you mind?"
“No,” she said quickly, but irritated at the thought. Still, she understood the reason why. She realized how difficult it must be for him. “But why don't I just hop in the car? I'd really rather."
“No, dear,” he said, back in control. “When she gets there, she'll explain what you need to bring. I want you to bring a couple of things. I'll explain later. Just go along this time—okay? Nicki's okay. You just let her help you, okay?” Selling it and closing the deal.
“Sure. Fine. No problem.” Her name was Diane Taluvera. Thirty. She'd been with First Bank of Moss Grove since she quit at Buckhead Middle School four years ago. Wasting an MA at the bank. Worrying her mother, who thought she was going to end up a spinster. Worrying Bonnie.
“Don't melt before you get here, Princess,” he said, and they agreed on a time and he rang off.
“I don't have to guess who that was, do I,” Bonnie said with a sneer. “Mister Wonderful."
“You'd like him if you knew him,” Diane said defensively.
“I want to know how come he's such a mystery man I can't even know his name, Mister Wonderful and all. I mean, if he's married I don't care. I'm not going to call his wife and tell her, Hey, your no-good husband is fooling around with my best friend.” She was laughing, but Diane knew she wasn't kidding completely. He'd been adamant about her not saying anything.
“His divorce is about to go through, Bon, I told you. And he's a prosperous guy, has his own company, and I guess there's a lot of money at stake. I promise I'll introduce you to him soon and you'll change your tune. You wait and see."
“I don't like the SOUND of him. If he's on the level how come it's so hush-hush?"
Diane slumped into a chair and sipped her iced tea. Trying to sort it all out. All she knew was that Al made her feel so good. She wondered what Bonnie would say if she told her the rest of it. What he was. And how they'd met. The man with the beautiful secretary who had come in the bank. The flirtation and what it had led up to. She stared at her friend over the rim of the glass and decided to keep her mouth shut. It was too good a thing to take a chance on blowing it, and she wanted to be able to tell him she hadn't told anybody about them if he asked her later.
The man pulled the tip off an expensive pen and carefully printed the words: enter. di, postcards, suitcase, makeup, note to bank, bonnie, and replaced the cap. He'd go over the notes with Nicki tonight. He pushed the bitch out of his thoughts. He was in his special place now, his secret sanctuary.
The room at first appears stark, severe, the absence of color unsettling, and then the eye perceives the color of the line. This is where he comes in the fierce hours when he lets himself become the other thing—the thing that his newly regained power now allows him. And this is the room that nurtures and prepares and decompresses and decelerates him when he returns from his sojourns into the lonely, dark places. He thinks of it as his safe house.
In the white room he folds the note, slipping it into a pocket, allowing himself to backslide for just the time it takes to think about what the cunt will look like tonight. A low-cut dress over unspecial breasts. Everything cut just a little too low. Even the bitch's SHOES too tight, cut too low. He hated the way he could see the beginnings of her little toes squeezed together above the pointed toes of her high-heeled shoes. He let the room wash her from his mind.
It is white. Bone. Off-white. Cream. Lines and shadows and angles the only coloration against the textures of wood and wall and countertop and ceiling and floor, all unsullied by marquetry or faience. Unaccessorized and denuded of what we think of as the human touch, the furnishings and bric-a-brac and gee-gaws and gimcracks one associates with a room one lives in. This is not a room you associate with the presence of an occupying humanity.
The color of the line has been carefully chosen, sculpted to reflect the essence and purity of 1915's L'Ex-position Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes. And the absence of color is but illusion, to soften the screaming angles and wildly, sweeping planes and dizzyingly perfect curves that are at once deco and post-modern, simplistic and complex, pure, white, and cold.
He keeps the austere room very cold. Icy in fact. Throbbing, dripping, central air capable of British Thermal Units that will l
ower this baby to a meat locker hums away unseen. And he breathes deeply of this chilling purity, here in the room that is his shrine, this hidden sanctuary where no outside influence can intrude.
Buckhead Station
The Major Crimes Task Force normally reached out for Eichord only when there were four or more related murders, their yardstick for serial killings, or when the attendant publicity on a homicide reached a certain noisy level. In another city the Hoyt murder might not have reached Jack's desk, but here on his home turf, Buckhead Station, it was a major homicide case, and he was asked to focus all his energies to solving it.
“Operator,” he said, “I'm on long-distance calling for Doug Geary, please.” A woman's voice, presumably the local operator's, had suddenly asked if anyone was waiting on this line. Someone was.
“One moment.” The long lines to Arizona buzzed, hard plastic nestled against Eichord's left ear.
“Dr. Geary's office."
“Yes. This is Jack Eichord calling long-distance for Doctor Geary, please."
There was another wait.
“Jack?” the doctor's voice crackled down the line.
“Doc?"
“Can this be the legendary Jack Eichord?” The man's high, squeaky voice made Jack smile. He considered Doug Geary a good friend.
“'Fraid so, old pal. Me again.” He laughed into the phone. “I didn't know if you'd remember me after all this time."
“Sure. How are ya? What's up?"
“Fine. Doug, I'm on a case, of course. In Buckhead. But it goes back a number of years to a series of killings that took place in Texas.” Jack told the doctor about the homicides from the crime reports he'd obtained after his reporter friend had sent him the old news clippings. Between MCTF and Amarillo he'd amassed quite a file. “They were called the Iceman Murders by media. Do you recall ever hearing about them?"
