Frenzy

by John Lutz

  If not fate, it had to have been Michelangelo.

  Yes! Michelangelo!

  Surely he was on the cops’ suspect list!

  The killer laughed so hard he began pounding the steering wheel.

  Then he stopped and glanced about. He didn’t want people to notice and wonder.

  Not that they’d believe the truths that he’d been told.

  65

  If there was anyone on this earth Helen the profiler felt contempt for, it was the actively curious, self-serving, double-crossing, viciously ambitious, aggressively charming Minnie Miner. So Helen wasn’t crazy about Quinn and Renz suggesting that she should be a guest on Minnie Miner ASAP and discuss the D.O.A. murders.

  But here she was.

  Not only that, but a certain part of her had actually warmed to the task.

  They’d consulted with Helen on what she should say that would increase the pressure on the killer. And they listened closely to her opinions and suggestions. Both men, to their credit, deferred to her expertise.

  Helen was sure the killer felt that he was near the precipice. If she could contribute pushing him over into the void, she’d be glad to do so. Even if it meant dealing again with Minnie Miner.

  So Helen found herself seated in one of the two comfortable chairs that were angled toward a small table and microphone. The chairs were much more worn and stained than they appeared on TV. Some of it was wear. Some of it was perspiration created when Minnie put her guests on the spot. Minnie was a clever and insistent verbal predator.

  A camera moved smoothly closer to Helen, its bulging eye aimed at her face. Another camera glided in for a three-quarter shot of Minnie. Figures moved in the background. The light became brighter, warmer, as Minnie was introduced. The applause from the audience was mildly enthusiastic rather than deafening. It was mostly comprised of people Minnie’s minions had managed to drag in from the street. They fell silent while the applause sign was still held high by a Levi’s-clad girl who appeared to be in her teens.

  Minnie, smiling broadly, quickly held up her hands as if she had signaled for quiet.

  When the studio was silent, she said, “My guest today is a famous profiler. When I say that, I don’t mean she’s a painter or photographer. For those of you left on this planet who don’t know what a police profiler does, it’s very interesting and necessary work. She’s more interested in what goes on in a criminal’s mind than in what he looks like. She’s a psychological profiler for law enforcement agencies, and she, maybe more than anybody other than his mother—if she’s still alive—knows how the D.O.A. killer thinks. She’s trained to know what goes on in his sick mind, how to walk with him along the corridors of his madness. What he feels. Why he does what he does. What he might do in the future.” Minnie smiled widely and motioned toward Helen. “This is Helen Iman, and she’s here to tell us all about the D.O.A. killer.”

  The applause was loud, and genuinely enthusiastic this time. Helen had to admit that it made her feel good. Though she’d thought she was immune to the disease of celebrity, so many hands clapping for her brought a smile to her face. She wondered now if she should have worn something more formal than her blue sweats and joggers.

  Helen waited for Minnie to open the conversation. Minnie had a reputation for ambushing her guests.

  But Minnie also knew how to keep her viewers in suspense.

  That was okay. Helen knew how to wait.

  “So if Quinn failed to apprehend this killer the first time around,” Minnie finally said, “why was he chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation into these latest murders?” That one oughta knock the profiler off balance.

  “He wasn’t chosen by the commissioner. He was chosen by the killer.”

  Uh-oh! This one is dangerous. Instead of being knocked off balance by the opening question, she had counterpunched.

  Minnie decided to ask something safe. “So tell me why you’re a police profiler, Helen.”

  Small talk. “Corny as it sounds,” Helen said, “I want to fight crime. The way I can best contribute is to bring my knowledge of psychology and irredeemable criminal behavior to bear.”

  Minnie put on a wide smile. “You catch killers.”

  “Among other sorts of criminals, yes.”

  Minnie raised an eyebrow and wore a look of puzzlement. “You said ‘irredeemable.’ So you don’t think a killer like D.O.A. can find God and be rehabilitated?”

  Helen almost choked. “I think such a killer is evil, and cannot be brought back from the hell where he’s put himself and his victims.”

  “Surely this isn’t true of all killers,” Minnie said.

  “Not much is true of all of anything.”

  Minnie thought about that. Brightened her all-purpose perky smile. “But you think D.O.A. is evil.”

  “Of course I do. He might well have another side that he shows people, but the killer in him is always just below the surface.”

  “Satan?” Just a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.

  “If you like,” Helen said. Let the sick creep think he might be Beelzebub. She leaned closer to her microphone, not taking over the conversation, but nudging it the way she wanted it to go. “I also think there’s something about those killers who are genuinely evil. The pressure of what they’ve done builds and builds in them. Every one of them eventually breaks.”

  “So you think this killer is feeling the pressure?”

  “Yes. And he’s about to break.”

  “Break?”

  “Come unglued.”

  “You sound certain.”

  “I am. I’ve seen this kind of killer before. He’s in the powerful grip of a mental illness, and he’s wrestling with himself.”

  “But hasn’t he been from the beginning? What makes you think the killer is about to break now?” Minnie asked.

  “Because now he wants to break,” Helen said. “He needs to be stopped. He knows that, and in an odd kind of way, he’ll cooperate in his downfall.”

  “And he would do that because . . . ?”

  “He knows he’s evil. If D.O.A. is who we think he is, he’s thirty-five years old, and his parents were murdered when he was fourteen. Every year that passes becomes more of a burden. Denial has become impossible.”

  Minnie clasped her hands as if fascinated. And maybe she really was. “What are some of the signs you see pointing to that?”

  “Before I answer that question, you should know some things about D.O.A. Things in general that might not be precise but make up the standard profile of such a killer. He’s a male, between eighteen and forty-five years of age . . .” Helen went on to give Minnie and her fans the usual profile of a TV-show serial killer. As she spoke, she could see by Minnie’s frozen smile that she wanted Helen to get on to something her audience hadn’t already heard dozens of times.

  That was okay with Helen; she was talking specifically to the killer, not the audience.

  Finally Minnie interrupted, to keep the show rolling. “But what makes you think this particular killer is about to break at this particular time? What are the signs?”

  “He’s getting sloppy. And he’s killing more often and with increasing violence, the way serial killers do when they sense they’re nearing the end. They become desperate. They begin making small mistakes. They unconsciously attempt to move closer to whatever kind of death awaits them.”

  “Can you give our audience an example of the D.O.A. killer’s mistakes?”

  “Not in the way of clues. That information is closely held by the police.”

  “But otherwise?”

  “Sure,” Helen said. “Our D.O.A. killer is obviously becoming desperate. He’s raised the ante by torturing and murdering a married couple. He’s unconsciously signaling that he’s ready to surrender to his fate. His mind has become a jungle of conflicts.”

  “You make him sound like a hopeless whacko.”

  “He is. But one who understands his weakness, and that he’s nearing th
e end.”

  “And his weakness is?”

  “Himself, of course.”

  As she said that, something cold moved in Helen’s mind. Somehow—she wasn’t sure how—she knew the killer was watching. On his own TV, or on one in a bar or restaurant, somewhere, he was watching.

  Mental case? Nearing the end? His weakness is himself? The D.O.A. killer felt like throwing his glass through the TV screen.

  He put down the glass and sat back in his sofa, his hands flexing, flexing. He glanced down and noticed them. Knew what he wanted to do with them.

  Mental case.

  He glanced around at the art on his walls, the artists whose work he favored. Bosch, with his visions of horror; Van Gough, who spread madness with his brushes; Manet, who was sexually addicted and died of syphilis. As if anchoring these prints of terror were several large Picassos, nude women observed from different, severed angles simultaneously, as if they’d been butchered by a madman with surgical skills, then reassembled like mismatched puzzles pieces and placed on display. Prints of madness.

  Possessed and cherished by a mental case?

  A vulnerable mental case?

  Then he realized that this was precisely how they wanted him to feel. To act. Out of weakness and vulnerability.

  They’d find out how weak he was.

  He understood his nemesis, Quinn, and what the strategy here was. He, the killer, was supposed to “up the ante” by going after somebody close to Quinn. Like Pearl or her daughter Jody.

  Or he might go after Helen the profiler. Seeking revenge for what she’d said. A temptation, for sure.

  But that kind of revenge wasn’t in his plans. Helen wasn’t his type at all. And she might put up the kind of a struggle that could get out of hand.

  No, he had a better idea.

  And it was the same idea.

  Weaver.

  Weaver would be next.

  Weaver, who was also Eileen the food server and undercover cop at the Far Castle. Weaver, who had drawn attention to herself through her clumsiness at table, who held supposedly clandestine brief conversations with Quinn. Weaver, who knew both sides of the story. Weaver, who had eluded him before.

  Who knew what Quinn and the police knew. Who was the nexus of the D.O.A. killer investigation and the Bellezza search.

  The killer sipped his cold beer and licked foam from his upper lip.

  Weaver.

  Who would tell him everything.

  66

  After the dinner rush, only about half the tables in the Far Castle were occupied, and some of their occupants were already enjoying dessert. Nancy Weaver, aka Eileen, had reached the end of her shift. She said good night to another waitress and to the cashier, then left the Far Castle, and walked toward her subway stop.

  Fedderman fell in behind her, half a block back. When she reached home and was tucked away, radio cars would do frequent drive-bys, and two NYPD undercover cops would alternate keeping watch on Weaver’s building. Once Fedderman delivered her to her apartment, he could rest knowing she was safe. And so could she.

  Not that Weaver was particularly frightened now, as she crossed the street and continued on her way. She didn’t look back, but she knew Fedderman was there. Even if he wasn’t, Weaver herself knew how to ward off or capture an attacker, and on dark streets she walked with her right hand in her purse, resting on her nine-millimeter Glock handgun.

  Between Weaver herself and her guardian angels, she might be the safest woman in New York.

  Though that wasn’t exactly the plan.

  On dark stretches, like the one they were approaching, Fedderman, too, walked with his hand resting on his gun. He was vigilant but unworried. D.O.A. was heavily into torture, and for that he needed solitude. His victim’s were tortured, raped, and killed in their apartments, usually in their beds. What better place for lovers and murderers to suffer their private agonies?

  It was in her apartment when Weaver was at her most vulnerable.

  If she was vulnerable at all.

  Fedderman slowed his pace. He could make out the dark, shadowed form of Weaver up ahead, hear the staccato clacking of her high heels on the sidewalk. Fedderman keyed on that repetitious clacking. As long as there was no change in its rhythm or volume, everything up ahead was all right.

  He found himself thinking about Penny. When they’d met earlier for lunch they’d again renewed their determination to make their marriage work. What it took, Fedderman had decided, was his understanding and concern. Penny had to be reassured that he empathized with her feeling that their lives were always on edge. His was a dangerous profession, and they had to work together on living with grim possibilities. Plans for the future were always tentative. That didn’t mean they shouldn’t enjoy the present.

  Or that they shouldn’t plan.

  Fedderman tripped and almost fell as he snagged a heel stepping off a curb. That had been close to being a turned ankle. Not something he could afford.

  Concentrate on what you’re doing.

  He gazed ahead. There was Weaver, half a block up, slightly farther away than Fedderman liked. She was striding out in those high heels, the way women do if they wear them frequently. It occurred to Fedderman that high heels lengthening women’s strides might be why they were sometimes harder to tail than men. Also, it seemed that women wearing high heels were always going someplace in a hurry. Maybe they—

  Pain exploded behind his right ear.

  He was on the ground, the heel of his right hand burning from where he scraped the skin while breaking his fall.

  He was still trying to figure out what happened when something glanced painfully off his right ear and struck his shoulder.

  He decided to lie still and think, think . . .

  He’d been struck in the head long ago by his brother, accidentally, when they were trying to make shore after fishing in darkness that was falling over the lake. His brother had been alive then, and strong; it had been before the cancer. The shadows of the trees leaning out from the bank were lengthening. Overhead, stars were becoming visible. His brother was sitting in front of him in the canoe, straining his muscles and dipping deep with his paddle, when it broke from the water and Fedderman was leaning forward with his own paddle . . .

  Darkness gathered over the lake.

  67

  Weaver awoke in a totally dark place, and it took her only a few seconds to realize she was tightly bound. Her back ached. That was because she was laid out on something hard. On her knees, breasts, and stomach, and the side of her face. Her elbows were pulled back and painfully bound to each other or to something immovable. Her thighs were spread and her legs bent at the knee. Her ankles were tied to something that felt as if it was several feet across. A rope or collar was fastened around her neck and attached to the hard surface she was on, so that she could only barely raise her head.

  She attempted to moan. Something, a knotted rag, was stuffed into her mouth, muffling the sound. There was a strong odor of gasoline, and of something else . . .

  It came to her like lightning, how she had come to be here. She knew who had her, and she knew why.

  Where the hell were my angels?

  Fedderman. He was supposed to be shadowing me when I left the Far Castle.

  Where’s Fedderman?

  Maybe she didn’t really want to know.

  Bright fluorescent lights blinked, buzzed, and then glared steadily.

  He walked to where she could see him, an average-sized man in his thirties, well muscled, expensively coiffed brown hair, shockingly kind, even pitying eyes. He did seem to pity her. As if everything was out of his hands now, and it didn’t look good for her, poor baby.

  She realized she wasn’t at all shocked or surprised that both she and D.O.A. were nude, except that he was wearing skin-tight white rubber gloves. Like a surgeon’s gloves.

  He smiled, gently removed the rag from her mouth, and said, “Hello, Eileen. Or would you prefer Nancy?”

  She chose to
say nothing, and took a limited glance around her. They were in what seemed like a spacious garage of some kind. Maybe a basement. The ceiling was unfinished, and there was an exposed jungle of ductwork and wiring above. She saw what must be the killer’s car, a dusty gray BMW sedan, parked about twenty feet away near a closed overhead door and a sloppily tuck-pointed brick wall.

  His smile widened and became ugly. “Officer Weaver?” Gently, as if trying to waken her from pleasant dreams without shocking her delicate system.

  She kept her silence.

  “We’re alone. If you scream, no one will hear. You might try to scream louder, but it won’t be loud. Won’t even be, except for the two of us. Still, I’ll have to tighten your choke collar.”

  He came closer, and fear washed over her like a cold wave.

  Terror choked off any sound she might have made. Weaver raised her head, craning her neck. She saw that she was positioned on some kind of crude wooden workbench, wrists and ankles tied to something fastened to the slab of splintered wood top, or to its legs.

  “I suppose you’re wondering about what happened to your friend Fedderman,” the killer said.

  She was wondering. She couldn’t help it. She broke her silence. “Where is he?”

  “Feds is fine. Or will be if he wakes up. My guess is he’s got a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “You don’t know him. Don’t call him Feds. He’s Detective Fedderman to you.”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead he moved closer, and yanked the collar so hard that it dug into her throat and she could feel and hear cartilage crack as she made a feeble squeaking noise.

  He moved down along the bench, and she was terrified to see that he had an erection. Apparently there were objects laid out on the bench, between her spread thighs. He picked them up and displayed them to her one by one. A roll of duct tape, a large knife with a very sharp point, a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches, something that looked like a wood-handled ice pick, a dark corked bottle containing barely visible liquid.

  “Chloroform,” he explained to her about the bottle. “That’s what I used to get you into the trunk of my car, after I walked you to it. You could hardly walk a straight line. Anybody watching would have assumed you were drunk. I acted a little drunk, myself. Not that it mattered. I’m good at this. I mean, I could have been a great actor. But I could tell no one was watching. I sense it when I’m playing to an audience, however small. No member of any audience can find you and help you.”