Bitter Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “That hardly makes him a poisoner, any more than it makes me a killer,” she replied, pacing Locke's living room.

  “Why do you suspect that we might know this killer?” asked Locke.

  Jessica took a deep breath before replying. “I believe you may know who the killer is on a subconscious level, since his writing has obviously been influenced by both of your works.”

  “Are you quite sure of this?”

  In response, Jessica went to a table and unrolled a com­puter graphic display she'd held back until now. “This is what the artificial intelligence computer program that ex­amined your work alongside that of the killer's came up with. It's not really close; not a match. Where Locke is bleak, Leare is dark, and the combination is a dark bleak­ness of style that parallels the style of the killer.”

  Locke and Leare studied the many connections the com­puter program had found between their poems and those of the Poet Killer. Leare protested, saying, “This is crazy. No computer program can precisely read style and nuance and innuendo and a hundred other tools of the skillful poet. This is so entirely bogus, Lucian.”

  “Remarkable nonetheless, but Leare and I have never collaborated, and to ask a machine to collaborate for us, well, I should think that's some sort of infringement of copyright protection. It is absurd to have machines point­ing fingers at us on the flimsy basis of similarities between our styles and that of some amateur who also happens to be a murderer.”

  “You must admit that there appears to be a close tie,” said Jessica.

  Locke's good eye seemed to double in size, and his glass eye looked to be in danger of rolling out of its socket. “Are you suggesting that we two, together, somehow compose the Poet Killer?” he asked, his dwarfed body shaking with laughter and a gleeful sort of astonishment. “Leare, imagine what such nonsense will do for our reputations and book sales! This is remarkable, wouldn't you say, Donatella?”

  “Most assuredly so. In fact, it may be remarkable enough to send us to prison, Lucian.”

  Just then a pounding on the door and shouting from out­side indicated that Leare's arrest was now imminent. “Damn,” muttered Jessica.

  “What the devil is all this?” asked Locke.

  “I think I know, Lucian,” said Leare. “I believe they have come for me, not you. Sturtevante's behind this, isn't she?” she asked Jessica.

  “I... I couldn't say.”

  “Couldn't or won't?”

  “Just know that I was against it.”

  “Shall I thank you now?”

  Locke answered the door, protesting, but the uniformed police, followed by Parry and a pair of his agents, rushed in with a warrant for Leare's arrest. On seeing Jessica and Kim, Parry said, “I thought you had more sense than to get in the way, Jessica.”

  She pulled him aside, whispering, “And I thought you had more sense period, Jim. You know this arrest is not warranted. You haven't enough to hold her.”

  “She's a photographer as well as a poet, Jess, and Quan­tico just came back with our killer poison, something used in photo processing and filmmaking.” They isolated it?”

  “Selenium.”

  “Selenium.” Jessica repeated the word.

  “Highly toxic concentration of it in the ink, and it's used by photographers in developing film. It's one more nail in the proverbial coffin.”

  Parry stepped away from her and walked toward the uni­formed men, one of whom had just finished reciting Leare's Miranda rights to her. 'Take her to PPD headquar­ters for interrogation,” he barked.

  “This is pure, unadulterated madness!” Locke shouted after them as his home emptied of police and FBI agents.

  Distraught, Harriet Plummer swooned and fell into an overstuffed chair. Jessica and Kim took their leave.

  “I want to see the lab report Quantico came up with on the poison,” Jessica told Parry as he rushed away from her.

  “Copy will be in your mailbox.” He climbed into his car and sped away.

  True to his word, James Parry had the report waiting for Jessica the following morning. “Happy reading,” he told her on his way out, “and quite revealing of our killer.”

  “Oh, and how's that?”

  “Like I told you yesterday, she is into photography as well as poetry; the poison derives from a chemical used quite heavily in photography work.”

  “That still doesn't make Leare the Poet Killer, Jim.”

  “It will suffice until a better choice comes along, Jess.”

  She gritted her teeth and watched him waltz off, smug and secure in his and Sturtevante's action. She turned her attention to the folder he'd dropped on her desk. 'Time to read up on selenium,” she told herself.

  The toxicology report from Quantico read: H/2SeO/3—Selenius acid—colorless crystalline poisonous acid, formed by oxidation of selenium to easily yield the element by reduction. Selenite is a salt or ester of selenius acid. A brick-red, water-soluble powder in one form, a brownish, thick glossy mass in another, a metallic crystalline mass in a third form; mixing with ink for the purpose of “writ­ing “ into a victim's epidermis requires liquid form, a form readily available for a number of industrial jobs as well as a staple in any photographic dark­room.

  The substance bums with a bluish flame, and in its metallic form, it conducts electricity much more readily in light than in the dark. In fact, the higher the intensity of light, the faster it burns. It is used in photoelectric devices such as movies, photometry, and in coloring glass and enamels red.

  As to symptoms when ingested/injected: a reddish rash is caused, tingling at the extremities, dizziness, a sulfuric smell, and a metallic taste in the mouth, followed by stomach cramps. Eventually leads to delirium and heart failure, as well as a shutdown of electrical impulses from the brain. Harmless in small doses, lethal in large doses. Some might mis­take its actions for those of sodium cyanide, as it ap­pears extremely similar both in chemical makeup and the physical symptoms it induces.

  “So, we can infer, the longer the poem, the deadlier the dose,” Jessica mused aloud, recalling how the poems snaked along the backs of each victim, from neck and shoulders to pelvis. She knew the toxicologist Anderson Turner back at Quantico well enough to guess that he had more thoughts on the poison than was described in his official report. She dialed the number and got him on the line, asking him to tell her everything he had failed to put into the report. “All the good stuff, Anderson. Out with it. I need your input here.”

  “Well, to begin with, selenium is an element of a type we call an 'inhabitant of the seasons.' “Meaning what, precisely?”

  “As in, it waxes and wanes with the moon.”

  “The moon? It's somehow cued into the moon?”

  “Its movements at least, like many minerals.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  He sighed. “You might find it interesting to hear what it was named for... from, that is.”

  “And it derives its name from?”

  “Selina, goddess of the Moon, who sprang full-blown from the head of Hecate or Artemis, depending on whether you're an ancient Greek or Roman. Each culture had its own version.”

  “I see... I think.”

  “You do?”

  “May tie in with our killer's thinking.”

  “Yeah, I heard you guys have someone in custody al­ready. Way to go.”

  “Hold your accolades, Anderson. I'm not so sure we have the right person in custody.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yeah, I think so, but we're not interested in locking up the wrong man—person—for the crime.”

  “She's a she-killer, is she? I might've known. Why're you all sitting on that information?”

  “We're not on solid ground with the arrest. You know how that goes.”

  “Yeah, guess I do know about spongy cases; hope this one doesn't turn all mushy on you. Good luck, same to the others for me.” Will do, and thanks, Dr. Turner, for this. We've been working blind too long here.”

&
nbsp; Jessica put the phone down, stared again at the toxicol­ogy report, and her mind played over the victims once more, and the poems inked onto their backs, all linked by identical lines and a unifying theme... but exactly what that theme was remained a mystery.

  Still, armed with the new information about the poison used by the killer, Jessica felt somewhat fortified. Now, if they could get a fix on the DNA makeup of the tearstains, the noose would tighten about the neck of the real Poet Killer

  EIGHTEEN

  The greatest poetry does not exist in a physical world, but inside desire and despair.

  —Donatella Leare, Live Poet

  The information on selenium pointed to someone with a background in photography, as the chemical was heavi­ly used in film processing. However, a little more research, and Jessica learned that selenium was also found in battery casings, and the report out of Quantico added that shavings from batteries could have been pounded down and lique­fied before being mixed into ink, but it seemed much eas­ier to obtain the substance in liquid form, the form found in vats in darkrooms.

  Jessica recalled the beautiful “photo paintings” on the walls at Darkest Expectations that had turned out to be computer-generated, and realized that their production would not require normal photo processing, and, there­fore, would not involve the element selenium. However, she also recalled that Marc Tamburino, the current owner of the bookstore, had bragged about being a photogra­pher; making money at weddings and wakes, he'd put it. Leare had joked about his doing a wake, she seemed to remember. Perhaps Tamburino processed photos on the premises, in which case he would have a supply of sele­nium.

  She confided her thoughts to Kim, who thought them sound. “Perhaps you and I maybe ought to have another chat with this fellow Tamburino,” she suggested. “Yeah, if nothing else, he could shed some light on just how readily available our poison is.”

  Kim nodded. “Hanging around here isn't getting us any­where, and you're entirely right about Leare. She's not our killer.”

  “The others would like to believe that it's a woman killer; given the condition of the scenes, it's comforting for them to think the perp belongs to the so-called gentler sex.”

  Jessica and Kim commandeered a car from the pool in the underground lot and were soon on their way to Darkest Expectations in search of more and better answers.

  Bookstore owner and sometime photographer Marc Tamburino, somewhat beguiled by Jessica's return to his store, and thrilled by her interest in his photography, was proudly displaying his work. Jessica at once saw the hope­lessness of thinking Tamburino their killer; his wedding photos displayed little talent. She could tell that Kim agreed.

  “Do you have any special ones, photos I mean?” asked Kim.

  “Ones you show only to your closest friends?” Jessica coaxed.

  “I keep my best work in my apartment over the store. You're welcome to come up and have a look. About to close up; the three of us could call it a manage h trois,” he joked, but his attempt at flirtatious banter fell flat. Jessica realized only now what a geek Tamburino was.

  “Just show us your photographs, Mr. Tamburino,” she said, “and tell me what you know about the use of sele­nium in photography.”

  “Selenium?” he asked as he led them up to his apart­ment. Jessica immediately noticed that the place needed a thorough cleaning. His private collection revealed him to be a competent, avid amateur with aspirations to becoming a professional who had sold a few of his photos for advertising purposes. The portfolio he showed them contained much better work than the wedding photos. He sensed that the two FBI agents were reconsidering their earlier assessment of his craftsmanship, and said, “It's easier to do good work if you're interested in the subject.”

  As they perused his framed photos, Jessica saw a door marked by a red bulb and a sign proclaiming it as a dark­room.

  “Do all of my own processing. A hell of a lot cheaper that way,” he said in her ear, noticing what she had been staring at.

  Jessica asked him about processing, and he walked her back to the rear and the darkroom. “Have a look. Showin's better'n tellin', as they say.”

  Jessica stepped through the door he held open. She saw no evidence of anything amiss here, no photos of the vic­tims lying about or hung up and drying. For that much, she felt grateful, when her glance fell on a tall, cylindrical con­tainer marked selenium. Three skulls-and-crossbones indi­cated the level of toxicity in the liquid they contained.

  Jessica again casually asked about the selenium.

  “Oh, it's a staple in every darkroom.”

  “How do you use it?”

  “With every precaution. It's highly toxic, and deadly if absorbed through the skin. Highly toxic stuff.” She felt for a moment that she was in the lair of the killer, but then realized that she had not seen a single photo of any of the victims anywhere in the establishment. Per­haps Marc Tamburino kept such shots hidden, only taking them out when driven to do so by his other, more deadly persona. All sheer speculation, she silently reminded her­self. Still, mightn't he have a secret collection? Perhaps a thorough search of his home was in order, but she found nothing to justify such a search. She had no probable cause, save the selenium drum in the darkroom, and to re­quest a search warrant on this basis alone would be a waste of time. As she asked her questions rapid-fire now, Jessica saw that the young man's eyes were averted; suddenly he looked crestfallen. She realized that she'd burst his bubble, whatever that bubble might have been, and now he was on the defensive.

  “I know what's going on here,” he said.

  “Oh, really?” she asked. 'Tell us about it, Marc.”

  “I know that you... that the authorities are 'desperate' for a whachamacallit, an escape goat—”

  “It's scapegoat, and don't be foolish. We already have a scapegoat in custody, Marc.”

  “I could remark on the official stupidity that has caused Donatella Leare to be arrested for all those killings. Leare's not capable of this kind of crap.”

  “What makes you so sure?” she pressed.

  “It'd take a calculating bastard with a strong stomach to talk those kids into suicide.”

  “You discussed this very scenario with Dr. Leare, didn't you?”

  “Do you mean did she know your kind would arrest her and charge her with... with all this?”

  “She did, didn't she?”

  “Yeah, but that's because she'd been sleeping with a Philly cop.”

  This information came as no revelation to Jessica, but she faked surprise, wondering just how many people knew of Leare's involvement with Leanne Sturtevante.

  Tamburino winked conspiratorially, as if he and the agents shared some dirty little secret. He looks like a ma­licious snowman, Jessica suddenly thought as she watched him walk back to the main room. Myself, I could never, ever take a life, despite my own grim outlook and dark poetry.”

  “Oh, you write poetry?” She practically had to run in order to keep pace with him as he rushed about the room, picking up dirty clothing, discarded magazines and books, replacing them on shelves and tabletops. In a comer stood an opened box marked Ingram. Realizing the word was not an anagram of rampage, Jessica decided she was a lit­tle desperate for evidence herself.

  “Matter of fact, I do.”

  “Will you turn some of your poetry over to me?”

  “What, for analysis? Against the killer's handwriting?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not exactly like asking for a fingerprint or DNA. And who knows, word leaks out, and maybe—”

  “Maybe your poetry is printed on 'page one'?” she asked, smiling. “Couldn't hurt your career as a poet, now could it? You think that's what the Poet Killer is after, page-one publicity?”

  “Amazingly enough, that's what I thought all along, that the killer wanted to publicize himself. I've thought that from the beginning, but the papers haven't printed his po­etry. Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just another mystery, I gue
ss.”

  “News guys are cooperating with the cops, right? Cops cut a deal with the press, right, to keep it out?”

  “Can't say. So you really think that's what the killer has wanted all along? Publicity for his work?”

  “That's really sick, man, I know, but it's got to be the reason. What other reason could he have?”

  “You'll let me take a look then at your poems, to com­pare?”

  “They don't come anywhere near Locke or Leare. You'll be disappointed, Dr. Coran.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” All right.” He walked them back downstairs, and there he produced a volume from behind the counter.

  “You've sold some of your work? Who's the publisher?” she asked.

  “No publisher. Just had the one copy bound. Gave up on publication years ago, but figured, what the hey, I'll make a single copy, call it my rare first edition, and put it on my shelf. So, you see, I'm over that black depression time when you first realize no one's ever going to buy a single word from you. So I wouldn't make a good rejected Poet Killer, so forget about it.”

  “I see you managed to get hold of a computer,” she said, tapping his monitor. “What about the Internet? You put anything out on the 'Net these days?” she asked.

  “Some, just in the chats. No big deal.”

  “Can I get a copy of your more... recent work?”

  He breathed deeply, then sighed and shrugged. “Sure, I'll run you a disk copy.”

  The moment she delved into the book of poetry, entitled Brain Lizards, Jessica knew that Marc Tamburino could not be the Poet Killer. His work, compared with the killer's, was immature and maudlin, filled with awkward construc­tions and forced, often ridiculous rhymes.

  She asked if he knew any other people who hung about his store, liked Locke and Leare, and were also into pho­tography.

  “Whaddaya mean? Like you want a list of names?”

  “Yes, that could be helpful.”

  “You want me to be some sort of whaddayacall'ems? A snitch?”