The Delilah Complex

by MJ Rose

  Ignoring his personal reaction, he leaned closer to her, matching his body language to hers, even forcing his lips into a smile for the first time that night. “But when you open these envelopes and look at this material first, it compromises our investigation.”

  Betsy didn’t respond. Instead, she stared down at the three glossy eight-by-ten photographs in the middle of the scarred wooden tabletop. Jordain had reviewed them a dozen times, but he did so again. Betsy had identified the man as Timothy Wheaton, and it hadn’t taken much work to confirm that she was correct; his wife had supplied them with photos of him when she’d made the missing-persons report.

  Wheaton was in his early- to mid-thirties. Short but well built. His eyes were closed. Slight bruising decorated his wrists and ankles. He was as still as the stone angel that stood over Jordain’s father’s grave.

  This man had been laid out exactly as Philip Maur had been, and the angles in both sets of photographs were identical.

  Three shots. One of the man’s feet, each with the number 2 drawn on the sole in red ink. A second focusing obscenely on the man’s penis. And a third showing his whole body.

  Alongside the photographs, there was something else on the table: an innocent plastic bag. Inside was only one thing: a lock of sandy blond hair about an inch and a half long.

  Betsy leaned back just a fraction in her chair, moving away from Noah. “Well, I suppose there’s a deal we could make. Let me follow you around while you investigate the case. Put me in your fucking hip pocket. Let me hear and see everything that happens. Just me. No other reporters.”

  Jordain’s first thought was to say no outright. The idea of spending his days with this pushy woman annoyed him.

  “Will you fax us your articles the night before they run? Just as a heads-up. No editorial input.”

  Negotiating, Betsy nodded.

  “Okay,” Jordain said.

  Perez did not make a move, but Jordain saw his partner’s eyebrows arch ever so slightly. Meanwhile, Betsy’s eyes gleamed. Her lust for the story chilled Jordain. The way she imitated the worst traits in a man made him pity her. Why did she force her toughness? Didn’t she know how much more powerful women were than men, even if they were wearing pink sweater sets? He was surprised that in the midst of this complicated and disturbing meeting, with the upsetting photographs in front of him, he had stopped to think about any of this.

  “One more thing,” she said. “My job is to break the news. That’s harder and harder to do with twenty-four-hour cable news shows reporting all day and all night. I need assurances that if I let you in the newsroom to work on this case as it breaks, you will not issue statements to other members of the press once you walk out the door.”

  As much as Jordain hated to admit it, he understood her problem, but he wasn’t used to bargaining with a newspaper. Then again, he’d never come across this particular situation before.

  Out of the thousands of missing people, two men had turned up dead within days of each other, in exactly the same way. There was absolutely no evidence of where they had been or what had happened to them. Damn. Damn. Damn. The case was cold from the get-go. They didn’t have anything to go on. Not a single lead. Two men. Dead. He went over it again. Why photographs? Why hair clippings? Why these two men? What was the connection? Who were they to their assailant? And why was the only communication from the killer being sent directly to Betsy Young at the New York Times instead of to the NYPD?

  “How did you figure out the names of these men?” Perez asked Betsy.

  Jordain knew what his partner was thinking. Was the reporter holding something else back? A letter? E-mail? Nothing had come with the photos and the hair that would have identified the victims.

  “We’d run a story on Philip Maur when he was reported missing. He had a big job. I saw it. I remembered his face.” She shrugged.

  Jordain didn’t like the way she’d said it. A little too glib. He filed it away.

  “And how did you know who Timothy Wheaton was?” Perez asked.

  “Same thing. He’s the son of a very well-known author. When the missing-persons report was filed, we saw it.”

  “Did you report on it?”

  She shook her head. “Me, personally? No.”

  “The paper?”

  “Yes, but not as prominently as Maur.”

  “Except you recognized him?”

  “Not right away. I pulled up all the stories we’d done on missing people in the past few weeks, taking a guess I’d find something.”

  “And you did,” Perez said.

  “I did.” Her words were clipped.

  Perez looked over at his partner—indicating he was finished with his questions. Jordain only had one left.

  “Betsy, do we have a deal?”

  “You’ll give me total exclusivity?”

  “I won’t give out any statements to the press until you’ve run your story.”

  “Except to me.”

  “Except to you when appropriate,” he corrected.

  “I don’t like that last part,” Betsy said. “Deal’s off.”

  Jordain had consulted with the department’s legal counsel on the way to the station. The New York Times didn’t have to agree to any of the department’s requests. The mail was being sent to Betsy Young, not to the police, and while there were court orders the NYPD could obtain to intercept Betsy Young’s mail, the lawyers felt it would be better if Jordain could get the paper to cooperate. “The Times,” the lawyer had said, “is the newspaper of record for the city, the state and, in fact, many feel, the whole nation. It would be better if we didn’t have to go up against the Gray Lady. That would make the news in itself, and the killer might just stop sending mail completely.” It was not what Jordain had wanted to hear. But he knew he had to deal with it. Or deal around it.

  Jordain stood. Perez was only seconds behind him. “We’ve done what we can to work with you. If you won’t agree to what I’ve asked, you’ll push me into getting a court order to intercept your mail.”

  Betsy pulled out a cell phone, dialed a number and said only two words: “No deal.”

  She listened, then she handed the phone to Jordain. “My boss would like to talk to you.”

  Jordain took the phone.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hastings. We seem to be having a problem here. Ms. Young can’t wrap her head around the fact that we have a killer loose and we need you to cooperate with us on our investigation. I really would prefer that to getting a court order demanding that you do so.”

  “There is every chance you could get such an order, Detective. And every chance it would be denied you. Ms. Young is asking for something well within your rights to grant her. Exclusivity in exchange for us opening our doors to you.”

  “There are lives at stake here and you’re bargaining?” Jordain said, finally unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

  “I’m running a newspaper and trying to be accommodating.”

  Jordain spoke into the phone but looked right at Betsy. “No. You are asking for more than anyone would agree to. Here it is, Hastings. Once more. Last time. We’ll have an officer there to go through the mail in the morning. Anything suspicious he finds, he will make two calls. One to me or Detective Perez, the second to Ms. Young. And she’ll wait until we show up before opening the mail. And I want you to agree to hold off running the story until we tell you it’s okay.”

  “How much time?” Hastings asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. I won’t know until I know what we need to do.”

  “If you take too much time we could lose our exclusive.”

  “Not likely. If anyone else gets a lead they will have to call my office to confirm, and we won’t do that until after we’ve given you a heads-up.”

  “I don’t like that,” Hastings said.

  “And I’m not surprised, but this isn’t just news, it’s murder. And it’s complicated. And we don’t have anything to go on except what you are getting.”

>   “The thing that bothers me with this nice-nice cooperation between us and the Times,” Perez said to Jordain after Young had left, “is that the killer is getting exactly what he wants and what is going to feed him. He’s sending those photographs to the Times instead of us because he wants to be in the paper. And we’re allowing that to happen.”

  “We’re not allowing that to happen. The Constitution of the United States allows that to happen.”

  Perez nodded. They had both been policemen long enough to know that their jobs were not always made easy by the civil liberties in place in the country. “There’s nothing we can complain about—no one to complain to. We have to work within the law.”

  “Except in situations where there is no law,” Jordain said.

  Perez heard the smile in his partner’s voice. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t think there is any law that says we have to remember to call Betsy Young and fill her in on everything we get. There is no law that we have to report to the reporters. And there is no law that says we have to rush to give the Times the okay to run the next story. Or, God forbid, the story after that.”

  “They won’t like that,” Perez said.

  “I can live with being disliked.”

  “They can retaliate.”

  “They can, but they won’t. The NYPD has a relationship with the paper. I don’t trust Young, but Hastings won’t risk losing our cooperation on every story he’s got, especially when he knows in his gut that what he’s agreed to is the right thing to do.”

  “So one day when we remember to, we’ll call Young and tell her our plans and invite her to come along on a raid and keep her sitting in a car on an empty street corner after the moon’s gone down but before the sun’s come up.”

  “Right. And in the meantime, let’s get the lab working on this hair sample and these photographs. And pray that there is some information here that Young hasn’t compromised.”

  Twenty

  The call came the next day at exactly 6:47 p.m. She obviously had been to therapy or knew enough about therapists to know that patients always left at forty-five minutes past the hour. She identified herself as Betsy Young and said she was a reporter for the New York Times. I recognized her name from her byline on the story about the event that had brought the Scarlet Society to me.

  “How can I help you, Ms. Young?”

  “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.” Her voice was low and intimate and just slightly familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “In reference to what?”

  “The Philip Maur murder. Did you see the photograph that ran in the paper when we broke the story?”

  Could it be a coincidence that the New York Times was calling me—the therapist working with the Scarlet Society—for comment? Of course not, but who had leaked my involvement?

  Shelby Rush had sent out a memo to everyone connected with the society, introducing me and the Butterfield Institute, and suggesting that anyone in need of grief counseling could contact me. Was it possible that a member of the society had sent that memo to this reporter and that was why she was calling?

  Of course. Anything was possible, but I could hardly ask Ms. Young without possibly breaking confidence.

  “I did see the photograph and read the story, but I don’t know why you are calling me for comment.”

  “Based on photographs that we received but didn’t run in the story, there are suggestions this was a sex crime and—”

  “You’d have to talk to the police about that, Ms. Young.”

  “I have. They, too, believe it’s a sexual crime based on those details. Can I tell you the indicators?”

  “I really don’t think I’m in a position to—”

  She interrupted me, launching into a description of Maur’s body. “The corpse had bruises around his wrists and ankles as well as bruising on his testicles. In addition, another shot completely emphasized the man’s genitals. Do you think that is important?”

  “I can’t comment. I haven’t see the photos.”

  “If I had a set sent over to you, would you study them?”

  “No, I’m sorry—I don’t think so.”

  “Detective Jordain suggested I get a second opinion.”

  “From me?” Hearing his name unnerved me. I had to force myself to focus on what the reporter was saying, not on what had happened four months earlier.

  “You worked with the detective on the Magdalene Murders, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “I can’t discuss those cases.”

  I didn’t want to think about the murders or the detective who’d handled them. Especially not while I was talking to a reporter on the phone. Dealing with her required all my concentration; I couldn’t afford any missteps. “Ms. Young, did the detective suggest you call me? I don’t think you told me that.”

  I heard her let out an annoyed breath. “It was reported that you had worked with the only survivor of the murders. There were even rumors that you saved her life and helped lead the police to the killer. And since you are a sex therapist and this new case suggests some sexual abuse of some kind, I thought you’d be a great place to start. So, Doctor, can I ask you two questions?”

  “You can ask but I can’t promise that I’ll answer.”

  “In the article that ran in the Times, did you notice that Mr. Maur had the number 1 written on the soles of his feet?”

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  “Would that suggest, from a therapist’s point of view, that there are going to be more victims? A number 2, 3 and so on?”

  “Yes. But not from a therapist’s point of view—from common sense the numbers suggest that.”

  “And can I quote you on that?”

  “If you want to, I suppose that you can.”

  “Thank you. Now, can you give me an idea of what kind of sex play might be involved if there is bruising on a man’s wrists, ankles and testicles?”

  “Black-and-blue discoloration often indicates S & M. Restraints can heighten both the sense of control and submission in sex play. But you know, there could be other reasons for Mr. Maur to have been restrained that would have nothing to do with S & M.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Snow,” she said, and hung up, leaving me sitting by the phone. My thoughts zigzagged from Betsy Young and her motivations to Noah Jordain, and as soon as that happened, I stood up suddenly and pushed back my chair.

  I needed to talk to Simon Weiss, I decided. About a patient I wanted to refer to him. I knew he’d be in his office; I’d just seen him walk by. It was important. To get away from my desk, my papers, my phone. To stop my thinking from going where it was headed. To do anything to keep my mind off the detective and the time I’d spent with him.

  It didn’t occur to me to wonder why Betsy Young was doing another story on Philip Maur. But I’d be finding out soon enough.

  Twenty-One

  The next night, I left the institute at eight-thirty, after my last session. The night air wasn’t cold and my black leather jacket was enough to keep me warm. I looked at the people walking on the avenue, on their way home or out to dinner. I window-shopped the boutiques that offered up designer goods more expensive than I could afford. There was a tempting pair of tall black boots in one store, a simple but elegant navy silk suit in another. No matter how much I ever made at the institute, these items would still be obscenely expensive.

  I took my time that night because Dulcie’s father had picked her up from the studio and I was on my own. She’d be staying with him for the next four days. Usually it was a week every month plus every other weekend, but he had a shoot that was taking him out of town when she was due to stay with him next, so we’d rearranged the schedule.

  I’d worked harder at an amicable breakup with Mitch than I had at anything I’d ever done, never forgetting that awful year when my mother had left my father and the two of us had lived in the small, pathetic apartment in a walkup on the Lower East Side until she died, leaving me to t
hink I hadn’t been smart enough to save her. But I’d tried. That whole year.

  My mother was often sick. And when she was, I did for her what she did for me when I was sick: I told her stories—the only ones I knew by heart. I sat by her side on the lumpy couch in the living room that she used for a bed, held her hand, fed her saltines and ginger ale, and recounted each episode of her TV show, playing all the parts myself. And when I ran out of the real ones, I made up new ones.

  I always ended by delivering my mother’s co-star’s final line. “And what happened next?”

  “They all lived happily never after,” my mother would say in a faraway voice.

  No matter how bad off she was, she always remembered her sign-off. I have a recurring dream where she finally changes the line to: “They all lived happily ever after.”

  But that was just a dream. She didn’t. And by the time I was old enough to understand that my mother hadn’t been ill most of those nights, but drunk, and that my words probably hadn’t even made sense to her, it was too late. I already knew I’d failed her. I hadn’t been able to save her.

  I was on Madison Avenue and Seventieth Street when my cell phone rang. I kept walking as I pulled it out of my bag. If it weren’t for Dulcie and my concern for her well-being, I doubted I’d ever answer the damn thing. It’s wrong that we can never escape from people who want to reach us.

  Instead of a name on the LED display, the screen read “private caller,” and because there was a chance—albeit a slight one—that the call was about Dulcie, I answered it.

  “Hello?”

  I had reached the corner just as the light turned red, and as I waited I heard a man’s voice say my name.

  “Morgan.”

  It was as if he was trying it out, letting it slide from a thought into a word, as if he had not heard it or said it in a long time and was unsure that he was pronouncing it right, as if it were the name of a foreign spice in a store that has many things you have never heard of.

  I looked around for somewhere to go. To get away from the voice, because I really didn’t want to hear it, but there was nowhere to go. There never is when the problem is inside your own head. “Hello, Noah.”