Kim didn't answer. In her hands, she held a crystal wrapped in tight brilliant wire, the wire twisted into knots about the blue stone and attached to a keychain, a possession of one of the victims. Kim had gone into a trance while holding on to the item that had come out of a box taken from the evidence room, a box labeled victim #3321-micellina petryna. Jessica watched as Kim writhed in something other than agony, something that appeared more than pleasant; indeed, the sounds coming out of her mouth were those of a person at the peak of ecstasy. Then in a blink, it was over, and Kim looked as if she'd been shocked into consciousness, her color returning, her eyes no longer glazed or shadowed. “I think I got something, a hit that may mean something, Jess.”
“What is it?”
“Earlier, in the earliest reading, I kept seeing the crime scene, but in a blindingly bright light that eventually coalesced into letters, spelling out the single word rampage. This alongside the number nineteen, sometimes transposed as ninety-one. I just saw another flashing, blinding light that not only spelled out rampage, but the other words I've been getting, too. Remember I saw the word quark and pre/light?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Add to them the word output. It wasn't outing, but output coming through.”
“Is that it? Any additional words that cropped up around your reading?”
“None… that's it.”
“Could these words have something to do with poetry?”
“More likely quantum mechanics,” Kim replied, her shoulders heaving.
“What about photography?” Jessica considered this possibility and balling up her fists, she added, “Imagine… if they have something to do with photography?” She grabbed the phone and dialed Marc Tamburino at Darkest Expectations.
“Who're you calling?” asked Kim.
Jessica put up a hand to her and said into the phone, “Mr. Tamburino? This is Dr. Coran. I have a quick question for you; do you mind?”
Kim heard a raspy, static-charged reply from the phone, the bookstore owner saying, “Sure thing, but whatever it is, it'll cost you more.”
“Whatever you like, but can you tell me if the numbers nineteen and/or ninety-one have any special significance in photography?”
“No, none that I know of.”
“In the world of words, poetry?”
“Again, doesn't ring any bells, not like you know, sixty-nine or nine-nine-nine or six-six-six.”
“What about the word rampage?”
“Rampage?”
“Has it anything to do with photography?”
“Yeah, sorta… it has to do with photo finishing; it's a machine. 317 I “And what about quark and preflight and output?”
“Yeah, all terms in the business, but some of that… well, that's pretty high-quality, resolution-specialty programming shit in film developing. I don't know a whole hell of a lot about that particular specialty, but I'm sure some of the photog profs at the university could tell you. They have classes on everything to do with photography over there.”
“Just tell me what you know about these terms.”
“I'd be blowing smoke up your… skirt. Look, I suggest you speak to the geniuses over to the colleges about these things.”
“Who, Marc? Who do I call?”
“The university has a specialist in film and photography, I'm sure. Why don't you talk to him or her? And by the way, when's my poetry going to appear in the Philly Inquirer? And when do I get it back?”
Jessica hung up to Tamburino's chorus of, “When do I see the bread? When, when?”
NINETEEN
He then believed the world to be governed by a Malignant Spirit, and at one time conceived himself… a fallen angel, though he was half-ashamed of the idea, and grew cunning and mysterious about it after I seemed to detect it.
— Lady Byron's statement to a doctor on the supposed insanity of her husband
Professor Leonard Throckmorton greeted Jessica and Kim in a stern, cool manner. A small man, he looked dwarfed by his desk, but his manners were impeccable. Hadn't their only witness said something about the politeness of the young man he'd seen leaving the crime scene? Throckmorton appeared to be in his late twenties, but in a dark corridor he could easily pass for a younger man. Something diffident in his manner made him seem feminine. Jessica realized that since he was chairman of the department at such a young age, his rise must have been nothing short of meteoric, but some probing told her and Kim that the man answered to Dr. Harriet Plummer, who appeared to like her department heads and colleagues on the youthful side.
“When I called Dr. Plummer to ask whom to speak to in the photography department, she instantly told me that you, sir, were the man to see if I wanted an expert in all facets of photography.”
“She does flatter me.”
“I told her I needed to know some details about film processing.” kim added, “And she instantly recommended you. Professor Throckmorton.”
He remained seated behind the desk, using it as a kind of barrier. “So, how can I help you, ladies… ah, Doctors?”
Kim told him of her psychometric hits. She finished with the list of words that had insinuated themselves into her mind, adding, “Each word gets more forceful as time goes on, as if each has a life of its own.”
Throckmorton chewed on his lower lip.
Jessica asked, “Do these words have any significance for you, sir?”
“They carry great meaning, yes.” Throckmorton informed them, “The list of words Detective Desinor is referring to all have to do with the job of a specialist in film.”
“And that specialty would be?”
“Film output, a film output specialist.”
“And this specialist… he does what, exactly?”
“Processes on a Quark system. You preflight film, trap the image you want, then you print it-that would be output-on a Rampage.”
“Rampage?”
“That is an NT system.”
“A computer photoshop processor?”
“Not unlike the sort you have yourself used at your local Kmart, but this is with film, video equivalents, and the job is done by a technician, a specialist, not a machine.”
“I see… I think.”
Kim asked, “Would this involve photo-processing toxins, say like selenium?”
“Indeed it would.”
“How many such specialists work in the city, Dr. Throckmorton?”
“Oh, I'd say you're looking at between twenty and thirty people. It's a highly skilled task when done the old-fashioned way. In a self-contained computerized system like you find at Wal-Mart, all the ingredients for processing are never touched by the operator. The specialist, on the other hand, gets his hands dirty- chemically speaking, of course-as he is required to do all the mixing and processing work by hand.”
The detectives stared at one another and Jessica said, “Then we have a poet and a photography specialist who is something of a chemist as well.”
“That does narrow the field,” Kim agreed, a slight smile of satisfaction curling her lips.
Jessica again turned to Throckmorton, who worked to light a pipe he'd pulled from a rack. She asked, “What sort of companies use such specialists?”
“Oh, production companies.”
“As in movies?”
“Movies, ads, business tapes, anything to do with video production. The key word for the film output specialist is video. He works with video.”
“Most major companies, including ad agencies, hire their work out, right?” Jessica wanted Throckmorton to give her every shred of information she could get. The man seemed to play the role of expert only reluctantly.
“You got it. The number of such companies is on the decline, and the call for a specialist in this area is rare nowadays, but I saw an ad in the paper just the other day for one.”
“Really?”
“Yes, which likely means-”
“That some poor slob lost his job not long ago?”
“Could
be our man,” suggested Kim. “Serial killing is often triggered by a dramatic or traumatic event.”
“As in locating a lost memory?” asked Throckmorton. “I've read a number of true-crime books, and I follow The Edge series on TV,” he explained in an apologetic voice. Say as in a threat to one's life, and losing a job for most ranks right up there with the biggies in the trauma department,” Jessica replied.
“Look, do you recall the ad and the paper you saw it in?” Kim tapped her knuckles on the desk.
“Wrapped some tools in it at home. But it was two days ago, deep in the Philadelphia Inquirer want ads, so… no promises.”
“How was it listed?”
“Under 'Film Output Specialist.' “
“We'll find it, and thanks.”
A check of the Philadelphia Yellow Pages turned up eighteen local production companies, and after phone calls, Kim and Jessica narrowed these down to eleven that did their own Rampage/NT work on the premises via computer-driven machinery, which meant they would have no need of a film output specialist.
The detectives narrowed the field further by learning of the three companies that had had recent openings in this field. Only two of these had recently fired someone from the position, a man named Stuart David Andrews from McReel Industries, and another named George Linden Gordonn from Record-Time Custom Photo amp; Video.
“George Gordonn,” said Jessica, “the name rings a bell…”
“I requested and finally received a patient list from Dr. Vladoc. He sent two lists, the cop list and the civilian list,” said Kim.
“He maintains a civilian practice as well?”
“Yes, out of his apartment on Second Street. Anyway, our boy George was on that list. Along with another surprise. Let me find it. Here… here is his name. He has been Vladoc's patient for the past year.” You don't suppose he's… yes, he's got to be our George from the Teacup, or was it another joint-you remember… the night we talked to the guy who was doing the video work.”
“Has to be one and the same. He said his name was George Gordonn, didn't he?” Jessica was pacing now as she thought. “It's too much of a coincidence to ignore. He was filming the poet performers, in a place Vladoc no doubt frequents.”
“What do you mean, Jess?”
“Remember the bartender, the one who said he'd had to throw out an older guy who was extremely short?”
“Are you saying that Vladoc was bounced, or that Vladoc might be in on the hunt and possibly the kill? That he's a predator?”
“I don't know, but I think we have to be cautious. Look further down the list.”
“Jesus-I see Garrison Burrwith's name.”
“The one Dean Plummer is convinced is the killer. Maybe she knew he was seeing a shrink, fueling her fears? And look. Locke is on the list as well.”
Kim asked, “Do you think it's significant that Vladoc is treating Gordonn, Locke, and Burrwith?”
“I can't say, but why didn't Vladoc come forward with these facts early in the investigation?”
“He didn't know we ever considered Burrwith a viable suspect. Because we didn't. And as for Gordonn, it's quite likely that no one asked Vladoc about him.”
Jessica felt a wave of incredulity wash over her. “So Vladoc had said nothing about working with Locke. He doesn't think that relevant to the case?”
“You are making it sound like Vladoc's part of the killings, or at the very least that he closed his eyes to it. Don't forget, Jessica, that he must work under a strict code of confidentiality.”
Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“You asked him for a patient list, and he complied, but he still cannot give up patient secrets, their absolute right to privacy.”
“He ought to've found a way to… to leak this information to us.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Only in the event that a patient confesses to a crime or displays incriminating evidence is the doctor required by law to turn over his notes. Only then does the privilege issue take a backseat. Vladoc has likely done what any self-respecting psychiatrist would have done.”
“He might have saved a life had he spoken up.”
“If he held suspicions that one of his patients had taken a life, he could only attempt to convince the criminal to step forward and accept punishment. Until the dangerous patient confesses and becomes a menace to others, the shrink's hands remain bound by client privilege. Vladoc can't give up his notes or make any comment on what passed between himself and a patient.”
“We have to share our findings and suspicions with Parry and Sturtevante, and while the evidence against Locke or Gordonn appears strong, despite its circumstantial nature, the case against 'Weird AT Vladoc is not firm at all.”
“Neither Parry nor Sturtevante will be able to deny the strange coincidence that ties George Gordonn with both the Second Street scene in a big way-taking live-action video.” Kim believed this all tied in to her visions neatly, almost too neatly.
“Get on the horn to the others. We're going to bust this asshole Gordonn,” Jessica declared.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite. Given what we know, there's no telling what a thorough search of the man's place will turn up. ”The FBI and PPD investigators organized into two teams, which stormed the production companies simultaneously for personnel records on each suspect. They learned that Stuart Andrews had caused some difficulty for his employers by excessive absence due to alcoholism, and that while he had not been fired, he was encouraged to take his gold watch and pension a little earlier than planned, whereas Gordonn, a young man, had indeed been dismissed for repeatedly missing days and showing up late and hung over.
They closely scrutinized the background of George Linden Gordonn, aware that with the weekend looming, the killer would probably be selecting a new victim. The personnel file showed that he had been let go as recently as the week before the first Killer Poet victim had surfaced.
When the file came up empty of photos of the suspect, one of the personnel secretaries assured James Parry that, “You really don't want to see a photo of that man. He's repulsive.” She had shivered on saying his name. “Warned them against hiring him in the first place.”
“How long did he work here?”
'Two years, three months, and eleven days. I know 'cause I do payroll, and I had to count every one of those days.” She burst into laughter at her own remarks. Parry and Sturtevante radioed their concern to everyone else, Parry saying over the wire, “We're reluctant to let the news spread about Gordonn, fearful of interviewing his working buddies, since one or more of them could tip him off to our interest. We're not exactly in Oz anymore, and so no one expects anyone outside of law enforcement to be cooperative. That would be asking too much.”
“We've got to obtain a federal warrant to stake out his home, and to get a photo surveillance under way,” said Sturtevante. “And I know you feds will have a lot more influence on a federal judge than I could ever hope to have, so it's up to you.” And you're a lot easier on an old judge's eyes than I am by a hefty margin, Jess,” added Parry.
“All right… I get the picture, but I think Dr. Desinor here can handle obtaining the warrant. She's got a lot more patience with local federal judges than I do, believe me.”
Kim nodded. “And besides, Jessica doesn't want to let this guy out of her sight for a moment.”
Jessica glared at her. “You reading my mind again?”
With Gordonn on her mind, Jessica hummed and half sang the words to an old favorite Gordon Lightfoot tune, “If You Could Read My Mind.”
“Just like an old-time novel, the kind the drugstores sell,” piped in Parry, equally bored with staring through binoculars at Gordonn, who was nervously pacing behind the curtains. Jessica watched now as Gordonn's dark silhouette suddenly disappeared. Had he stepped into another room? Had he sat down on a couch, into an armchair, prone on the floor? Had he gone out the back?
“He's on the move!” Jessica s
uddenly called out.
Parry looked out to see Gordonn burst through the front door, moving directly for the street. Jessica said, “He appears as harmless as a puppy dog; slight of build, thinning hair, undistinguished face, pale skin tone, small and unassuming in every way. Yet he somehow held sway over people's minds, convinced them to go wherever he wanted, to step softly right into their own deaths. He literally talked them out of their lives once he talked them into becoming the 'canvases' for his seemingly benign art form.”
“Yeah, how'd this weasel do that?” asked Parry.
Kim still hadn't gotten back with the search-and-seizure warrants, and Jessica had heard from her only once, something about a hard-nosed, liberal-assed judge who worried about “violating Gordonn's guar-an-teed rights for reasonable expectation of privacy.” Kim wanted to kill the man. Instead, she took her request to another judge during a break in the session, something to do with the original judge having the runs. “In the meantime, I had a psychic episode since last I saw you, Jess.”
“Having to do with the case?”
“Yes, well… I believe so, yes.”
'Tell me about it.”
“Further visions of the crimes, picking up images which lead me to images of… the victims posed for photos.”
“Posed?”
“The killer wanted and got photos of the poems, the killer's handiwork on their backs, before leaving each crime scene.”
“Souvenirs to treasure,” said Jessica, knowing serial killers' penchant for retaining mementos of their victims and the moment they had shared, souvenirs to help them relive the moment.
“This memorabilia of his work,” said Kim, “the killer must keep close at hand.”
“Gordonn just left the premises, Kim. I'll search for the nasty mementos in his home, if you can get me inside.”
“I'm working on it.”
ASAC FBI Agent James Parry and PPD Detective Leanne Sturtevante could feel the tension wringing out of their every pore. Each killing had raised the pressure on them, but with the arrest of Sturtevante's former girlfriend on suspicion of being the Poet Killer, the level became all but unbearable.
Bitter Instinct jc-8 Page 29