by phuc
It's a mock bedroom now. It's where Daddy fucked her all those times. It's the room with The Window. This is where she sleeps now. Often on blood crusted sheets. Sometimes she even sleeps with the corpses the night before she gets rid of them. She has to sleep here. So she can see The Cross in The Window.
"You are one crazy psycho bit "
"Shut up," she says to the black man.
Then: "Creamy," the black man says vaguely. "You have something to do with Creamy, don't you? The cops are looking for her."
"Of course they are. When did the police talk to you?"
"Last night."
"Who?"
She puts the big gun to his head.
"Who talked to you?"
"A guy named Spence."
Spence, she thinks.
She'll have to remember that.
"What are you " The black man tenses up against his restraints.
She Amytals him with a 3cc Luer Lok disposable syringe.
Then she gets ready for the rest.
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Chapter 16
(I)
Maxwell saved the rampage 'til next morning. Kathleen smirked at him as he stomped circles around the living room. "You're moving," he said. "You'll move in with me."
"Maxwell, I'm not ready for that. I "
"Don't argue with me!" he suddenly yelled. "A killer knows where you live, for God's sake!"
She crinkled her nose, sipping tea. He shouldn't yell. "I'm not moving," she proclaimed. "It isn't necessary. I refuse to be run out of my home. Besides, there's an undercover policeman in the parking lot day and night."
Maxwell peered skeptically out the slider. "I don't see any fucking undercover policeman."
It was the first real cuss word she'd heard him say, and it immediately disappointed her. "Don't cuss, Maxwell. It's so inarticulate. And there is an undercover policeman out there. Spence said he's in a surveillance car or something."
"Who the hell's Spence!" Maxwell yelled.
Kathleen flinched. "He's the detective running the case. You saw him the guy at the writers'
lecture."
"And what?" He leaned over, to stare at her. "This killer wants you to write a book about her?"
Kathleen slumped on the couch. "Yes, Maxwell. She's sending me accounts of her murders. I'm going to intersperse the accounts with commentary, psychiatric and sociological analysis. If the police catch her, hopefully I'll be able to interview her. It'll be a good book."
Maxwell was rubbing his chin, looking sourly contemplative. "Accounts? She's sent you accounts of her murders?"
"Yes, Maxwell. That's what I said."
"Let me see them."
This request or demand locked her up. No, she could never show him the chapters the killer had sent. He'd be disgusted, horrified...
"No," she said.
"No? What do you mean no?"
Kathleen faintly smiled. "The word denotes a negation, denial, or disagreement. It's an adverb."
"Don't be funny," Maxwell said. "Where are the accounts? In your desk?"
"No," she said.
"They're in your desk, aren't they?" He trod to the desk, began rummaging through the drawers.
"I'll find ‘em."
"Get out of there!" Kathleen shouted.
"Make me."
"You're so juvenile! You have no right to go through my desk!"
"I have every right," he muttered. "You have no idea what you may be getting yourself into." He paused, his mouth turning down. He held up a sheaf of papers. "Is this them? ‘Initiatory Rites?
Childhood Memories?'"
"No."
"This is them." He sat down and began to read.
"Don't read it!" she yelled. "It's "
"Be quiet so I can concentrate, huh?"
She lurched up. "Don't tell me to be quiet! This is my house! You can't tell me to be quiet in my house!"
"It's not a house, it's an apartment," Maxwell said.
"You're outrageous, Maxwell! I'll throw your skinny ass right out of here!"
"Last night I had a great ass," he mentioned, reading. "Now I've got a skinny ass. Women are so ambiguous."
"Maxwell! You better "
"Look," he said, jerking his gaze. "I'm going to read this stuff, with or without your approval. So just pipe down, all right? Have some more tea. Watch Donahue or something, soap operas."
Kathleen fumed. Her lips sealed to the tightest closure, like a scar. She sat back down and watched him. His long hair hung down as he pored over the pages.
She watched him go pale in increments, just as Spence had. With the turn of each page, his face seemed to transform into a mask of incredulous dread, of slow, creeping, quiet horror.
"Good Christ Almighty," he whispered.
"I told you so," Kathleen said.
He argued with her all the way back to his apartment. "You shouldn't be by yourself," he said.
"It's crazy. If you won't stay with me, at least let me stay with you."
"No," she said. She gunned the T Bird past Blackie's House of Beef on 21st Street. VISIT THE
RUSH ROOM a sign invited. MEET RUSH. Kathleen thought Rush Limbaugh was an arrogant dolt. It's his fault the traffic's like this, she reasoned. Lunch hour traffic in this city was almost as bad as rush hour. Cars sat backed up at each little intersection, ablaze in relentless glare. "I have my work to do, you have your work to do. We'd get in each other's way; it'd be very inconvenient."
"Inconvenient?" Maxwell's eyes rolled. "We've got something pretty dangerous here and you talking about convenience?"
"It's nothing for you to worry about, Maxwell. Jesus Christ."
"Nothing for me to worry about? I thought relationships were supposed to involve mutuality."
There he went again about relationships. "What good does it do to argue, Maxwell?" she suggested. "Psycho killer or not, I told you I'm not ready to even think about living with anyone."
This time he refrained from comment. Thank God, Kathleen thought. Conversely, though, she found something inspiring in the argument. Nothing in its context just the fact: They were lovers and they were arguing. She hadn't had an argument with a lover in years. Or maybe not at all, she supposed. Never. She felt something vaguely vital about it, something meaningful even though she couldn't guess what the meaning could be.
"Do you think," Maxwell began. He looked ahead through the windshield either stifled or dazed.
His eyes slowly went wide. "Do you think all those things are true? Do you think all those things really happened to her?"
"Yes," Kathleen said. As with her, it would no doubt take a while for the killer's writings to wear off of Maxwell's mind. "I'm sure of it. And I'm also sure there's more to come. She's delusional and obsessive. She's killing men based on the motivations of her delusion. What she's doing is the most important thing in her life, and it becomes even more important to her when she relates it all to me. To the killer, I'm the angel of truth who will communicate her testament to the world."
"Yeah, but why?" Maxwell said. "Why you?"
Kathleen shrugged. "Spence says it's my column in the magazine, something about my writing that the killer relates to. It might even just be the way I write, my style or something, or the tone of my responses to readers. Some bizarre subconscious attraction, something that only the killer fully understands."
"That doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"Of course not. We're talking about someone who's clinically insane."
When she pulled over in front of his apartment building, he had the most forlorn look in his eyes.
She knew what he was going to ask.
"Can I see you tonight?"
She watched traffic crawl up P Street. "Let's not move too fast, Maxwell. Okay? I'll call you later."
He nodded, still diffuse. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
"I know."
"It's just that this whole thing really scares me."
What, though? Did he mean their prospective relatio
nship? Kathleen felt sure he referred to her contact with the killer. Of course it scared him. But I wonder why I'm not scared, she thought. It was true. She wasn't scared at all.
He leaned over and quickly kissed her.
"‘Bye," he said.
"‘Bye."
Maxwell got out. Heading toward his apartment entrance, he seemed to drift rather than walk, a attenuated ghost. His long blonde hair blew back when he opened the door. Then he disappeared.
I guess I love you, too, Kathleen thought. She pulled out. A Yellow cab and a Porsche cut her off on the circle but she didn't get mad as she normally would. She felt strangely sated, weird, as she drove on. It took her a while to realize what it was.
I'm happy, she realized.
For the first time in a long time, Kathleen Shade was genuinely happy.
For the first time in a long time, she felt good.
She felt good all the way back home. Until she opened her mailbox and found the envelope.
Moments later she was back in her apartment. She donned Spence's evidence gloves, slit open the envelope, and read the next chapter of the killer's chronicle, entitled "Needle Work."
Then she didn't feel good any more.
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Chapter 17
(I)
Broad daylight. Traffic sounds. Venders selling hot dogs, half smokes. Pedestrians proceeding to and fro with their lives. Normalcy.
Madness, Spence thought.
"Call the M.E.'s office," he said. "Then call TSD and tell them to send Kohls down here with his crew."
The Traffic Branch cop wore his hat cocked back on his head. He nodded, wiping sweat off his brow, where dovetails of dark hair lay shellacked. The details of his job a routine one disheveled him, along with the city's heat. But beyond that he looked ravaged. This was a guy who'd been working Traffic Branch probably 15 years. He'd no doubt seen his share of rough things.
But...this? Spence thought. He abstracted: If he could look into this cop's eyes, he'd see a spirit mauled by utter incomprehension.
And madness.
"Snap out of it. This is tough, sure, but we're cops. I can't have you folding on me. Make those calls, okay?"
The cop nodded again, shuffled through heat and confusion back to his car.
The cop would have to debriefed. So far they'd kept it all out of the papers; a district reg allowed them to exclude any MCS homicide from the blotters, but there were always leaks, and it was only a matter of time before the Post people nosed their way in. They'd probably have to run a wanted soon anyway; at least they had a name and a face now.
The BMW's finish shined like sleek, white ice. Spence noted that it was a 635CSi. Fifty grand, he thought. Must be nice. The vehicle's trunk lid stood open; Spence thought of a great maw frozen open on a petrified beast.
He'd never seen anything so strange in his life.
A mummy, he thought.
Furrows drew into his brow as he gazed down. Common silver duct tape, two inch wide, had been used to wrap Tyrone "‘Rome" Chaplin into a tight, oblong bundle. He'd been completely cocooned. Only the nostrils had been left exposed. The killer had left the eloquent pimp's district driver's license adhered to the taped chest, but Spence didn't need to see the face to know that the contents of this bizarre bundle was Chaplin. The first murder with a motive, he realized.
Psychotic prostitute gets revenge against her pimp, her oppressor.
But why had she wrapped him up?
What in God's name did she do to him? Spence thought.
"Death by asphyxia," Kohls said a few hours later in the workup room. He could tell first by simple visual examination of the inside of ‘Rome's lips, a dark blue/blackish color known as acyanosis. Further microscopy verified this.
"She smothered him," Spence said at the entrance.
"Probably very slowly, over an extended period."
Spence stepped closer to the shiny guttered, height adjustable autopsy slab. "What else?"
"Won't know 'til I do the Y section." Kohls looked up from the great dual eyepieced Zeiss microscope, turning down the lampfield. "Got something...asperous, a scarlet color lining the insides of the nostrils."
"Blood?"
"No, no, it's colloidal. I'll nail it down. Just gimme some time."
"There's not much to give." Spence deliberately stood well away from the corpse, at an off angle.
Kohls, after doing a print scan with the laser, had removed all of the duct tape, extricating Tyrone Chaplin from his cocoon of death. This removal left the dark skin strangely dry in appearance, tacky.
"It's funny," Kohls observed. "You ever skinned an animal? Like a deer, a rabbit?"
"No," Spence said.
"The sound is identical, when you pull the skin off."
"Identical to what?"
"When I was pulling the tape off your partner, ‘Rome. It made the same exact sound as skinning an animal. Gave me the jeebies, you know? Like I was skinning ‘Rome."
Spence found the observation useless. "Did she cut off his..."
"Yep," Kohls said, pointing toward the corpse's hips. "Take a gander."
"No thanks. I gotta drive."
Kohl's brow flitted. "Only found one print, on the guy's driver's license. What's her name? Helen?
Heather?"
"Creamy," Spence corrected. "Hairfall?"
"One pube. Fusiformal match. This gal's a piece of work. I can't wait to find out exactly what she did to him. You want to stick around for the Y section, Lieutenant?"
"No thanks," Spence repeated. "I gotta drive."
"And there's one other thing." Kohls offered the faintest of grins. "You'd see it yourself if you weren't standing so far away from the table. You squeamish?"
"No, but I don't particularly enjoy close visual inspections of corpses whose full genitalia have been cut off."
"Gotcha."
"What's the other thing?"
"She also cut off his right hand. She didn't do that to any of the others. Kind of screwy... Say, you ever get a line on the hospital angle?"
Spence tried to answer with confidence. "We're doing a full background run, the bureau's helping. We've also got " Then he stopped, as if he'd run into a stone wall. "Who the hell am I kidding?" he admitted. "I haven't got a line on shit."
"Oh well," Kohls commiserated. As Spence left the workup section, Kohls' 12,500 rpm Stryker autopsy saw began to rev like a dentist's drill.
(II)
Kathleen went rigid at her desk when she heard the rapping at the door. Her hands froze over the typewriter. The raps were delicate yet insistent, five, evenly spaced, a pause, then five more. She tried, ludicrously, to make a presumption. How would a killer, a psychotic murderess, knock on a door?
rap rap rap rap rap
Like that? she wondered.
She doubted it. Then she smirked when she looked in the brass peephole. It was Spence.
"Hello," he said when she opened up.
"Damn. I was hoping it was the Fuller Brush Man."
"The Fuller Brush Man isn't your ticket to literary acclaim."
"Oh, but you are?" she said. "A poker faced cop in a bargain basement suit?"
Spence's gaze distended. "This suit cost $850. It's made from some of the finest "
"Relax, Kafka. I was only kidding. Are you here for anything in particular, or just the typical police harassment?"
"May I come in? I'd like to talk to you."
"Well, I don't know," she hedged. "I'm a little busy right now. You see, I'm a militant feminist opportunist. Via my own self interests, rapaciousness, and overall inflated ego, and in addition to a reactive lack of writing talent, I'm exploiting a tragic circumstance for my own gain. I'm writing a bogus, sensationalist book based on the ghastly crimes of a "
Spence stepped past her and entered the apartment. "What a hovel," he commented of her living room. "You're not much of a housekeeper, are you? This dump looks like it got the once over by our tactical riot squad.
What's that smell?"
"Fresh pig," Kathleen said.
Spence smiled. He perused the room with his hands behind his back. "Aren't you going to offer me some coffee?"