by Harker Moore
At first the bodies had been insignificant. Rotting somewhere in the aethyr of anonymity. Stray cats to stray people. A quick satisfying squeeze around the neck, no more than copping a feel in the dark. Well within the rationalized boundaries of prepubescent curiosity and adolescent lust. At least that was the lie Right told to Left, and Left to Right.
The old city marked a kind of end. And a beginning. The heavy humidity of New Orleans had always given Right-brain an itch for fresh meat in specific ways that the dusty-wet bayou parish had not. Lichen-covered stucco, tight-corseted in black wrought iron, put new and exotic death smells in his nostrils. The ancient cemeteries sang to his soul. And sweet was the taste where the river ran, as the eye of a white urban-bound egret trapped him one purple evening inside its fragile bird-brain.
He could still feel the sharp edge of the aspidistra lining the bridle path in the park across from the university on St. Charles Avenue where he’d once sat mornings, and sometimes afternoons, dreaming his death dreams, waiting for night. He’d raised his body, a feeding beast, to the shadow world, daring to be seen in the bone-pale light of a full moon. It was an audacious act, as the green leather-leaves bit like delicious teeth against his naked calves, and he’d hunched over and sucked life out of the marrow of innocent young bones.
Left-brain had been fussy about the who, and where, and when. But never the why. The why was need. Yet the day came when the security of the old city failed, and the safe and familiar threatened like a full womb ready to spill its bloody contents. Left-brain said it was time to move. New York. New feeding fields. A thousand million places for a fly to fly. A thousand million sewers for a rat to crawl.
CHAPTER
21
Willie, like everyone working the case, felt the incalculable weight of tragic senseless death. And though what she had to say today would not catch the killer, it might at least trigger something that did. Yet she was never really comfortable lecturing cops, spouting theories from what some might perceive as her psychological ivory tower. But Erica Talise’s murder Halloween night had only intensified the pressure to catch the madman before he killed again.
Most of her insights she’d already discussed with members of Sakura’s unit. This morning she was speaking to the task force. She looked at her audience, aware of more than one pair of hungry eyes starving for a lead, and of the hollow ones that had too soon gone cynical. But worst were the eyes that seemed to hold out hope she’d be the one to deliver a miracle.
She glanced at Jimmy, seated at the table next to her, still calm in the midst of the storm that threatened to engulf them all. And because he hated meetings like this, Michael made himself invisible at the rear of the room. Rozelli, sitting in the front row, appeared edgier than usual. Even Talbot, who’d prepared the digital presentation for her, was subdued. Only Adelia Johnson favored her with a smile, a you go, girl shine in her eyes.
“He’s changing,” she started, “consciously to confuse us . . . or unconsciously because his fantasy is evolving.”
“He’s just trying to fuck with us.” There was a low rumble of laughter. It was Harry Winn, one of the lead detectives who’d come up from precinct the second week after the task force had been organized.
She smiled. She could kiss Winn for breaking the ice.
She tossed it back. “How do you think he’s doing, Detective?”
“Pretty goddamn good, Doc.”
“Well, he may not be the fool we painted at the press conference, but maybe we can fuck a few things this morning.”
Another round of laughter.
“Whatever’s driving him, he’s taking greater risks now. Olsen was abducted in near daylight in Central Park. Talise from her own retail store. He’s more aggressive. Backing off social situations, where he had to ‘work it.’” She moved from behind the table. “No more roofie. He used chloroform on Olsen, probably on Talise.”
She tossed her notes back on the table. “He’s got wheels. He couldn’t do what he’s doing without good transportation. One witness said it was a van.”
“What color, Doc?”
“You tell me, Rozelli.”
“Black.”
“Good, Detective. The color choice of obsessive-compulsives. And from a practical standpoint, dark vehicles disappear. Especially at night.” She sat on the edge of the table. “There are so many ways we could go with this guy, but I’d like to concentrate on three elements—where he’s leaving the bodies, what he’s doing to them, and who his victims are.”
She nodded to Talbot, who brought up photographs of the first four victims on the wide-screen television set up in the room. It was important to keep it personal, make sure that no one lost sight that each of these women was once a living, breathing human being.
“The where—Grady, Phelps, Laraby, and Siebrig were disposed of in Dumpsters. As commercial refuse. The message—women are garbage.”
“And the other three, the ones not in Dumpsters?” It was Eddie Ziober, a veteran cop, whom Sakura had brought in as soon as McCauley had started talking task force.
“I think we can consider the trunk of the car where Solange Mansour was found like a Dumpster. The body was concealed, and she was wrapped in Visqueen like the others. At this point he’s not advertising what he’s doing.” A photograph of Mansour appeared on the screen.
“Olsen was not concealed, but displayed in a processing plant where her body would be discovered as soon as the first workers came in.” Olsen in life appeared on the screen, next to a picture of her in death. “He was taking greater risks, flaunting what he’s doing.” She looked over the photographs on the screen. “Olsen’s body was suspended from a hook in a meatpacking plant. She’s so much meat. Consumable. Disposable, like garbage.”
“And Talise?”
Talbot brought up a picture of Erica Talise, smiling for the camera, surrounded by her employees in the costume shop. “The disposition of Talise’s body was the most arrogant, exposed in that store window for all the world to see. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘what I have done.’”
She stood. “It’s important to remember that serials don’t think like you and me. So as difficult as it may be to understand, what he is doing to each victim holds some positive value for him. And that brings us to the what. It may look like mutilations, but those are quasimedical procedures he’s performing on the bodies.”
“A doctor?” It was Janet Kissit, the rookie detective, who took more than her share of ribbing about her name.
“Possibly, Detective. Or someone with knowledge of surgical techniques.” She paused. Then, “I know he’s been tagged New Jack by the media, but I think that’s a poor comparison. The London Ripper butchered his victims. Throwing organs against the wall, which the Ripper did the last time he killed, is light-years away from the complex manner this serial handles his victims.”
She was conscious that she was pacing in front of the table. “He’s spending a lot of time working on his victims, which implies some level of comfort and control, maybe even concern. But I think it would be a mistake to be distracted by what we see on the surface. Because I believe that what he’s doing inside the body is more important for him.”
She stopped, signaled Talbot. “Situs inversus totalis—complete organ reversal.” First an image of the torso of one of the victims, showing the stapled Y-incision, the tracks of stainless steel running down the chest, appeared. Then a split-screen image: on the right, a diagram illustrating the normal arrangement of internal organs; on the left another diagram, showing the anomaly of organs in reversed positions.
“Organ reversal occurs in nature . . . but not often. It can bring with it various medical complications. Including heart problems.”
“Why is he doing this, Dr. French?” Kissit had removed her glasses. She looked fifteen.
“I wish I knew, Detective Kissit. But I believe it is the defining component of this serial’s fantasy.”
She smiled for the second time this morning. “I had an
idea that these intricate surgical procedures had something to do with his wanting to create his ideal woman. A kind of Bride of Frankenstein. Ironically, this view of the killer’s mind seemed to have more to do with love than hate. Which leads us to the final topic—the who.”
She sat back down on the table. “His switch from young women to an older woman seemed to support my Bride of Frankenstein theory. Solange Mansour was sixteen; Robin Olsen, thirty. The first victims were really just beginning life. But Olsen was a professional woman. Successful. Confident. A woman at the height of her powers.”
“Given today’s youth-oriented culture, and since we’re talking bodies here, Dr. French”—Kissit was challenging her—“and operating under the assumption that the killer is male, wouldn’t it seem he would prefer younger, thinner women?”
“It would seem so, but organized serials usually work up to getting what they want. It’s an evolutionary process. Perfecting their fantasy. So I assumed that victim number six, Olsen, was closer to the killer’s ideal than victims one through five.”
She nodded to Talbot. On the screen a full-body image of Solange Mansour in a swimsuit appeared next to one of Robin Olsen, illustrating the killer’s changing preference in body type.
“But he hung Olsen on a hook in a meatpacking plant. So much meat. That’s not any way to treat your ideal woman.” Kissit was asking the right questions.
“True, but remember I theorized he was after perfection. He wasn’t going to get it right the first time. Olsen might have been close, but like the other five, she was a failure.”
She stood. “And then he murders Erica Talise Wednesday night.” The partially nude photo of Talise, posed in her shop window, filled the screen. “Erica Talise was in the mold of Robin Olsen both physically and professionally. But what this killer did to Talise far exceeded what he did to the other victims. He chose to add another layer. An even more externalized layer, a manipulation superimposed over the stapled Y-incision. Which beg some questions: What is he doing? Where is his fantasy driving him now? Who, in the killer’s mind, does Erica Talise represent?”
Sergeant Adelia Johnson had seen “the look” before. Hundreds of times. On the streets when she was too young to understand its meaning. And later, when she did. The punching bag look of a woman who thought she couldn’t live without him in her life.
Nicole Hansen had “the look.” She looked whipped, and maybe on the verge of being cooperative. “Dustin Franks said you and Randy Lancaster were seeing each other.”
“Is that what that asshole said?” The words came out slightly garbled, since Hansen’s lower face was twice its normal size and her mouth looked as if a rabid dog had chewed on it.
Adelia sat down. “Listen, Nicole, you don’t look so good. We’re here to help you. If Lancaster hurt you, he needs to pay.”
“The Shaman never pays. He’s a magic man, you know.”
“You don’t really believe that, Nicole, do you?”
The girl slumped over the table. “I don’t know what the fuck is real anymore.”
Adelia reached over, covered the girl’s small hand with her own large one. “Try, Nicole.”
“I can’t believe he fucked me while I was unconscious. . . . That’s rape, isn’t it?” Hansen looked from Johnson over to Sakura.
“Nonconsensual sex is rape, Nicole.” Johnson fought to keep her voice level.
“Felony sexual battery carries the prospect of long-term imprisonment if the perpetrator is convicted.” Sakura was standing at the far end of the interview room.
“Perpetrator,” she repeated. “Pretty word for a rapist.”
“Tell us what happened, Ms. Hansen,” Sakura said, “from the beginning.”
“Jesus, nobody’s ever called me Ms. Hansen.” She smiled for the first time, with effort. “KitKat is fine. Except . . .”
“Except?” Johnson had a good idea what the exception was.
“That shithead gave me that name. Way before we even started fucking. Sorry . . . about the language.”
“Any way you want to tell it.” Johnson gave her one of her high-voltage smiles.
“He . . . Randy said I looked like a stray cat. Scrawny. With my spiky short hair and green eyes.”
“So he nicknamed you KitKat.” Johnson thought the name suited.
She nodded. “But after, it was more than that. It had to do with . . .” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. Suddenly looking pitiful and fragile and very young. “To do with the stuff we did.”
“And what was that, Nicole?” Johnson asked.
“I was his pussy. His pet. Most of the time, when we were alone, at his place, I wore a leash round my neck and crawled on all fours. . . . I liked it.” She stopped again. “I remember when he bought me a little silver bell. Put it on my collar. It was pretty. Made a nice sound. He liked knowing where I was all the time. And with that little bell jingling . . . I thought that was kinda sweet.” She brought her head down, picked off some bright purple polish from one of her chewed nails.
“But sometimes KitKat was naughty.” She looked up. “And Daddy Cat had to punish her. I mean isn’t that what you do to bad pets?” She searched Johnson’s face.
“Go on, Nicole.”
“He would put me in the closet. With a bowl of dry cat food. Some water. And a litter box. It really wasn’t as bad as you might think. In fact it was kinda . . . you know, got me excited. Especially when I could hear him calling through the door. ‘Pussy? Where’s my little Pussy?’”
“Did he let you out of the closet then?”
She nodded. “He’d unlock the door. Scratch me behind my ears. I’d lick his feet.”
“Then . . . ?”
“We fucked.”
“Was this the first time he hurt you?” Sakura had moved to the table where Hansen and Johnson were sitting.
“Before it was just part of the game. Spanking. Pinching my tits. That kind of thing. This . . . this was something different.”
“What happened to change things?” Sakura asked.
“I don’t know. We were screwing, nothing special. Then when he kissed me . . .” She choked on the words.
Johnson handed her a Kleenex. Squeezed her hand. “Take your time, baby. It’s gonna be all right.”
Hansen destroyed the first tissue, grappled for another. “Sorry.” She blew her nose. “He bit me. I mean right through my bottom lip. His teeth went clean through. I guess I shouldn’t have jerked away. I mean, it made it worse. I never saw so much blood. I thought I was going to bleed to death. I remember stuffing the sheet in my mouth, then I must have passed out or something. When I came to, I threw up all over the bed.” She smiled. “That was the good part. Making him clean everything up. Including me. That’s how I knew he banged me while I was out. I could feel his cum running out between my legs as he pulled me off the bed and dumped me in the tub.”
“When did this happen, Ms. Hansen?”
“Last Thursday. I know I should have reported his ass, but I didn’t.”
“What did you do, Ms. Hansen?”
“I knew a human bite was worse than an animal bite. I waited until he fell asleep and got the hell out of there. Took a cab to an emergency room. I forget how many stitches they put in my lip. But they gave me a shot and some pills for infection. Told me to check back with them in a couple of days. But I haven’t.”
“Did they ask how you’d gotten bitten?” Sakura asked.
She affected another of her smiles. “I told the doc I’d fallen, jammed my own teeth clear through my lip. He knew I was lying, but there was so much shit going on in that emergency room I was the least of his worries.”
“It would have been better if you would have told the doctor the truth, Ms. Hansen.”
“You ever been scared?” She stared up at Sakura. “No, I guess not. But I was scared. I knew he was looking for me. I just didn’t want any trouble. From him or the cops. Going to the cops usually gets complicated. I’d sorta just came outta hiding when
you picked me up. So when I saw you guys pull up in that unmarked car and all, I thought it was somebody Randy sent. And I had no idea if things were going to be friendly or ugly, so I ran.” She met Sakura’s eyes again. “The real truth is that I should have come in a long time ago. I mean after I saw that picture of him and one of those girls who got killed.”
“Which girl?” Johnson glanced up at Sakura.
“Sarah Laraby. Boy, was she into some crazy shit.”
“What shit, Nicole?”
“I saw this one picture. She was naked, lying back on the bed, playing with herself, and he had this scarf or something tied real tight around her neck. I could just see his hand.”
“How did you know it was Randy?”
“Those goddamn rings of his.”
Zoe looked at herself in the mirror. “What do you think, Leylah?”
“Perfect.”
“If this is going to work, I can’t give away too much too soon. I mean everything should look business as usual.” She flipped back her shoulder-length hair.
“Zoe, in five.”
“I’m coming, Ray. Thanks, Leylah, you’re the best.”
“I know.”
Leylah Vargarian followed Zoe out of the dressing room and into the studio, watched her give a thumbs-up to Allen in the control room. The makeup artist/hairstylist smiled. She knew a witch when she saw one; after all, she was descended from a long line of Romanian gypsies. And like her grandmother, whose picture she wore in a gold locket around her neck, she was a true believer. It was magic that had gotten her her present position at Fox, transforming talking heads into beautiful people.
Of course, Leylah had been blessed with natural ability, honing her skills early by practicing on all eleven of her Romanian gypsy cousins. Uncle Gregor had even trusted her to trim his mustache. Her considerable talent, hard work, discipline, and knowing some of the right people had all contributed in getting her where she was. But the heart and soul of her success was drawn from the same deep well that had helped her grandmother grow babies in barren wombs, and crops in fallow fields.