Incubi

by Edward Lee

  “Good idea. I’m also getting a researcher to try and get a line on the ritual.” But as Jack spoke, his eyes kept flicking to his drink.

  “It’s calling you, Captain.”

  Up your ass, he thought. He liked this woman, but he didn’t like the truths she made a point of rubbing his face in. The aroma of the Scotch was almost erotic. He took a sip, then sighed.

  “Charlie is very conative; there’s something in his life that’s turned a hesitant impulse into a free act. He’s probably never even come close to a reality break. He knows right from wrong as clearly as you do. His passion is purposive.”

  Jack wasn’t sure if he got that. “You mean the impetus, right? And you’re saying it’s objective?”

  “Yes, er, at least to Charlie it is. And that’s the funny part. Heavy purposive fantasies generally have roots in a very deep delusion. But Charlie’s not deeply delusional.”

  “Neither are sociopaths, but you say he’s not sociopathic.”

  “You know a lot more about these cases than most cops, but you should also know that a sociopath wouldn’t have drawn the symbols, and he would’ve terrorized the girl. Charlie didn’t. He even blindfolded her so she wouldn’t see what was coming. Sociopaths like to see the terror in their victims’ eyes. They have no feeling for them, but Charlie did. I may be wrong about some of this, but I’m not wrong about that. Plus, a sociopath would’ve turned the place upside down for valuables, and he would’ve taken her money. Whatever Charlie’s delusion is, he’s got it under complete control.”

  Jack sneaked another sip, thinking, his long hair kept falling in front of his face.

  “Charlie’s also persuasive, a magnetic personality. He’s probably very attractive. The victim was willing from the start, and that too is a key word. The bondage wasn’t forced. Otherwise the wrist and ankle lacerations would’ve been more severe. Most girls don’t let a man they just met tie them up. There was something special about him, something that made her trust him instantly. Girls with andro-compulsive desires have a tendency to fall for guys fast. It never lasts, but that doesn’t matter.”

  This definitely didn’t last, Jack thought.

  “Willingness. Remember that,” Karla Panzram induced. “You’re looking for a charmer with a knack for making girls sexually willing in situations that would normally project reluctance on the part of the female. Lots of male erotopaths are like that — the only difference is they don’t kill the girls afterward. One question: Did the girl have a drug history?”

  “No, but her tox screen’ll be in today.”

  “Have your tech check for cocaine, and also the usual synthetic morphine derivatives. There’s a lot of Demerol and dilaudid going around now that the coke prices are up. He may have enticed her with something to make her less inhibited, and if so, you’ve got another string to diddle with, someone with drug connections.”

  “What about Charlie himself? Do you think he’s a drugger?”

  “I doubt it,” Karla Panzram said. “The act is very important to him — there’s no way he’d round off any of the corners of the experience with drugs. The way he wrote the stuff on the walls shows me someone with a clear head. We TAT drug users all the time and what they come up with is completely different. I know this may all sound very obscure to you, but I still assert that the major keystones here are passion and willingness.”

  “But there was blood in the vagina. Not much, but still. I’m thinking vaginal abrasions.”

  “She must’ve been on her period, then; ask your tech. Charlie is not the type of personality to commit rape. It’s a priority that his victim be willing. I even think that if one of Charlie’s prospects turned out to not be willing, he’d leave. He wouldn’t go through with it. Charlie is not a hostile person.”

  Jack almost winced. “Not hostile? Shanna Barrington looked like a botched autopsy. He tore her up.”

  “He tore her up out of passion, Captain, via the ritual delusion. Not hostility, passion.”

  Some leads, Jack thought, smoking. His drink kept beckoning him. He felt Dr. Panzram was right about Charlie, and she was probably right about Jack. He’d like nothing more than to down the rest of his Fiddich and order another — no, two more at once — but to do so would make him afraid of what she’d conclude of him. Without pretense, then, the words tolled: I’m an alcoholic.

  “If I didn’t feel secure in what I’ve told you, then I wouldn’t tell you,” she said over her mussels. Each one she delicately removed with her fork, inspected, then consumed. The shelled mussels looked like little vaginas. “I’ve seen all kinds, for the last twenty-two years. Charlie’s definitely different, but he’s just as easy to type as a hebephrenic or hallucinotic. You can trust my speculations. The majority of my conclusions, though are graphological.”

  “You mean the writing on the walls,” Jack said.

  “Not the writing itself, but how he wrote it. You can tell as much about someone from one writing sample as six months of psychotherapy. I’m sure you’ve deduced from the bloodfall and entrance wounds that Charlie is left-handed.”

  “Sure. A majority of sex killers are. So what?”

  “You can also tell he’s left-handed by how he inscribed the symbols, the letters, and the triangle. You’d be surprised how objective the human mind can be when analyzed comparatively. Different types of people tend to do the same types of things whey they externalize themselves. Our graphological references are quite accurate. Tell a patient to draw a house, and what he’s really drawing is an aspect of his subconscious. Have a patient write the alphabet, and you see the insides of all his feelings, what he loves, what he hates, and so on. I can’t drop Charlie into a neat psych category for you, but I can tell you all about him, comparatively, simply by the way he draws and writes.”

  “I’m all ears,” Jack said. And all mouth too, which I’d really like to fill with Scotch.

  “Writing is an equiposture of consciousness, subconsciousness, and mental structure. And that’s the most important part from your end — his creative revelations.”

  “Huh?”

  “The letters and symbols aren’t as much written as formed. They were applied quickly but with great accuracy. The angles of the symbols, and especially the triangle, are almost perfect, as though he used a compass to outline them. Would you like some?”

  “Huh?”

  She pushed the plate of mussels toward him. A dozen little vaginas peered up through their shells. Some even had tiny beards.

  “No thanks,” Jack said. “I gotta drive.”

  Karla Panzram smiled. “That’s interesting, Captain. Something about mussels distresses you. Hmm. I wonder what that could be.”

  “Fear of female genitals, right? I’m not afraid of women, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Oh, but you are, Captain. Women terrify you, because you get lost in them. You’re very passionate too.”

  “Like Charlie?”

  “Oh, no. Your sense of passion is much more primitive—”

  “Thanks.”

  “—but much more real. However, you’re afraid to let your passion out, because you’re afraid it will disorient you. You’re afraid of rejection. You’ve been recently rejected, haven’t you?”

  Jack lit another Camel and sighed smoke. “I like you, Dr. Panzram. You’re smart, and I admire you. But I hate it — and pardon my French — I fucking hate it when people try to analyze me.”

  “I know you do, Captain.” She forked another mussel, daintily plucking its bread with her fingers.

  “You were saying something about the structure of the symbols and the triangle. Accuracy.”

  “Oh, yes. It could be of no investigative significance at all, but Charlie’s very creatively inclined. He may be an artist.”

  He’s an artist, all right, Jack added. And that was a hell of a piece of artwork he left in that apartment.

  “That’s all I have for you now,” she said. “When you get more, send it to me. I’ll
do whatever I can to help you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  Karla Panzram was tapped out. She was a very strong woman; dealing with people who didn’t want to help themselves wasn’t as bad as dealing with people who couldn’t. It made Jack think again of what Craig had said, about taking things for granted.

  When the meal — which she’d consumed completely, double-baked potato included — was done, Jack reached for the check, but she snatched it up first. “This is not a county tab, Captain. Shame on you for lying to me.”

  “Hey, I lie to women all the time.”

  “You feel emasculated when a woman pays?”

  “Pay the goddamn tab, Dr. Panzam. You can pay my phone bill too, if you want, but that wouldn’t make my balls feel any smaller.”

  Karla Panzram laughed out loud. As they were leaving, she said, “Forgive me for toying with you, Captain. You’re a moving target. Did you know that?”

  Jack lit another Camel. “A moving target for what?”

  “A woman’s psychology. We’re all devils on the inside.”

  “Do you hear me arguing?”

  But on West Street she turned serious. She looked at him almost dolefully. “I’m worried about you, Captain Cordesman. If you decide you need some help — and I don’t mean with the Triangle case — please call me.”

  She left him at the corner walk, disappearing like an angel — or like a ghost — into the glare of midday sun.

  Chapter 7

  “Meat racks!” Ginny whispered.

  “Shhh!”

  The two figures stepped through the foyer. “Ah,” Erim Khoronos said. “Here they are now.” He turned from the bar, pouring glasses of spring water. “Marzen, Gilles, it’s my pleasure to introduce our guests, Ms. Virginia Thiel and Ms. Veronica Polk.”

  Veronica felt an itch of rage. Why didn’t he introduce me first? she thought as a child might. But Ginny was right. These guys were…gorgeous.

  Standing before them were two tall handsome young men in identical baggy white slacks and sleeveless T-shirts. Marzen had long blond hair; Gilles’ was black and cut like a marine’s. Veronica’s gaze felt immobile on them, and she could sense Ginny’s dopey man-grin. Both men were well-muscled and well-tanned.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” Marzen said, shaking hands. His hand was large, rough. His accent sounded German.

  “We’re happy you can be with us,” Gilles added. A French accent, obviously. His hand was softer, more delicate.

  Veronica raced for something to say but found nothing.

  “See to their bags,” Khoronos said.

  Marzen and Gilles left.

  Shit! Veronica thought.

  “Shit!” Ginny whispered.

  “Marzen and Gilles are my charges,” Khoronos said. “I think of them as sons.”

  “They seem very nice,” Ginny said. “How did you meet them?”

  “Through my dealings abroad, over time,” Khoronos answered, but it wasn’t much of an answer. Veronica felt certain it wasn’t meant to be. “They’re masterful men, as you’ll soon see,” he went on. “They look upon me as their pundit, so to speak. I’d like to think that much of their aesthetic insight comes from me.”

  As you you’ll soon see? Veronica thought. What did that mean?

  “I must tend to some things now. Dinner will be at seven.”

  Abruptly, Khoronos left them alone in the great room.

  “This is really strange,” Veronica said, and sat back down on the couch. She jiggled her ice in the spring water.

  “I think it’s fun. It’s mysterious.” Ginny grinned. “And we’re definitely going to get laid.”

  “Ginny, we’re not here to get laid.”

  “What, you took all that stuff he said seriously? Come on, Vern, it’s all a game to him. He’s rich and bored and he likes games.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Veronica suggested.

  “He thinks of himself as some artistic seer or something. It makes him feel good to invite artists up here and pretend he’s teaching us something. All this whole thing is leading to is an orgy. The decadence of the idle rich.”

  “You’re rich.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not idle. This whole thing’s a party, so I’m gonna make the best of it. I’m gonna party my face off.”

  Some party. Veronica looked at her spring water. Khoronos had informed them that no alcohol was allowed in the house. No tobacco either, and no drugs, not that Veronica did them. “True artists must maintain immaculate spirits,” their host had said. “Any substance which taints the spiritus is forbidden in my home.”

  Eventually she and Ginny went out on the balcony off the kitchen, a huge deck which overlooked the pool. A faint breeze rustled through the trees, and a scent of pine. “You sure changed your tune about Khoronos,” Veronica said.

  “Just because I know what makes him tick doesn’t mean I don’t want to get into his pants anymore.” Ginny closed her eyes, turned her face to the sun. “I do and I will. And Marzen, Gilles — I’ll ride their brains out too. Everyone’s got to cut loose sometime.”

  “Cut loose, huh? That’s what life’s all about?”

  “You want to know what life’s all about? First I’ll tell you what it’s not about. It’s not about babies, two-car garages, a dog in the yard, and a station wagon in the driveway.”

  Ginny hated domesticity, but Veronica didn’t know how she felt about that herself. Jack had never actually proposed to her, but the implication of marriage was clear. Had that been what scared Veronica off?

  “It’s about independence, Vern,” Ginny continued. “That’s the only way a woman can be free.”

  Veronica wanted to say something mean, like. You’re only saying that because it’s the only way you can rationalize two failed marriages. “Freedom and sexual abandon are synonymous?”

  “Sexual liberty, smartass. If you don’t do what you want, you’re actually doing what someone else wants. Whether it’s a person or society doesn’t matter. It’s subjugation. If a guy fucks everything that moves, that’s okay because it’s an accepted trend. But when a woman does it, she’s a slut. Men can be free but women can’t. It’s a bunch of sexist bullshit. My rebellion is my right of protest. I will not allow myself to be subjugated. I’ll do anything I want, anytime I want.”

  Sometimes Veronica forgot she was talking to a notorious feminist. She wanted to argue with Ginny but couldn’t. Veronica had thought that being in love was her freedom, but freedom had its price, didn’t it? Experience, she thought. Being in love had kept her from experiencing what she felt she had to as an artist. Either way, she was torn between ideals.

  Ginny lit a cigarette.

  “Khoronos said no smoking,” Veronica reminded.

  “No smoking in the house; this is the balcony. And…” Ginny paused, peering down. “Well, what have we here?”

  Marzen and Gilles walked across the backyard. Off one of the pool decks stood a rack of weights and a bench.

  “See?” Ginny observed. “Men are such vain assholes. Without their muscles and their cocks they have no identities.”

  But Veronica remained looking on. Marzen and Gilles each peeled off their T-shirts and began curling dumbbells of formidable size. They seemed bored, curling the weights and speaking casually. They seemed to be speaking French.

  “But I still love ’em,” Ginny went on. “Check out the beefcake.”

  Veronica couldn’t help not. In moments, their rippled backs shined, muscles flexing beneath their tanned skin. It was erotic, earthy, the way their sweat sheened their flesh. Veronica caught herself in a secret image: running her hands over those slick pectorals, exploring. At once she felt dizzy, like the first time she’d met Khoronos. She felt prickly.

  “They know we’re watching,” Ginny said.

  “They do not,” Veronica objected. Or did they? Her throat felt thick. Next image: herself naked, squirming atop Marzen…

  “And you’re trying to tell me you don�
�t want to cut loose?” Ginny continued to goad. “That’s subjugation too. You’re afraid to release your inhibitions. Is that freedom?”

  Veronica felt lost in her imaginings.

  Ginny crushed her cigarette and dropped it into the bushes below. “You know,” she said, “men have been using women for the last fifty centuries. It’s high time we started using them back.”

  Veronica imagined Marzen poised nude above her. His sweat was dripping off his chest onto hers, hot, like hot wax.

  “They like to show off?” Ginny was saying. “I’ll show them some showing off.”

  Veronica gasped within the frame of the vivid image. Marzen penetrated her. Her eyes closed, the image cocooned her. She could picture Marzen’s penis sliding in and out…

  Oh, for God’s sake!

  The fantasy was ridiculous, a useless breach of reality. She was like a high school girl dreaming of the quarterback.

  “What the—” Veronica turned, breaking her muse. “Ginny!”

  “Hey, I’m showing off.” Ginny had removed her blouse, braless beneath. She waved the blouse in the air, in circles. “Save your strength, fellas! You’re gonna need it!”

  “Ginny, are you nuts!”

  Below, Gilles looked up at the spectacle and chuckled.

  “That’s one’s mine,” Ginny said.

  But Marzen’s face remained plain. He was not looking at Ginny. Instead, his eyes bored directly into Veronica’s.

  * * *

  Jack owned a century-old row house on Main Street, which he’d inherited from his father. The equity was preposterous. It had been purchased in the late fifties for fifteen grand; today he could sell it for three hundred grand, and it wasn’t even in very good shape. Jack lived in the upstairs and rented the downstairs to a couple of college kids. The row house was essentially the only thing he had of real value.

  He didn’t sell because he liked it here. He liked the city’s ambience — or the persona, perhaps — of its age and its history. His bedroom window showed him the City Dock; the bright vanishing point of Main Street to the sea looked surreal. He loved the faint salt scents off the bay, and the city’s lights when it was late. He liked being lulled to sleep by the ghostly chimes of sail lines striking the masts of countless boats in the docks. The sound was indescribable.