The Delilah Complex

by MJ Rose

  Perez sipped at his coffee. They’d been in the car so long it was lukewarm. Jordain had finished his already but wished he’d bought two cups. They might be there for a while.

  “We are so cold on this one I need a winter coat,” Jordain said.

  “I’m not as sure about that as you are.”

  “I’m betting she is not our Delilah. All I’m hoping at this point is that she knows who is, and might lead us to him.”

  “Well, something’s going on. She’s the most important crime reporter in the city right now, and that is more motive than anyone else we can think of.”

  “Talk about willing to do anything to get ahead, that’s—” He was interrupted by his cell phone.

  “Jordain,”

  “It’s Butler. I’ve got the information you wanted.”

  Jordain mouthed the police officer’s name to Perez. “Good, go ahead. I’m waiting with bated breath.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you guys, but I came up with absolutely nothing on Young being linked romantically with the last victim.”

  “Let me guess,” he said wearily. “It’s the same as with the other three. You talked to business partners, friends, doormen, and did some quick phone-record searches. No calls from our new Samson to Young’s home number, cell number or office.”

  Perez shook his head after Jordain had filled him in on Butler’s investigation. “Maybe she didn’t know them. Maybe she saw them somewhere and for some reason targeted these four men—stalked them. Maybe she tried to date them and they all rejected her.”

  “And then she drugged them and killed them to exact her revenge? She’s a perfectly normal-looking woman— even if she’s a little pugnacious and aggressive—no reason to assume she’s that hard up for a social life that if a guy said no, she’d go to this extreme. No, if this is tied in any way to her, it’s the career thing.”

  A woman walking an apricot-colored miniature poodle stopped alongside the car while her dog sniffed at the sidewalk. She glanced into the window, saw the two men talking to each other, but didn’t focus on them. Jordain watched her without looking directly in her face.

  “Have we found out if there’s another exit to the building?”

  Perez shook his head. “Most buildings in the city don’t have one. If this one does, and if she used it, it would mean she knows we are on her tail. So, do we get out and check and risk bumping into her, or do we wait? And how long do we wait?”

  “Most sessions last forty-five minutes. We’ve got a ways to go.”

  “Do they ever let a patient go more than a hour?”

  “Morgan would if it was important. If the patient was in crisis. She’d break a rule like that.”

  “But not break a rule for us?”

  “She’s got integrity.”

  “Oh, is that what she’s got?”

  Jordain arched his eyebrows.

  “Come on, partner, I’ve known you long enough to be able to tell when you are interested in someone. Christ, I’ve been waiting for that to happen.”

  “Well, give it up.”

  “I’ve seen the two of you in a room together and—”

  “I’m hungry,” Jordain interrupted. “Do you have one of those nutrition bars you’re always eating instead of real food?”

  Forty-Five

  After Betsy blurted out that she was responsible for the deaths of all four men, she sat there, head in hands, while I opened the envelope and inspected the contents. I’d seen so many photos like these at the police station I should have been inured to them, but the new shots made me sick to my stomach, and when I saw the red number 4 on the new man’s feet, my head started to pound. “Betsy?”

  She looked up. “They wouldn’t be dead if I’d told the police about the Scarlet Society.”

  “What would you have told the police?”

  “How can you sound so calm? You don’t sound as if you care.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “You can’t care about them—you didn’t know them.”

  “But you did, didn’t you? You had sex with them and talked to them.”

  She nodded.

  “Did you care about them?”

  “I cared about Bruce Levin.”

  I nodded, not surprised that Betsy had known this last man better than the others. Something had brought her to me.

  “But I killed him.”

  “How?”

  “I didn’t do anything to protect him.”

  “Actually, you did. You wrote articles that were picked up on every television station and in every newspaper in the country. All the men involved in the Scarlet Society heard or read that news and should have been careful. Extra careful.”

  “I thought that, too. But they weren’t, were they?”

  “Or if they were, it wasn’t careful enough.”

  “I can’t go to the police.”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” I said.

  “But you think I should.”

  “Betsy, I didn’t say that. Do you think you should?”

  “I can’t. I took an oath to the society.”

  “But surely if you can prevent someone’s death by revealing that information—”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” she said.

  She didn’t have to tell me. I was as conflicted as she was. “Tell me.”

  “It’s not just about the society. I tell the police, I will most likely get fired from the Times.”

  “Why?”

  “If it were revealed that I knew about the society—was involved in the society—and that I kept that information from both the authorities and the paper…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  I waited, and when she clearly wasn’t going to resume speaking, I asked her what she had stopped herself from saying.

  “I’d have to recuse myself from writing the rest of the stories and I can’t do that. Not yet. It would be professional suicide.”

  “You have a stellar career, don’t you? You’ve won Pulitzer Prizes. Would this cancel all that out?”

  “You don’t understand. It’s not about avoiding getting into trouble. I’ve waited twenty years to get this kind of front-page space day after day. I can’t possibly walk away from it now.”

  “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”

  “I’ve never equivocated on my decision.”

  “So why are you here?”

  I could tell from the expression on her face that she hadn’t expected that question. But blunt questions work in my favor. Not because I always expect to get truthful answers—patients lie to themselves and to me all too often. No, it was that unless you are a trained actor you don’t know what your face is showing. Only the most devious and accomplished liars are practiced enough to control all of their facial expressions.

  I can see pupils dilate or shrink. Can see lips tremble or sweat pop out on the forehead. Can hear an involuntary intake of breath. Or notice the pulse quicken by focusing on a prominent vein on the neck. Swallowing, gulping, blinking, squinting—all proclaim the lie.

  Betsy wasn’t a trained actress and she was acting guilty. Depending on the question, she couldn’t meet my glance. Despite the cool fall air blowing through the window, wisps of hair were stuck to her damp forehead. She picked at a hangnail, kept crossing and uncrossing her feet at the ankles. Her mouth was dry—I could hear that.

  Was she letting me witness her guilt on purpose? Was her confession about the smaller crime offered to distract me from thinking she was capable of the larger one? Was I supposed to believe that anyone struggling with her conscience this way over the infraction of not admitting to knowing these men could not be the killer? If I were convinced she was distraught about the minor role she had played in this drama, then I might not wonder if she’d had an even bigger role.

  But I did wonder.

  I was all too aware that the woman sitting in my office on that Saturday afternoon might have been responsible for the carnage she was r
eporting.

  She had motives.

  One she had discussed in group: she was getting older and the men in the club were no longer excited when she chose them. She saw it in their faces and the way they avoided her eyes—the way she avoided mine that afternoon. Betsy was a strong woman and she was angry.

  How angry?

  I didn’t know that yet.

  The second motive was the attention and power she was enjoying being the only reporter on the story.

  Going against her claim of innocence was that she purported to be devastated over the deaths of four men she’d known, and yet she wasn’t willing to do anything to help prevent the next crime.

  But neither was I.

  And that didn’t make me a suspect.

  Was she dangerous? Did she have mood swings? Inappropriate responses? Lapses in concentration? Inability to focus? The answers would help me make an educated guess, but she’d have to be in therapy with me for a few more weeks before I could assess whether she was psychotic. Psychotic enough to be a serial killer?

  And there was the issue of her being female. Male criminals raped and killed serially. They easily had sex without forming connections. (Even healthy men.) But women were much less likely to engage in sexual athletics. Despite themselves, they made connections. The women in the group had attested to that when they’d bemoaned the fact that they couldn’t go to Philip Maur’s memorial service.

  Certainly women could kill. A wife could murder her husband in a crime of passion if he betrayed her, but for a woman to kill four men she cared about, one after the other, because they didn’t pay her as much attention as she would have liked?

  It wasn’t impossible, but it was highly improbable. Especially a woman who didn’t exhibit signs of serious psychosis.

  Certainly Betsy was involved on some level, but how? And what could I do about it? She had not exhibited any behavior to lead me to suspect that she was going to harm herself. She had not named any man other than the men who were already dead. I could only go to the police if I feared for her or had information suggesting she was going to harm someone else.

  The law was clear on this.

  That I had a group of patients who knew men who were being targeted was just on the wrong side of the line. I had already encouraged them to go to the police.

  Now I would have to try even harder to convince Betsy to tell the truth.

  Forty-Six

  My ex-husband had called me early on Sunday morning and told me what had happened to Dulcie over the weekend in Boston so that I’d be prepared.

  I waited for her to come home that night. Sitting in the den without the TV or stereo on, I listened for the click of her key, holding my breath. Aching for what my thirteen-year-old little girl had gone through.

  I had to hold myself back from rushing over to her and wrapping her up in my arms when she opened the door. I waited as her footsteps echoed in the foyer and stopped sounding as she walked down the carpeted hall to her room.

  Only then did I get up and go to her.

  She was sitting on her bed, the suitcase at her feet. Eyes red-rimmed, her hair lank.

  “Hi, honey,” I said. Walking over to the bed, I sat down next to her, put my arm around her back and kissed her cheek. She buried her face in the hug. I didn’t know that she was crying until I felt the reverberation of the sobs on my fingertips.

  “I want to quit the play,” she whispered through her tears.

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  Her small head was nestled under my chin. I wanted to kill my ex-husband for persuading me to let Dulcie do this. Life would offer enough pain, I had told him. Can’t our child have her whole childhood before she confronts the vagaries of the professional world?

  Dulcie was crying so hard it hurt my chest.

  I had held my mother like this, but then I was the little girl and she the adult. It hadn’t mattered; her heart had still been broken by the audience. By the love she needed so badly but could never have gotten from strangers watching her act on a stage.

  “Dulcie, I love you.”

  She nodded and hiccuped. “I want to quit,” she said again.

  “I know.”

  And I wanted her to quit. I wanted to call the director of the show and tell him that I was sorry but Dulcie had decided that she didn’t want to continue with the play. I knew exactly the tone of voice I’d use so that he would understand it wasn’t a conversation we were having. I was just giving him information and he would have to accept it. There were two understudies, and both girls were prepared to go on. And there was no reason that either of them wouldn’t do just as good a job as Dulcie. And her school would take her back. They’d agreed to that. She’d been tutored the entire time. She’d get up to speed quickly. The director would try to convince me that Dulcie needed to stay. Or maybe he’d be relieved that she wanted to pull out. How dare he think that? Dulcie was perfect for the part of Mary Lennox.

  I wanted to laugh. My pride and my need to protect her were mixed up with each other.

  I hugged her tighter, knowing that I wasn’t going to do anything that I wanted to do.

  “It’s dinnertime. I made your favorite.”

  “Made it?” Dulcie looked at me askance from under swollen eyelids. She was depressed but she was still her irreverent self. I had never been quite so happy to hear her sarcasm.

  “Yes. First I purchased it at EAT, then I brought it home, put it on the stove and turned on the heat.”

  “That’s not making it, Mom, that’s heating it.”

  I laughed. She laughed and then fresh tears spilled out of her eyes, wetting her cheeks all over again.

  We sat at the table in the kitchen and Dulcie proved that, no matter how upset she was, it didn’t affect her appetite.

  “I thought I was fine.”

  I nodded at her, listening to what happened in Boston on Saturday night.

  “I wasn’t even nervous. I mean, we’d had so many rehearsals. I really knew my lines. And all the songs. And I wasn’t scared.”

  I nodded again.

  “But when I stood up there. I don’t know. It just stopped working. I couldn’t find anything. Everything was wrong. It was the most awful thing. And they wrote about it. How nervous I was. Even unprofessional.”

  She started to cry again and I had to hold back from crying with her, in sympathy. She pushed the plate away from her, laid her head on the table, and started to sob as if it had just happened all over again.

  I stroked my daughter’s head but didn’t say anything. I wanted to give her the space to feel the full brunt of the pain. Professionally, I knew that talking to her, trying to dilute the embarrassment and disappointment, would only dam it up.

  When she picked her head up a few minutes later, the tracks of tears on her face made my stomach seize up. Of course I would let her quit the play. There was no reason that my child had to go through anything this terrifying. The world would offer up enough pain for her later that I couldn’t fix.

  This was something I could stop.

  “I want to quit.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about it.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to quit.”

  That wasn’t okay, as much as I wished it were.

  “Dulcie, we have to talk about it. It’s much too big a decision not to talk out.”

  “Dad said I could.”

  “And I’m not saying you can’t. We don’t have to have the conversation now, but we do have to have it eventually.” I cursed my ex-husband for giving her the okay without talking to me. Of course she could quit, but it wasn’t good for her to make a decision like that without understanding why she wanted to and what it would mean.

  I stood up and filled the kettle. “I’ll make some hot chocolate. We can watch a movie.”

  “I hate that powdered hot chocolate. Instant!” She spat the word out as if she could taste the stuff and wanted it out of her mouth.

  Inwardly, I sighed. She was
acting her age. I couldn’t blame her and I didn’t want her to act any other age. But that didn’t mean I could cope with it. Of every aspect of motherhood, the one that I had the hardest time with was the idea that I had to adore every facet of my daughter’s personality. My daughter was stubborn and willful and sarcastic, and when she exhibited all those parts of her personality at once, it was as if a demon child had moved into her body and taken over.

  I shut off the kettle and opened the refrigerator. “Do you want some cider? It’s fresh; I bought it over the weekend. I can heat that and put some cinnamon sticks in it.”

  Usually she loved this fall beverage, but of course she shook her head. “No. I just want you to call Raul and tell him I’m out of the show.”

  “It’ll be okay with you when the play opens in New York in eight weeks and you aren’t in it? You won’t regret this?”

  She shook her head.

  “I think instead of calling him, we should go down to the studio together tomorrow morning and tell him in person.”

  “No,” she shrieked. “I can’t. I don’t want to see him.”

  On some mental checklist I noted her reaction to my suggestion, not sure yet what it meant. Why was that such an abhorrent idea? I sat back down at the kitchen table, next to her. “We don’t have to do it when everyone else is there, Dulcie, but you have to see Raul and tell him yourself.”

  “I said I won’t. There isn’t some stupid rule that I have to.”

  “No, not a rule. But it’s common courtesy. He chose you out of three hundred and fifty other girls. He’s been working with you for months. You can’t just disappear without explaining why.”

  “You tell him why. Mom—” She strung the word out so it hung on the air. If she had been younger, I would have acquiesced. Instead, I wondered what was really going on and why she wanted me to take over. Was it just a regression to wanting her mother to take care of her so she could feel like a little girl, all safe and protected after her foray into the unfeeling, the critical?