‘Good,’ you say. ‘But before I leave you, I'm going to have to punish you, so that you don't forget again.’ She jerks and pulls away but you push her back onto the bed and hold the stun gun close to her left arm. ‘I don't want to do this, but it's for your own good,’ you say, then you press the button and the electrodes crackle bluely and you push them down against her flesh as she struggles and screams.
* * *
I'm pacing around the apartment in my bare feet, drinking a cup of coffee and chewing on a bagel. The doorbell rings. ‘Go away!’ I yell, because I'm in the middle of something and I don't want to be disturbed.
‘Marvin, open the door please.’ It's Marcinko, and I know that she's not alone.
‘I'm busy. If you haven't got a warrant, leave me alone.’ I carry on pacing and I hear a muffled conversation. Turner is with her. I can feel their presence outside the door and I feel the creative juices stop flowing. I fight to keep my imagination on track but it slips away like dispersing fog. I curse under my breath.
When I open the door they're standing there like soldiers on parade. ‘How do you guys keep getting in?’ I ask. ‘There's a security system that's supposed to keep undesirables out.’
‘Ha ha,’ says Turner.
‘Can we come in?’ asks Marcinko. I look at her with one eyebrow raised. ‘Please?’ she adds.
I step aside to let them inside. ‘Do you want coffee?’ I ask. They both shake their heads. ‘So to what do I owe the pleasure?’
Marcinko looks at the stack of paper by the typewriter. ‘You working on something?’
‘Sure, I'm always working on something. Writer's write, that's what we do. You know, like detectives detect.’
Marcinko nods at the paper. ‘So what is it?’
‘It's a thriller. A sort of Die Hard in a Las Vegas casino. Matt Damon would be great for the lead.’ For some reason I want to tell her what I'm working on. I want her to get close to me.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I had this great idea, a real feel-good movie. I'm going to call it Return To Sender, like the Elvis song, you know?’
‘Sure I know. I'm a big fan of the King.’
‘Yeah? Okay, so it's about five middle-aged rednecks who play poker every Thursday night in a small mid-Western town. They're similar: overweight, badly-dressed, loud, obnoxious - and single. No woman could bear to marry any of them. Then one of the men turns up on poker night with an advertisement for mail order brides from the Philippines and they all agree it's a terrific idea - beautiful young Asian brides who will do anything for an American.
‘They send away for videos of the girls on offer, and two weeks later they're off to Manila for face-to-face meetings. When the five return to their town with young brides, the townsfolk are furious. They reckon that the new arrivals are nothing better than hookers. The local minister delivers a sermon condemning them, the girls are ignored on the street and shopkeepers refuse to serve them. In fact, the girls are, with one exception, good Catholic girls who really do want to be loyal, hard-working wives. The new arrivals are pursued by the young studs of the town, but they're all rebuffed, with the exception of one girl, Rosa, who actually is a former bargirl and who decides to start sleeping with guys for cash behind her husband's back.’ Marcinko puts her head on one side as she listens. She seems enthralled, but Turner is kneeling down beside the bed and looking under it. I know what he's looking for. The video camera. I ignore him and continue with the story.
‘The girls are fans of all things American, especially Elvis songs. Picture them walking down the town's main street in short skirts and skimpy tops to the tune of Return To Sender, the townsfolk glaring at them and gossiping.’
Marcinko nods. She gets it.
‘Okay, so the girls seem ignorant of the effect they have on the town, they smile and giggle even when faced with hostility and bad manners. The rednecks' regular Thursday night poker games continue, and Thursday also becomes the girls’ night for getting together. They talk about the problems they're having with their husbands, while the men play poker and boast about the sex they're getting. Gradually the girls win around the townsfolk. They're keen churchgoers - sitting in the front row, a major distraction for the minister and the old organist - and spend their spare time cleaning the church, tidying up the graveyard and supplying fresh flowers. The girls also begin to gradually change their men - they smarten up their appearance, improve their diet and manners, and help them with their businesses. The girls are smart cookies, and before they realize it, the rednecks are on their way to being transformed - for the better. Their businesses thrive. The girls even get together and put an end to Rosa's freelance activities.’
Turner gives up the search for the video camera and walks back into the main room. He stands looking down at the sheets of paper on the coffee table. He obviously isn't interested in the story. But Marcinko is. I seem to have her undivided attention.
‘The church is short of money and the girls plan a town dance to raise funds,’ I continue, pacing as I talk because that's the way I think. ‘The girls decide to teach their men to jive, and meet much resistance. In their own way, each of the girls persuades her man to learn the steps: one by withholding beer, one by withholding food, another by refusing to let her man smoke, another by hiding his bowling ball, and Rosa gets her man to learn by withholding sex. On the night of the town dance, the minister thanks the girls, the townsfolk applaud and the girls take to the dancefloor with their men.’ I stop pacing and hold my hands out to her, like an actor expecting applause. ‘So, what do you think? Is that a feel-good movie, or what?’
‘It's great,’ she says.
‘It stinks,’ growls Turner.
‘You really think so?’ I ask Marcinko.
‘Yeah, you should write it,’ she says.
‘Yeah, maybe I will. Once I get Checking Out done.’
‘Checking Out?’
‘The casino story. But you really think it's a winner? You're not just saying that?’
She smiles, and it seems genuine. ‘You should write it, Marvin.’
We stand looking at each other. For a moment I forget that she's a cop. ‘Yeah. Maybe I will.’
Turner snorts softly like a racehorse ready to run. I wonder what they want. Actually, I know what they want. Me. Or my head on a plate. ‘So. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Just a few questions, Marvin. For the record.’
‘Yeah? We're making a record are we?’
She smiles but doesn't rise to the bait. She's a cool one is Officer Marcinko. ‘This is quite a small place, isn't it?’ she asks, looking around the apartment.
‘It's big enough for me,’ I reply.
‘But you'd prefer more space, surely?’
I shrug like I don't care either way. ‘It's just a place to write.’
She pounces, like a cat on a bird. ‘So you have another place, somewhere more comfortable?’
I narrow my eyes. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It's a bit small, that's all I meant. Why don't you move into somewhere bigger?’
‘Writers write best when they're struggling,’ I say. ‘That's a fact.’
‘But you're not struggling, are you?’ I feel her questions tightening around me like a steel snare.
‘I haven't sold a script yet, if that's what you're getting at.’
She smiles sweetly. ‘I think you know what I'm getting at, Marvin.’
‘Yeah,’ Turner snarls. ‘He knows exactly what we're fucking getting at.’
‘You're playing a role, aren't you, Marvin? This is all a game to you, isn't it?’
‘I don't follow you.’
She waves a hand around the apartment. ‘This. All this. This isn't real, is it? This is an image, it's your idea of what a struggling writer should live like, isn't it?’
‘What do you want?’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
‘Your father was Sam Waller, wasn't he?’ Her voice is almost a whisper,
as if she's telling me a secret.
‘Why do you ask?’ I say. ‘If you know, you know.’
‘Okay. I'm telling you. Sam Waller was your father. And when he died, he left you more than three quarters of a million dollars.’
‘Maybe he's spent it already,’ says Turner. I ignore him.
‘So, a man with seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars doesn't have to live in a rabbit hutch, does he, Marvin?’
‘Not unless he wants to,’ I say.
She nods slowly. ‘That's what we thought. In fact, we thought that maybe you had another home somewhere. Somewhere bigger.’
‘Somewhere where I might be able to keep a woman prisoner?’
‘You see, Marvin. I knew you'd understand.’
‘No.’
‘No? No you don't understand?’
‘I mean no, this is my only home.’
‘Yes, but you see our problem, Marvin. You'd have to say that, wouldn't you? If you did have another home, and if you were holding Sarah Hall there, you wouldn't tell us, would you?’
‘I suppose not. Can I get you guys anything to drink?’
‘No thank you.’
I turn to look at Turner. ‘What about you, Ed?’
‘We know you're the one, Waller,’ he says.
‘The one? What, the special person in your life, Ed? Is that what you mean? I hardly think so. We've only just met.’ He glares at me and I can see that I've got to him. I look back at Marcinko. ‘Look, this is crazy. You start off by telling me I mustn't bother people at their homes, now you're accusing me of being a serial killer.’
‘No one's accusing you of anything,’ she says.
‘Yet,’ says Turner. The yet hangs there like a bad smell.
‘If we were accusing you, we'd tell you your rights,’ she says. ‘I know my rights,’ I say.
‘I know you do.’ She takes a deep breath and her breasts seem to push up against her shirt. ‘Marvin, we have a problem.’
‘We?’
‘We've been doing some digging, and what we've found is a little worrying.’
‘Worrying?’ I don't like the way the conversation is going, but I've lost the initiative. The ball is in her court.
‘It's starting to look as if you fit the profile of the person we're looking for. You know what a profile is?’
‘Yeah. I know.’
‘So you can see how that concerns us. We have to check. Follow it through. Satisfy ourselves that you're not the killer.’
‘This is crazy.’
‘No, it's not crazy. It's police work. It's our job. How much do you know about serial killers?’
I shake my head, confused. ‘I don't know. Only what I've read. For research.’
‘Okay.’ She waits for me to continue, leaving a silence and hoping that I'll fill it.
‘They're usually white,’ I say eventually. ‘Very few are black. They're usually male, and they're usually in their early to mid twenties. That's it, is it? That's your profile? There must be hundreds of thousands of people who fit that description in New York alone.’
‘Our profile is a bit more detailed than that, Marvin.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. We had some help from the FBI profilers at Quantico. Our profile runs to almost a dozen pages. And the more we look into your background, the more it seems to describe you.’
‘I don't believe you. You're just trying to scare me.’
She smiles like she wants to be my friend, like I can trust her. ‘Marvin, why would we want to scare you?’
‘So tell me how I fit this profile.’
‘Okay. You're a good looking young man. According to the profile, the perpetrator is handsome. Attractive to women.’
I laugh out loud. ‘Come on, Officer Marcinko. I told you not to flatter me.’
‘This isn't flattery. I'm telling you the truth.’
‘So why does your FBI profiler think the killer is good looking?’
‘Because there have never been any signs of a struggle when the victims have disappeared. He must be able to get close to the women without frightening them. We believe he drugs them before taking them away, so he must be fairly strong. But if he's strong, he'd be threatening - unless he's a good-looking guy and the women are attracted to him. You're a member of a gym on 45th Street, aren't you?’
‘Yeah, I work out sometimes.’
‘You could probably lift me, couldn't you?’
‘Sure. What else?’
‘We think the man we're looking for is well above average intelligence. Possibly a genius.’
‘On what basis?’
‘On the basis that we're no closer to catching him now than we were two years ago. Because he's never left any evidence that could identify him. And because we've never found the bodies. Oh, he's clever, all right.’
‘What else?’
‘An interest in movies.’
‘Because he videos his victims?’
‘It's more than that. The technical quality is good, the videos are edited before they're sent to the TV stations, there's a professional feel to them. And you were at the New York Film School, right?’
‘You know I was.’
Turner puts his hands on his hips like a prizefighter between rounds. ‘Where's your video camera, Waller? The one you told us about. The professional model. The one you shoot scenes on.’
I shrug like it's the last thing on my mind. ‘I lent it to a friend.’
‘Care to give us his name?’
‘Not really.’ I turn back to Marcinko. ‘Nothing you've said so far is specific to me, Lisa,’ I say, using her first name, making it personal.
She looks me right in the eye. ‘Marvin,’ she says, ‘do you know where Sarah Hall is?’
I keep my eyes on hers, fighting the urge to look away, fighting the urge to scratch my nose or shift my feet or give off any of the dozens of signals that would suggest that I was lying, the signals that she's trained to spot. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I don't.’ I smile. ‘You don't need a search warrant to see that she's not here.’
‘Which is why we were wondering if you had another home somewhere.’
Turner coughs like he smokes too much. ‘Yeah. Somewhere bigger,’ he says.
I shake my head. ‘What you see is what you get.’
Marcinko nods as if considering what I've said. ‘You've been following the case, haven't you, Marvin?’
‘Sure? I watch TV.’
She carries on nodding, watching me with her pretty blue eyes. The silence crystallizes around us like water turning into ice. ‘So you said,’ she says eventually. ‘But you don't have a TV, Marvin.’
I stare at her for several seconds. Several long seconds. ‘It's in for repair.’
‘Really?’ It's clear that she doesn't believe me.
‘Really.’
‘What about the video recorder?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You say you have a video camera, but you haven't got a video player. No DVD or hard drive player. Or is that being repaired, too?’
‘I lent it to the friend who wanted the camera.’
She gives me the friendly smile. ‘You're not stupid, Marvin. You can see where this is heading.’
‘Yeah. But you still don't have probable cause. You have a profile, that's all.’
‘So we were wondering if you'd come down to the station with us, help us to clear this thing up, one way or the other.’
‘I don't think so.’
She holds my look for a while. ‘Please,’ she says.
‘Not this time, Lisa,’ I say. ‘This isn't a joke any more.’
Turner stands close behind me. I can smell garlic on his breath. Garlic and stale cigarette smoke. ‘This was never a joke, Waller,’ he says. ‘You killed those women and you're going to kill Sarah Hall if you haven't already. We know you did it, Waller.’
‘So arrest me, Ed.’
He grins. ‘We will, Waller. Sooner or later, we will.’
‘Marvin,’ interrupts Marcinko. ‘We'd like you to take a lie detector test.’
‘It won't be admissible.’
‘No, but it would put our minds at rest.’
I think about it for a while. I decide it might be fun. I nod. ‘But not today,’ I say.
‘Whenever you want.’
‘Tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock.’
She nods. ‘Okay. She smiles. ‘Thanks, Marvin.’
* * *
You stand at the door, your eye pressed against the peephole, one hand flat against the painted wood. The door is warm to the touch but it's deceptive because underneath the wooden veneer is a two inch thick slab of cold steel suspended from the concrete walls by reinforced hinges. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her long legs crossed at her ankles. You get a tight feeling in the pit of your stomach as you see that she's wearing her high heels. She's looking at the padlock which keeps the chain locked around her waist and you know that she's trying to find a way out. She's still clinging to the hope that she'll be able to find a way of escaping. It's a good feeling, watching her and knowing that you have absolute power over her. She reaches up and rubs her nose as if it was itching, a small, child-like gesture. She looks directly at the door, almost as if she sees you, though you know that's not possible. She's wondering whether or not she'll be able to get the door open if she does manage to get free from the chain.
You punch the combination into the panel and the bolts click back. You check the peephole again and see that she's standing up, her hands linked at her waist, her head down. You open the door and step into the room. ‘Good,’ you say, ‘you look much better.’
You close the door behind you and stand with your back against it, savouring the anticipation. It's not the sex, you know that, it's something much stronger, much more stimulating. It's the power, the ability to make another human being conform to your wishes, no matter what they are. The power to make them do whatever you want, and to gradually take away everything they hold dear: their freedom, their dignity, and, eventually, their life. You feel a shiver of anticipation which is so intense that you gasp and close your eyes. The tremor passes after a few seconds and you run your hands against the sides of your trousers.
The Basement Page 6