The Deepest Cut

by Conor Corderoy

  She frowned. “Okay… So…?”

  “We can’t hold each other to ransom, baby. We can’t blackmail each other. We are who we are, and we have to hold one another with open hands or all of this means nothing.”

  She dropped her eyes and I stroked her cheek with my fingers.

  “When I went for you at the Abbey of Thelema, I knew I would probably die. I knew we would both probably die that night. I would rather die making your life a little bit better than live, knowing you weren’t part of mine. But I can’t make you part of my life. It only makes any sense if you are here because you want to be.”

  Now she looked serious. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that the same applies to you. I will change my life because I want to, because I want to be a better man for you. But I wouldn’t be a better man—I wouldn’t be me—if I reneged on my promise to Pete, my promise to Pete and to Eva. She was a nice kid, Maria. She didn’t deserve to die the way she did. I need to find who did it. I promised, and I’m going to keep my promise.”

  I used my elbows to lever myself into a sitting position. She sat up, with her legs crossed, close, facing me. I stroked her tangled hair from her face. Her cheeks were a little flushed and I suddenly wanted her again.

  Instead, I said, “I’m going to ask you to support me in this, Maria—for us, to make it work. And, when it’s over, I’ll walk away from Pete and the whole scene, and I’ll never look back. But, right now, I need you to be there for me. This is something I have to do. I can’t force you, just like you can’t force me not to do it. But I’m asking you…to stand by me.”

  She was thoughtful for a long time. Then she nodded and finally looked me in the eye. “I love you, Liam, and I guess I love you for who you are. So, I’ll stick by you. But I need to know that when this is over, you’ll be done with the Russian Petes and the gambling and all this kind of life.”

  “I’m done with it already, baby. But I owe this to Eva—and to her dad.”

  Chapter Four

  Ten o’clock the next morning I pulled up in Russell Square, parked at a meter and put my ‘doctor on call’ sign on the windshield. Loss had an office on the fourth floor of one of those Georgian terraces that Birkbeck College had bought for itself. I stepped into a small reception hall that was dark, carpeted in dull green and had a slightly uneven floor. The receptionist had a navy-blue uniform, flaccid, perspiring skin and eyes untroubled by thought. I told him who I wanted to see and he said, “Fourth floor, room 4D, but it’s the only room up there, so you can’t miss it.”

  “Where’s the elevator?”

  “Ain’t no elev…lift.”

  The stairs were a steep, unlit maze that seemed too long and winding to be contained in such a small building. They climbed, dropped, twisted then climbed again until I was completely lost and disorientated. After long minutes, I finally made it to the top floor and found room 4D. I knocked.

  There was no response, but after thirty seconds the door opened and a short woman of anything between sixty and seventy-five stood looking up at me with intelligent, searching eyes. She was wearing a pale blue cardigan, a double string of what looked like real pearls and a pair of Armani jeans that might have cost as much as the pearls.

  She smiled and said, “Mr. Murdoch?”

  I told her I was, then asked, “Are you Dr. Juliet Loss?”

  She left the door open but turned and walked away from me, speaking over her shoulder. “Do come in. Russell told me to expect you this morning. Can I offer you some tea?”

  I don’t drink tea, but she was like Miss Marple, and, when you visit Miss Marple, you just have to drink tea…out of bone china…and nibble at biscuits. I said that would be great.

  She spoke into an ancient intercom on her desk and said, “Karla, be a darling and bring us a pot of tea, would you? And some nice biscuits.”

  The room was surprisingly large, with two sash windows overlooking the gardens in the square. The walls were cream and the furniture was eclectic. She gestured me to a huge, ancient chair with a throw over it, and she sat in a Swedish thing in white leather.

  As we sat, she said, “The throw conceals all the bits where the stuffing is coming out.” She laughed with her eyes and added, “I call it Freud’s unconscious chair. All the broken bits are under the surface, and because you are not aware of them, you have the illusion of comfort.”

  I smiled. The chair was comfortable. I said, “Is that a psychologist’s joke?”

  “It’s a psychoanalyst’s joke. Not all psychologists believe in the unconscious. That was Freud’s great discovery, and it belongs to his creation, psychoanalysis.”

  The door opened and a pretty, blonde European girl came in with a tray. On it was a bone china teapot, two cups and a saucer of biscuits. She set it down on a small table next to Dr. Loss. Then she left without saying anything. Dr. Loss began to pour.

  She said, “You see? We weren’t aware of her, but all the while she was out of our perceptive field, she was doing something for us. Then she emerged into our perception with the tea made. Almost like magic.”

  She popped two biscuits on my saucer and handed me the tea. When she’d finished pouring her own, she went on. “Our unconscious is like that. It is working all the time. At its most basic, it is making you breathe, making your heart beat. It will make you digest your tea and your biscuits, but it does a lot more than that, too. It makes you decide whether you like tea or biscuits or the old lady you are talking to, or if you want to fuck or rape the blonde girl who brought in the tray.”

  She had my attention. I was holding the cup halfway to my lips, staring at her. Her eyes sparkled as she sipped then set the cup and saucer down on the tray. She held my gaze with hers and said, “It is also responsible for making all the assumptions and generalizations that we make. Sweet little old ladies in cardigans don’t say ‘fuck’ and talk about rape.”

  I sipped my tea. I said, “Okay, you surprised me.”

  She became more serious. “In psychoanalysis, Mr. Murdoch, we explore the darkest side of the human psyche. And, believe me, the human psyche can get very dark indeed. To be an analyst, you must first go through analysis yourself. Eventually, you give up all preconceptions and you lose the ability to be shocked.”

  I considered her a moment. Finally, I said, “I guess so, especially if you specialize in profiling serial killers.”

  She smiled, but it was strangely devoid of any expression. She said, “What did you want to ask me about Eva?”

  “Who did she hang out with? Who were her friends?”

  She held a biscuit and considered it from several angles, like she thought it might be an inappropriate biscuit. “Are you asking me to point the finger at someone?”

  I shook my head. “She rode the bus from Hammersmith to the Albert Hall. Most of the way, she was talking to a guy. They got off together and, four hours later, she was dead in Holland Park. I need to know who that guy was.”

  “You think I might know?”

  “I don’t know. All I want is to get some idea of who she hung out with, who her friends were. One thing might lead to another.”

  She seemed to come to a decision about the cookie and bit it in half, then she met my eye. “There was Mark, of course. He was a year behind her on the degree course. Very bright young man. They became intimate. I don’t believe her father approved.”

  “I’ve spoken to him.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is that why she was in Hammersmith? Visiting him?”

  I nodded.

  She looked sad for just a moment. “Pity. She told me she might go to see him. Her father was putting pressure on her. Then there was Stefan, an Indonesian student on an exchange from Holland. He’s unremarkable. More interested in drinking and having fun than learning about psychology, I think.” She sighed deeply. “Aside from those two, she kept pretty much to herself, Mr. Murdoch. She was always polite, always willing to stop and exchange a few words with everyone, whether it was
a professor or the doorman. She was delightfully unaffected. You might say dedicatedly so, as though making a point to herself and the world that she was not her father’s daughter.”

  It wasn’t much to go on. I was reserving my judgment about Mark, and I’d pay a visit to Stefan in due course, but my gut was telling me it was a waste of time. I said, “She was laid out neatly. She had a rose in her mouth, with all the thorns on and a kitchen knife placed with surgical precision into her heart. Then her entire abdomen had been ripped out. To me it sounds”—I shook my head, searched for a more accurate word, but settled on—“wrong.”

  She glanced away, to the floor by her right foot. Her eyebrow twitched. “What is it exactly, about this murderer’s method of killing his prey, that strikes you as wrong?”

  I thought about it. I said, “It looks like the work of two different killers.”

  “Explain that to me.”

  I sighed and reached into my pocket for my Camels. I said, “Mind if I smoke?”

  She smiled.” All psychoanalysts are neurotic, Mr. Murdoch. I’ll join you. I love Camels.”

  I handed her one, flipped the Zippo, lit her up then lit mine. I inhaled deeply and noticed that she was holding the smoke down. I exhaled through my nose and smiled at her. She smiled back as she let it out.

  “A bad habit,” she said.

  I said, “The rose in the mouth, the careful positioning of the body, the surgical precision of the knife in the heart… It all suggests grief to me. The emotional pain of lost love. It feels like a careful, almost ritualistic attempt to elicit love.” I shrugged and shook my head, aware that I was out of my depth. “Anyway, it’s all very precise and careful, and it’s about love—a stab in the heart.”

  She nodded. “That’s excellent. Very well observed.”

  “But then there’s the abdomen, ripped out as though by a rabid beast. It would take immense strength to do that, and you’d have to be in some kind of frenzy.”

  She nodded. “Which is completely at odds with the positioning, the rose and the knife.”

  I nodded then shrugged again. “Am I right? This isn’t exactly my field.”

  She got up and went to her desk to get an ashtray. She tapped ash into it as she walked back slowly. She said, “Yes, very probably. I’d need the forensics report and a day or two, but I could build up a profile for you, if you want.”

  “Yeah, that would be good. Is there anything you can tell me now?”

  She squinted at me through her cigarette smoke. It was a strange gesture in an elderly woman with a cardigan and a string of pearls. “The true serial killer is never a woman. A woman can be a multiple murderer, Mr. Murdoch, but never a serial killer. And they are very rarely black. It isn’t unheard of, but it’s extremely rare.”

  “What’s the difference between a serial killer and a multiple murderer?”

  She flicked ash and nodded. “A murderer typically goes through three stages. He or she will first establish a relationship with the victim—usually a relationship of love, but not always. In time, that relationship will provide a motive for murder. It might be betrayal, jealousy, money… Those are the most common. And that motive will provide the desire to kill. And the murderer will then act on that desire.”

  She took a deep drag, tipped her head back and held the smoke down, like she was smoking a joint. She was obvious about it, like she was flaunting something, but I didn’t get what. I gave her my best lopsided grin and said, “Where were you in the summer of ’68?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me without lowering her head, still holding the smoke. Then she blew it all out in one stream and said, “Mostly in bed with Rick Wright. It was a good year. Better than ’69. And by ’70, it was all over, bar the shouting. But we were talking about serial killers.

  “With the serial killer, the process is totally reversed. First, he feels the desire to kill. It starts as a fantasy and he knows it’s a fantasy, but it begins to build, very much the way sexual frustration builds over time into an imperative need to have sex. But, with a serial killer, that desire—that need—is stronger still than the need for sex.”

  She held my eye, as though challenging me to be shocked. I was struck again by how incongruous she was. I kept my face blank and she went on.

  “This desire to kill provides the motive for killing. Exactly the reverse of a normal killer, you see? And this motive drives the serial killer to find a random person—anyone, it doesn’t matter who, but someone who fits his profile for a victim. It’s different with each killer. And when he has found his victim, he will begin to stalk them—sometimes for a short while, sometimes for days—and he will establish a relationship with them. Then his hunger to kill becomes so powerful that he can no longer distinguish between reality and fantasy. The flood of dopamine and serotonin into his brain drives him into psychosis—and now he will kill.” She paused, watching me. Then said, “The normal process runs backward.”

  I stared at her. “Are you telling me that a serial killer is not psychotic?”

  She gave a small laugh. “Only in the immediate build-up to the kill and during the kill. Think of yourself in the build-up to an orgasm, Mr. Murdoch. It’s like a fever, isn’t it? You lose all sense of proportion. Behavior you would normally consider unthinkable suddenly becomes not only possible, but urgent, imperative…needed. The limits of reality begin to blur and you become capable of things you would normally only fantasize about. Aren’t you a little psychotic then?”

  We sat for a while, just looking at each other and smoking. My mind went back to Maria and to the bestial, crazed animal she’d brought out in me.

  Finally, I asked, “So, if they’re not crazy, what makes them want to kill?”

  She laughed. It was like the screech of a parrot—a harsh, hard laugh, with her beady eyes watching me. It shocked me.

  “Do you know what the autonomic system is, Mr. Murdoch?”

  I crushed out my cigarette and said, “Sure, it’s part of the nervous system.”

  “It’s the part that deals with what we might call involuntary behavior. It is at the heart of our unconscious. At its most basic, it makes our organs work—our hearts beat, our intestines—”

  “I get it.”

  “Apart from that, it imbues us with five basic drives. Do you know what they are?”

  I shrugged. She was a Freudian, so I said, “The sex drive… Go ahead. Tell me.”

  “In order of irresistible compulsion…” She held up her hand and counted them out on her fingers. “To breathe, to piss and shit, to drink and eat, to fuck…to kill.”

  I stared at her. “If you are trying to shock me, Doctor…”

  “I am not trying to shock you. I am making you aware of what you are dealing with. There is nothing insane or unnatural in the desire to kill. In the last century or two, we have suppressed that drive in the name of civilized society, but look at human history, for heaven’s sake. When we are not killing animals for food or sport, we are killing other people so that they won’t get their hands on our food…or land or gold or…” She trailed off.

  After a moment, I nodded. “So, the drive to kill is naturally there, but—”

  “Not but… And. And his social indoctrination is not strong enough to suppress it. And other factors in his life, like violent or cruel parents or siblings can fuel that drive, so he follows it, goes with it…and any number of other factors can play a part.” She shrugged and shook her head. “I need to see the police report. Then I can give you a more precise profile. In the meantime, typically you would be looking for someone who seems inadequate, with low self-esteem, awkward among women, who had a difficult relationship with his mother…but until I see the report…”

  * * * *

  I sat with my ass against the hood of my TVR. The sky was heavy with gray clouds and the heat was relentless and unforgiving. I speed-dialed Pete.

  “Da…”

  “Pete, I need the forensics report on Eva.”

  “I heff…�
�

  “I need two copies. I need one biked to me and the other to Professor Juliet Loss at the University of London.”

  “Who is—?”

  “Fuck you. Don’t ask questions, Pete. I haven’t got time now. Just have them sent.”

  He muttered something in obscene Russian then hung up.

  I walked to the nearest Nero’s Coffee Shop, bought a paper on the way, ordered a double espresso then sat outside, listening to snatches of Ella and Sinatra through the door as it opened and closed.

  Brussels was complaining to the British government that the HEAT Corporation was in breach of a treaty agreement, whereby an EU company should have been awarded the contract to develop the software to run the Llyn Celyn reactor. Instead, it had gone to NanoSoft, an American company in San Jose. British Prime Minister, Thea Ledder, had hit back, saying that Brussels still hadn’t assimilated the fact that Britain was no longer one of its states and would make its own sovereign decision about what was best for the British people. America got the contract because Silicon Valley made the best software, and Britain wanted the best. I vaguely remembered Russell saying, ‘That will cause problems.’

  On the science page, buried between a biochip-pacemaker and a robot that used AI to dance the samba, there was a paragraph about how the IPCC had underestimated the rate of melt on Greenland…again, with possible crop failures in the Ukraine and the Midwest US as a result.

  There was nothing about the murder of Eva Rusakov. That didn’t surprise me. Publicity wouldn’t help anyone at this point, except the odd girl who might decide not to walk home alone at night, but who gave a damn about her? Not Pete, and not ‘the authorities’.

  I dumped the paper on the table and fished out a Camel. I flipped the Zippo, thumbed the flint and lit up. I watched the street. The glare and the heat were already intense. I looked into my coffee. It was real black and, when I drank it, it was bitter. Two or one? Two killers or one killer? Two working together? One seeking to silence his mother’s cruel heart, the other seeking to brutalize her, each getting off on the other’s work? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. I needed the forensics report.