Cold Shoulder

by Lynda La Plante

  “That you used to be a lieutenant, and a good one.”

  She laughed and he found it attractive, a low, soft gurgle more than a laugh.

  “Was that all?”

  He paused at traffic lights. “Yes, well, he implied that you made a mess but he didn’t embroider.”

  “So what did he tell you?”

  Fellows drove on, turning into Marmont Avenue. “Something about a drinking problem.”

  Before they could continue, he turned into a driveway. The house was as neat as Fellows himself, a swimming pool and trim hedges taking up most of the backyard. Lorraine calculated the property would be worth around one and a quarter million dollars, perhaps more. Again Fellows seemed to read her mind; he smiled.

  “Too good for just a lowly professor, Ms. Page? You’d be surprised how much some of us earn, but it looks more splendid than it really is.”

  Fellows opened Lorraine’s door for her and waited for her to get out. The front door opened and a pleasant, rather plump woman waved from the porch. “Dilly, this is Lorraine Page. She’s working on the case I told you about. Sorry I’m late, darling, but we had a hell of a game.”

  Lorraine wasn’t sure she’d caught Fellows’s wife’s name correctly.

  “Dilly?”

  “Yes, short for Dylisandra, but to be honest I can’t recall ever being called that. Stupid name, God knows where my mother got it from. Please come in. If you haven’t eaten, I’ll cook up something. Andrew is always hungry so I always have enough for a small army … so, you hungry?”

  Lorraine nodded and felt an immediate warmth toward Dilly, who welcomed her into the house, the interior of which mirrored her generous personality—open plan, comfortable, not ostentatious. The living room was filled with deep, inviting sofas and thick Moroccan-style coffee tables, big lamps, spotlights focusing on large, bright canvases. The one that hung over a stone fireplace was of a man reclining, stark naked. The painting was impressive: no matter where you sat in the room you couldn’t help but be drawn to the figure, or, more specifically, to his large penis and balls, which were overprominent.

  Dilly worked in the kitchen, opening wine, talking nonstop as she listed who had called and left messages. Fellows, after excusing himself, disappeared for a few minutes to go to his study and his answering machine.

  The meal was simple—tossed salad, steak—but served beautifully. Lorraine was relaxing and enjoying their company, when Dilly brought the conversation around to Brad Thorburn. “Now there’s a man I could go for,” she said to Lorraine. “That’s his portrait over the fireplace, by the way. I know it doesn’t look like him—that’s because he refused to sit still long enough for me to get his head right, but I think I got everything else okay. Well, Andy says I’ve been a little optimistic about the genital area but I’m not. I just painted what I saw and, to be perfectly honest, at times it was very difficult to hold my brushes straight.” She laughed loudly, tossing her head back.

  Fellows smiled adoringly at his wife, without a hint of jealousy. “I’ve tried to introduce him to more girlfriends than you could imagine. They all fall for him, but he’s a real choosy guy.”

  He suddenly stood up, ruffling his wife’s hair. “We haven’t come here to talk about Brad Thorburn. Can you bring coffee into the den?”

  “Sure. How do you take it, Lorraine?”

  “Black, with honey if you’ve got it.”

  Fellows said, “I thought you’d take it that way. It fits with how clean-cut you are, direct.”

  Dilly snorted. “Don’t pay attention to him, he’s always saying things like that! It used to be his big come-on trick, now he just does it for effect!” Lorraine smiled, but she had seen Fellows check the time on his wristwatch. She did the same, noting it was almost midnight.

  Fellows’s study was lined with books and photographs, many of them featuring Thorburn. Lorraine walked around the room, with its leather armchairs and wide mahogany desk. She looked at a photograph of Fellows and Thorburn together on a fishing trip. Fellows stood behind her.

  “Where does he live?”

  “Up in the Canyon. It’s the family home, he’s got them littered all over the world but that’s his sort of base. He had quite a strange upbringing. His father left his mother when he was just a toddler and remarried God knows how many times.”

  “Is he an only child, then?”

  “No, I think there was an older brother, but Brad was left the money.”

  Dilly appeared with the coffee and said her good nights. Lorraine liked her and Fellows, too. He was a man she felt she could talk to, a man she wanted to talk to, but not about the murder. She felt he would be dependable, honest, a man with no ulterior motive, a rare creature. Fellows briefly outlined his interest in the murder. She listened intently, knowing much of what he was saying because she had read the files, but she liked the reassuring sound of his voice.

  “I hear there’s been a development with Norman Hastings—a cross-dresser. Well, I said Rooney would probably find something. Interesting, huh?”

  He had thrown the ball neatly into her court.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You asked to see me. For what reason?”

  “To see if you knew more.”

  “You think I do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  She met his steady gaze. Lorraine was the one to break the look. “Why do you think he kills?”

  Fellows leaned back. “Lorraine, nobody knows what makes a man kill, if not in the armed forces or under pressure or supreme emotional strain. I don’t believe any man simply kills. There is always a reason.”

  “What reason is behind our killer?”

  “I don’t know because there is no cohesive pattern. They are not all hard-faced prostitutes. One was a cross-dresser, one a seventeen-year-old.”

  “What if the seventeen-year-old was a mistake?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lorraine repeated what she had discussed with Nula and Didi, and Fellows leaned forward, frowning. “So you’re saying our killer was after one of your friends. Is she a blond?”

  “Sometimes—she wears a lot of wigs. She said the driver stopped and Holly ran across the road to him and got into the car. I think Hastings knew the killer,” Lorraine continued, “and that the killer is a cross-dresser or a transvestite.”

  “Why?” Fellows asked.

  “Because he seems to hate women, maybe women his own age. I think he hates the woman he becomes, the woman he attempts to be when he’s dressed up.”

  Fellows closed his eyes. “Where does Hastings fit in?”

  “Hastings may have known him and been suspicious. Maybe he was about to expose him to the police …”

  Fellows tugged at his ears. “There is one person who must be found, the woman he attacked, the one in the parking lot. I don’t think the police realize the importance of this witness. She saw him, his face, she even bit him, for God’s sake, he attacked her and, according to the witnesses, she was covered in blood. Both they and the cabdriver have described her—tough, hard-faced, tooth missing, scrawny, lank-haired …”

  Lorraine’s heart was thudding.

  “I don’t think she was a whore, though, or at least not like the other women. I think this one was different. She was educated, knew enough to …” He looked directly at Lorraine. “Did you read the transcripts of that phone call she made? Clear, concise description. I told Rooney it was almost like a professional description, as if she had been attached to the police in some capacity.”

  Lorraine coughed. He was damned good; did he know? She flicked him a glance, saw him check his watch again and could feel he was becoming impatient … for her to go? Or was there another reason? Fellows impressed her, she liked his intelligence, but she was also on uneasy ground and she didn’t want him to know it.

  “I agree, but I don’t think they’ll find her.”

  He shrugged. “Then they’re not looking, are the
y? Because she’s still in this area.”

  “Why?” She blushed and she knew it.

  “Because she wouldn’t give her name. She wants to remain anonymous.”

  “That doesn’t mean she didn’t pick up a trucker and ride out of town. Just because she didn’t give her name doesn’t mean anything.”

  “She wanted him caught! If she was moving on, why bother calling the police? I think she’s still around.”

  He checked his watch again and began to pull at his ears. He was tired, it had been a long day and a very hard game. His foot tapped but he seemed to be waiting for Lorraine to respond to his last statement. But she didn’t, she changed the subject, moving it away from herself. Although Fellows, she was sure, had not connected her as the valuable missing witness, she knew he could detect her uneasiness.

  “Will he kill again?”

  “Of course, when the mood takes him. He must be feeling good—he has to know that the police have nothing. Even the press has died down.” He paused, then went on, “This is his sex life, his action, and it’s connected to his own sexuality. He will get no pleasure from masturbation, he’s probably impotent, so his masculinity is warped. He is both male and female, and he is killing as a man. We know this because the anonymous caller gave a good description of what he was wearing. So we’re not looking for a man who dresses as a woman and then kills. We’re looking for a man who consistently wants to kill. Just as you said, I, too, think he wants to kill the woman inside him.”

  Fellows suddenly crossed from his desk to another chair and sat on the arm of it, swinging one leg. He cocked his head to one side and stared at her. “You killed a boy, Rooney told me. He said you were drunk on duty.”

  Lorraine felt as if she’d been punched.

  “Do you remember what it felt like?”

  He had to strain to hear what she said. “I had to kill a number of people in the line of duty and you never forget a single one of them.”

  “But, Lorraine, you’re not answering the question. I asked if you recalled what it felt like to kill that boy.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly, “of course I remember.”

  He stared at her intently, knew she was lying, but he was astonished at the way she held his gaze and didn’t flinch away.

  “But you were intoxicated.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you remember.”

  She broke his gaze and he knew she was in trouble. Lorraine stood up, pulling her skirt straight. “It’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it must be fucking obvious why. The boy was innocent and I was drunk.”

  “Even though you were intoxicated, you remember. As you said, you never forget. What exactly don’t you forget?”

  Lorraine remained standing, edgy, hating herself for showing it. She sighed and lit a cigarette. “I don’t see the point of this.” She inhaled deeply, let the smoke drift, was about to take another drag when she paused and, without any emotion, described the boy’s jacket, the yellow zigzag stripe, the way he fell, as if in slow motion, the way his body folded, the way his head rested against his outstretched arm, the way his soft hair fanned out, the way his body jerked a few times before he became still. Once she had begun she couldn’t stop, remembering Rooney pushing past, ordering her into the patrol car, displaying in his filthy handkerchief the boy’s Walkman, the tape still in the deck. That there had been no gun, that she had fired six times. She fell silent. Fellows had expected her to break down and weep, fascinated by her stillness throughout her long explanation of the killing. And he didn’t feel tired anymore, this woman interested him.

  “Sit down, Lorraine.”

  She hesitated, looked pointedly at her watch before she sat down.

  “What about afterward?” he asked softly. She really intrigued him now.

  Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette, becoming annoyed that he had swung their meeting over to her life rather than the killer’s.

  “I felt fucking angry, desperate, disgusted, and all I wanted was to forget it.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “With booze, of course.”

  “And did it block it out?”

  She shook her head. “Yes. I suppose you want me to say no, that it was always there, that it always will be. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, I don’t think about it.”

  Fellows was on the prowl again. Returning to his desk, he picked up a paperweight. “But you were drinking before this boy. What made you dependent on alcohol?”

  “I was just addicted to it, like my mother. It’s supposed to be inherited, isn’t it? Look, Mr. Fellows, before I go …”

  “Why did you drink, Lorraine?”

  “I guess I liked the way it made me feel, the confidence it gave me—not having to think or feel. Now, can we get back to the reason I asked to see you?”

  “What main thing did you not feel?” He looked into her eyes, with an expression of concern, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

  She laughed. “Oh, no? You have a funny way of showing it.”

  He liked the way she laughed, he liked this woman, and he crossed to her side, smiled, and gently touched her cheek. “You’re a clever woman, a strong woman—possibly the strongest I’ve ever met. I’m sorry to delve into your private life but I’m trying to get you to think like him, understand him. Like you felt the compulsion to have another drink, he will feel this compulsion to kill. He will be in a kind of torment because maybe something happened to him that twisted him, hurt him, and the only way he is able to live in society and carry on in a state of apparent normality is like this. When this consuming pain takes hold of him like a rage, he will control it, contain it, and release it when he hammers a victim to death. Only then does the rage subside and calm or normality return.”

  Fellows paced up and down in front of his shelves of books, all of which were histories of serial killers, and slapped each in turn. “I have pinpointed the rage syndrome in so many of these cases. It manifests itself in an overpowering need to wound, to destroy, to hurt, to inflict pain. Time and again it is sexual: stalking, peeping, watching, and knowing what they were about to commit will be exquisite, relished—and enjoyed. Many collect the newspaper clippings to gloat over. The fact they are clever enough not to be detected adds to the overall feeling of enjoyment. And when it’s over they integrate back into their homes, their work. Their secret is like a lover, precious, nurtured, controlled until the pain starts again. It’s a horrific vicious circle that cannot be broken until the killer is caught.”

  Lorraine put her cigarettes and lighter into her purse. “I really must go. Would you call me a cab?”

  Fellows reached for the phone, and started to punch the buttons. Seemingly intent on his task, he didn’t even look at her.

  “Why? If you want to assist the inquiry, Lorraine, why don’t you at least admit to me that I’m right.”

  “Right about what?”

  He spoke into the phone and asked for a taxi to come right away, then covered the receiver asking Lorraine where she wanted to be taken. She gave him Rosie’s address and he repeated it to the cab company before he slowly replaced the receiver. Now he turned to her.

  “I think I am correct that you are the woman, the witness. It was you the killer attacked, am I right?”

  “No, Professor Fellows, you are wrong, I am not the woman. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and continued pacing. “I know you were a prostitute, I know the address you’ve just given to me for the cab tonight was also close to the area where the witness was dropped off by a cabdriver. Marengo Street, yes? Not far from Orange Grove. You see I have a very good memory, and you are an ex-cop. That to me is the main clue, why I think it is you, because if you called the station, if you gave the description, you would, as the anonymous caller did, use similar terminology. What I just don’t understand is why you’re lying.”r />
  “I’m not.” She stared at him and didn’t flicker. It was a long eye-to-eye confrontation and she didn’t back off in any way.

  “He said you were one of the best he’d ever worked with.”

  Lorraine snapped, “Rooney has a big mouth, but he knows nothing about my life since I left the force.”

  Fellows also started getting edgy, opening a file and pushing it across the desk. “I’d say this is pretty informative.”

  She pursed her lips as she saw the copy of her record. “The bastard,” she said, and then she deflated, slumping into the big leather chair. “Does he know? Rooney?”

  “No, in fact I wasn’t sure, until I met you, talked with you. You’re in a very precarious position, my dear.”

  “How did you work it out?”

  “I just took one almighty guess.” He snickered. “I threw in a wild card.”

  She laughed, tilting her head back, a deep, warm laugh that made him again feel an odd warmth toward her, or a protectiveness that slightly fazed him. He turned away, blushing slightly.

  “The description in the files fits—tall, thin, blond—except the missing tooth.”

  “I had it capped.”

  Fellows now sat on the arm of her chair. “I can’t see any need to tell Rooney, unless you’re holding anything else back?”

  Lorraine took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and then looked up into his face. “I’m not holding anything back, Professor. Just wish I had something else to get me fifty bucks a day when Rooney’s off the case. I doubt if anyone else would trust me.”

  “They’re fools. Does that mean the FBI will take over?”

  “Yes, within the next forty-eight hours. What about dates? Is there anything in the dates the killings took place?”