The glue: Janek was obsessed by it. The ice picks were bad enough; they didn't reflect the caring of a knife, the quick dispatch of a bullet, the hatred of a poison. Leaving the picks embedded was bad, too. You didn't bother to use something fine to take your victim's life; you used a throwaway. Like eating your dinner off a paper plate or drinking your wine from a styrofoam cup, it was a way of showing your contempt.
But the glue was worse; the glue was truly awful.
Janek had investigated many homicides in which victims had been bound. He'd seen handcuffs and rope burns and even barbed wire cutting into flesh. He'd seen his share of mutilations, too: cuts, slices, and, in the Switch Case, actual dismemberment, decapitation. But glue was different. Glue was made of animal wastes, old bones and hooves boiled down to a viscous jelly. Glue was what you used to stick pieces of wood together, not to bind the parts of a human being. Glue said: "I don't desecrate by cutting; I'm not a psychotic acting out my rage." Glue said: "I'm cool, patient. I go about my chosen task the way an undertaker goes about his. I'm neat and careful and whistle a merry tune as I seal up people's body cavities."
Janek thought he hated this killer more than any killer he had ever sought, not only because the man had taken the life of a person he had loved but also because he had done so with such dehumanizing scorn.
He was watching the late-evening news, trying to concentrate on an awful story about a ten-year-old boy set on fire because he refused to buy crack from a school bully, when his telephone rang. It was Monika calling with wonderful news. She would be coming through New York in three weeks' time, en route to a psychiatrists' conference in San Francisco.
"I hope you're planning to stay awhile," Janek said.
"Can I take that as an invitation?"
"You bet you can! How much time can you give me?"
"Two or three days. Maybe a couple more on my way home."
That wasn't very much, but it was better than nothing. "How about a couple of years?" he asked.
Monika laughed. "Why don't you come out to San Francisco with me?"
"Sure. And take a little room down the hall so the chambermaids won't get any funny ideas."
As they talked, he picked up the glass she'd given him, angled it so it caught the light.
"Maybe I ought to join you in Frisco," he said. "I've been spending so much time with shrinks lately I'm sure I'd feel right at home."
Monika was intrigued by his account of his meeting with Dr. Chun but was skeptical about something Dr. Archer had said.
"It's true," she told him, "that a patient who wants to leave therapy can be acting out against an analyst who reminds her of a difficult figure in her life. But your goddaughter wasn't in treatment long enough to develop that kind of strong transference relationship."
"How long would it take?" Janek asked.
"Several months at least."
"Can you think of any other reason why Jess may have wanted to quit?"
"There could have been a lot of reasons. Anxiety caused by her therapy or a personal dislike for her therapist. I lost a patient once because he saw me unexpectedly in a nightclub."
"What was so bad about that?"
"Normally nothing. But this man idealized me. When he saw me dancing with my husband in a sexy environment, he was thrown into such turmoil he couldn't relate to me any longer as his analyst."
"You say he saw you. Did you see him, too?"
"Yes, our eyes met," she said.
"How did you react?"
"I smiled at him."
"Ever occur to you he might have followed you to the nightclub?"
She laughed. "I never thought of that."
"It could make all the difference," he said. "To me the question is did he quit therapy because he saw you or because you saw him?"
"And therein," Monika said, laughing, "must lie the difference between a detective and an analyst."
Later he asked her if she thought Archer had deliberately misled him.
"I have no way of knowing," she said, "but her acting-out explanation strikes me as glib."
"Well, suppose Jess ran into her unexpectedly at the knife show? Something happened there that changed her mood. But why would seeing Archer shake her up?"
"How did Jess feel about knives?"
"She was passionate about them."
"Well, then, that could have been it," Monika said. "Suddenly there was her analyst infringing on her territory. But it's all conjecture, isn't it?"
"It always is," Janek agreed.
The next morning, over breakfast with Aaron at a Greek coffee shop around the corner from the Police Property Building, Janek described Dr. Archer.
"Tiny woman, built like a butterball, kindly smile, bland, self-effacing voice, a little fussy, a little too precise about time. But when I stoke her up, she turns difficult. Doesn't want to answer questions, wants to ask them. The end of our first interview she tried to turn things around, make me think I was probing because I had unconscious sexual fantasies about Jess. Second time I put on some stress, and suddenly I started picking up on her anger. She's good at concealing, but the rage shows through, which tells me how strong it must be inside. She gives me a plausible but phony explanation as to why Jess may have wanted to quit on her, a lot of brilliant but tortured analysis about the fencing incident, and some strange stuff about a good hiding place being an irrevocable hiding place—whatever the hell that means. I don't know what the bottom line is on her, Aaron, but something about her isn't right."
Aaron picked up a jelly roll. "She's weird, Frank. Ever meet a shrink who wasn't? You don't think she's the Happy Families killer, do you?"
He shook his head. "How could she be? But still . . . I don't see Jess relating to a person like that."
Aaron put down his cup. "I know what you're thinking."
"What am I thinking?"
"That maybe the feds didn't conceal their case all that well. Maybe it leaked out. This guy Chun—he's a shrink. So maybe he spilled to another shrink, and Archer heard about it through the grapevine and did a copycat job on Jess."
Janek smiled. "Swear to God, Aaron—I never thought of that. But now that you bring it up . . ."
Aaron nodded. "Yeah, Frank—I'll check the little lady out."
Laura Dorance couldn't remember who referred Jess to Dr. Archer. "I think it was one of her friends," she said.
But when Janek called around, none of Jess's friends would admit to having made the referral.
That night, as he walked home from the subway, he noticed an unshaven man in a seedy suit lingering near the front door of his building. As he approached, the man stared at him.
"Janek?"
Janek stared back. "Who's asking?"
The man unclenched his hand. He'd been holding an old newspaper clipping. He showed it to Janek. It was a picture taken at the time of the Switch trial. Oh-oh, Janek thought.
"It's you, isn't it?" The man's breath stank of cabbage. There was dandruff on his shoulders.
"So what?" Janek said.
"You guys work long hours. I've been waiting here since five."
As the man put his hand into his pocket, Janek tensed, reached beneath his jacket, gripped the handle of his Colt. But when he saw the paper with the blue legal backing, he relaxed and let go of his gun.
"I am serving you, Lieutenant," the man said, offering Janek the document.
Janek snapped it out of his hand. One look told him what it was. He stared at the man with disgust.
"Great business you're in."
"Hey, don't take it out on me, fella! Just doing my job."
Janek brushed by him and entered his building. Inside his apartment he sat down and read the document. It was a notice that a lawsuit had been filed by the firm of Streep & Holster on behalf of its client, one Clarence "Rusty" Glickman, wherein Glickman alleged unlawful assault resulting in severe physical and psychological injury, for which he demanded a jury trial and one million dollars' damages.
; Janek didn't sleep well that night. Something—something he'd seen that could be important—nagged at him. Unable to recall what it was, he flopped from side to side in torment.
At two in the morning he remembered and sat up: The arrows! I forgot to look inside the quiver!
The next morning he phoned Laura and asked her if she'd saved it.
"A bow and arrow set—I don't remember anything like that."
"It was in her dorm-room closet."
"I never saw it. I couldn't even bear to go up to her room. When you called and told us it was all right to move out her stuff, Stanton went up there to collect her swords. He's put them out on consignment with a dealer. We decided to give away the rest of her things. Stanton phoned the Salvation Army. They sent over a truck."
"Do you happen to know if Stanton turned up an ivory-handled switchblade knife?"
Laura asked him to hold while she checked Stanton's list. A minute later she was back.
"Lots of knives but no switchblade. Sorry, Frank."
The Salvation Army sorted its pickups at its general warehouse in Brooklyn. Once inside the building, bulk donations were broken up. Toys went to one floor, furniture to another, clothing to a third, etc. Items such as archery equipment, unsuitable for general sale, were relegated to a special area.
By the time Janek found a friendly sergeant willing to help him, the bulk of Jess's stuff had long been sorted and shipped back out of the building, distributed to various sales outlets in and around the city.
"But there's still a chance on the bow and arrows," Sergeant Hunter told him as he led Janek rapidly down a long corridor lit by naked bulbs past cages filled with donations. The whole place smelled like a dry cleaning establishment. The sergeant's dog, an overweight dachshund named Clarence, scampered ahead. Hunter, dragging one foot behind him, strove mightily to keep up.
"We've got rooms here filled with anything you'd ever need," Hunter said. The sergeant had bloodshot eyes, wild hair, and a ragged gray-streaked beard. "We've got a room of shoes, a room of crutches, a room of old dentist's equipment. We got pots and pans, lawn mower parts, old chemistry and Erector sets." Hunter rattled off other types of items processed at the warehouse: pinball machines; waffle irons; bathroom scales. "Would you believe we've even got a cage here filled with discarded artificial limbs? Strange maybe, but think about it. A guy loses his leg, say, in the war, and the vet hospital fits him out with a spare. Then he dies. So what does his widow do? Bury it with him is one possibility. Another is she calls us up. 'Can't stand looking at it,' she cries. 'Get it out of here.' And we take it, the way we take darn near anything. 'For every pot there's a top'—that's what my mother used to say."
The weapons room was not a cage. It had a solid door. "Don't want just anyone nosing around in here," Hunter said, working a key inside the outsize padlock while Clarence, the dachshund, dribbled saliva over Janek's shoes.
There were no actual guns inside the weapons room, though there were plenty of toy models and realistic replicas. The array of other weaponry was fascinating, ranging from the kinds of sticks with nail points used to clean up parks to a huge wooden sword with the word "Excalibur" burned into its blade. In between there was a hoard of tomahawks and African-style spears, assorted clubs, maces, cudgels, blackjacks and shillelaghs, sundry bomb and mine casings, numerous darts, slingshots, catapults, boomerangs, brass knuckles sets, and, in one corner, a homemade guillotine.
The archery equipment was positioned against one wall. Gazing at the crossbows, longbows, competition bows, and myriad quivers filled with arrows all bunched together in a vertical pile, Janek wondered how he'd manage to recognize the equipment that had belonged to Jess. He'd barely glanced at the bow when he'd discovered it in her closet and tossed it with the quiver into the pile of clothing on her bed.
But there was one important thing he did remember about it: The gear had seemed almost new. Scanning the bows before him, he reached for the one that appeared the least scuffed up. He pulled it out and examined it. The name DIANA was scrawled in blue grease pencil on the inside curve just above the handle. The handwriting didn't resemble Jess's, but the bow had an elegant feel to it that made him think it was the right one. He set it aside and knelt to examine the quivers.
He rejected ones made of wood or hide. The one he'd held that night had been aluminum. There were three of these, all relatively unsoiled. He took all three and emptied them out onto the floor, being careful to keep the arrows of each in separate piles. Then, with Hunter standing behind him and the dog, Clarence, sputtering through slobbering chops, he inspected each arrow, many of which were tipped with extremely sharp points, and, when he had done that, the interior of each quiver. Finding nothing, he turned the quivers over. On the bottom of the first he found DIANA written in the same blue cursive script. He stuffed its arrows back inside.
"This is it," he said, looking up at Hunter.
The sergeant shook his head, incredulous. "Got to congratulate you. All the years I worked in this dump, you're the first guy came around looking for something he gave away and ended up finding it." He pointed to his dog, vigorously wagging its tail. "See, even Clarence is amazed."
Diana: It was only later on the Brooklyn Bridge, driving back to Manhattan, that Janek thought of Diana, the huntress, twin sister to Apollo, virgin goddess of the moon, usually depicted holding a bow.
What difference did the archery stuff make anyway? he asked himself. And the moment he asked the answer came to him like a blow. It was not that he'd forgotten to look inside the quiver that had kept him up the night before. It was the word connection between Jess's possessing a bow and arrow and the name of her therapist: Archer.
"Oh, she is a piece of work is Dr. Beverly Archer," Aaron said, shaking his head.
He read to Janek from his notes, compiled after five days of investigation and surveillance, as they sat together in their office, the grid on the wall nearly filled in now with the activities of Jess's final days.
"You've been to her house, Frank. You know the routine. No receptionist. Patients ring and get buzzed in. Two doors to her office, one to the waiting room, the other opening directly to the front hall. That way nobody sees anybody, conventional practice in therapeutic circles. But maybe there's more to it here. Maybe this one doesn't want people to notice something not so conventional, from what I understand. Get this: All her patients are young women."
"No guys?"
"Just females."
"Interesting," Janek said. "Tell me more."
"She owns the building, lives in the apartment upstairs, rents the basement to a young woman, a librarian. I'd say the good doctor leads a tight, constricted life. All day long she sees patients. First appointment eight in the morning, last six at night. They all go in looking anxious and come out looking kind of dazed. Know what I mean, Frank? Glassy-eyed, smiling, but the smile's the shit-eating kind, like they're all wrapped up in themselves, their dear little egos so nicely massaged and all. Whatever she does to them in there, they all look like they feel better afterwards. Then, when the last one leaves, she waits a few minutes, comes out to do her errands. Usual stuff around the neighborhood—shoemaker, dry cleaner, grocery store, that kind of crap. And that's it. She's out for maybe half an hour; then she's back inside. Lights go off downstairs. Lights come on upstairs. Nine-thirty or ten, upstairs lights go off, too. And there she is, locked in, snug as a bug in a rug. No social life, no dates, no friends I can find out about. Her work is her life. It's girls all day long. Except for two other interesting little things she does."
Janek knew how fond Aaron was of turning reports into sagas. He used all the tricks of the tale-teller's trade: asides; digressions; embellishments; authorial opinions. Best of all, he liked to evoke questions. So Janek asked him one: "What two other interesting little things does she do?"
Aaron smiled. "Tuesday nights she teaches a class in ' Problems of the Adolescent and Post-Adolescent Female' at the Eisenberg Psychoanalytic Institute in Chels
ea. I checked the place out; it's a reputable institution, no quack joint. They train laypeople, mostly Ph.D.'s, who want to be professional analytic-oriented therapists."
"And the second thing?"
"That's the goody. Thursday mornings she's picked up by a car service, then driven out to a hospital called Carlisle in Derby, Connecticut. She's a one-day-a-week consultant out there. It's a special kind of hospital, Frank—a hospital for the criminally insane." Aaron tongued his lips to show how much he relished this juicy bit of information.
"So, an austere life devoted to work. That can be a rewarding way to live," Janek observed.
"So I hear, though I haven't tried it myself. But you were right, Frank. There is something about her. Maybe it's the expression on her face when she doesn't think anyone's looking. Lonely, desperate, tense, maybe even—"
"What?"
"I don't know." Aaron shrugged. "Angry. . . ."
He handed Janek her curriculum vitae and a photocopy of a professional paper she'd written for The Review of Psychology.
"I can't make head or tail out of it. Maybe you'll have better luck," he said.
Janek glanced at the CV. The first line in the personal background section sent a clarifying wave crashing across his brain: "Place of birth: Cleveland, Ohio, 5/6/50."
That night Janek read Archer's paper. He found it intelligent, coherent, and unusually compelling. In it she described three female patients: "Alice," "Wilma," and "Ginny." All three were in their early twenties, and each was tormented by an obsessive fixation upon what Archer called a "shaming incident," a traumatizing event in the girl's past that had inspired great shame and humiliation.
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