by Harker Moore
She looked down where the yellow light from the desk lamp cut a sharp circle in the windowless dark. Her hands on the computer keyboard moved inside the glow, punching out the final draft of the report that might very well determine her professional future.
In the last few years, in addition to her teaching duties at the academy, she had traveled the country on weekends and holidays, in the weeks between semesters, interviewing and testing every currently incarcerated serial killer. She had surprised even herself with the level of cooperation she had managed to obtain, not only from prison officials but from the men and one woman who were the objects of her research.
But then, many serial killers were above average in intelligence and as fascinated with their own pathology as any psychiatrist. Her study, more rigorous than any that had preceded it, had not provided any great surprise, supporting current theory that a constellation of factors both genetic and environmental created a serial killer. But its sheer exhaustiveness would establish beyond question her complete credibility in the field, a credibility she would have to draw on when the real thrust of her research became apparent.
And the seeds of that research were here in the words that glowed on the screen, not hidden but plainly imbedded in the conventionality of her results. She had documented in the killers’ own words, in their carefully collected histories, the primary role of fantasy in their development, from an early inability to connect with the world to the inevitable first act of murder.
Serial killers started small. They started as children. Fire starters, bed wetters, animal torturers who progressed, it seemed, inevitably to homicide. She was determined to learn everything about the process. And then she wanted to short-circuit it. She believed it was possible to reprogram the malfunctioning circuits in the limbic brain. Convincing the government to let her test her theories was another matter altogether.
She mistyped a sentence and cursed. Leaned back in the chair. As always when she was feeling sorry for herself, she imagined the wry face of Dr. Krieger. He had called her “Joan of Arc” and warned her of what life would be like if she persisted in her attraction to controversial areas of research. But in the end it had been he who had arranged for her graduate work in Switzerland, where work with psychoactive drugs was still possible. Her mentor was dead now for two years, but she knew what he would say: Plan ahead, but solve today’s problems.
One thing at a time. Finish the report now. Think about the next step tomorrow. Or, maybe, rest now and finish tomorrow. It had been a very long day.
She saved her work and reached to shut off the computer but dropped her hand. Her brother’s still unopened letter sat on her desk just beyond the circle of lamplight. She didn’t need to open it to know what it said. Would she be coming home for Christmas this year? Their father had asked. She really should give Mason an answer. She could telephone or type out a letter. Her brother remained impervious to e-mail.
She was still sitting motionless, her thoughts wandering backward, when the fax machine signaled a document coming through. She turned gratefully to the printer.
First page. She recognized Jimmy’s precise writing. Take a look at these and call me tomorrow. She grabbed at the pages that followed. Blowups of crime scenes. She placed them side by side on the desk. Swung the lamp to light them.
Willie had seen a lot of dead bodies, murders of the worst kind. Dismemberments. Mutilations. Women and children mostly. Always it was the details that stayed with her—the exposed whiteness of a thigh, a mouth frozen open in a scream. These nude male bodies disturbed her in a different way. Not a visceral reaction but a purer kind of fascination that made her uncomfortable.
She looked at the clock. Call me tomorrow. Just like Sakura to leave her with a million questions. A student’s revenge. Her best student. Her inscrutable friend. She loved to tease him with that one, but it was this quality in him she loved best. Perhaps inevitably, people had become for her little more than specimens, far too easily pigeonholed. Jimmy remained among the few exceptions.
Her fingers hesitated on the phone. She could probably still catch him at the office.
There was no reason for him to keep the mask. In fact, he should have thrown the obscenity away since it only served as a reminder that Thomas Graff had never shown the night of the Halloween party. But that was the point precisely. The garish red image of the devil’s face was a most effective device to stoke his anger, keep warm his resentment of the priest’s intrusion into his life. He didn’t want to like Father Graff. Didn’t want him to save St. Sebastian. He would gladly go down with the ship he’d never wanted to captain. At this stage of his life, his heart had no room for a champion of good deeds. It was a sin he was willing to live with.
He had already taken Graff to task on the Halloween party, but certainly not to his satisfaction. The priest’s excuses, though they seemed genuine enough, his mea culpas, though sufficiently sincere, still rankled. In reality, he should have been pleased by the man’s absence, since such events were part of his grand agenda for parish renewal, and his no-show insinuated a lack of commitment to the cause. And he’d offered no alibi for his associate’s truancy, though the ladies were ready enough with forgiveness and with endless explanations for the children, who fawned over the priest as much as they did. He remembered hearing a rumor somewhere that a young Thomas Graff had been engaged.
The outer door opened and closed. He glanced up at the clock. 11:05 in the night. Almost tomorrow and Graff was just returning to the rectory.
“Father Graff … ,” he called from his study.
“Father Kellog, you’re still up.” Graff paused before the open door, his briefcase in his hand.
“It’s late.”
He glanced at his watch. “I lost track of time. Mrs. Ziober insisted I stay for supper, and the table talk sort of turned into another meeting. There were some really good ideas thrown around.”
“Thrown around…?”
Now he set his case down and walked into the study. “Father Kellog, I know we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of the parish-renewal program. But I promise in the long run—”
“What I don’t see eye to eye is your conduct. You act more like a businessman than a priest.”
“I am a businessman, Andrew, for the Church.”
“But you are God’s priest first.”
He bowed his head, then looked up. His eyes were clear and shockingly steady. “I know. I came late to my vocation, Father Kellog, but I have not forgotten why I entered the priesthood.”
“Then I won’t have to remind you again.”
“Good night, Father, in the future I’ll mind the clock more carefully.”
Despite his best intentions to go home, Sakura, on his second cup of tea, sat skimming the canvass reports for the neighborhood surrounding Westlake’s building. The phone buzzed.
“Jimmy?” Willie’s voice.
He stopped reading and smiled. “Good evening, Dr. French.”
“I’m glad I caught you. These damn photos of yours would have had me up half the night…. Is this your case?”
“Yes.”
“You could have faxed me the autopsy reports. I can’t even tell how he’s killing them.”
“I wanted your impressions of the scenes first.”
“Not fair, Sakura. What he’s doing to the victims is at least as important as how he’s leaving the scenes.”
“Humor me.”
Her response was an expressive exhalation. “Where’s this happening?” she asked him.
“In the victims’ bedrooms. All three were homosexuals. No forced entry. We think they were random pickups. No evidence that any of them knew each other.”
“The level of control is amazing. He’s organized as hell and he’s not hiding the bodies.” She fell silent, and he imagined her studying the photographs.
“The scenes are so structured … ,” she began again.
“I’ve thought about that a lot,” he said. “The killer could be
staging the scenes, trying to make us believe it’s a cult. But where’s the blood? If he’s smart enough to pull this off, he’s smart enough to make a better show of it.”
“I think it’s posing—the structure of the scenes is part of his signature. He’s using the victims as props to convey his message.”
“But then what’s the message?” he said.
“Those wings are certainly suggestive.”
“Swan wings,” he said. “Confirmed through the lab. It seems the birds are plentiful all along the Coast. But we’ve no idea how he’s getting them.”
“The obvious symbolism is angels,” she said, “but he could be operating on a deeper level. Wings could simply indicate that he believes he’s liberating the victims in some way. From their homosexuality maybe. The hands placed over the genitals could support that.”
“Liberation could be part of it,” he said, “but the ritual is definitely connected with angels. The letters above the beds spell out names of fallen angels.”
“Fallen angels.” She echoed his words. “I’ll have to think about that…. What’s the sexual assault?”
“None that’s apparent.”
“It’s possible he’s impotent or masturbating later. Is he taking souvenirs?”
“Not body parts. There’s no mutilation except for the incisions to insert the wings. He could be taking clothes or something else, but so far there’s no indication of anything missing.”
“You need to check carefully on that,” she said, “but my guess is he’s taking pictures. Maybe even video. He’s an artist. He’s going to want to record this in some way, to help sustain the fantasy.”
“I should have thought of that.”
She fell silent again. Then, “Do we know what the symbol is on the chests?”
“Not a clue.”
“You still haven’t told me how he’s killing them, Sakura.”
“Injection with potassium chloride. He’s stopping their hearts.”
“God … that’s a new one.”
“So’s his whole MO,” he said. “I’ve talked to Lawrence at the field office. There’s nothing even close in the computers, and that includes all the states that keep records.”
“I can’t believe he hasn’t killed before,” she said. “Serials this organized take time to get up to speed. Where the hell did he come from?”
He had no answer.
“Jimmy … what is it you’re still not telling me?”
He smiled at her sudden intuition. “Did I forget to mention that he’s injecting the victims with LSD before he kills them?”
There was an indeterminate noise on the line. “You didn’t forget to tell me that.”
“Maybe I was afraid when you knew, you wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.”
“Bastard.” She was laughing now. “You think I’m that obsessed?”
“I need your help, Willie.”
“Injecting them with LSD. I can’t believe it.”
“What I need to know is why?”
“Right.” She had caught his soberness. “I can imagine one reason,” she said after a moment, “but it’s really out there. You need to give me a little time to think about it. And fax me your reports … and the VICAP forms. Hell, fax me everything you’ve got. Forget the conventional wisdom that a profiler can have too much information.”
“So you wouldn’t mind giving me a little help?”
Her laugh rang again on the line. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Sakura.”
Gothic spires, needles penetrating the pillow of darkness, soared above the exoskeleton of flying buttresses. Beneath, vaulting arches doubled and tripled upon themselves, competing in a controlled but maddening race toward the heavens. The whole structure was an exercise in opposing forces, the impossible resolution of an exquisite geometric conflict.
Michael Darius stared at his work, his intense blue eyes surprising in his naturally tanned face. His Greek Welsh heritage made for an interesting, if not conventionally handsome, combination. He ran his hand through his dark wavy hair; then with all deliberateness his fist came down hard, skin split on impact. Shadow, wood, table, shimmied, but the cathedral remained intact. His model possessed the same engineering integrity as the original in Chartres.
He sucked at his wound, tasting the iron in his blood, inhaling the scent of raw wood that flavored the rough skin of his carpenter’s hands. It was an unorthodox test, but one he executed each time he completed one of his models. Of course, there was risk in what he did, but that instant before his fist fell was as exhilarating as it was frightening. Walking the tightrope between success and failure always made him light-headed. But it was his pain, not his victory, that gave him the giddiness of a first-time drunk. The pain was real, more substantive and more important to him than the building. It made him human.
From the adjacent bedroom a bubble of blue illumination, a flickering ghost from the television set, spilled into the dark corners of the workroom. The reflection danced in his peripheral vision, accompanied by the droning libretto of late-night news functioning as a kind of mantra, pieces of his environment sensed rather than seen or heard.
It wasn’t until the disembodied voice spoke the name he himself had spoken hundreds of times that he became fully aware of what he was hearing. He froze, forgetting the pain, willing his brain to register exactly what the reporter was saying…. Serial murder… homosexual victims… task force headed by Lieutenant James Sakura.
A large bead of sweat ran from his hairline down the center of his face. He walked over to where he’d left the remote lying and hit mute.
It was then he heard the knocking. For a moment he considered ignoring it, then walked to the entrance. Jimmy Sakura was standing at his door.
“Jimmy.” He moved back into the living room.
Sakura closed the door.
“It’s after eleven.”
Sakura nodded in agreement.
“You been home today?”
“Not yet.”
“Hanae can’t like that.”
“Hanae understands.”
Darius smiled. “Does she?”
Sakura walked to a chair but didn’t sit. “Have you been keeping up with the news?”
Darius almost smiled again. “If you mean the serial killer … the answer is no.”
“I like order.” Sakura’s face remained expressionless.
Darius smoothed his hair back from his forehead. His widow’s peak make him look like a vampire. “Now there is chaos,” he said.
Sakura nodded.
“The universe is a very nasty place”—Darius moved to a stack of his jazz CDs and began reading titles—“and unpredictable.” He turned. “Go figure, my partner of three years, a man of infinite taste and judgment, is a lover of heavy metal.”
Sakura ignored the comment. “Three bodies. No connection,” he said.
“They were all gay.”
Sakura shrugged.
“What’s the M.E. giving you?”
“As many questions as answers.”
“The lab boys?”
“Negatives.”
Darius turned back to the CDs. “You would think you’d prefer classical.” He moved a couple of the cases. “So what have you got, Jimmy?”
“Nude bodies with no sexual assault. Taped, gagged, but no sign of struggle.”
Darius reached for a specific disc. “Willing victims …” He tested the logic of his words. “What about cause of death?”
“Induced heart failure. Injected them with potassium.”
“Why didn’t he just slit their throats?”
“He could have. He had a knife. But he was after something else. It seems he also injected them with LSD.”
Darius looked up. “What’s this guy into?”
Sakura pulled photographs from the folder he’d been holding.
Darius set the CD back in place, reached for the pictures. He looked down. In an instant his face went wide, then closed in on i
tself.
“It can all be fixed….” Sakura broke the silence.
Darius glanced up. “What can be fixed?”
“Your coming back. They’ve made it clear I can have anyone I want.”
Darius tossed the photographs onto a table and walked over to a gym that took over most of the space near the windows. He squatted on the bench, grasping the handles of the horizontal bar, pulling down until it touched his trapezius muscles.
“Hanae says I need you on this case.”
Darius began to pump the bar, controlling the weight, letting his lats do most of the work. “You really ought to get one of these, Jimmy. Put some muscle on that skinny body of yours.”
“He’s going to kill again.”
Suddenly Darius released the bar with a slam, and for a few moments it swung crazily back and forth like an empty trapeze. It seemed he’d forgotten that Sakura was even in the room as he looked down at his fingers splayed across the padded seat. Then he raised his right arm and made his hand into a gun, aimed, and fired.
“Hudson was nothing, Michael.”
Darius slowly lowered his arm. “Nothing is nothing, Sakura. Now get the fuck out of here.”
It was very late, but for the moment the man was enjoying how the moon threw the outline of the long row of windows onto the hardwood floor. He closed his eyelids and inhaled deeply. His obliques responded, tucking themselves higher inside the wall of his chest.
His scent was even stronger when he worked out. Rotating his head, he sniffed the damp of an armpit. Then he ran a hand between his legs, pulling up on the moist fleshy sac of his testicles. Bringing his fingers to his nostrils, he noted that the odor of his groin was slightly different. The smell of his sex seemed essentially more organic.
He walked away from the windows and moved to a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Behind him, in the moonlight, the massive hulk of his exercise equipment crouched like an alien beast. Chrome glittered like eyes. He flipped a light switch. The sharp contours of his body were instantly excited by the cool fluorescence overhead. He saw a skeleton overlaid with taut muscle. Pale, hairless flesh held the neat assemblage together. It was an attractive, well-disciplined package, this body bag. Except for the scar that ran from the Vastus lateralis to the Vastus medialis of his right leg, he might have considered himself a perfect specimen.