* * *
I'm having trouble with Checking Out. I can't get the pace right, there's this dull spot in the middle where nothing happens. The characters are great, the Matt Damon blackjack dealer is sharp and funny, his ex-wife has some really strong lines, but it's just not coming together and the more I force it, the harder it gets.
I decide to take a break from it and to think about something else. I start pacing around the apartment, and within an hour or so I've come up with a belter of an idea. I actually think of the title first, The Big Loser. It's about Tom and Shirley, a happily-married couple with two children and a nice suburban home. The only black spot in their all-American life is that Shirley is hugely overweight. Tom and the children are forever nagging her to lose weight, but she's happy as she is. Eventually they persuade her to join Weightwatchers, and within months she's the country's champion slimmer. Shapely, beautiful and with a new-found confidence, she appears on chat shows and is featured in newspapers and magazines. Her charm and intelligence lead her to a new career, and she has less time to spend with Tom and the children. Before long, they realise that they're losing her. In a bid to win her back, Tom confines her to the basement and force feeds her until she is back to her old weight and her old self and they live happily ever after.
It's a sort of black comedy, a satire on American suburban life, and with the right director I think it could be a winner. It's got a dark feel to it, a menacing edge, like The Bestseller. That reminds me, I haven't heard from Brian DePalma, or any of the other execs I sent the Bestseller synopsis too. Marcinko and Turner were asking about the letter I sent to DePalma, but I never asked whether he'd sent it to them or if it had been intercepted by the doorman. They didn't mention the manuscript, so maybe he's reading it. I wonder if I should send him my idea for The Big Loser, or if it would be better to let him think about the Bestseller first. I decide to wait, but I'll send the new idea out to a few select producers in LA.
I sit down at the typewriter but before I can even feed in a sheet of paper, the doorbell rings. I put my head in my hands. ‘No, not again,’ I moan because I know it's them, back to give me grief. The doorbell rings again, longer this time, as if the bell was being leaned on. On and on it rings and I know that they're not going away. I trudge over to the door and open it.
‘Good afternoon, Marvin,’ says Marcinko.
‘Hiya Lisa, this is a nice surprise.’ Turner is standing behind her, his mouth clamped shut.
‘Can we come in?’ she asks.
I think about going through the old ‘do you have a warrant’ routine, but I can't be bothered. I'm tired. I don't answer, I just open the door wide and go back to my chair. So long as I don't give them my consent anything I say isn't admissible in a court.
Turner closes the door and leans against it. I get the feeling that they've decided that Marcinko should do all the talking. That's fine with me because Turner gets on my nerves, big time.
‘I see your television is back,’ she says.
‘Yeah.’
‘So it's fixed?’
‘Sure.’
She nods thoughtfully and I wonder if she's going to ask for the receipt. ‘So you'll be following the case again?’
‘I watch the news, yeah. I gather she's still missing.’
‘Sarah Hall?’
‘Who else? Do you think she's dead yet?’
‘No way of knowing. We haven't found any of the victims, remember?’
‘Yeah, I forgot.’ I flick the hair out of my eyes. ‘So how do you know that they're dead. All you know is that they're missing, right?’
‘We know that they're dead, Marvin. We know that they're dead and that the bodies have been butchered.’
I frown. ‘That's not been on TV.’
‘We're holding back some of the details.’
‘But if the bodies haven't been found, how do....’ Realisation dawns and I sit back in the chair. ‘I get it. He videos the murders. And the dismemberment. Wow!’
‘Wow?’ repeats Turner. ‘You're impressed, are you?’
‘It's a great idea for a movie. In fact...’ I realise that I'm about to tell them about The Bestseller, but under the circumstances, that's probably not a bright idea. ‘Anyway, what is it you want? Is it about the lie detector test?’
‘We just wanted a chat, Marvin. That's all.’
‘What about the polygraph? Have you get the results?’
‘Dr Kumagai is still working on them,’ she says.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, I don't think so.’
I can see by the look on her face that they haven't managed to get anything from the polygraph and I force myself to keep a straight face. I bet it's a real disappointment to them and I bet Dr Kumagai got a tongue-lashing from Turner. ‘So, why are you here?’
‘We've been looking into your background, and it's thrown up a few questions.’
‘Really?’ I'd been expecting it, obviously. I'm now their prime suspect and they're going to keep digging until they charge me or clear me. ‘What in particular?’
Turner walks over to the television set and kneels down to examine it. It’s a brand new Sony LED. Marcinko stands by the kitchen door. She'd obviously prefer to sit but I've got the only chair. ‘It's the profile, Marvin. The one we got from the FBI.’
‘Single, white, good-looking male with an interest in movies? Yeah, I remember.’
‘Well, the more we look into your background, the more similarities we find.’
I sit back in the chair and steeple my fingers under my chin. ‘I'm all ears,’ I say.
‘One of the things the profile points to is that the killer comes from a dysfunctional family.’
‘Dysfunctional?’
‘In all probability there was no father figure in the household, either because of death or divorce. His mother would have been a weak personality, possibly an alcoholic.’
‘Oh, come on, there's no way the evidence suggests that.’
‘The profile is based on interviews with hundreds of convicted serial killers around the world,’ she says. ‘The Quantico boys are usually accurate.’ She pauses. ‘Tell me about your father, Marvin.’
‘If you've been digging, you already know everything there is to know.’
She smiles tightly. ‘I only know what's in the files.’
I sigh softly. ‘He was a film producer. He left when I was nine years old.’
‘Left? You mean he walked out on you and your mother?’
‘Yes.’ Turner straightens up and stands watching me.
‘Did you see him after he left?’ asks Marcinko.
‘Once or twice.’
‘Did you resent him leaving?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe. It was a long time ago.’
‘You admired your father?’
‘Admired? No, I don't think so.’
‘Why not?’ says Turner, speaking for the first time. ‘He was a real writer. Sixteen movies, either as director or writer. Five Academy nominations. One Oscar. Four wives. A hell of a life.’
Marcinko reads something in my face. ‘You didn't get on, did you?’
‘My father was...difficult.’
‘Difficult?’
‘Yeah, difficult.’
‘How did he die?’
I can't believe she doesn't already know, but I answer anyway. ‘Heart attack. He had a history of heart trouble.’
‘When was this?’
‘When I was fifteen.’
‘Were you with him when he died?’
‘Of course not.’
Her eyes harden and I know that we're about to get down to the nitty-gritty. ‘But you were with your mother when she died, right?’
‘Right.’
Turner sniffs. ‘Bit unfortunate, huh?’
Marcinko glares at him and he pushes his spectacles up his nose with his forefinger.
‘She killed herself, didn't she?’ says Marcinko. Her voice is soft and gentle, like she doesn't want to
upset me.
‘That's right.’
‘It couldn't have been easy for a nine-year old.’
‘I was ten.’
She puts her head on one side. ‘It said nine in the file.’
‘Yeah, well you don't want to believe everything you read.’
‘How did she do it, Marvin? How did she kill herself?’
‘Like the Romans. A hot bath. Cold steel.’
‘And you found the body?’ I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘But the file said...’
I interrupt. ‘I was there.’
‘You mean you were there when she did it?’
I nod. There's a sadness about her, as if she doesn't want to ask the questions. ‘I don't want to continue with this line of questioning, Lisa.’
‘But.....’
‘I'd rather stop.’
‘Why, Waller?’ asks Turner, raising his voice. ‘What is it you're trying to hide?’
‘I'm not hiding anything.’
‘Bullshit. The profile fits you, Waller. It fits you like a fucking glove.’
I smile at him. ‘I’m not O.J.. I don’t wear gloves.’ I look up at Marcinko.
‘If you've nothing to hide, Marvin, you've nothing to lose by talking to us,’ she says.
‘Don't try to play with my mind, Lisa.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. You're trying to get inside my head. I'm telling you now, don't bother. I've been worked on by some of the highest paid psychiatrists in the country.’
‘And?’
‘And if they didn't get inside me, I'm damn sure you won't be able to.’
‘We'll see,’ says Turner.
‘What was their opinion?’ asks Marcinko.
‘The psychiatrists?’ I shrug. ‘Mixed reviews.’
‘They weren't as smart as you, were they?’
I smile at the feeble attempt at flattery. ‘No, Lisa.’
‘No one's as smart as you, are they?’ growls Turner. ‘You're so sharp you're liable to cut your own throat.’
Lisa walks over to the coffee table and sits down on the edge, her legs pressed together. It puts her head only inches away from mine. She's so close I can smell her perfume, and the faint odour of cigarette smoke on her breath. ‘It can't have been easy, Marvin. Losing your mother. Your father remarrying so often. His career. By all accounts he wasn't much of a father.’
‘Don't,’ I whisper.
‘Don't what?’
‘Don't try to get inside my head. It's not a pleasant place, not for a nice lady like you. It's a dark place. A scary place. You wouldn't like it.’ My voice goes quiet and she has to lean forward to hear me, like a priest taking confession. ‘Best you stay out, okay?’
She looks at me like she cares. Like she's my friend. ‘Why did she do it with you around?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I'd have thought a mother wouldn't want her son within a million miles if she planned to kill herself.’
‘You didn't know my mother.’
‘You mean she wanted you to see her kill herself? She wanted you to watch?’
‘She was an actress. It was her final performance. Anyone else would have stopped her.’
‘Why didn't you?’
‘I don't know. I was just a kid.’
‘Ten isn't that young,’ she says. ‘You must have known what she was doing.’
‘Maybe.’
Turner rubs his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Maybe you wanted her to kill herself.’
Marcinko's lips press together and her eyes harden. She glares at Turner and he walks away to stand at the entrance to the sleeping alcove. ‘It wasn't a cry for help, Lisa,’ I explain. ‘She knew that she was losing my father. She didn't want to be alone.’
‘But that doesn't explain why she wanted you there.’
‘She wanted to hurt him, and there was only one way she could do that - by turning me against him. Her last words were “your father made me do it.” Her final speech. Fade to black.’
Marcinko swallows. ‘I'm sorry.’
I shrug. ‘It was her choice.’
She gives me a weak smile and slowly reaches out to put a hand on my knee. This time there's no spark. ‘You know, Detective Marcinko,’ I say, ‘sometimes you remind me of my mother.’ She pulls back her hand as if she's been burned.
‘Very funny, Marvin,’ she says, standing up.
‘Maternal suicide is in the profile, is that it? My mother killed herself, so that makes me the serial killer you're looking for, right?’
‘Maybe,’ she says. She takes a cigarette packet out. ‘Okay if I smoke?’ she asks.
‘Go ahead. If you want to smell like an ashtray, that's your lookout.’ She lights up then puts the pack and the disposable lighter on the coffee table, next to the typewriter.
Turner steps forward, his hands swinging free by his sides. ‘This thing you have about secretaries, where does it come from?’ he says.
‘I've already told you.’
‘There's more, and you know there's more.’
‘I'm not sure what you mean, Ed.’
‘You know exactly what I mean, Waller. You've got a very good reason for hating secretaries, haven't you?’ I say nothing. That seems to annoy him even more. ‘Are you refusing to answer, Waller?’
‘No, I'm not refusing. But it wasn't a real question.’
‘Your father left your mother for his secretary, didn't he?’
I feel my eyes narrow involuntarily. ‘I'm not sure that the two events were connected.’
‘Your father dumped your mother to live with his secretary. And your mother killed herself. That's why you hate secretaries, isn't it?’
‘Leave me alone,’ I say quietly.
‘I'm not going to leave you alone until I get some straight answers from you.’
‘I'm warning you....’
Turner's upper lip curls. ‘Yeah? What are you going to do, Waller? Are you going to kill me like you killed those women?’
‘You'll be sorry, Ed.’
‘That's it? That's the best you can do? I'm shaking, Waller. I'm so scared I think I just wet myself.’
I nod slowly. ‘Okay, Ed. You want to play games?’
‘This isn't a game, Waller. This is for real.’
I smile and stare into his eyes. ‘You asked for it.’ That's it, that's all I say, because I learnt a long time ago that there's no point in making threats. You either do something, or you don't.
‘Go for it, Waller,’ he says, his eyes as hard as pebbles. ‘Step over the line and I'm going to beat the living shit out of you.’
‘You don't scare me, Ed,’ I say. I go over to the door and hold it open for them.
‘Marvin,’ says Marcinko as she goes out. ‘Don't do anything stupid.’ She looks like she wants to say more, but instead she shakes her head and walks away.
* * *
You sit with a cup of coffee in your hand and press the play button on the remote control. You settle back on the sofa and prop your feet up on the coffee table as you watch Sarah play with herself. There's a subservient look in her eyes, a look that says she'll do anything you ask. You went to an SPCA dog's home once and you saw the same look in the eyes of the strays: dogs that had been whipped and starved and beaten, but who still hoped that they'd be well-treated if only they were subservient enough. That's how it works in the animal kingdom, the struggle for superiority ends when one of the combatants shows subservience. Wild dogs and wolves fight with tooth and claw, but once one of them gives up, the fight is over. There's a victor and a loser and both live to fight another day. With humans, it's different. Humans don't feel safe unless the loser is dead.
You chose a beagle from the dog's home, or at least a beagle crossed with something else. You chose it because of the way it looked at you, its eyes downcast and fearful, a slight wag of the tail, and a hunching of the shoulders that suggested it would flinch from any sudden movement. The dog had no na
me and you didn't bother giving it one. You didn't plan to have it for long. You learned a lot about dismemberment from that dog.
On the large screen TV, Sarah is leaning over the bed, her legs apart, her right hand between her thighs, stroking and caressing herself, shifting her weight from leg to leg as you told her to. You can see the sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, like a racehorse after a training run. As you watch you undo your trousers and slip your hand inside. It feels good when you touch yourself, but nowhere near as good as when Sarah touches you. You stare at the TV screen. She moves, she climbs up onto the bed and lies on her back, stroking her breasts and moaning, then her hands move slowly up and down her body. Her eyes are closed, her face tense as if she was in pain. That she'd have to change, you wanted her to look as if she was enjoying it, as if what she was doing to herself was better than anything else, better than any man could ever do. It was good, though, no doubt about that. Sarah is learning fast.
You decide to go downstairs, to have a little fun with her, but when you put your eye to the peephole you're filled with a rage. You tap in the door code and throw back the door. She takes a step backwards, knowing what's about to happen. She starts to plead but you hit her across the face, hard, slapping with your hand open so that you don't break the flesh. The crack echoes around the basement, then you slap her again. She tries to block the blow with her raised hands so you knee her in the stomach. The breath explodes from her throat and she doubles over, gasping and wheezing. You grab her hair and yank her head back so that her face is upwards. Tears run down her cheeks. With your other hand you grab her throat, digging your nails into her tracheae. You put your face close to hers, so close that you can feel her warm breath on your cheek. ‘Don't ever try that again, Sarah. Do you understand?’
She nods fearfully. You let go of her hair and she slumps forward onto her hands and knees, retching like a sick cat. You stand over her, shaking your head. ‘You were doing so well, Sarah. You were making such progress.’ You kick her in the side, careful not to break her ribs.
The gasps turn to sobs. She sits back on her haunches, covering her face with her hands. ‘I told you not to go near the door, didn't I?’ She nods. ‘And what did you do?’ You'd watched her through the peephole as she'd tried to reach the keypad, a futile attempt because there's an override switch on the outside of the door which deactivates the internal keypad when you're not in the room with her. But that isn't the point. The point is that she disobeyed you, and you won't stand for that. She has to obey without question. She has to be compliant. Any sign of disobedience must be stamped on, hard.
The Basement Page 9