Bitter Instinct jc-8

by Robert W. Walker

  “According to records, Gordonn took photography courses at one of the local colleges. The University of Philadelphia-coincidentally.”

  “It occurs to me he had to learn his specialty somewhere, yes. What are you getting at?”

  “It's pretty obvious, Jim. All roads seem to lead us back to the university.”

  Before Parry could respond to her words, Sturtevante interrupted. “Message coming through from Dr. Desinor. She has the warrant and is a block off. We have a go on bugging the place but a no-go on search and seizure. Best she could do. It would've been a serious mistake to have taken anything out of the home.”

  Jessica nodded. “Got it.”

  TWENTY

  We are ne 'er like angels till our passions die.

  — Thomas Dekker (1572–1632)

  Leaving George Gordonn to a fresh surveillance team,

  Jessica, Sturtevante, Parry, and Kim regrouped at PPD headquarters. There Jessica called in Peter Vladoc to look at the latest findings and make an assessment of George Gordonn, openly and honestly.

  “My dear, Lord Byron's given name was George Gordon. Gordonn's mother's maiden name was Byron. Byron marries Harold Gordonn and the two would-be artists romantically concoct a quick exit from this world. As a photographic artist, Gordonn senior would have known the properties of selenium. The killings are based on this incident, but the story had been told in and around Philadelphia for so long that everyone considers it just another urban legend. Only thing is, young Gordonn researched his parents' death, and he learned that they intended for him to go out with them.”

  “And you didn't think it relevant to tell us about this?”

  “He's never threatened anyone in my presence; he's never admitted to being the Poet Killer, and he comes off as extremely well grounded, mentally speaking, for someone who began life as he did. Harmless, searching… these are words to describe George. Patient-doctor privilege forbids me to discuss our sessions in any but the most general of terms.”

  “Ironic,” said Sturtevante.

  “More like Byronic,” Vladoc countered. “Someone too fine, too delicate, too good for this world, too heroic in the sense of having the most exquisite of human sensibilities, an angelic nature too sublime to withstand the slings and arrows of this existence. That's what your killer thinks of his victims. Gordonn, on the other hand, detests what his parents did to him, leaving him alone in the world, and he hates them for attempting to kill him as well. A Byronic personality would be the last thing he would emulate.”

  “But one of the parents actually saved him,” Jessica said. “Exactly, and he is wrestling with his ambivalence, and has from the outset of our talks attempted to leam which one showed him more mercy. You see, he has a right to be angry with his parents for deserting him as they did, leaving him to grow up alone.”

  “Was he given to foster care?” asked Kim.

  “His foster parents have since passed on; natural causes.”

  “You're speaking as if you are certain Gordonn is not our killer,” said Sturtevante.

  Jessica added, “As if the killer is a heroic person by mere virtue of being… sensitive to the supposed needs of his victims, Dr. Vladoc, and you don't believe Gordonn sensitive enough to be this killer?”

  “Your killer is a worshiper of the angelic,” Vladoc countered. He nodded, his eyes going from Parry to each of the women investigators. “He sees himself this way, and sees each of his victims the same way.” His pause allowed them time to digest this.

  Sturtevante found a seat and fell into it. Clearing her throat, her eyes glassy, she said, “Maybe it's in their nature-the poets; the real ones, I mean-to feel only resentment for this world and all the sorrow it brings down around them.”

  “The ideals of beauty and spiritual wholeness subjected to ugliness and fragmentation,” said Jessica, “are the same that are expressed in Leare's poetry.”

  “As well as Locke's,” added Sturtevante. “And doubtless countless others'.”

  “We still need to catch George Gordonn in the act or speaking about the act, Jess,” said Parry. “We need someone to get him to open up.”

  Vladoc quickly agreed. “While you have some impressive patterns emerging here, the dots have yet to be connected, and I sincerely believe, from all my time spent with Gordonn, that he is incapable of such heinous acts.”

  “Perhaps you can locate some of the dots,” suggested Jessica, an edge to her voice.

  “In point of fact, I have one major dot for you. I know this George Gordonn and have known him as a patient for almost a year now.”

  “You've treated him?” asked Sturtevante, this news being new to her.

  “That's certainly a strange coincidence, Dr. Vladoc,” Parry observed dryly. He then asked, “Why didn't you tell us about him sooner?”

  “I have never known him to be violent; it never occurred to me that he could be a killer. I am still having trouble grasping the idea. He just doesn't fit the profile, despite all the business with his ruined family life.”Parry nearly shouted, “You didn't think it relevant to tell us about the man whose parents started the urban legend that began this back-writing fad among the young?”

  “I had and still have patient privilege to consider. But I tell you, Gordonn never gave me the least concern. I can't see him perpetrating the very act which took his parents' lives and nearly took his.”

  “He doesn't appear to have enough money to pay the normal household bills, Dr. Vladoc,” said Jessica. “How does he afford your sessions?” He pays with cash, always. I've never seen him use a check or credit card. He always insists on cash.”

  “Isn't that a bit strange?” asked Parry.

  “What isn't strange about this entire business?” Sturtevante put in.

  “Perhaps, since Dr. Desinor is also a psychiatrist,” began Jessica, a fist balled up and held against her teeth, “sharing information on Gordonn's case would only amount to consultation with a… a consultant, a colleague. That may not be a violation of the young man's civil rights or a breaking of your code of conduct.”

  “Yes, perhaps with Dr. Desinor's help, I'm sure you two can and will help this case along,” agreed Parry.

  “Then, after, we can do more research in the archives at the Inquirer.”

  “I'll be glad to help you in any way possible, Dr. Vladoc,” said Kim, striking a match and lighting the elderly psychiatrist's pipe.

  “And you have no idea where he's getting the money to pay your bills?” pressed Sturtevante.

  Jessica stood, nodding. “All right, while Dr. Vladoc and Kim make their determinations, we will pursue a line of questioning with Dr. Throckmorton at the university.”

  “It appears Gordonn took some classes in the photography department at the University of Philadelphia,” Sturtevante informed the others, and Vladoc knowingly nodded.

  “We'll rendezvous back here at five p.m.,” said Jessica, “if everyone is in agreement.”

  “Five it is,” said Vladoc. “We must get past this wrong direction you have all taken so that we can get back to the real madman, checkmate him before his next move.”

  By now, Jessica had become a familiar face on campus, but Parry and Sturtevante drew a few stares from students passing them in the hallways. They had returned to the photography department, where they spoke with Leonard Throckmorton, who informed them that Gordonn had indeed taken classes in the department with Professor Zachary Goldfarb, and that he had begun but not finished an ambitious film project on the life of Lord Byron.

  “What kind of film do you mean?”

  “Why, a documentary about the poet's greatest accomplishments. Do you know that it is impossible to find a bust of Lord Byron anywhere? You can get Beethoven, Mozart, but try to find Shelley, Keats, Byron, or any of the major poets-except for Shakespeare, of course. Not a large enough market, I suppose. Meanwhile, you can't throw a stone without hitting the bust of a composer.”

  “What can you tell us about Gordonn?”

/>   “Very little, I'm afraid.”

  “Start by telling us how much you knew of this Byron film he was intending to make.”

  “He was nearly finished with the project when he suddenly disappeared, dropped out, and as far as I know, the project went with him. But then, Dr. Goldfarb can tell you more about that than I can.”

  “Where is Goldfarb now?”

  “Presumably in class.”

  “We need to see him. When's class out?”

  'Twenty minutes. If you care to wait, I'll have him sent for.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “There's a lounge just down the hallway if you care to wait there.”

  “No, I'm quite sure the twenty minutes will be filled up right here, Dr. Throckmorton, because I have more questions.” Jessica sat down in a chair opposite the man's desk. “Since you know little about George Gordonn, then perhaps you can tell us about another suspect. ”Another suspect?”

  “The original George Gordon-Lord Byron.”

  “What do you now wish to know about Byron?” he asked, confused. “And how is a dead poet-one dead for well over a hundred and fifty years, I believe, a suspect in a murder investigation today?”

  “I was hoping you could tell us that.”

  Parry plopped down in the plush leather chair beside Jessica. He explained the connection they'd made between the Byron volume found at one of the victim's homes, George Gordonn, and Gordonn's “twisted, deceased” parents. Finally, after explaining about the suicide-pact death that was meant to take little George out as well, Parry told the other man about the poem on the six-year-old's back.

  “And now he's been making a film homage to Byron,” said Throckmorton. “I see why you are interested in Gordonn.” The department chairman then said, “Actually, Byron has become a kind of cult hero for many of America's youth, particularly those given over to the goth lifestyle, those black-trench-coated legions whose preoccupation with romanticism, heroism, and death have catapulted the Byron type and the Byronic hero into a kind of… well, I guess you'd call it godhead.”

  “Byronic hero?” asked Sturtevante, who'd remained standing. “Now I need a cup of coffee.”

  “Well, the Byronic hero… he occurs in many guises, taking on different characteristics in Byron's poetry, you know, the extremes of passion, the fervent and moody antihero, solitary, doomed, the one who stands outside or above ordinary criteria and jurisdictions or notions of right and wrong, good and evil.”

  “Yeah, I know what Byronism is if I search my memory banks from college lit courses,” said Sturtevante, sounding more frustrated than skeptical. “I just didn't expect this.”

  “Nor I,” the professor replied. “Are you detectives sure you weren't simply influenced by the volume of Byron's work you saw placed alongside the body?”

  “The Byron book was found with pages marked and lying on the nightstand,” Parry returned. “We think it's a strong, unifying element in George's twisted logic.”

  “What're you saying, Dr. Throckmorton?” put in Sturtevante. “That we have a killer with a Byron complex?” She turned to the others. “By the way, is there any such thing as a Byron complex?”

  “Why, yes,” Throckmorton explained. “A person with a Byron complex sees himself as a doomed and tragic figure, a kind of Prometheus who is pecked to death not by an eagle but by the smug, indifferent, and uncomprehending world to which, like the Prometheus of myth, he has brought light. Perhaps you ought to talk to a shrink about this, not a photography professor,” he finished.

  “We are, as we speak, getting support from that quarter,” Jessica informed him.

  “How amazing. I had no idea that Lord Byron had any connection whatsoever to… to these deaths.”

  The twenty-minute wait for Dr. Goldfarb was up, and so Dr. Throckmorton, fearing he'd miss Zach, as he called the other man, rushed out himself to fetch him.

  “Not a very forthcoming fellow at first but once he gets to know you…” Jessica observed with a smile to lighten Parry's mood.

  “Rather uptight, I agree.”

  Leanne said nothing, pacing instead.

  “Why don't you sit down somewhere, Detective?” asked Parry.

  In a moment, Dr. Goldfarb stepped in, saying, “Dr. Throckmorton has informed me of your interest in a former student of mine, a George Gordonn, and his film project.” He held up a black record book, scanning it for Gordonn's grades. “He accumulated a series of D's and low C's before dropping out, withdrawing from the class. What more can I tell you?”

  “Is there anything you can tell us about him of a more personal nature? What was he like?”

  “I had no discipline problems with him; he displayed no odd behavior, if that's what you mean. Somewhat subdued, sullen as I recall, a bit withdrawn.”

  “I see.”

  '1 fear I can tell you very little, but I will be happy to assist in any way that I can. Outside of classwork, I know next to nothing about any of my students, and Gordonn wasn't an especially notable student, to be hank, save for his interest in Byron, his proposed project I remember being surprised that he selected the poet for his term project Most admirable. I usually get projects about the effects of concussions on NFL quarterbacks.”

  “So George Gordonn challenged himself and that surprises you?”

  “By term's end, I only knew him as a grade. Over a hundred students in my Literature in Film class, so sorry, but he really made little impact on me, and as for his film and aspirations to do definitive work on Byron, it was a joke. He couldn't do it. He simply hadn't the intellect for it; it's as simple as that. What little of the film I saw in its early stages was merely… pitiable.”

  “But he works as a specialist, or has worked as a specialist with film development.”

  “Workhorse stuff in this arena. He was no photographer, and certainly no writer/director.”

  “So he failed to complete your course?”

  “Dropped out, at my urging, you see. He and I both knew he was heading straight for an F. I do remember one strange thing he told me once, but I thought it a mere affectation, so I paid it little attention.”

  “Until now?” asked Parry. “What strange thing did he tell you?” Said he had been the first young person ever to disrobe and show a poem emblazoned on his back as so many do now in the pubs on Second Street; said he started the trend in a South Street pub and coffeehouse called Charlie's or Charles's Manse or something of the sort.”

  “That clinches it,” said Sturtevante. “He's got to be our man.”

  Goldfarb looked stricken. “Do you actually think him capable of murdering people?”

  “Did you believe him? About his starting this fad in the coffeehouses and pubs?” asked Jessica, startled at this news.

  “I chalked it up to bravado, talk, you know.”

  “And that's the last you saw of him?” asked Sturtevante, her eyes locked onto the professor.

  “Well, yes, we had no further reason for contact.”

  “Thanks for your help, Professor Goldfarb. I think we've got all we came for.”

  “I'm sorry I could be of no more help,” finished the pompous little man before disappearing through the door.

  “Little weasel,” said Sturtevante in his wake.

  A quick check in the phone book showed no Charlie's or Charles's Manse, but there was a listing for Charlemagne's. The trio of detectives headed directly for the coffeehouse, the oldest in the area, according to its sign. Tucked away on a dead-end street off Second, it was out of the way of the normal flow past such places as Starbucks.

  It had not been overlooked in the police sweep of the coffeehouses, but it had produced no leads, and so, like the others, it had ceased to be of interest, until now. When they got to the door, Sturtevante begged off, telling the others to work the place. 'Two detectives are unwanted company,” she said, “three's a police action.” But I was going to suggest a bite to eat, Leanne, at Sitale's,” Parry said.

  “Not for me.
”

  Parry protested. “A late-afternoon lunch/dinner before rendezvousing with Desinor and Vladoc back at headquarters. Come on, you haven't eaten all day.”

  She didn't go into any details but claimed she had an urgent private matter to deal with. “Something I must take care of.”

  Jessica imagined it had something to do with her broken relationship with Donatella Leare.

  At Charlemagne's they learned very little. No one working the day shift had any recollection of Gordonn, and when they flashed his photo, hastily taken by the detectives who'd been watching the man and forwarded to them, everyone in the establishment drew a blank. Either that or they were good actors. They weren't particularly interested in cooperating with authorities. This much was clear.

  Jessica and Parry left feeling unhappy with the continued lack of results, cheering each other with the fact that Goldfarb could be called in to testify to what Gordonn had said to him about starting the back-poetry fad. “Another nail in his coffin,” Parry, using his favorite figure of speech, commented.

  Parry located a small Italian restaurant in the heart of Philadelphia, a place that had become his favorite among the downtown eateries.

  The restaurant turned out to be splendid, the dishes authentic old-world cuisine. Over wine and food, James Parry opened up to Jessica, telling her how he had lost his post in Hawaii, and how much it had devastated him. “It was all a lot of hogwash, but hogwash that had been accumulating since… well, before I met you.”

  “Hogwash in the FBI has a way of accumulating to the point where you find yourself drowning in it,” she replied, commiserating with his situation. “If I had a dime for every time some BS-stuffed official in the ranks came into my lab and made demands, well… go on, Jim.”

  “It was based on my not following proper procedure during just such a case as we have today.”

  “Really?”

  “A murder conviction on a mobster had been thrown out of court, and the resulting fallout rained down on me. It had been a case the Bureau had been building for years.”