by David Wiltse
"So did you confirm that with his wife?"
"She thought he probably was. She was asleep."
"Not the most inventive alibi in the world, but it might serve."
"Serve, shit. He's going to have to do better than that. He's going to have to come up with a videotape of him sleeping before I buy it."
"Do you have any evidence at all?"
"I knew I shouldn't have brought the Feds into this. I'm a small-town chief of police. I thought I got to railroad innocent men and women. I don't have evidence, I got a gut feeling. You work on gut feelings a lot, you told me so., I "Yes, but I don't hate the man first. I use my instincts to try to understand or anticipate the suspect, I don't just look at somebody, decide I don't like the cut of his jib, then try to stack things against him."
"You'd have a better arrest rate if you did."
"You may have a point there. I wonder if I could convince Karen to let me work that way."
"You must have some pull with r. Threaten to withhold your favors…
What, am I crazy? Withhold your favors from Karen, you lucky stif."
"Scratch that idea."
"Speaking of Karen, it's time for me to pick up Jac from play practice, then go home and cook dinner. Keep working, Chief, you're doing great."
"We've narrowed this down to about a thousand houses. What am I supposed to do now?"
"See how many of them have able-bodied males between the ages of sixteen and sixty." 'In Clamden? Just about all of them."
"That should make your job easier, less eliminating to do." Becker patted Tee on the shoulder and left the office. He walked through the parking lot and past the library and skirted the law offices on the corner beside one of Clamden's four stoplights. There were no crosswalks and Becker waited for traffic to clear before slicing diagonally across the road. He came to the tiny shopping center and was cutting through it, heading for the empty lot behind the shops and the slot in the hedge that led to his neighbor's backyard and eventually his own house, when he encountered Tovah Kom.
She stood with the leggy insouciance of the model she once was, one hand resting on a jutting hip, her eyes taunting and mocking him with the same superior expression Becker thought she reserved just for him, as if he were a species she had seen before, as if she had his number coming and going but, like an indulgent relative, was mildly fond of him nevertheless. The take-out pizza carton from the luncheonette that she held in one hand did nothing to detract from the look of amused condescension. "Well, well, well."
"You have me there. How are you, Tovah?"
"You look like you're in hot pursuit of someone. Head down, striding along, looking neither to the right nor to the left. I thought you were trying to snub me."
"Just thinking about what to fix for dinner." He nodded toward the pizza box. "I see you've solved the problem."
"Stanley's not coming home for dinner," she said. "Another hip replacement or something. I don't pay much attention to his excuses anymore."
"You're welcome to join us," Becker said, regretting it imm ediately. He did not know what had possessed him to make such an offer.
"Oh, I can just picture that. Me and your wife at the table together.
Wouldn't that be cozy."
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"I haven't a clue."
"Your wife hates me."
"What are you talking about? That's not true."
She smiled smugly.
"Tovah, really, you're dead wrong."
"If she doesn't yet, she will soon."
'Why?"
"Ask her," she said.
"I'm asking you," he said, struggling to remain patient. "Please tell me what you're talking about." I "You haven't noticed? I thought you were supposed to be such a hotshot observer. You must have seen signs."
"Signs of what?"
She tilted her head to one side as if she could better determine his honesty from that angle.
"You really don't know?"
"I may know, I may know everything. I just don't know what in hell you're referring to."
Becker waited. She continued to study him, her head aslant. She wore dark leather pants that would have looked ridiculous on almost anyone else, but she had the legs, the height, the supreme air of indifference that made it possible. The shiny material rode atop her limbs like a second skin, a visual inducement to grab and touch and remove. But Becker was not interested in her appearance. He decided that she was playing another of her baroque games with him, and that he was as irritated as he was going to allow himself to become.
Becker shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Forget it. I'll see you around."
He turned to go as she shifted the pizza from one hand to the other, holding it on her fingers like a waitress with a tray.
You really don't know, do you?"
"No, and I've ceased caring."
"Your wife…" She let the sentence trail off, then added as if to remove any possible doubt, Karen, is after my man."
His first impulse was to laugh and his second was to hit her, but he controlled them both and just stared at her, trying to keep the emotion from his own face while studying hers to see what she was trying to do.
Her taunting look was gone, and her condescension, and all he saw now was her pain and a desperate hope that Becker would contradict her. "You mean… Stanley?" he asked stupidly, the sense of what she had said still not clear to him, only the accompanying aura of dread.
"That's the boy," she said, her defenses quickly in place again. "My guy's at it again."
"You're nuts," he said, but not strongly enough. He wanted to slap her, he wanted to knock the look of savage victory from her face. Like a child confronted with an unfaceable truth, he wanted to twist her arm until he had forced her to admit she was lying, until she cried out in pain and took back the hurtful words as if they had never been said.
"Wasn't she supposed to be working in New York today?"
Becker nodded mutely.
Tovah-smiled painfully. "They spent the afternoon together. "
"Where?" he said, knowing it was the wrong response. He had already played into Tovah's hand and she knew that she had him. The sadism was open in her face now, and his only comfort was that he could see it hurt her as much as it did him.
"At your house. I just saw them. Hurry and you might catch him."
"You're a liar."
"Look around when you get home," she said. "Don't mention anything to her. If she doesn't tell you about it, then she's hiding it."
He reeled away from her and hurried home through the hedge, telling himself that Karen's car would not be there, she would still be in New York, Tovah's whole vicious slander would be revealed for the nonsense that it had to be.
As he cleared the hedge, pushing the last of the tangled, whiplike branches from his line of sight, a car pulled away down his road. He willed himself not to run, not to give credence to the lie, but his pace quickened as he tried to get past the neighbor's house to see whose car it was. By the time he reached the road, the car had turned the corner and gone, but sitting in his driveway was Karen's green Camry.
17
Kom had asked to meet with her to talk about Becker, and Karen had responded out of curiosity as much as courtesy. He had his usual mixed manner of forwardness and diffidence, but this time Karen noticed something else, a quality she was unable to define precisely beyond ascribing it to a new intensity.
He hugged her when they met, kissing her on the cheek, then holding on to her a moment longer and releasing her with a decisiveness that somehow conveyed reluctance. He looks as if he draws sustenance from a hug, Karen thought.
"We're great huggers," Kom said, as if reading her thoughts. It was not clear to whom the "we" referred.
"I know," said Karen. "I notice." I I "I guess I'm just very tactile in general. I like to touch, like to be touched… It's not the most masculine of traits, guess. Women don't mind but men are put off by i
t."
"Men are pretty homophobic generally," said Karen. "They're not very good at expressing their emotions toward each other."
"Which brings me to the reason I wanted to see you other than the fact that it's always a treat to see you. I was thinking about doing something special for John. Something to honor him. A toast or a roast or whatever they call it, some kind of occasion where his friends could get together and let him know that we appreciate him."
Karen's surprise was obvious on her face. "What an interesting idea."
"I mean, look, for one thing, he's been so nice to me. I can't tell you how much it has meant to me that he has consulted with me on this Johnny Appleseed case. He doesn't need me, you've got your own experts, I know that, but still he did it, he invited me into New York, he introduced me to everyone, he had lunch with me-men just don't treat each other like that, Karen, unless there's business involved. I mean, to go out of their way to do the nice thing. I've been very touched by that, and I'm sure that I'm not the only one. There must be many men-people, not just men; women, too-who have been touched by John's decency and generosity of spirit. You can tell me who they are, I'll invite them. And then there's his work. This community is enormously proud of him, you have no idea. We don't know the details, there are stories we hear, you know, probably half true, I know that, but still, he has done such a great service to all of society, not just Clamden certainly, to all of America, and I don't think he's ever been adequately thanked for any of that. Maybe the Bureau gave him medals or something, I don't know, but I know the people themselves haven't ever said anything to him directly."
"It's not something John is very comfortable talking about," she said.
"He ought to be proud."
"He ought to be, but he's very ambivalent about that sort of thing-"
He interrupted with a comment that shocked her. "You-are-lovely," Kom said, holding up his hand as if to stop her. "I've always known you were a great-looking woman, but in animation, when you're involved and talking, you're just stunning. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, I just had to say that. Go ahead. You were talking about John's reluctance to take credit for his work."
In the space of a sentence Karen's view of Kom changed, as if a lens had been suddenly brought into focus. She continued to speak normally, giving no indication that she had even heard his interruption except for a discreet, pleased smile, but from that moment on every nuance of his speech, every glance, every move of his expressive hands, was altered.
His eyes in particular were modified, she thought. Where before she had seen sadness, she now read longing. Where previously she had perceived interest, there was now scrutiny. Where there had been warmth, there was now something stronger, far more personal. At the same time, Karen felt herself change too. She was suddenly and acutely onstage, the object of attention. Although it made her slightly uncomfortable, it also made her excitedly alert. She had been aware of a sexual component in her relationship with Kom-Karen felt certain that there was always a sexual component between men and women, however remote and unfulfilled-but it had seemed to her to be muted and generic, almost a function of politeness rather than desire. Each of them was subtly acknowledging the gender difference without hope or expectation, the same sort of acknowledgment that took place daily, a mutual sizing up and decision to go no farther that bespoke not indifference so much as a choice for infinite deferral.
Kom's comment had changed all of that in an instant, and yet he continued so innocently, so seemingly unaware of the effect of his words, that Karen had some doubts about whether she was not overreacting, indeed if she had even heard him right in the first place.
They spoke for some time about the idea of honoring Becker, but Karen took it in as an aside, a distracting noise in the background. The main conversation, she thought, was not between the masks of civility they wore but between the true faces that lay beneath, and the means of their discourse were no longer the words but the exchange of glances, dancing and testing each other, curious, probative, supplicating and denying by turns.
With a glance at his watch, it was over. Kom rose to his feet.
"This was so nice," he said. "I really enjoyed talking to you. We don't have to make any decisions yet, just consider the idea… but don't mention it to John. I have the feeling he'd scotch the whole thing before it got started if he knew about it."
"He probably would," Karen said, wondering if Kom had intended a double entendre or if she was reading as much into his words as she was into his eyes.
"You'll keep it quiet then?" His eyes were wide, expectant. They appeared so innocent but Karen sensed something elusive in the depths, a deeper, more primitive awareness of what he was really saying. She did not mind.
"I won't lie to him," she said.
"Of course not. Just don't volunteer the information that we've been talking."
Karen hesitated, feeling that her answer would be important in a way that had not yet been defined. Finally she nodded, not willing to actually voice assent.
"Great," he said, beaming. "Terrific. This will be fun, you'll see.
Thanks, Karen. You're wonderful." He held his arms out for a hug and she found herself stepping into his embrace.
This time she was very aware of his body pressing against hers, of the change in his breathing, of the effect his arms had upon her. He held her for a long time and Karen said to herself that she should break it off, that she should be the one to terminate it, but she did not.
When he finally stood away from her the expression on his face was so sweet, so shy and warm and affectionate that she was confused by her reactions.
He gripped her hand, squeezed it, touched her cheek with his fingertips, then left. Karen looked at herself in the mirror, trying to find whatever special radiance he had seen there. Was she so starved for compliments? she wondered. Was her self-esteem so low that a little praise could make her feel as flushed and happily foolish as she felt?
There was no shortage of come-ons at the Bureau, sexual policies notwithstanding. She was attractive, and she knew it. It was confirmed to her daily, although seldom in such a way. The approach was usually direct and unmistakable. Perhaps it was Stanley's circumspection, she thought, his humility. The quality of admiration in his tone, the vulnerability in his eyes. Whatever the source, it was compelling. Not that she would consider acting upon it. Never.
She was still looking in the mirror when Becker came in. She waited through the evening for him to ask her directly about Stanley, but the closest he came was to inquire about her day. She told him the truth, as far as it went, editing out the mundane, the irrelevant, the uninteresting. She always edited, she told herself. Everyone did. It was not the same as hiding.
As she readied herself for bed she asked Becker if he ever gave a spontaneous compliment to someone.
"I compliment you all the time," he said.
"I don't mean me. Would you say something nice to another woman if you were just talking? Women do that all the time, maybe it's just a woman thing."
"I don't know. I would have to know the context," he said. "Probably not, no. I might think she was looking good, I probably wouldn't normally say it out loud."
"That's what I thought."
"Unless I was courting," Becker said.
Karen let the subject drop. From time to time she caught Becker looking at her oddly and told herself that it was her conscience.
Just before turning out the light he said, "I ran into Tovah Kom at the center on my way home."
"Oh?"
"I did- not offer her any spontaneous compliments."
"Were you tempted to say something nice?"
Becker waited for a long time before answering. "No," he said finally.
He snapped off the light.
18
Becker slept late, acknowledging Karen's departure for work only by rolling over and burrowing deeper under the pillow. Karen had to drive to Manhattan but Becker's workplace until Johnny was caught
was Clamden, and the hours he worked were his own to set. Even though his superior and nominal supervisor, Karen did not question his hours or his methods.
Becker's success rate, his past history of unorthodox behavior, his bizarre and inexplicable affinity for a certain kind of case and a particular type of killer had earned him both a wary respect and a unique degree of latitude in his procedures. Karen, who loved him, afforded him even more freedom. To many in the Bureau, Karen's relationship with Becker was one of lion tamer to the lion. To the more envious of her subordinates, Karen owed her quick rise in the organization to the fact that she tamed the lion by sleeping with it, but this ignored the fact that she had been named the head of Serial before Becker had ended his long medical leave-a period in which he had waged a courageous battle both with and against the accepted wisdom of the psychiatric profession, his own self-knowledge, and the compelling urgings of his spirit. In Becker's mind he had lost the battle, he had given in to that which he feared most and had returned to the one organization that would reward him for indulging it.
Karen knew all of this both explicitly and empathically and loved him for his struggle, regardless of the outcome, just as she loved him for his strength, his sense of humor, the tenderness of his touch, his deep and undisguised need for her. If she ever resorted to metaphor to explain to herself her relationship with Becker, it was not the lion and its tamer. She knew full well that only Becker could tame himself, no one else had the strength of will. Her metaphor would be that of the woman married to a werewolf, a creature in most respects normal and respectable, in most times a good man, a good husband, a good father, but a man upon whom there fell from time to time a monstrous affliction.
In the legend of the werewolf, the affliction came from an ancient curse; in Becker's case it sprang from a childhood so tortured and bent that Becker himself could not look upon it directly. During those periods of affliction he was no more responsible for his actions than he was responsible for the actions of the beasts of the wild. But the metaphor could be stretched no farther. Becker did not fall upon wayward strangers, he did not terrorize the innocent, and he was never pursued by a mob of villagers thirsty for revenge. On the contrary, he was applauded by all. His victims were only the criminally sadistic and deranged, and they were the only witnesses to his transformations, the only ones who saw him, however briefly, in his monster form. Karen understood that the public's acclaim of his killings-all of them ascribable to self-defense, all of them officially examined and reviewed and piviiuunced unavoidable, but all of them inexcusable by Becker himself-only made it harder for Becker to forgive himself. He sought punishment for his deeds and instead was given medals and proclamations and protestations of awe-and so at times he chose to punish himself.