“That’s one of my questions, yes.”
“Okay. Do we know for sure he brought the gloves with him?”
“No. I don’t know. Why’s that important?”
“Because he might have found them there, in the bedroom.”
“Found the gloves in the bedroom? In the middle of summer?”
Varma’s mouth twisted in derision. “In a drawer, obviously, or in the closet somewhere. You were the one who came to me for help, remember?”
“Yeah, of course. Sorry. I suppose he could have found them, yeah, but why put them on?”
“Because he’s role-playing. It makes sense with someone like that. He’s seen who knows how many movies where people strangle each other while wearing black leather gloves. Always wanted to try it himself. The opportunity presents itself, and he certainly can’t pass it by.”
“That could be it,” said Jarsdel. “But he was in a hurry. Alarm was blasting. I just can’t see him stopping to put on gloves. And how would he have gotten her to just sit still while he did it? Just like, hey, hang on a sec while I get ready to strangle you?”
“Again,” said Varma, her expression hardening. “You came to me for my opinion.”
“Sorry.”
“Is that everything?”
“He didn’t bite her. And that’s one of the things he almost always does.”
“You just said ‘almost,’ so why is it odd that he didn’t?”
“I should have clarified. The women. And girls. Females. Always bites them if they’re female. Doesn’t always bite the men. Just two we know of. Zephyr Galka, on the carotid artery and drank from the wound. And, um, Bill Lauterbach. He bit off… Well, so yeah. Rarely the men. But always the women.”
Varma was distracted. As they spoke, she continued to sneak glances at the print hanging on the wall beside her desk—the tableau of the three comatose men lying amid piles of food. “You indicated he was in a hurry,” she said. “Alarm was blasting. Maybe he felt too rushed to enjoy it, so he didn’t bother.”
“Yeah. But if that’s true, the gloves are even more of a puzzle.”
“Agreed.”
“And what I really can’t figure out is the broom.” Jarsdel halted, suddenly uncomfortable. “This is unpleasant stuff. Are you—”
“I really hope you’re not about to ask me if I can handle the grisly details. I wouldn’t be much use if I couldn’t cope with the evil that men do. I’m assuming you’re about to tell me the victim was penetrated with a broom?”
“Yes.”
“Vaginally? Anally?”
“V—the first one.”
“Mmm. And that bothers you. I mean, apart from your aesthetic sensibilities?”
“This doesn’t feel like the right time,” said Jarsdel.
“As good a time as any to discuss broom rape. What’s your concern?”
“My concern is where’d he get it? We go back to the issue of time. He breaks in—which still remains a mystery as to how, because we got no forced entry—and sets off the alarm. Goes right up to her room. Chokes her—and this is a manual air choke, no ligature, thumbs smash her hyoid bone—and then he leaves. But at some point in all of this he has to go out of his way for this broom. And keep in mind it’s not heavy enough to use as a weapon, so the only reason he would’ve picked it up was for the purpose he ended up using it for. So where’d he get it? Because I checked, and it wasn’t from anywhere upstairs. No, the broom matched a brush and dustpan set, and the spot it was missing from was a cabinet in the garage.”
Varma didn’t look very impressed. “How do you know the broom was from there?”
“The hardware meant to hold it in place was empty. And I matched a stray bristle on the floor of the cabinet to the broom head.”
“So you’ve proven the broom came from the garage. Sounds like you answered the question as to where he got it. Maybe I’m missing something. What’s the big aha moment with this?”
Jarsdel was disappointed. Why hadn’t she been able to answer that question herself? “Because,” he said, taking his time, still hoping she’d jump in with a revelation, “because how did he know it was there? There was no indication he went rifling through the house. There was no disarray, other than in the bedroom, yet he goes right to the one spot in the house he knows there’s a broom.”
Varma shifted in her chair, glancing again at the print tacked to the wall. “I don’t see why the broom couldn’t have already been in the bedroom.”
“Why? What for?”
“I don’t know, Tully. Sweeping, maybe? Isn’t that what brooms are for?”
“Sweeping what?”
“You check trash contents?”
“Of course. Nothing. No broken glass, no bread crumbs, not even a dust bunny. In fact, the house had just been cleaned.”
Varma raised her hands as if to say, well there you go. “The maid or the housekeeper or whatever left it there. Happens. So hard to find good help these days.”
“That’s not possible,” said Jarsdel.
“Why not? You just said they had the place cleaned.”
“They did. The Sponholzes contract with one of those franchised cleaning services. But I checked with them, and they didn’t do it.”
“You’re a very trusting person. Why would they tell you the truth about leaving a broom somewhere?”
“Because they bring all their own equipment.”
Jarsdel’s words hung out there, unanswered. Varma looked back at him, offering nothing of her own. Finally she shrugged. “No idea, then. I think I’m a little distracted. Sometimes, you know, with what I do, it’s complex. There’s a lot to balance.”
She gestured at her copy of the Times. “It still continues. And you know what’s really interesting?” she said, speaking quickly now. “I’m amazed no one’s yet raised the possibility that this Father Duong was insane, or at least a little bit off, you know, mentally. Not many people are aware of it, but piety is itself a form of narcissism. All that self-flagellating, teetotaling, holier-than-thou crap is designed to make you feel special. To bring you attention and therefore a kind of power. It’s a route to power that’s critic proof, because it comes across as being so against the ego, when in fact it’s just another face of the ego. And could you think of a more spectacular way to immortalize yourself than to pull a stunt like this? It’s PR gold.”
“But none of this has anything to do with you, does it?” asked Jarsdel.
“Of course not, but I resent how they put it; the implication, however buried or…or cleverly phrased, that maybe it’s the anti-affordance street furniture that’s to blame for this man’s death, and not the fact that he set himself on fucking fire. And it’s astonishing: no one’s saying ‘Huh, maybe he had some problems?’ Anyone else kills themself, and right away it’s understood the person was overcome, couldn’t function anymore, ran out of answers or coping mechanisms. But this guy sets himself on fire on a public bench surrounded by reporters, and no, he’s not disturbed. He’s making a statement.”
Jarsdel couldn’t think of anything to say to that, and Varma steamed ahead.
“And do you have any idea the damage he caused to that ReliaBench? It’s cheaper to replace it than it is to clean it. That’s how bad it stinks of smoke. What a selfish, sanctimonious little shit. Ugh.”
Jarsdel flinched. He’d never met Father Duong, but accusing him of selfishness felt almost blasphemous. The man had been, by all accounts, a saint.
Varma seemed to sense Jarsdel’s unease. She flapped a hand dismissively. “You know what, forget it. Seriously unprofessional, going off like this. I’m just leery of people getting distracted from the real issue here. Have you seen the crime stats from the month since my anti-affordances were put in place? We’re talking double-digit reductions across the board. This is saving lives. You want to see something else th
at’s going to make a difference?”
From beneath her desk, she pulled out a quart-sized can of paint. The label had a fat green stripe running across it, so Jarsdel assumed that was probably the paint’s color.
“You know what this is?” Varma asked.
“Looks like paint.”
“It is. It is paint. But it’s a very special kind of paint. This sample just arrived from a friend of mine in England, where they use it all the time. It’s even on the walls surrounding Buckingham Palace.”
She worked a car key under the lid and popped it free. The stuff inside was the color of swamp moss. Using a pencil, she scooped up a bit and smeared it on a legal pad. She slid the pad across the table, then tossed the pencil in the trash.
“Go ahead, touch it.”
Jarsdel dipped a finger in the paint and drew a sickly looking happy face. “Okay,” he said.
“How’s it feel?”
“I guess”—he wiped the rest of the paint onto the paper—“a little greasy.”
Varma nodded. “Uh-huh. Now that greasiness doesn’t go away. It stays like that, even after you paint a surface with it. Never totally dries. See the possibilities?”
“Sounds disastrous. Why would you want a feature like that?”
“Because if you’re climbing where you shouldn’t be climbing, this stuff’ll return you to earth. It also marks the trespasser for later identification. It’s called ‘anti-climb paint.’ And you only put it in strategically designated places. Usually above eight feet, and near anything that someone might try to scale. It’s pretty expensive, but so’s the damage done by vandals and thieves, right? Anyway, Halberd Systems is working on a more affordable line. You can even send in your paint chips and they’ll make a custom batch for you. What do you think?”
Jarsdel found he’d gotten some of the paint on his palm, and rubbed his hands together. Instead of dissipating, the remaining paint seemed to spread. Annoyed, he pulled a tissue from a box nearby and did his best to clean it off.
“I think it’s just phenomenal,” he said. “Tell me, where can I get some?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but Varma looked wounded. “It’s very effective,” she said. “You know what someone said? Someone they quoted in here?” She pointed at the newspaper as she spoke, her cadence picking up again. “Some sociologist, he says my innovations reek of fascistic social engineering. I’m thinking, wow, he’s a sociologist? Does he even understand what fascism is? Fascism is a police state. Fascism is about an increased, aggressive, censorious police presence. It’s about people living in terror of their own government.
“What I’m doing runs so contrary to that, I mean…” She grunted in frustration. “The whole point, Tully, the whole point is that with my system there’s less need for police, fewer contacts with law enforcement, fewer crimes because the environment simply doesn’t support their commission. Everyone’s safer—even the criminals! Because the criminals aren’t committing crimes, they’re not getting arrested or shot or sent off to prison. It’s such a profound misunderstanding. And the ignorance of it. The ignorance.” She held up trembling hands. “It enrages me.”
It was tempting to share in her anger. After all, he still couldn’t flex the fingers of his left hand, and he supposed that was just fine with sociologists. It was easy to cast down judgments and labels from high above. He’d himself once nurtured such fuzzy-headed notions, back when he didn’t know how the world really worked. Back when the most terrifying thing he thought he’d after have to face was a thesis committee. He too would’ve likely condemned Varma’s efforts.
“I understand what you’re trying to do,” he said. “I think a lot of people do. They’re just quick to jump on anything they feel smacks of—I don’t know—persuasion. Of getting people to do something without their understanding or consent.”
“Oh, wow,” she said. “That’s extraordinary. Have those same people ever wondered how advertising works? Or color selection in restaurants? Or how about the way supermarkets are laid out? The whole world is put together to get us to do things without our understanding or consent.”
“I know.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “What about more basic stuff? What about speed bumps? Are those wrong, too? What about designs meant to improve traffic flow and reduce accidents? How’s what I’m doing any different?”
Varma massaged her temples. “I’m sorry. I’m just really frustrated. People are so unbelievably dumb sometimes. They don’t understand when you’re trying to help them. I’m not even sure why I try so hard. They deserve whatever hell they want to live in. And it will be hell—you can free yourself from any doubt about that.”
She picked up the copy of the LA Times and threw it into her wastebasket. “Utter nonsense. I should sue for libel. But then I’m even more the bad guy. One of the hardest things about being in the public eye is all the shit you have to eat.”
“I was thinking,” said Jarsdel, hoping to change the subject, “maybe we could go out to dinner tonight?”
“Do what?”
“Dinner, tonight. Take your mind off this stuff.” He gestured vaguely at the Times jutting from the mouth of the wastebasket. “I could use it, too. A night away from anything Creeper-related.”
“You know I can’t,” said Varma.
“I’ll keep things perfectly platonic.” He paused, then added, “Unless you feel like doing something else.”
“Look, I told you, we can think about that sort of thing in a couple weeks.”
Her tone was sharp, and Jarsdel was embarrassed by his overtures. “Yeah, ’course.”
Varma rubbed at her bottom lip with her index finger, her gaze going past him, through him. “You know what I used to do? Before I got into security? I was an oral hygienist. Did that job for two years. Two years of that. The money’s okay, but you’d never guess how much strength it takes.”
Jarsdel wanted to go, felt she didn’t really want him there. Yet she continued to speak.
“Not just from holding those awkward positions with your hands—holding your hands that way over a person’s face and being so, so careful with every little movement. I mean, most people are already afraid, and you’re trying to make it better, or at least trying not to make it worse. But that’s not the thing that takes the most strength. Any guesses?”
Jarsdel shook his head.
“It’s people’s tongues. Some’ll tell you it’s the strongest muscle in the human body. That’s not true, but it sure can feel that way. All day long you’re battling tongues. They push against you. They want you out of there. The patient can be totally compliant, but the tongue has its own plans. Kinda makes you hate them after a while. Like big slugs. And you’ve got your scaler instrument—you know, your tartar remover. Sharp little hook.” She raised a gently closed fist, as if she held the tool in her hand. “And…by the way, I’ve talked to many others in the field, and I’m not the only one who’s thought about this… You realize it would be so easy to gaff that tongue like a fish. Move it where you want it to go. When you’re out of patience, it’s an attractive thought. Of course you don’t do it. The guy would never come back, and you’d be out of a job.”
“Alisha.”
Varma looked up at him.
“Call me, okay? You know I’m with you on that city council thing.”
“City council,” Varma repeated. “Right. Thank you.”
“And when all that’s over, we can get to know each other.”
“Yes.” Varma smiled. “Yes, I’m so looking forward to that.”
17
Robbery Homicide Division had recently celebrated its fiftieth anniversary. Along the hallways leading to the conference room were tributes to its most celebrated cases; one of the earliest among these was Tate-La Bianca, the mass murders that had drawn the sixties—both the decade and the zeitgeist—to an appropriat
ely grim finale. Jarsdel passed the display each time he went to work, briefly locking eyes with Charles Manson’s wild-eyed stare.
He’d been perfectly cast. Haggard, feral, a living raw nerve. Yet under it all beat a certain dark intelligence, along with a showman’s knack for generating publicity. His message—impenetrable, almost gleefully incoherent—was in many ways incidental. What mattered was the glimpse of true nihilism he offered an America reeling from war, upheaval, and gnawing disillusionment. He was a boogeyman for everyone, from the Nixon Now crowd to the patchouli-scented masses prowling the Sunset Strip. No matter who you were, Manson was there for you, a gift-wrapped symbol of everything that was wrong with your world. He was chaos and emptiness both at once, given a face.
Jarsdel wondered, as he always did when he passed that photograph, how the Creeper’s face would compare. Would he too become an icon of madness? Or would the spotlight neuter him, funnel away his mystique and reveal him to be nothing but a sadistic man-child? One who probably couldn’t speak in words of more than a single syllable, and who’d failed at everything he’d ever done, other than murder.
Either way, unmasking the Creeper could only help. Whether he turned out to be a hoofed demon with fangs and bright-yellow cat’s eyes, or a drooling, moon-faced imbecile—no matter what flavor of crazy he was, it didn’t matter. The public needed to meet him, needed a place to focus its terrors. As long as he remained in the shadows, the Creeper had all the power. He could expand beyond the bounds of his human shape, growing into a legend, a phantom.
Jarsdel entered the conference room and took his seat at the table, noticing that the other detectives—Rall, Mailander, Al-Amuli—all sat with at least two empty chairs between them. None wanted to be there, and none wanted to engage.
Sponholz was on his way. First day back from compassionate leave. His wife’s body had been released from the coroner’s, cremated following a private, nondenominational ceremony, and the ashes released by helicopter in a small gray puff above Angeles National Forest. And now Sponholz, husband of the murdered deceased, was going to lead the investigation into his wife’s homicide.
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