Incubi

by Edward Lee

  But neither pattern was working here. What about victim patterns? In his mind he saw triangles, glyphs, and the scarlet word Aorista. The victims had patterns too. Unstructured moral behavior, promiscuity, erotomania, as Dr. Panzram called it — sexual patterns. All three 64s were successful, well-educated single women. And still another; they were all looking for the same thing when they died, which meant they lacked the same thing.

  Passion. They had everything in their lives but passion.

  Now a new pattern had alighted. Susan Lynn wrote poetry. Rebecca Black wrote poetry. Shanna Barrington was an art director. A creative pattern. A general artistic pattern of shared interest. And stranger, the evidence proved that none of them had ever worked together, gone to school together, or knew the same people. Nor at any time had they ever known each other. Yet the patterns remained.

  Bizarre words occurred to him. Similitude. Homology. Parity.

  Parallelism, he thought. The patterns of the perpetrators adjoined with the patterns of the victims. Karla Panzram’s graphological diagnoses indicated a general artistic pattern motivating the killers. All of a sudden Jack felt inhumed by patterns.

  Gods, he thought next. Devils. He wondered what the old dock bum Carlson had really seen last night. Two things scaling down a six-story condo. Large and naked but not human. Many dock bums were alcoholics, many hallucinated. “Faceless things,” he’d told Jack and Randy. “Nothing on their faces but eyes, big yellow eyes. Stubby little horns too.” “Horns?” Jack had asked. “Yeah, son. Horns, little horns in their heads. Like I told you. Devils.” Jack thought it would’ve been too rude to ask if they’d also had pronged tails.

  Give yourself a breather. Brainstorming and hangovers did not mix well. His head felt like a jammed computer. Overload. Thinking too much could often be worse than thinking too little. The perceptions fizzed out. A pink Post-It on his desk lamp flagged his eye. Farmer’s National Bank, he’d written on it. He’d stopped by during lunch to talk to the assistant branch manager, a beautiful green-eyed redhead. “All cash deposits over ten thousand dollars are serialed,” she’d told him. “It’s part of the new DEA laundering bill. We have a machine called a serial scanner. You stack the cash in the bin and the serial numbers are photographed and entered into the deposit computer automatically. Size of the bills doesn’t matter.” “Can you trace the bills to the point of withdrawal?” he’d inquired. “Sure. That’s what the system exists for. It takes five minutes if the withdrawal came from one of our branches, a couple of hours for a different bank.” “What about a foreign exchange bank?” “Couple of days.” He’d handed her Stewie’s deposit date. “Will you trace this for me?” “I’d be happy to, Captain, but first you have to either bring in a records warrant from the state magistrate, or subpoena the bank registrar with a writ of duces tecum.”

  Jack had walked out, swearing under his breath.

  Should he even be worrying about Veronica now? Does Veronica worry about me? He retrieved a mental picture of her from the past and tried to insert it into the present. Where was she? What was she doing, what was she thinking? When was the last time she thought about me?

  “Jack,” came a morose voice. Randy appeared in the doorway. “Larrel wants us in his office.”

  “What for?”

  Randy only gave a shrug.

  “Anyone told him that we’re a little busy today?”

  “IAD’s here,” Randy said. “And someone from the comm’s office.”

  I haven’t taken any pad money lately, have I? Jack tried to joke to himself. But this was no joke. IAD was the department ball-cutting crew; they didn’t fool around. Jack put on a tie and sports jacket, and groaned when he looked in the mirror.

  “Too bad there’s not a barbershop on the way,” Randy commented as they went down the hall. “Comb your hair or something, man.”

  “I could use a dry cleaner too,” Jack said, combing frantically, “and an electric razor.”

  “I got a bad feeling, Jack. Sometimes you can smell the shit before it hits the fan, you know what I mean?”

  “Tell me about it. Why do you think I’ve been wearing a clothespin on my nose for the last ten years? What could IAD want with us?”

  “We’ll find out in about two seconds.”

  Larrel Olsher’s office felt cramped, like a smoking room at a funeral home. Olsher, the black golem, sat stolid and huge behind his desk. To his right sat deputy Commissioner Joseph Gentzel, fiftyish, lean face, short graying hair, and a smirk like he’d just taken a swig of lemon juice. Beside him stood a meticulously dressed stuffed shirt, young, with reptile eyes and a pursed mouth, pure Type A.

  Jack nodded to Olsher and the deputy comm. Then the kid stepped forward and said, “Captain Cordesman, my name is Lieutenant Noyle. I’m the field investigations supervisor for Internal Affairs.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” Jack said. “What’s this all about?”

  Gentzel answered. “Someone leaked details of the Triangle case to the press, Captain.”

  Then Noyle: “The Evening Sun is doing a front page today, and tomorrow the story will be in the Post and the Capital.”

  Deputy commissioner Gentzel stood up. “This is inexcusable. Do you have any idea how this will make the department look?”

  “Sir, I didn’t leak the story to them,” Jack said.

  “Perhaps you didn’t. But the zero progress you’ve made on the case will only make us look worse.”

  Jack and Randy stared at him. Randy said, “Sir, it was probably somebody in admin; every police department has a mole to the press. It’s impossible to keep a lid on any case for long.”

  “That’s not the point.” Gentzel sat back down. He looked at Jack. “I’ve examined your paperwork regarding the Triangle case, Captain, and I’m not impressed. Three ritual murders in a week, and you’re no further along today than when you started.”

  “That’s not true, sir—”

  “We didn’t want you on this case in the first place, but your superiors assured us you were the best man for the job.” Gentzel shot Olsher a blank stare. “Your superiors, obviously, were wrong, which leaves me to wonder about the efficiency of this entire squad.”

  “With all due respect, sir, that’s not a fair conclusion.”

  “And from what I can see, your active participation on the case is all but nonexistent. Lieutenant Eliot seems to be carrying most of the investigative load.”

  “I’m very close to identifying the specific ritual,” Jack asserted. “If I can—”

  “The ritual is a dead end. The perpetrators are obviously psychopaths.”

  “That’s not true either, sir. We have plenty of evidence to suggest that—”

  “I know all about you, Captain, you and your radical investigative avenues. I don’t want to hear about psychiatric profiles and satanic rituals. A homicide should be pursued through proven methods, not investigative quackeries.”

  “Let me remind you, sir, that my past performance record—”

  “And I don’t want to hear about your success rate, and your awards and decorations. In my view many of your operations were of questionable legality, and your search and seizure warrant in the Henry Longford case was barely constitutional.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but—”

  “And furthermore—”

  Jack, finally, exploded. “Would you at least let me talk for a minute, goddamn it, sir!” he shouted.

  The silence in the wake of the shout felt thick as wet cement. Larrel Olsher and Randy averted their eyes to the floor. Noyle remained standing stiffly, hands behind his back. He was smiling.

  “And there’s another disturbing matter,” Gentzel went on after the pause. “Lieutenant Noyle?”

  Noyle stepped forward. “Clearly, your conduct in general is bad enough, and it only proves to disservice your own professional integrity, and the integrity of the department in general. I’ve never witnessed such irresponsibility on the part of a rank officer, not in al
l my time on the department.”

  Jack could bear no more of this. “All your time?” he objected. “What’s that, about six months? I’ve been on this department for ten years, kid. I was busting dope dealers when you were still playing with G.I. Joes. And in case you haven’t noticed, I outrank you.”

  But Noyle went on, cold as stone. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Captain, Internal Affairs operates under the direct authority of the county executive’s office. When we hear things within the department, we investigate. That’s our job. And we’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  “Okay, sure,” Jack said. His only tactic was to beat this punk to the punch. “I went a little batty after the Longford case, and I’ve had a few personal problems, and sometimes I drink a little too much, but I’ve never consumed alcohol on duty.”

  “Were you drunk last night, Captain?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  “Were you drunk two nights ago?”

  The motherfucker put watchdogs on me, Jack realized.

  “On those two nights did you drink liquor in the Undercroft Tavern?”

  “Yeah, I drank liquor,” Jack admitted. “I’m pretty sure that Prohibition was repealed a couple of years ago.”

  “Did you not in fact drink to the point of complete inebriation, Captain? Isn’t it true that you drank so much that you lost consciousness at the bar and had to be physically carried out?”

  Jack was seething. It was all spelled out for him now, so there was no reason to restrain himself. “You suck-face little fairy. You put tails on me.”

  “It’s my job to investigate the public behavior of any officer whose professional reliability is in question. Based on its documentation, Internal Affairs is satisfied that you have a serious alcohol-abuse problem, and it has been recommended to the commissioner’s office that you submit yourself to the county alcohol-rehabilitation program, posthaste.”

  Posthaste, Jack thought. Only a pussy would use a world like “posthaste.” Suddenly he felt his entire career in the hands of this prim, anal-retentive little brownnose. “I will,” he said.

  “Additionally, it has been recommended that you be suspended from active duty, with pay, until you have successfully completed said program. Please know that you have the right to contest IAD’s recommendations. I would strongly advise against that, though.”

  “Please, don’t take me off the Triangle case,” Jack said.

  “Do you have a hearing problem too, Captain?” Gentzel asked. “You are suspended from all investigative operations as of now. Whether you consent or not, you’re off the Triangle case.”

  “Please, sir. Suspend me later, I’ll do the rehab thing later. I just need a little more time. I’m really close.”

  “Captain, the only thing you’re really close to that I can see are insubordination charges and a mental breakdown. It would be derelict for us to allow an unstable alcoholic to remain in charge of a critical homicide investigation. You’ve expended valuable time and money, yet have produced no positive results. I’m reassigning the case to Lieutenant Eliot, who will work under the direct supervision of Lieutenant Noyle.”

  Jack was aghast. “Noyle? You’ve got to be shitting me, sir! He’s an IAD buttprobe, he’s not a cop! You can’t let this stuffed punk take charge of a ritual murder investigation!”

  “That’s enough, Jack,” Larrel Olsher advised.

  “No, it’s not enough!”

  “Lieutenant Noyle is a competent investigator,” Gentzel said.

  “He’s a candyass creamcake who couldn’t investigate the back of his own hand!” Jack yelled. Randy was grabbing him, trying to nudge him toward the door. Noyle’s stiff posture and irreducible smile highlighted his triumph. As Randy edged Jack into the hall, Jack continued to shout, “He’ll run this case into the ground, Gentzel! He’ll fuck it up so bad you’ll never catch these guys!”

  The door slammed. Randy held Jack off. “Are you out of your mind? You can’t talk to a deputy comm like that.”

  “Fuck him,” Jack said. He shook loose. “And that asshole Noyle, fuck him double.” His rage, like a puff of smoke, suddenly reverted to a physical weight of defeat.

  “Forget it, man,” Randy offered. “You did your best.”

  “Then I guess my best isn’t good enough.”

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself, and let me tell you something, as a friend. Those two shitheads in there are right about one thing. You got some serious problems, and if you don’t start taking care of them, you’ll be through as a cop.”

  I already am, he thought slowly. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and left the station.

  I’ve failed, he thought. Myself, and everyone.

  Chapter 26

  V oices. Words.

  White light like mist oozed through black like onyx.

  Was she dreaming?

  Transposition — You are not yet ready to transpose. — Imagine your passion. Which are you, Veronica? Real or fake? — Let the image transpose… Tainted-tainted-tainted…

  Veronica roused. Aw, God. She’d fallen asleep at her work desk. Her mouth and eyes felt sealed shut; they opened stickily. She’d worked all day and all night, hadn’t she? Again she could not remember at first. After Khoronos’ guidance in the room of mirrors, she’d worked until 4:30 a.m. and had fallen asleep.

  What strange dreams, if they’d been dreams at all. They’d been more like fragments of dreams tossed haphazardly into her head. Transposition. Awake or asleep, the word haunted her. Though she believed she understood its artistic meaning now, she couldn’t escape the suspicion that more of its meaning lay hidden, and that Khoronos wanted it that way. Why should she think such a thing, though? Khoronos had revived her, had given her a creative vision she hadn’t thought herself capable of. In three days she’d developed more as an artist than she had in the last three years.

  Then the final mutterings of the dream idled back. Tainted-tainted-tainted. She is tainted. Who had Khoronos been talking about? Who was tainted?

  Did he mean me?

  She hadn’t dreamed of the burning man, though. Perhaps the vision had completed itself in the mirrored room, had shown itself fully, leaving her to paint it without distraction.

  She rubbed her eyes, stood up. I’m a mess, she thought. She was flecked, spotted, and smudged with paint. She reeked of linseed oil. When she glanced down at her work, her breath froze.

  The background was done. Every detail of the dreamscape lay before her on the tight, primed canvas. The grotto’s pits and rabbets, the rough curvature of its black rock walls. Each pointillistic feature melded to convey the background’s subterraneous dimension. Veronica could feel the transcension of the colors, and the image of the bottomless infinitude.

  She’d never delved into such techniques before, utilizing impressionistic strokes and devices to communicate an expressionistic vision, an intercourse of opposites. Yet here she had used those opposites…perfectly.

  Yes. This…is…perfect, she realized.

  The rush of joy flooded her, exhilaration like soaring heavenward. Perfect denoted the unachievable, yet that’s what she felt she achieved. The background was perfect.

  And now it was time to unleash the theme. It was time to paint herself in hand with the burning man.

  As she sat back down to work, she felt as though she were being watched from above, or looked upon by gods.

  * * *

  Devils, Jack thought. It was not what the old man had said as much as how he’d said it. It just…bothered him, like a jag of déjà vu. Why the hell should I care, anyway? he reminded himself. He was off the case.

  “Shooter, Jack?”

  “I’d love one,” Jack admitted, “but I’m through with booze, for good. How many times you heard guys say that?”

  “Hundreds,” Craig said. Jack didn’t know if he was joking or serious. The Undercroft was empty in its post-happy-hour lull. Craig stacked glasses in the rack, whistling something by Elvis Costello. At this mome
nt, just the two of them there, the bar felt haunted. Devils, Jack thought again.

  “I got suspended today,” he finally said.

  “Suspended?” Craig questioned. “Why?”

  “Drinking. Fucking up the case.” He shrugged.

  “Well, sometimes fucking up is the best thing we can do. When we see how stupid we can get, we keep ourselves in check.”

  “Good point. Too bad I still want a drink.”

  “Here you go.” Craig set down a shooter. “A virgin Mary. That’s tomato juice and vodka, without the vodka.”

  Jack shot it back. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  He thumbed through a local magazine called The Critique, one of several TSD had found in Susan Lynn’s bedroom. It contained a poem called “Love-Epitaph,” which seemed grimly fitting. It was the last poem Susan Lynn would ever have published.

  “But I’ll tell you, Jack,” Craig continued. “A bar isn’t the place to be if you’re trying to quit.”

  “The test of will is man’s ultimate power. It’s true, I read it on the bathroom wall the other night.”

  “Try this.” Craig set down a brown bottle. “Drink like a killer, think like a killer.”

  It was Patrizier, the nonalcoholic stuff that Susan Lynn’s murderers had ordered. “Not bad,” he said after a sip. “Know what it tastes like?”

  “Beer without alcohol.”

  “Right.”

  Craig went down into the pit to load the reach-ins. Jack turned to the page of the magazine that carried Susan Lynn’s poem.

  This bar is my grave and my power. Amid it even my own demons cower to these wan nights which slaver and devour like the strange faceless men who come and pluck me like a flower.

  You hit a homer with this one, honey, Jack thought. Had she been writing about the Undercroft? Power. Demons. Faceless. He closed the magazine and slid it away.