Bitter Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  After ten minutes alone, she heard footsteps coming down the darkened corridor, and she feared that Parry had returned, or that it was Dr. Shockley, Dr. DeAngelos, or possibly Heyward. At any rate, she didn't want any of them to know she was sitting here in the dark crying. She wiped at her tears, and hearing someone just outside the open door, she looked up to find Kim Desinor poking her head around the jamb.

  “Kim, it's you.” Jessica sniffled and tried to hold back tears. If she could cry over this ending with anyone, it would be Kim.

  'Told you you had to face him, get it out. You've gotta be feeling better.” Kim leaned into the door jamb at the exact spot where James Parry had stood.

  How did she know about Jim's visit? Jessica wondered, suspecting her tears had given her away. Had Parry lin­gered in the building? Had Kim run into him on his way out? But Jessica simply responded, “Like a goddamn Ford truck's been lifted off my back, yeah. Maybe now I can focus on the case.”

  “I hope you can forgive me.”

  Jessica looked across at her friend. “Forgive you?”

  “For a couple of things, yes.”

  “What's there to forgive, Kim?” Jessica recalled her ini­tial reaction to Kim and Eriq Santiva's railroading her onto this particular case at this particular time.

  “Well, first because I told Parry where he could find you tonight.”

  'Tonight? You did that... for me?”

  “More than that, I confronted him in his office, told him you had a right to face your accuser, in this case him, and put old hurts to rest.”

  “Had it out with him, did you? Straightened him out, huh? Sent him over here just so I could kick him in the teeth, huh?”

  “Yeah, I stuck up for you.” Kim halfheartedly lifted a victory fist.

  Jessica nodded. “I see. Told him off good, did you?”

  “Damned straight; damned right.”

  “So he came straight over here to hit on me, and talk about rekindling our passion. 1 have you to thank for—”

  Kim gasped. “He did that? The bastard.”

  “So what else do I have to forgive you for, Kim?”

  “Wait a minute, you haven't offered your forgiveness for this part yet.”

  “All right, forgiven. What else?”

  “When Santiva came to me about the case, he told me I'd be working with James Parry. I immediately told him I wouldn't do it without your help, so...”

  Jessica took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with air and her mind with information, and tried to calmly negoti­ate the minefield of emotions it aroused. “All for my own good, no doubt?”

  “Eriq was at first completely against it, but I convinced him otherwise, that you needed to have it out with Parry, else you'd never be totally free of him. Eriq took some convinc­ing. Don't go blaming him, okay? It was totally my doing.”

  “I see.”

  Kim held firm to an amulet around her neck as she stepped into the room. “You needed to see him, Jess. Don't try to deny it.”

  Her fists again clenched, her jaw set, Jessica replied, “You concocted this whole charade to get us together?”

  “I hoped it would be... would go more... pleasantly. I only wanted you to heal and get on with things.”

  “The best of intentions, and Eriq agreed?”

  “Like I said, I made him see the light.”

  “I knew you two were cooking up some kind of non­sense together.”

  “How are you feeling now, Jessica—about Parry and the whole mess, I mean?”

  Jessica stood up and came around the desk. She then looked herself over in exaggerated fashion, working her hands along her arms, as if seeing what part of her had been hurt in the fray with James Parry. Finally, she looked slowly up at Kim, who leaned into the desk.

  “Well?” Kim pressed.

  Jessica's whiskey voice filled the room. “I feel... won­derful; I feel a great weight has been lifted off. You were absolutely right; I needed to tell the SOB what I thought of him, and to put a few hurting screws to his hide.”

  “Mission accomplished!” Kim cheered. “That's the spirit! Full steam ahead with your hunk from New Scot­land Yard, then?”

  “Let's get out of here.”

  “Right-o!”

  Turning out the light, Kim offered her friend a handker­chief and a final word of advice. “Time you took what you want from life, Jess. Don't hold back.”

  “Starting tonight. Where's the elevator out of here?”

  Exiting the building, they passed Dr. Frank DeAngelos as he entered. Only a few words of salutation passed among them.

  “Quite the sourpuss that one,” said Kim. “If what they say about the evil eye is true, dear, you just got it with both barrels.”

  “Watch my back, will you, Kim?”

  “Goes without saying.”

  “That prick's the very last person on earth I wanted to see tonight.”

  “Forget about him. How do you feel now about being free—completely free—of James Parry?”

  “I am glad I cleansed my spleen of James. You know, I think he is exactly what he accuses me of being, not a bone of commitment found anywhere in his morally bankrupt body.”

  “I want to hear all about it, every detail, over drinks, once you loosen up. Save it up. Meantime, tell me this. Anything new on the case come of your digging away these many long hours?”

  “No, nothing at all, but I managed to get the toxicology out of DeAngelos's hands and into Jay Masterson's lab in D.C.”

  “Well now! That's a victory. No wonder he hates your guts.”

  “Hopefully I've done the right thing, but what if—”

  “Hold that self-doubt and second-guessing. Save it for someone who wants to hear it. Let's go have a beer. I hear Philly's got some nightlife.

  “I'm game.”

  “You want to stop off at the hotel first, freshen up? Your mascara's running. You look like Marilyn Man son on a drunk.”

  “I wasn't crying over Jim Parry,” Jessica firmly said.

  “Good! Then what were you crying over?”

  “End of a relationship, release of stress, I dunno, but it wasn't tears of regret, I can tell you that.”

  “Bravo! Then it's on to the hotel and drinks?”

  “Let's make a night of it.”

  “In a celebrating mood, are we?”

  “We are.”

  “Going to call Richard tonight?”

  “No, just have fun. You and me.”

  “That's my girl. A night without a single thought wasted on a man.”

  Jessica thanked Kim for her earlier advice, for urging her to see this thing through with James, and they hugged and laughed.

  “He seems to believe I prefer long-distance relation­ships, that I find them a helluva lot safer than the real thing, you know,” Jessica confided as they passed the colorfully lit city hall, strolling around Philadelphia's clean, well-lit downtown, trying to ignore the pronounced police pres­ence. The bricked sidewalks were slick from earlier rain showers, the black asphalt mirroring the city lights in crazy and wavy images. A cool breeze and some scavenging black crows played about the two women.

  “Beautiful birds,” said Kim. “I just love crows and ravens, don't you? Unusual to see them in a flock looking for food at night, though.”

  “With these city lights, how do they know whether it's night or day?”

  “They're disoriented, you think? Or just hungry? Not unlike our victims.”

  “Maybe he's right .“What? Maybe who's right?”

  “Jim Parry. Maybe he's right about me. Maybe his as­sessment is right on.”

  “So fucking what? If it works for you, go for it. Life's too short, Jess. If Parry couldn't figure out how to keep you, then you're better off without him. One door closes and—”

  “I know, I know... another opens.”

  They had come to stand below the lights of the hotel where they were staying. Inside, they rode the elevator up, Jessica losing herself in thought
until Kim jabbed her in the ribs, saying, “I think God and life and fate owe you a few, Jessica Coran.”

  “Really? And by what measure are you reckoning fate?”

  “By whatever measure makes you happy. Find it, do it, live it, and screw anyone who comes between you and what you love.”

  “Is that how it is with you and Alex?”

  “Alex and I are just great, just now really discovering the depth of our love and commitment to one another.”

  “God... wish... hope I find that with Richard.”

  “You can! Give it time. When he gets here, after you've spent some time together, you still have to be patient with yourself and with him. Time is all it takes when love is real.”

  Jessica teased, “Maybe you shoulda oughta been a poet yourself, Kim!”

  Kim laughed at this. “Sure, ruinous poetry for people to puke by. That's the only kind of lines I might pen. No, I'm no poet. I just know that what Alex Sincebaugh and I have found I wish for every living soul.”

  They separated, going to their rooms to change for the evening, each promising to call the other when ready to party.

  ELEVEN

  Rare is the expert who combines an informed opinion with a healthy respect for his own intu­ition and curiosity.

  —Gavin De Becker

  An evening on the town with Kim Desinor proved pre­cisely what the doctor ordered; Jessica completely forgot about James Parry and her confrontation with him, forgot about her worries over the case, taking time off— even in her head—to finally relax. She felt a great weight lifted from her mind as a result.

  As she and Kim drank another Philly margarita, a spe­cialty of the house, in a place aptly or inepdy called Recy­cled Cowboys, they talked about their impressions of the city. They sat at a table in a darkened corner, the western decor betraying signs of the place having been an Irish pub not too long ago. Jessica imagined it the hardest thing in the world to make a go of a new bar or restaurant. The at­mosphere notwithstanding, the place remained a brick-walled bar with a karaoke machine and an open mike, and after a few old western balladeers finished replacing the old Irish lullabies, and a few more drinks, the ladies felt no pain.

  From here, they located another, more trendy coffeehouse-style bar and grill called Hobgoblins & Gnomes PA, and here the motif was a weird and wonder­ful fantasyland, a “Middle Earth” kind of place where gnomes and hobgoblins of all sizes and shapes and mis­shapes, wart-covered or otherwise, resided. The tables were toadstools and tree stumps, decorated lavishly with the carved faces of gnomes and other strange creatures, as were the walls. The ceiling was plastered with the stars and the planets, and vines hung everywhere from this mini-firmament. The place was dark and the music loud. Jessica and Kim found themselves surrounded by the faces of the youth of present-day Second Street. Many of them called to mind the victims the FBI women had spent so much time with at the morgue. All around them the laughing, smiling, whooping faces of teens, male and female, many of the same sex making public their absolute affection for one another.

  Jessica said over the pounding of the music meant to warm up the crowd, “Do you realize that you and I are the only two people in here who have any idea what an LP record album looks like?”

  “Only albums they know about are photo albums. Face it, they're too young to have a notion about the meaning of the term broken record,” Kim agreed.

  “They've never played Pac-Man, and have never heard of Pong.”

  “They're too young to remember the space shuttle ex­plosion or Tienemen Square.”

  “The Day After is a pill to them, not a movie, and if you asked the average teen today what polio is, he'd say a de­signer shirt for old farts. As for Cold War fears, forget it.”

  “On the other hand, they've grown up with the specter of AIDS,” countered Kim.

  “Most of the people here were likely born in 1980 or '81.”

  Their mood had significantly soured; they continued to drink. But everything changed after midnight when sud­denly the stage mike was taken over by a series of “living poems” who showed off their bodies and the poetry that had been written on them. Jessica watched in awe and sad­ness as the poems' authors just offstage read the lyrical lines from the gyrating bodies. One of the dangers had style—possibly a moonlighting stripper, Jessica thought. While some patrons appeared genuinely interested in this peculiar brand of art, the art-for-art's-sake crowd, others jeered. Still, applause and laughter won out at the end of each performance, but for Jessica and Kim, the event only dampened their spirits.

  As they watched the show, eyes wide, Jessica told Kim, “This is so bizarre, so unusual. I'd never heard of this weird fad, or the urban legend that spawned it before ar­riving here.”

  Another round of walking, undulating “poems” took the stage. While some in the audience howled and commented on the body parts of the naked men and women parading by, others tapped with spoons and forks against glasses to show their appreciation. Still others took photographs.

  Jessica took note of one poem in particular, whispering into Kim's ear how it reminded her of their killer's handi­work. She listened to the lines with fascination, knowing she must collar the kid with these words on her back be­fore she disappeared, to learn who had created them, and fearing the young woman might well be next in line for the Poet Killer.

  She relayed her fears to Kim, who said, “I agree, al­though her body size and appearance are at odds with the androgynousness of the other victims, and with as many drinks as we've had—”

  “No, this is close, real close,” Jessica disagreed.

  They had listened intently as the poem was read, and the performer continued to dance long after, giving Jessica the opportunity to study the lines further. The poem read:

  Your feathered wings enclose

  me by day,

  just as the velvet leather

  of my embracing

  finds you at midnight—

  where the divine heels

  disturb waves of fallen leaves.

  Look at me...

  I am the helpless lover,

  drowned in the sanguine lotion

  of your touch, directly before,

  a moment during, and even

  after my death. Now I am

  the crystal air, still, perpetual—

  melting into wind

  so that I may touch you forever.

  Jessica stood and approached the young woman, who stood putting her top back on at the foot of the stage. Jessica didn't flash her badge or announce herself, but rather simply asked, “May I know the poet's name?”

  “It's Dontella Leare. She's a great poet. I took a class with her. She's simply inspiring.” The young ash-blond woman beamed. “You liked the performance?”

  “It was the best of the evening.”

  “So far, you mean,” she replied. “There's more.”

  Another young person, a male this time, had already claimed the stage. “This poet Leare, she teaches at the Uni­versity of Philadelphia?”

  “That's right. If you can't afford to take her class or don't have the time, the bookstore's got all her work. She's a successful poet, an amazing feat in a society that deval­ues poetry.”

  “Aren't you afraid of, you know, becoming one of the victims of the Poet Killer, the poisoner?”

  “No, not so long as I stick with Donatella; it's kind of like sticking with one lover if you're afraid of AIDS... kinda.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Jessica asked the young woman her name and where she might contact her.

  “Is this a pickup?” the girl asked.

  “No, no... sorry, I failed to introduce myself fully. I'm Dr. Jessica Coran, FBI medical examiner, and I'm part of the task force looking into the Second Street poisonings.”

  “You're a cop?” the girl almost shouted.

  “A doctor, actually.”

  “Well, you're looking in the wrong place. No one here could do such a thing as what happened to those kids,
cer­tainly not Donatella Leare.”

  “I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, and do be careful.”

  “Like I told you, one poet only touches my backside.” The sexual innuendo in the remark was clearly meant to leave Jessica in no doubt as to the relationship between poet and “poem.”

  Kim had watched the conversation with mounting inter­est, doing her best to read their lips. When Jessica returned to the table, she told Kim all the details.

  “Hard to believe, isn't it?”

  “What?”

  “This whole scene, this whole new thing kids have come up with, and now some maniac using it as a weapon to kill them.”

  “Body art, piercings, now writing on the body. In a way, it's like a natural next step, an evolution of the tattoo, going from image to language, whole communications, even artistic ones. Unfortunately, there's a lot of chaff in the wheat.”

  “Like trying to find a truly good horror novel amid the crap?” Jessica asked.

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “It still boggles my mind that anyone would endure so much pain for some idea about art.”

  “People who can't create great art have always opted to be the doormat for those who can,” replied Kim, slurring her words a bit. “Look at Picasso's women.”

  “So why does all this body stuff come as such a surprise to me?”

  “You can't be expected to keep up with all the fads,” Kim said. “I saw a feature on it on MTV not too long ago.”

  Jessica blinked. “You watch MTV?”

  “On occasion, sure.”

  “You're full of surprises.”

  “The big surprise is that someone would take a fad and turn it into serial murders,” Kim countered.

  “Let's get out of here,” Jessica suggested. “The noise is getting to me.”

  “Headache?”

  “Getting there, yes.”

  Walking back to the hotel, Jessica thought of how proud she should feel, having faced James Parry and made her position clear. Neither she nor Kim had spoken a word about the dismal state of the case. Tonight, the subject had almost been taboo, but in the face of the performances they'd wit­nessed at Hobgoblins & Gnomes PA, discussion was in­evitable. Still, they had managed to stay off die subject of men, despite having to fend off advances, some from young men half their age, all evening long. When men approached them, they declined each offer of a drink, causing more than one of the barroom Casanovas to believe that the two beau­tiful women were gay. Jessica and Kim could have cared less. This was a girls' night out