by David Wiltse
"Would you really tell Karen if someone came on to you?" he asked.
"I tell her most things."
"Yeah, but what don't you tell her?"
Just things I forget," said Becker.
"You really talk that much?… I talk to Marge, but there are some things… Say you're having a conversation with a good-looking woman and you suddenly realize she's coming on to you. You don't do anything, you understand, but you're pretty sure you're getting signals. Are you saying you'd tell Karen about that?"
"If I was sure I knew what was going on, yeah, I'd tell her. Knowing Karen, she would have noticed it already anyway. I wouldn't say anything just because somebody smiled at me, though. I'd have to be convinced it was a real come-on. Women are usually subtle enough to leave themselves a way out. It's easy to misunderstand." Tee fell back into silence.
"Did something happen you want to talk about?" Becker asked tentatively, after a moment.
"Yeah, something happened. No, I don't want to talk about it… I'd rather talk around it."
"Fair enough."
"You had. Tee started, reluctantly. "Never mind.
"Go ahead."
"Forget it. Another time."
"I'm here now," said Becker. "I had what?"
"Nothing."
"I hate talking to men, you know that? The minute you get into something other than sports or just plain bullshit, they all clam up tight as a duck's ass. Christ, Tee, we've known each other since high school. What can you say that's going to surprise me?"
"It wouldn't surprise you."
"Suit yourself," Becker said.
"I guess I probably will," Tee replied before lapsing into a silence that lasted until he pulled into a driveway.
A slight young woman in jean cutoffs and a halter came out of the house, lifting a hand in greeting before going back inside. Becker got out of the car, then paused as he saw Tee hesitate.
"What?" he asked.
"I'm not quite sure how to explain your presence," Tee said.
"I should stay in the car?"
"And miss the excitement? I just wonder do I say I brought a pal along for the fun, or introduce you as Special Agent Becker and congratulations, this is now a federal case, or what?"
"Why not just call me Dr. Watson?"
"Is somebody sick?"
Mrs. Leigh stepped out of the house again, this time holding a large bone at arm's length. She gripped the bone with a wad of paper toweling and her hand was encased in a rubber kitchen glove and her movements were gingerly and delicate, as if she found the job extremely distasteful.
"I found this in my backyard. Can you imagine? Who knows what kind of diseases you could get from a thing like this. What if my children had found it first? It's appalling."
Becker noticed a distinctive southern rhythm to her voice even though the words were unaccented, as 1 was educated the tones of Alabama out of her speech, but not the lilt.
"To have a thing like this just wash up, it's not as if I lived on the Jersey shore, Captain. I don't expect used syringes in my backyard, not in Clamden, no sir, that's not acceptable."
"It looks more like a bone than a syringe, Mrs. Leigh."
"Well, of course it's a bone, Captain. But it's a dead bone and they carry germs."
"Do they?"
"It stands to reason. Whatever it died of."
"Any viruses or bacteria that infected the organism while it was living would be dead within a few days if not a few hours," Becker volunteered.
"Well, how do you do?" Mrs. Leigh declared, as if Becker had suddenly materialized in her front lawn. Her eyes were the palest blue and gave her a slightly unearthly look when viewed straight on. The pupils seemed to melt away under scrutiny and dissolve into a hole which led to an alternate universe where many things were possible. They were mesmerizing, fascinating eyes, eyes the hue of a wolf's, and when she grinned at him tauntingly, Becker realized that she was a very dangerous woman. She was very thin, yet her upper arms had the well-cut look of weight training. Becker could imagine her striding along the road in her shorts and halter, swinging hand weights in an exaggerated motion.
"I'm John Becker," he said. "Oh, yes," she said. "You don't look the way I thought you would."
"I don't look the way I wish I did either," Becker said.
She gave him her left hand, turning it over and squeezing his briefly.
"I wouldn't be too quick to change if I were you," she said, grinning slightly.
"Mr. Becker is…" Tee halted lamely.
"I know who Mr. Becker is," Mrs. Leigh said. "Everybody in town knows who Mr. Becker is, even if we haven't seen him before. He's a celebrity."
"Not really," said Becker.
"Of course you are, don't be modest. You killed all those people, didn't you?"
Becker recoiled, his face darkening.
"Don't be embarrassed," she said. "They were all bad people, I'm sure."
"They were all serial killers," Tee said, "but it's not his favorite topic. "
"I am sorry, will you forgive me?" She touched his arm with the hand that wasn't holding the bone. The motion made her ribs stand out against the skin. "Now you must forgive me or I'll feel just awful."
"No problem," Becker said, managing a wintry smile.
"Thank you," she said, giving Becker a lingering look before turning again to Tee. She thrust the bone toward the chief, waggling it impatiently.
"Well, take it, Captain Terhune. You don't expect me to hold it forever, do you? It may not have the germs that killed it, but it could have other germs, couldn't it?"
"I'm not a captain," Tee said, taking the bone, holding it carefully by the paper toweling.
"Well, you certainly should be. I'd make you a colonel. " Tee laughed.
"Chief is good enough for me."
"You're two of the most modest men I've ever met," she said with delight. "I can't tell you how refreshing that is. My husband is-well, let's not get into that."
"Do you want to show me where you found the bone?" Tee asked.
"Why certainly. Just come along here."
As she walked toward her backyard, the woman touched Tee's arm several times as if for balance, although Becker saw nothing in the terrain to have disturbed her equilibrium. Alone with Becker in the car again, Tee said, "So, what do you think?"
"An attractive woman," Becker said. "A hand ful, I'd guess, but nice-looking."
"I didn't mean the woman," Tee said impatiently. "Well then, otherwise-I'd say you have a problem."
"That's what I was afraid of." Tee laid the bone carefully on the back seat of the cruiser. "It's human, isn't it?"
"Looks that way to me," Becker said. "Humerus."
"May be funny to you, not to me."
"I mean the humerus bone."
"God, I love an educated man. That anything like the upper arm in American?"
"Very similar."
"Shit. I'll have a doctor check it out, but it is human, isn't it?"
Becker nodded. "Maybe we have a cemetery flooded. That'll be pretty."
"At least you know where to start looking," Becker said. "Where is that?"
"Upstream."
"I probably would have thought of that eventually, but see, you didn't even hesitate. Quick. Quick as a Fed." Tee reached for his radio.
"I'm sorry about that comment she made," he said, changing his tone. "I hope it didn't upset YOU."
"Of course it upset me," Becker said. "How would you like to be a celebrity because of the people you killed?"
"Well… sorry. "
"Not your fault."
"She's kind of outspoken."
"Who is she, anyway?" Becker asked.
"Mrs. Leigh? Just, you know-do we say housewife anymore? A nonworking mother? Full-time parent, something like that. Husband does something with magazines in the city. Probably can't really afford to live here, but they're doing it for the schools for their kids, that type of deal.
"How do you happen to kn
ow her?"
"Hey, I'm the chief. I know lots of people… She had a prowler once, I think it was. Or she imagined she had a prowler. She's a little on the neurotic side, maybe you picked up on that… I don't really know her."
"Anything else you want to tell me about Mrs. Leigh?" Becker asked.
"Why should I?" Tee looked at Becker, his face a mask of puzzlement. "I hardly know her."
Becker nodded, looking out the window. "What? What?"
Becker shrugged. "Nothing. Reading too much into things is an occupational hazard."
"Having people be friendly with the chief of police is an occupational hazard too. Personally, I'd rather have them all scared and troubled by a guilty conscience in my presence, but some of them just get friendlier than they have a right to be. What can I do?"
"Kind of nice to see somebody wearing shorts after all this rain, isn't it? I would have thought it was a little cool for that kind of outfit."
"Maybe it's what she wears around the house," Tee said.
"Maybe… but I thought she was out in her yard. That's how she found the bone."
"Good Christ, John, does your mind work like this all the time?"
"Pretty much," Becker said. "It must be hard to live with."
Becker smiled. "You've got to find the right mate. Fortunately, I have."
"Fortunately for you. How about her?"
Becker's smile broadened. "If Karen isn't happy, I'll just work harder." Tee stared at Becker. "Man, you've changed. Karen's been the best thing in the world for you."
"I know it. I have blossomed like a flower."
"It's made you kind of weird, too."
"She's brought out my feminine side, as they say." Becker grinned.
"Well, keep that part to yourself while you're in this car. I'm sworn to enforce the law." Tee stared at him a moment longer before speaking into the radio.
"Maureen, find out what doctor we've got on call this month, would you?
I need a specialist, a what-do-you-callit?"
"Orthopedic surgeon?" Becker suggested. "An orthopedic surgeon," Tee repeated into the radio. Then, to Becker: "Why a surgeon?"
"The bone's been cut," Becker said. "On the end. Looks like someone went at it with a knife."
"Well, shit twice," said Tee.
2
He thought of himself as Captain Luv, and when he had sex with his victims he would think, Cap'n Luv is in command now. Sometimes he would say it aloud, drawing out the word "love" into several syllables while affecting the accent of a black crooner. "Here come Captain Luuuvvv," he would say, and they would giggle, or look at him askance, he didn't much care, it was always much too late for them to change their minds. Most of them smiled at him, most were inclined at that point to find anything he did endearing.
"Goine take you apart, girl."
And later he would take them apart, or he wouldn't, depending on circumstances, depending on how severely the temptation gripped him, depending on whether the mania descended and took control of him. There was no way to tell ahead of time, the mania had fooled him more than once, bursting suddenly into his brain just when peace should have reigned, compelling him to do its bidding. So now he awaited it with expectation, half hoping it would overtake him, half fearing it, but in either case powerless to affect it.
He thought of all the girls as his victims, whether he worked on them or not. Lucky victims, most of them, cause he was good, very very good at sex and they always got more than they had ever dreamed of They were always sated when he finished, he saw to that-he kept working until they were, and he was as generous as he was patient. While they were doing it, he had thoughts only for them I and they sensed it, responded to it, and finally surrendered to it.
And if they didn't, there was something wrong with them, it was not his problem, he was certain of that. Some women were just like that, so to hell with them. Strangely enough, it was not necessarily the ones who didn't respond that he killed. There did not seem to be any pattern to his choices. He had given it a deal of thought, trying to figure out what the victim might have done to trigger his response, but he could never find any consistent cause.
Sometimes he thought of himself as a wolf or a lion. some strong and wily carnivore that selected its prey out of the herd from among the weak, the lame, the very young, but that model wasn't right, he didn't work that way in picking the ones he killed. But then he didn't do the picking, that was the key. It was not his needs that made him do it, it was the mania. The mania operated on its own timetable, in accordance with its own hungers.
He thought of the mania as something apart from himself, but he did not disapprove of it, he did not resent it. Far from it. Despite the danger and complications, it was welcome when it arrived and he always felt bereft and depressed when it was gone.
His current victim was named Inge, a young German girl working as an all pair in Clamden for the summer. Summer was a great time to find victims, they came from abroad and they came from the great Midwest to be mother's helpers. They were young, eager, innocent, and lonely, frequently away from home for the first time, disappointed at the dreary and confining routine of cleaning house and acting as baby-sitter, seeking the excitement and sophistication they had expected to find in far-off Connecticut. They were all rebellious in the first place, or they would not have come. And they were dumber than older women; he could had never heard before, sincerity was tell them lies they not so important, they had never seen it anyway and didn't know how to recognize it. It astounded him the things he could say to them, the things they would believe. He usually had no problems other than overcoming their initial resistance to his age. Many of them liked the idea of an older man anyway, and once he had talked to them for a few moments, they saw the sensitive, loving, patient, troubled man within.
Or that's what they thought they saw. What they did not see, because they were blinded by the mirrors of his art, was the wolf that sat in the dark corner, grinning, salivating, laughing softly to himself.
Inge was a groaner, and he rewarded her by taking even longer than usual. The silent ones were difficult, there was too much guesswork involved when they provided no allditory feedback. It was much better for all concerned when he knew how things were progressing, what worked and what didn't, what she liked and what she liked even better. Some of them told him directly what to do, and of course he did it, but there was always an air of command to such a direct approach. He didn't like to be told what to do, he preferred to discover it, to improvise as he went alongand of course, the victim benefited from such an arrangement as well, because he could come up with combinations and approaches that she'd never known before. And sometimes things that he'd never done before. There was art to sex as well as craft, and the permutations were limited only by the imagination.
He continued tugging at her breast with his mouth and she moaned, in her slightly accented English, "You are making me crazy. Oh, you, you." He grinned to himself without removing his mouth from his work. Sliding his hand slowly from the other breast to her legs, he toyed first with her inner thighs, teasing the tender skin until she was arching to meet his hand with her pelvis. When he caressed her tenderly between her legs she writhed and moaned even louder.
Oh, you make me crazy," she gasped. "What you are doing to me? You make me crazy."
Inge was practically bowling now, He wondered if that was the European influence. American girls of her age were usually too inhibited to enjoy themselves so obviously. They went at it, he often suspected, because they thought they were supposed to, not because they allowed themselves to truly delight in the experience.
When he entered her at last, she cried out, then buried her teeth in his shoulder. He pulled away.
"No marks," he said sternly. He had to go home to his wife after this and he couldn't come in spotted with bruises and discolorations as if he'd just been in a fight. She was suspicious enough as it was.
Inge paused slightly at the rebuke, so he withdrew himself p
artway and lingered there at the very opening, teasing her with it. She went into a series of gasps as if hyperventilating, and when he plunged into her she gave a shuddering sigh. He held still then and took her head in his hand.
"Oh, baby," he whispered, and felt her shake all over in response to the endearment, the clutch of her head, the fingers in her hair. It was amazing what they fell for, what simple tricks they mistook for passion, what passed for affection with them.
He heard the step in the hallway outside the door and stopped moving again, waiting to listen. Before the scratch on the door he put his hand over Inge's mouth. The scratch came again, louder, not quite a knock.
"Inge?" a woman's voice called. Inge's eyes bulged with fear but Captain Luv grinned broadly down at her. Some real fun, he thought.
"Are you all right, dear?" Inge squirmed beneath him, trying to get free, her eyes frantic. She had smuggled him into the house in the dark of night, certain that she would be safe in her own room after the mistress went to bed.
"Are you all right?" the voice insisted. "I heard you giviining, are you sick?… Are you having a nightmare?"
She's having Cap'n Luuuvvv, he thought. How about you? He withdrew from Inge and stepped unhurriedly toward the closet. He would not be caught, he knew that, he had never been caught and he never would. He was too controlled, too cool in a crisis. Even when the mania was upon him, he never got stupid. A wolf did not become frightened or flustered when trouble arose. It became even more of a wolf. Captain Luv was never more himself than when others would be panicked.
"May I come in, dear?" the woman asked, but she was already in the room, the light from the hall casting its beam on Inge, who lay, flustered, on the bed.
With the door still ajar, Captain Luv nestled in the darkness of the closet, holding his clothes, his shoes, his socks. There was no trace of him left behind except for the high flush on Inge's face. He was never careless, always meticulous in the cleanup. Like a shadow, he thought, I am come and gone, leaving nothing behind. No proof, no evidence, not even a suggestion. Neatness in the workplace, he thought. The woman stood next to the closet-he could see her through the crack in the door, the hall light haloed around her head. I know you, he thought happily.