Sleeping Beauty

by Phillip Margolin

  They took a break after the first hour, and Terri talked to the other members of Maxfield’s class. Except for Brad Dorrigan, who took himself a little too seriously, the other aspiring writers were a pleasant group.

  “Okay, back to the grind,” Joshua Maxfield said when fifteen minutes had passed. Terri carried a cup of coffee to her place. While everyone got settled, she checked the notes she’d taken about developing story ideas.

  “I said that we’re going to spend a portion of each meeting critiquing each other’s writing,” Maxfield said. “Tonight, I’m going to read a chapter from a work in progress and everyone will comment.”

  Terri was nervous that her manuscript would be the subject of the first critique. The other students looked just as worried. Maxfield squared up a short stack of paper that lay in front of him. He picked up the first sheet.

  “I am a God. Not The God. I am from one of the lesser pantheons but a God nonetheless. I don’t make a practice of announcing the fact, and those that discover my powers never tell. On a balmy spring evening in mid-May I introduced myself to the Reardons of Sheldon, Massachusetts.

  “I chose the Reardons because they were so ordinary, the type of people who occupy space while alive and are not missed when they die. Our experience together would be, by far, the most amazing event in their boring lives.

  “Bob, a short, overweight man who was losing his hair, was an accountant. Margaret sold makeup at a department store on Main Street. I imagine that she had once been attractive. She still worked hard to keep her figure, but her skin was beginning to wrinkle and her legs were marred by cellulite. Their only daughter, Desiree, was seventeen, a junior in high school. She was of normal intelligence, and her looks were average, but she was physically advanced. I’d caught sight of her when she visited her mother at work. Her tight shorts showed off her taut buttocks and long firm legs. Her T-shirt was cut to display her flat, tanned tummy and sensual navel. Oh how I desired to lick it.

  “With my appetite whetted by my first sight of Desiree, I laid my plans. Entering the Reardon home was easy. They were living from month to month and could not afford a security system.

  “The master bedroom was down the hall from Desiree’s room. I subdued her parents with ease but I did not kill them. I had no interest in Bob but I wanted him to know who had taken his life force. Gods should not work in anonymity. I taped Bob’s mouth, hands, and ankles and arranged him on his side so he could watch me play with his wife. After Margaret was bound and gagged, I stripped her naked. Then I left them to contemplate their fate and went to Desiree’s room.

  “The object of my desire was lying half-covered by a thin sheet. Because of the heat, she wore only a pair of bikini panties and a thin cotton top that revealed her taut nipples and the tops of her firm breasts. I wanted her to experience sheer terror, the appropriate response of a mortal in the presence of a God. I approached her stealthily. Then I clamped my gloved hand across her mouth. Her eyes sprang open and she stared at me with pure horror. The reaction was very satisfying. Her body actually arched off of the mattress as if electricity had coursed through her. I bound her quickly. She was small and no match for my supernatural strength. My arousal was immediate but I restrained myself, rejecting immediate gratification so that our experience would be more intense.

  “After caressing various parts of her nude body, I left Desiree and returned to her parents. As Bob watched, I slowly dismembered his wife. He struggled and wept through it all. She screamed as I heightened her pain. It was wonderful and, as a prelude to the main course, thoroughly satisfying. With Margaret on the edge of death, but still conscious, I turned my attention to Bob. His eyes widened when I spoke to him of the journey he was about to take to the next plane of existence. I explained how birth began with pain and how pain was a necessary part of the transition he was about to make.

  “My knife was very sharp, and I wielded it slowly and with precision. Each cut would have pleased the most skilled surgeon. Bob stayed conscious even after I opened his belly. He was screaming still when I began to remove his internal organs. It was only when I crushed his beating heart in my gloved hand that he passed from this life to the next.

  “I returned to Margaret. Her transition was quicker and less satisfying. She slipped away after I had drained no more than a quarter of her psychic energy. There was an armchair in the room, and I sat on it to gather myself. I had been thinking of Bob and Margaret’s passage from life to death as I worked, but now my attention turned to my corporeal body. It was exhausted from its exertions, and I was hungry. I did not want to undertake the most exciting part of my adventure in this condition. I did walk down the hall to check on the sweet Desiree. I could hear her weep from frustration as I approached her door. I assume she’d tried to free herself and found the task impossible. The weeping stopped abruptly when I entered her room. She grew rigid with fear. I watched her from the door, exploring the curves and valleys of her body with my x-ray eyes. Then I stroked her forehead and told her that I would be returning to her soon. After planting a kiss on her cheek I left her room and went to the kitchen. I was famished and prayed that the Reardons liked to snack. I was in luck. In the back of the refrigerator I discovered a carton of cold milk and a slice of apple pie.”

  Maxfield read with his eyes on the page but every once in a while he would focus on one of the students to gauge their reaction. The faces of the others varied from fascination to horror. Terri had grown pale during the reading, and when Maxfield read the part where the killer ate the snack in the victim’s kitchen, she nearly threw up.

  “Any comments?” he asked the group when he finished. Terri tried to compose herself, terrified to show her true emotions.

  “That was…very gruesome,” Harvey Cox managed. “I mean, if the writer was trying to gross me out he succeeded.”

  “Why he?” Maxfield asked.

  “It’s got to be a man,” Cox said, casting a quick glance across the table at Brad Dorrigan. “Women don’t write like that.”

  “That’s not true,” Lori Ryan protested. “Some of today’s women authors write very grisly scenes.”

  “Let’s get back to your comment, Harvey,” Maxfield said. “Was this really gruesome? Does the writer describe his murders in detail or leave the details to the reader’s imagination?”

  Lois Dean raised her hand.

  “Lois?”

  “Before I say anything, I’ve got to tell you that I don’t like books like this. I don’t read them. So I’m biased against it. But I see your point. There are a few graphic parts but most of the violence isn’t spelled out.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Maxfield asked.

  “Good, I think,” Mindy Krauss answered. “It’s like in Psycho. You don’t really see Norman Bates stab the woman in the shower but you’re sure you did see her stabbed. Hitchcock makes you use your imagination.”

  Maxfield nodded and looked at Terri Spencer.

  “What do you think, Terri, more details or less detail? Do you prefer it when the writer leaves nothing to the imagination or when the writer forces you to be part of his fantasy?”

  Terri had all she could do to keep from racing out of the room but she made it through the rest of the class, even supplying intelligent answers on the two occasions she was asked a question.

  As the discussion droned on, Terri tried to make sense of what had just happened. She told herself that the incident in the chapter was a coincidence, but she knew that was impossible. Milk and cake, milk and pie. It was too close to real life. But there was one possible explanation. Some writers fictionalized real events to make their stories seem authentic. Maybe the person who wrote the scene had read about the killer’s snack and used the incident because it was so horrifying. For a moment, Terri felt relieved. Then she remembered the newspaper accounts of her tragedy that she had read. She didn’t recall the snack being mentioned in any of them. Had the police held back that information? She had to know.

  And who had
written the scene that Maxfield read? She was pretty certain that Lois Dean was not the writer. Dean was working on a historical novel based on her ancestor’s diaries and she had told the class that she didn’t like graphic serial killer books. Mindy Krauss and Lori Ryan were working on a mystery novel, and Lori Ryan had not been upset by the grisly nature of the scene. Lori was even acquainted with women authors who wrote this style of book. But Terri leaned toward one of the men as the author. Which one, though? Harvey Cox had told the group that he was writing science fiction. That left Brad Dorrigan.

  When the class ended, Terri waited for the computer programmer. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt. He was also thin and, Terri guessed, only five-six or seven-much shorter and less muscular than the killer Ashley had described.

  “Interesting class,” Terri said.

  “I expected more,” Dorrigan replied disdainfully. “I assumed that we would be discussing theory, certainly something more advanced. Outlining, where we get our ideas from-drivel. Maybe Maxfield was a one-shot wonder, like the critics say.”

  Terri was aware that Joshua’s second novel, The Wishing Well, had received poor reviews and sold dismally. She thought it was okay but nowhere near the quality of A Tourist in Babylon. Joshua Maxfield had been hailed as a new voice of his generation when his first novel was published. Within a year of the publication of his second novel it was rare to find any mention of him.

  “What did you think of that excerpt Mr. Maxfield read?” Terri asked.

  “Talk about unmitigated crap. Garbage like that is destroying literature. Publishers don’t want to read anything with depth and characterization anymore. They’re all looking at the bottom line. Dismember a naked woman and they’ll give you a million dollars, but write about the soul of man, what makes us human…forget it. You should see some of the rejection letters I’ve gotten from those morons in New York. Do you think Camus, Sartre, or Stendhal would get a book contract today?”

  Terri forced a laugh. “I guess you didn’t write that bloodbath, then?”

  Dorrigan looked appalled. “I wouldn’t use those pages to wipe my ass.”

  Terri caught up with Lori Ryan and Mindy Krauss in the parking lot. “What did you think of the first class?” Terri asked.

  “It was great,” Mindy answered. “I took so many notes my hand cramped.”

  “He’s such a terrific teacher,” Lori gushed.

  “That wasn’t your mystery he read, was it?” Terri asked.

  The women laughed. “Ours is set in a bridge group,” Mindy told her.

  “Someone is murdering the members and leaving a card pinned to the bodies,” Lori said.

  “The clue is so clever,” Mindy said. “If you make a hand out of…”

  “Don’t tell the ending,” Lori jumped in. “It will spoil it for her.”

  “You’re right,” Mindy sighed, frustrated at not being able to reveal the clever solution to their mystery.

  Terri said good-bye to the women and got in her car. She started it just as Joshua Maxfield left the building. He was carrying a briefcase and strolling toward his cottage as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Terri felt sick. She was fairly certain that none of the members of the class had written the excerpt. Maxfield had told her that he critiqued manuscripts for a fee. The chapter could have been from a manuscript that he was editing. But Maxfield had also said that he was working on a new book. And he lived on the Academy grounds. Terri looked toward Ashley’s dormitory. She wanted to run to her daughter and take her away from the Academy and Joshua Maxfield, but Ashley was doing so well. If she took Ashley home she would have to explain why, and that could undo all of the healing that had occurred. No, Terri decided, she would not act until she had investigated more thoroughly. She was a reporter. She knew how to develop a lead into a story; she knew how to nail down facts.

  Chapter Six

  The Detective Division of the Portland Police Bureau took up one side of the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center, a modern, sixteen-story building located across the park from the Multnomah County Courthouse. Each detective had a workspace separated from the other detectives by a chest-high divider. When the receptionist told Larry Birch that Terri Spencer was in the waiting room, he came out to the front counter and escorted her to his cubicle.

  “Sit down,” Birch said, gesturing toward a chair that sat next to a gunmetal-gray desk piled high with reports, correspondence, and depart-mental memos. A picture of Birch with a woman and two small children stood on one corner.

  “How are you, Mrs. Spencer?” he asked when Terri was seated.

  “I’m okay,” she answered, but Birch didn’t think so. He thought that she looked drawn, pale, and very nervous.

  “How’s Ashley doing?”

  “Fine. She’s going to a new school, the Oregon Academy. I thought the change-you know, starting over in a new place-would help her.”

  “It sounds like a good idea. And it’s working out?”

  “She doesn’t start classes until the fall, but she’s a counselor at a soccer clinic out there, teaching young children. She seems to enjoy it.”

  “She’s a top player, right?”

  “All-State. Several colleges are looking at her.”

  “Well, that’s great.”

  All the time she’d been talking Terri had been shifting nervously in her seat. Birch waited patiently for her to tell him why she wanted to see him.

  “I was wondering if there was any progress. If you have any idea who…”

  Terri’s voice trailed off. Thinking about what had happened to her husband was too hard on her.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Spencer, we have made some progress but we’re nowhere near an arrest.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We asked the FBI in on this and they came up with something.”

  “What?”

  Birch hesitated for a moment. Then he looked Terri in the eye. “You’re a reporter, right?”

  “Not where my husband’s murder is concerned.”

  Birch nodded. “Okay. But I need to know that you will absolutely not tell anyone else what I tell you.”

  “Of course.”

  “The FBI thinks that the person who murdered your husband and Tanya Jones has committed other crimes in several states over the past few years.”

  “A serial killer?”

  “That’s what they think. But they have no clue to the killer’s identity.”

  “Why do they think it’s a serial killer? What are the common threads?”

  “Duct tape was used to bind the victims instead of rope. The FBI has established that the same company manufactured the duct tape used in all of the crimes and they’ve made a physical match between the duct tape used in a case in Michigan and another in Arizona. For obvious reasons, this is something we’re not telling the public.”

  “Are there any other clues you’re keeping from the public?” Terri asked, fighting to keep her tone neutral.

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “I don’t want to leak anything unintentionally.”

  “You know the killer ate a piece of chocolate cake at your house?”

  Terri nodded.

  “He ate a piece of pie during a murder in Connecticut.”

  Terri felt the blood drain from her face. She averted her eyes. “So only the investigators know about the snack at our house? You haven’t released the information to the public?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are they keeping the snack a secret in Connecticut too?”

  Birch nodded.

  “Where were the other murders?”

  “They started in New England about five years ago. Then there were a few in other parts of the country.” Birch listed the cities.

  “What…what does he do?”

  “They’re like your house, Mrs. Spencer. There’s always a teenage daughter. He murders the adults and rapes the daughter before killing her. Ash
ley is a very lucky young woman. She’s the only person who has survived his attacks.”

  Ashley stayed after the clinic session ended to help a seventh-grade girl with her passing skills. The kid was good, and she would get better because she cared about technique. The girl’s mother had waited patiently while Ashley and her student put in an extra twenty minutes. When they were through, she thanked Ashley for taking the extra time to help her daughter. The praise felt good. On the way out of the gym Ashley was wondering if she wanted to teach or coach as a career when a man’s voice interrupted her reverie.

  “It’s Ashley, right?”

  Ashley looked up. Joshua Maxfield was standing in front of her. He was dressed in a T-shirt and athletic shorts and looked like he’d just finished a workout.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt any great thoughts,” the teacher said. “You looked like you were in a trance.”

  Ashley blushed. “It’s okay,” she mumbled.

  “I’m Joshua Maxfield. I teach creative writing. We met when Dean Van Meter was showing you and your mother around the school.”

  “I remember.”

  Maxfield gave her a warm smile. “Your mother’s in my critique group. She says you’ve decided to come to the Academy in the fall.”

  Ashley nodded.

  “Well, that’s terrific. I hope you’ll think about taking my class. Your mother’s work is very good. Do you do any creative writing?”

  “Not really. I mean, I had assignments in school but I don’t do any on my own. I’m pretty busy with soccer all year.”

  “That’s right. You’re a counselor at the summer clinic. You must be pretty good. Our girls have a good team, don’t they?”

  “Yeah. They won state’s the last two years.”

  “Are you going to start?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he said, smiling. “Well, I’m going to hit the shower. It’s nice seeing you again.”