"I love this energy," Monika said. "New York's a fascinating town."
"It's no Venice, but it takes a bum rap," Janek said. "It's a cruel place, but it can be wonderful, too."
She nodded. "I've often wondered what it would be like to live here. I've been offered a visiting professorship of psychiatry. Last month the Albert Einstein College of Medicine approached me again. Perhaps I should accept, move here for a year." She looked at him. "A year of living dangerously."
"We could get to know each other pretty well over a year," he said.
She smiled, took his arm. "I wish I didn't have to go back so soon. But sadly I do."
Later that night, at his apartment, he asked if she'd be willing to take a look at Beverly Archer.
"Just to observe her," he said. “She'll never know."
Monika thought about it, then agreed. "I'm not a forensic psychiatrist. I doubt I'll see anything. But I confess—I'm very curious."
Janek phoned Aaron, asked if he could set it up. Aaron thought he could. Beverly's schedule was so rigid, he said, there shouldn't be any difficulty arranging a covert surveillance. They'd park on Second Avenue down the block from her house and wait for her to come out after her last appointment. When she started on her round of errands, Monika could follow her and observe.
The plan worked. At exactly six fifty-five the following evening Beverly appeared. When she went into a dry cleaning shop, Monika got out of the car and followed. Sitting with Aaron, waiting for her to return, Janek started feeling nervous.
"This reminds me of one very bad night."
Aaron reassured him. "I know it's spooky, Frank, but your girl's terrific. Don't worry. Beverly's met her match."
When Monika returned, she was shivering. Janek took her hands, rubbed them to restore warmth. She seemed disturbed. "Let's go get something to drink," she said.
Aaron drove down Second to a cop hangout near East Seventy-first. The place was filled, cops full of holiday bluster toasting one another with mugs of beer. Janek and Aaron nodded to acquaintances; then the three of them squeezed into a booth.
"A strange woman," Monika reported after the waiter had brought her tea. "A lot of people in my field are. The profession's always attracted troubled individuals. They often make gifted therapists."
"So she's just another weirdo shrink, is that what you're saying?" Aaron asked.
Monika shook her head. "More than that. She functions, of course, very well from what you've told me. But I felt I was observing an extremely high-strung person, very tense, very tightly controlled. The way she moves, dresses, smiles at the sales clerks, tilts her head, tightens up her lips—it's as if there's a NO CONTACT! DON'T TOUCH ME! sign hanging on her back. Still, for all her smiles I could feel the rage coming off her. Sexual rage, too. She truly hates males. It shows every time she deals with one."
Aaron glanced at Janek. "Could she have done what Frank says?"
"Sent the girl out to kill her old enemies? I can't tell that from looking at her. But in theory, yes, it's possible."
"But by using a surrogate killer," Janek asked, "didn't she give up the pleasures of killing the old enemies herself?"
"Not necessarily. The pleasures might have been even greater for her. She'd have the satisfaction of knowing she had done them in fiendishly, and I think it would have been very exciting for her to hear Diana describe the glue mutilations, too. That would have been the best part of it, perhaps the only erotic excitement she's capable of having."
Monika went on to analyze the paradox in a person such as Beverly, who, though ostensibly asexual, could still take an intense sexual interest in her victims.
"The brain is more flexible than people think," she explained. "It can do a kind of somersault. What seems disgusting can suddenly become appetizing; what's repulsive can suddenly become erotic. In a flash a person can become addicted to the very thing he or she previously hated. It's a way to survive in the world, to turn pain into pleasure, to take the worst, most painful scenarios of one's childhood and, by controlling them, rewrite the script so that in the new final act there is victory rather than defeat."
"Beverly's victories are the executions, right? Executions of the people who humiliated her in the past?"
"Again, we're talking theory, Frank. After only fifteen minutes of observation I can't tell you this woman did what you think. But yes, she could have done it, and if she did, I don't think her victories would have been just the executions. To me the neuterings are far more important. Killing an old enemy is one thing. Doing something to his body is quite another. Attacking the genitals, the seat of your enemy's sexuality, is the ultimate revenge. To have another person do it for you and then describe it is a way of distancing yourself while still enjoying your old tormentor's degradation. It's like hearing about something bad that has befallen a rival. You didn't do it, you didn't dirty your hands, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that the person has been dealt a devastating blow. We have a special word for that in German. Schadenfreude. It means taking joy in another's pain. If you're right, I think Schadenfreude may be what Beverly Archer is all about."
"Okay," said Aaron. "That makes sense. But could she have gotten Diana to kill and glue all those people? We know the girl killed her mother, grandmother, and sister. But except for Jess, the others all seem to have been perfect strangers."
"It's not that difficult for one person to gain control over another's mind," Monika said. "Behavioral methods, hypnosis, rote training, rewards and punishments, plain old-fashioned domination—there are many ways. The basic method is simple: get someone dependent and susceptible in your power; then circumscribe her world so that your commands have the power of laws. You see it all the time in cults, prisons, terrorist groups, pathological personal relationships. In Nazi Germany you saw it on the extraordinary scale of an entire nation. There's a part in all of us that responds to force and craves to be controlled. We want to be led, commanded, told what to do. If it weren't for that particular trait, human society probably wouldn't work. But what is extremely difficult is to force someone to perform an act completely contrary to his moral nature. Here, however, you have a girl, still young and malleable, who had not only killed people before but afterwards attacked their sexual organs. The distance from ax to ice pick, from chopping at genitals to imprisoning them with glue, is not all that great. So, to answer your question, yes, everything Frank has theorized is absolutely possible. But whether it happened or not. . . I'm not the one to say."
Late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Janek went down to Police Plaza to see Kit Kopta. This time the crusty red-haired sergeant who ran her office greeted him with warmth.
"How's the shoulder, detective? The throat?" And before Janek could answer: "That was one close call. Too bad you had to wax the girl. Luck of the draw, I guess. Anyway, Merry Christmas!"
Kit rose when he came in. "You look grand, Frank. I don't think I've ever seen you with a tan."
"Well, it was a great trip."
She smiled. "I can just imagine the two of you snuggling on some Mexican beach. What I'd give for a little vacation."
"Why don't you take one? God knows you deserve it."
She laughed. "Sure. Check into a Club Med. Have a three-day affair with a gorgeous Nordic ice god, the kind with a stomach so hard you can use it for a washboard. Make an ass out of myself trying to stuff my body into a bikini. Hang out at the bar, pay for drinks with little doodads off my necklace, and wish to hell I was back here in good old tit-freezing New York, where at least I don't have to act jolly or pretend I'm having a good time."
Janek shook his head. "Are you always like this on Christmas Eve?"
"It's not as if I had a nice husband to go home to." She smiled. "I'll probably end the evening curling up with a bottle. But I'm not bitter. Maybe a little ironic, that's all." She sat down behind her desk, turned serious. "Now what's all this about you wanting to reopen the case?"
It took Janek twenty minutes to lay o
ut his theory of the Wallflower crimes. Kit didn't interrupt him or nod encouragement; she just gazed steadily into his eyes. When he finally finished, she asked him what exactly he wanted her to authorize.
"An investigation."
"What sort of investigation?"
He squinted at her. Her tone seemed hard. "What's the matter? My theory too farfetched?"
She stood, walked over to the window, stared down at Police Plaza. "Sure, it's farfetched. You know it is. But so is the theory you were too smart to swallow, the one Sullivan and his people seem to have bought whole hog."
"So what's the problem?"
She turned to face him. Her thick black hair framed her little face. "The problem is if you hadn't nearly gotten killed that night, I'd have put IA on your ass."
"What're you talking about?"
She glared at him. "You and Aaron and your phony story that you just happened to be watching when this burglar let himself into Archer's house—do you really think I bought that crap? Don't insult me, please!"
Janek stared at the rug. He'd made a point of forgetting that extralegal maneuver. Now, reminded of it, he felt ashamed.
"It was a look-and-see operation, wasn't it?" she continued. "Not the most subtle one I ever heard about either. I figure the black kid was Aaron's snitch from the time he worked Safes and Lofts."
Janek spread his arms. "It was my idea. It was wrong. I'm sorry I did it."
"Still, it worked for you. Got you inside, got you a quick look at some stuff, and now you've built a pretty theory around it. Fine. Maybe you're right. Maybe this Beverly Archer is the evil, manipulative murderess you say. Anything's possible, Frank. But you'll never get her for it, not if you're going to carry on like that."
"I'm not going to carry on like that. I won't do anything like that again."
She looked at him, rolled her eyes, and returned to her desk.
They spent the next ten minutes bargaining. He wanted to go to Providence and send Aaron out to Texas to look for Archer connections among the two "unconnected" families. Then he wanted another three weeks of travel for them both to try to discover what incidents may have occurred between Beverly and Bertha Parce, Cynthia Morse, and the MacDonalds. Then he wanted at least ten days in Cleveland, digging out everything there was to be found on the woman. Plus whatever additional travel and per diems might be necessary depending on the information all these interviews produced.
Kit stared at him, her large brown eyes sparkling beneath her Grecian brows.
"Basically you're asking for unlimited backing on a theory neither of us has the nerve to broach to the FBI."
"You always said my instincts were good, Kit. Here's a chance to back me up."
"Sure, back you up. Then you get impatient and pull another Leo Titus because your goddaughter was a victim. No thanks, Frank. Forget it."
"I gave you my word. Want me to give it to you in writing?"
She laughed. "Then I'd really have to fire you, wouldn't I? Your written promise would be a confession you broke your oath."
"Shit!" He stood up, angry. "She did it. I know she did. I'm going to nail her, Kit, no matter how long it takes."
Kit studied him. When she spoke again, he could tell by her tone that she'd made a decision.
"Even if you're right, and you just might be, it's the toughest kind of case to make. Suppose you prove Archer was totally fucked over by every single person Diana Proctor killed? So what? You're talking mind murders, Frank. You've got no witnesses, no one you can turn. Diana, your coconspirator, is already dead. It's a dead-end case. You know it is."
Janek tried to interrupt, but Kit motioned him to keep quiet until she was finished.
"I'm telling you the facts of life. No DA will take on a case like that unless you bring him a full confession. How the hell are you going get one? I talked to the woman myself. She's a stone-cold hard-ass. She knows she's out of it; she knows there's no evidence. If you're right and she was behind it, then one of the main reasons she operated the way she did was to insulate herself from a criminal prosecution. So now, tell me, why should she confess?"
He shook his head. "I don't know yet. But she will."
"Going to make her, Frank? Going to beat it out of her?"
"Of course not."
"Then how?"
"Underneath the smile she's totally crazed. A crazy person can be broken."
"And you're the man to break her, right?"
"I'll sure give it my best shot," he snapped.
Kit grinned. "Fine. That's fine. I'll go along with that. But unlimited backing . . ." She shook her head. "Between you and Aaron I'll give you three weeks' worth of travel. Split it up any way you like. Plus you can keep your office till the end of January. After that bring me what you've got and we'll reevaluate the case together. But you better bring me something good. Otherwise both of you are going to be reassigned."
It wasn't what he wanted, but he knew it was all he was going to get. After he accepted her offer, she escorted him to the door. Just before she opened it, she lightly touched the scar tissue on his throat.
"I would have been very sorry if something had happened to you, my friend."
He turned to her, kissed her cheek. "You talk tough, Kit, but you're still a pussycat."
She smiled. "I'm glad you found someone, Frank. I liked what I saw of her, especially the way she shot over here when we called to tell her you'd been cut." She stood before him, took hold of both his hands, stared up into his face. "Listen to me. Don't poison the fruit," she warned quietly. "If Archer did it, I want you to nail her. But with a straight nail. Hear me, Frank? Make damn sure that nail goes in her straight. . . ."
When he left Police Plaza, the sky was dark, but the city seemed strangely void of rancor. It's the holidays, he thought. But then he remembered: Christmas was the season when New Yorkers turned their rage against themselves. It was the season of suicides.
He found a liquor store open on Nassau Street, went in, bought a chilled bottle of champagne, carried it home on the subway in a paper bag. Monika was waiting for him. They drank it out of the goblet she'd given him in Venice. The wine tasted very good, they agreed. If anything, the ancient glass enhanced it.
He told her about his interview with Kit, the deal they'd made, the pressure he was under now to develop sufficient proof to keep his investigation alive.
"I'm not going to be able to do the kind of deep background work I like," he said. "That'll take months, and we don't have months. No support team either. Just Aaron and me."
"Then you'll have to focus your search," she said.
He nodded. "Any ideas?"
She thought about it. The lady in the picture, the mother up there on the wall—“I'd look to her first. Look to the past, Frank. Try to reconstruct the family history. The secret is always there. . . ."
Later, after they had made love, they clung to each other in the dark. He was filled with passionate adoration for his stylish, brilliant, nurturing German psychoanalyst.
"I love you," he told her in the middle of the night. "I love you more than anyone I've ever known. Has anyone ever said that to you before, Monika? Has anyone ever loved you so much?"
9
THE GAUNTLET
On Christmas morning he cooked breakfast for Monika, then taxied with her out to Kennedy Airport. After she had checked in, they went to the Lufthansa waiting lounge and exchanged gifts. He presented her with a framed vintage Berenice Abbott photograph of the New York skyline.
"A little remembrance of New York," he said. "I hope this'll make you want to come back."
She held the picture to her chest. "It's beautiful. I love it. But if I come back, it'll be because of you."
Even as he opened her gift, a heavy blue envelope tied with golden ribbon, she apologized for its modest value. He was delighted with what he found inside, a picture she'd snapped of him surreptitiously in Mexico while he lay out on their terrace in his bathing trunks trying to draw the trophies.
<
br /> "You really helped me. You know that?"
She smiled. "It was for my own benefit. It's hard to sleep next to a guy who's having bad dreams all the time."
"You!" He embraced her. "What am I going to do without you?"
"You'll do fine. Promise me you'll visit soon."
"As soon as this case is finished," he promised.
He waited until her plane took off, then walked slowly back though the nearly empty terminal to catch a bus to Manhattan. There was a certain poignancy, he thought, in the tawdry, commercial Christmas decorations placed sporadically about the airline lobby.
The next morning he drove out to the airport again, this time to La Guardia to see Aaron off for Cleveland. In front of the terminal Aaron briefed him on the peculiar traits of his car, which he was leaving in Janek's trusted hands.
"She drinks oil the way my ex drank booze, so it's best to check whenever you gas her up. And remember, don't stick your finger in the little hole where the cigarette lighter used to be."
"Yeah, yeah, very funny. Call me when you find something, okay?"
Aaron looked at him. "This is a big one, right?"
Janek nodded. "I thought Sullivan was a real asshole when he called it a great crime. Now I think maybe he was right."
"Don't worry, Frank, I won't blow it. If there's anything out in Cleveland, I'll find it for you."
That afternoon, back in the city, Janek waited until it was exactly ten to three. Then he dialed Beverly Archer's number. "Pick it up, butterball," he whispered. "I know you just finished with a patient. So pick up the goddamn phone."
She answered on the sixth ring.
"It's Janek," he said. "I need to talk. How about tomorrow morning?"
There was a long pause at the other end. "All right." Beverly's voice was steady. "I have a cancellation at eleven."
When he set down the receiver, he looked at his hands. No shaking, no trembling.
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