The Man Who Loved Women to Death

by David Handler

  She was reading some piece of shit called 14,000 Ways to Stay Happy. I eased on over to her and said It would make a lot more sense if they wrote a book called 14,000 Ways to Stay Unhappy, don’t you think? Presenting myself as some sad, lonely jerk in search of suckling at her breast.

  What’s my motto, E? Do I have to say it again? Didn’t think so.

  And, besides, she did have herself a pair of them inside of that black sweater. She was a skinny little thing otherwise. Wore an oversized man’s tweed jacket over her sweater, looked like it came from a secondhand store, black leggings and a pair of clogs. She was young, 23 tops. Had long, shiny black hair she wore in braids, freckles, a cute little turned-up nose, a big dimply smile. Said her name was Francie Sherman.

  Right away, I knew what I wanted to do with Francie.

  There was some kind of musical instrument case on the floor next to her. Also a zippered leather portfolio. I said Are you a musician? And Francie said Yes, in this life I am. And I said This life, what do you mean? And she said I am a very spiritual person. With the help of a channeler, I’ve been able to uncover a lot about my past lives. I did the cave thing, for instance, thousands and thousands of years ago. Then I was in Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. And, more recently, I was in the Mafia in Newark in 1952, when I killed my brother in a dispute over drug territory. I feel I’ve been brought back in this life to be a healer. I heal through my flute. So I said Oh really? I play the guitar some. Maybe we could try playing together. And she said Well, I really only play classical. I’m studying at Juilliard. I also do art in my spare time.

  Now she unzipped the portfolio on the floor so as to show me some of her art, E. Watercolors of flower petals, mostly. Weird-looking shit done with some kind of a sponge. Francie explained that they were in fact interpretations of her own vagina. You know me, E. I’m no genius. But if this shit was art then we both picked the wrong career.

  This wasn’t art. This was a cry for help.

  Helluva nice-looking pussy on her, though. In this life, I mean.

  She talked about us maybe getting a double espresso at the cafe. But as you know, Friend E, it is not advisable for me to be seen lingering in such places. In fact, we were already hanging maybe a little bit too long where we were, people walking back and forth. All I wanted to do was get her home so I could show her this stranger’s kindness. My hands tingled at the prospect. My instrument burned a hole in my pocket. I told her I had to be heading on out. She said she was walking down to Lincoln Center for some recital. I said I was going in the same direction. We headed on out.

  It was a clear evening, not too cold. Still pretty early. I suggested we stroll by way of Riverside Park, it being so peaceful down there by the 79th Street boat basin and everything. She said that would be fine. She felt safe with me. They all do, E. Have you noticed that? It’s a gift I have, no question.

  After walking a while we stopped and sat on a bench overlooking the Hudson, which smelled like, well, human shit. Am I the only one who seems to notice that? Do you stop noticing it after you’ve been in town for a few weeks or what? There were a few winterized houseboats with lights on in the boat basin not far from where we sat. That’s pushing it, E. Living on a houseboat in New York in the winter. Got to be a little whacked to do that. But not in a good kind of way. Just in a stupid way. We saw a few joggers go by in the darkness, speaking of whacked. Mostly, we had the park to ourselves.

  Francie didn’t seem to be in any huge hurry to get to her recital. Which was just as well, E. Because, between you and me, she wasn’t going to be making it tonight. She pulled her flute out and started playing on it for me, something real soft and slow and boring. It may have been some famous piece of classical music for all I know. You know me, E. My musical education begins and ends with The King. Would have wigged completely without him when I was in the cage. Three hats, a cot and Elvis to get me through my days and nights … Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you.

  And then she stopped playing and took hold of my hand and suddenly things turned real ugly. First she started telling me all about how I need to stop suppressing my true inner self. You may remember from group, E, how much I like to be talked to this particular way. Then she said You know, I’m not saying any of this to be critical, I just feel really close to you right now and I sense you’re holding back.

  And THEN she was all over me, E. I mean, this Francie went from zero to sixty in no time. Her tongue down my throat. Her fingers working my zipper. And just like that I had totally lost control of the situation. I hate that.

  I really, really hate that.

  I want to be the one who’s running the moment. It’s MY moment. That’s my purpose. That’s what I do. That’s who I am, you know what I’m saying? Sure you do. But she didn’t. Not even when I said No. She just came at me even harder there on that damned bench. Was all over me. Bitch would have raped me if I hadn’t brained her with her flute, which surprised her more than it did anything else. Weird how they always end up surprised, isn’t it?

  Because they asked for me, didn’t they?

  They prayed for me, didn’t they?

  Now she got mad. Started calling me nasty names. Ruining it. Making it ugly and mean and awful, instead of the something beautiful that it was meant to be. It took a nice, big rock to shut her up. I hit her in the side of her head with it, hard. Then I got out my instrument and I put that poor miserable creature out of her misery. But it was no good, E. It wasn’t right. I was shaking with rage and this weird, animal cry was coming from my throat. This wasn’t me. None of it. This play was busted. Besides which some jogger could come by any minute and see me.

  Time to break for daylight, make something happen.

  I hid her under a bunch of leaves. Prayed nobody came by walking their dog for a while. Went straight to my jack rack, got what I needed, stashed it in my long duffel. Waited until it was late and I was sure no one would be out. Then I went back there. She was right where I’d left her, undisturbed. I finished the job. Then I came back and showered and changed. Hit a couple of spots I know. Drank some shots and some beer and felt better. But not happy. I wasn’t feeling happy, E. Because Francie ruined it. I tried to perform an act of kindness and goodness and she ruined it.

  But, hey, there’s always next time, right? I mean, you got to keep a positive attitude or you’ll go crazy or something, right?

  You hang in there, Friend E. I’m trying my best at this end. Sometimes they just make it kind of hard on a man, that’s all.

  Your pal, T

  p.s. I don’t know what this says about me but I really, really don’t like to lose control of the situation

  Eleven

  IT TOOK TWENTY MEN two hours to find her. Francie Sherman was buried in a grove of trees a hundred yards from the boat basin, two feet down, with dead leaves heaped over her crude grave. She had been down there in that cold ground for at least a week.

  I waited on a bench overlooking the river while they searched, hands buried deep in the pockets of my greatcoat, Lulu curled between my feet. It was a gray, blustery day. The water was choppy and foul. Romaine Very was around, but he didn’t bother to say anything to me. He knew I was there. He’d known Francie was there, too. Or somewhere. A Juilliard classmate had reported her missing the same day as the failed rendezvous at Barney Greengrass. Said no one had seen or heard from her in days. Said she was slender and pretty and possessed a most fetching smile. But it wasn’t until Chapter Four came in the mail two days later that Very or anyone else knew where to find the answer man’s second victim.

  There was no whoop of triumph when they did. Just a quickening of footsteps as they gathered around the grave. Followed by a ghastly silence. One young patrolman staggered over to a trash can and was sick in it.

  She was missing her head and her hands. They’d been chopped clean off with an ax or a hatchet or something that did the job like an ax or a hatchet. The two question marks, in Revlon Orange Luminesque, were drawn on the in
side of her right forearm.

  They did keep searching. Must have turned over every leaf in Riverside Park. But Francie’s head and hands were nowhere to be found. Her parents, who drove in at once from Cranston, Rhode Island, identified her by a birthmark on her right hip and an X ray of her left leg, which she had broken skiing in New Hampshire when she was twelve. The pin was still in there.

  No one who worked or shopped at the Barnes and Noble on Broadway and West Eighty-second Street remembered seeing Francie Sherman sitting on the floor in the Meditations section reading a book called 14,000 Ways to Stay Happy. Which does happen to be a real book. And which did enjoy a brisk upsurge in sales, thanks to all the free publicity. No one remembered her, period. It’s a big store, lots of people coming and going. Plus, over a week had gone by. There was no reason anyone would remember seeing her sitting there. No reason at all. There had been nothing special about Francie Sherman in life. Only in death.

  As for the answer man, this was something new and entirely disturbing. He hadn’t mutilated a victim before. I suppose it was the savagery of it, the pure evil that this innocent victim’s headless and handless corpse represented. I can’t say for sure. All I know is that the story lifted right off after this, soaring up into that rare air where only the choicest few, like O.J. and Susan Smith and the Menendez brothers, Erik and Lyle, can live and breathe. The answer man became front-page news all over the world. And that meant every greasy lawyer and agent and bottom feeder in the business wanted their shot, their share, their piece of the action. And now.

  Four major publishing houses were already right in the middle of it. Before Francie’s headless body was found, the bidding had climbed to $2 million for what was, to date, less than forty pages of a work-in-progress by an unknown author. God, I love the book business sometimes. I said I would have to contact my “partner” to get his feedback. And I did. I placed a personal ad on the front page of the Times, duly cleared by Feldman, that read: “My hands are untied. I am talking to you. What is our price? And will we stop this if we get it?”

  After Francie’s body was found, the bidding for the book skyrocketed to $5 million instantly. If nothing else, the answer man knew how to run an auction. And we’re still not even talking movie sale. What about the new-and-improved Son of Sam law, you’re wondering? What about the question of whether this killer should or should not be allowed to profit from his crimes? None of the houses seemed too worried. Certainly not on ethical grounds—publishers have no ethics anymore. As for the law, hey, that’s why they have lawyers.

  One house even went so far as to hint that a contract for my own novel might be included as part of the deal. I was not, repeat not, the one who suggested this, as so many critics later claimed. That wasn’t what I wanted out of this. I didn’t want anything out of this, actually. I didn’t even want to be in it. But no one believed that. A few editors and agents around town even started whispering that I was he—that I, Stewart Hoag, had fabricated this poison-pen pal of mine. That I was killing these women myself and mailing myself these chapters so as to revive my own, semicomatose literary career. A theory that was not, I should point out, totally dismissed by the New York City Police Department. In response to a question on Larry King Live about whether I was considered a suspect, Inspector Dante Feldman would say only that his task force was “considering everyone.”

  I did not consider this a ringing personal endorsement.

  Cassandra Dee, in case you’re wondering, did indeed go on the air with her appeal for the answer man to turn himself in to her, live and in stereo. “Call me, fax me, E-mail me, I’m yours” was what she said. It was very emotional, the way she said it. Also very nasal. She repeated it several times during the broadcast, only it didn’t work. The answer man didn’t turn himself in to Cassandra on the air. I guess he was too busy writing Chapter Four for me.

  I sat there on that bench with my hands in my pockets staring out at the river for the longest time. Eventually, after they had taken the body away, Very made his way over to me and sat there staring out at it, too. He wore a hooded sweatshirt under his leather spy coat. His nose was red from the cold. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Or slept, by the look of him.

  “Inspector Feldman was right, Lieutenant.”

  “How so, dude?”

  “Serials do change their methods.”

  Very considered this a moment, nodding to himself. “Could be this was just him taking care of business.”

  I glanced at him. “Business? What business?”

  “Check it out, he says he and Francie swapped some spit, am I right?”

  “Right …?”

  “So maybe that freaked him out. Like he thought maybe we could score some of his DNA from her tongue or her lips. No telling what scientists can do now. Maybe he figured he better be careful and take the head with him.”

  “Could they actually do that, Lieutenant? Identify him from traces of his saliva left behind in her mouth?”

  “That’s hard to say, dude.”

  “How come?”

  “We got no head, remember?”

  “I assure you that didn’t slip my mind. What about her hands?”

  “Could be this one put up a fight. Scratched him some before he did her. She’d have his skin under her fingernails. A trace of his blood, even. Same story, him being careful. He’s always being careful, that’s for damned sure.” Very swiped at his red nose with the back of his hand. “Something you want to get off your chest, dude?”

  “I’m not the answer man, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “It’s not,” he said, scowling at me. “And don’t you front me no more, because I ain’t hearing that.”

  I studied him curiously. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning give it up, will ya!” he pleaded, his voice abruptly cracking with emotion. “Whatever it is, whoever it is! Give it up, damn it!” Very was shaken. He was freaked. It was the horror of it, the pressure. Everyone has their limit. Very had reached his. He sat there in silence a moment, trying to calm himself. “You can’t sit on it no more, dude,” he said quietly. “You just can’t.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and removed the slender, folded page of a letter that Tuttle Cash had sent me from Ghana twenty years ago. I didn’t feel good about this. In fact, I felt real bad about it. But he was right—I had to do it. You see, I had reached my limit, too. I handed it to him and said, “See if this was typed on the same machine that the answer man’s using. If it was, then I’ll give him up.”

  Very stared at it, stunned, not making a move to take it. “Dude, how could you do this on me?”

  “I had my reasons.”

  “Well, I hope they were damned good ones.”

  “They were. They are.”

  He pocketed the page, seething. “His name. C’mon, c’mon. What’s his name?”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Fuck this shit!” Very grabbed me by the lapels of my coat. “What are you doing on me? I thought we was friends!”

  “We are friends, Lieutenant. And I’m sorry. But it has to be this way. Because if there’s one chance in a million that I’m wrong, well, I don’t want to be wrong.”

  “Even if it costs another girl her life?”

  “I have that under control.”

  “Oh yeah?” he snarled. “How?!” When I didn’t respond, he released me. Shook his head at me, disgusted. “What is it—somebody you’re tight with?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Loyalty goes out the window when shit like this goes down.”

  “Correction, this is precisely when loyalty does not go out the window.”

  He tried a different approach. “How about we keep it between us two? You can trust me. I can keep his name under wraps.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “What are you saying, I’m a fuck-up?”

  “I’m not accusing you of being a fuck-up.�
��

  He peered at me. “I see. So he’s a celeb, huh? Somebody famous. Fuck me, this is getting wiggier by the day.”

  “And the night,” I added. “Don’t forget the night.”

  Very got up and strode over to the railing and gazed out at the water. Then he turned back to me, his head nodding to its own rock ‘n’ roll beat. This one was speed metal. “I can take you in for withholding evidence, you know. I can throw you in a holding cell with the worst kind of vermin on earth.”

  Lulu moaned at my feet, horrified.

  “You can, but I still won’t tell you his name.”

  “I’m hip to that,” he admitted, puffing out his cheeks. “I go back with you long enough to believe it. Damn, you are one mondo pain in the ass, you know that?”

  “It has been brought to my attention before, yes.”

  Romaine Very glowered at me. “It’ll take me two hours, tops. Don’t disappear.”

  “I’ll try not to, Lieutenant.”

  IT WAS TWO IN the afternoon by the time I made it over to East Sixty-fifth Street. I did not take a direct route, figuring Very would put a tail on me. I took a cab from Riverside Park to Columbus Circle, then rode the A train downtown, watching the people’s faces across from me just as He watched their faces … What do we have for our winners, Johnny? … Most of those faces were buried inside that morning’s edition of the New York Post, which boasted an exclusive jailhouse interview with David Berkowitz. Son of Sam’s take on the answer man was blasted across page one: SAM SEZ HE WANTS TO BE A STAR. At Fourteenth Street I caught a cab back uptown to Grand Central, where I picked up the No. 6 train. That took me to East Sixty-eighth. I walked the rest of the way. No one was on my tail. I was sure of it. Well, I wasn’t but Lulu was. She knows about these things.

  Vic was on duty behind the wheel of the Land Rover halfway down the block from Tuttle’s building. He’d been on duty since 8 A.M., when he took over for me. I had spent my own night staked out across the street from King Tut’s, waiting for The King. Tuttle had come staggering out of there at 3:29 A.M., drunk and alone, and had limped home in the cold. He had arrived there a few minutes before four. The lights went on. The lights stayed on. The lights were still on.