The Love of a Bad Man

by Laura Elizabeth Woollett

  There’s something I forgot to mention in my first letter: as well as authoring The Mutilated Cutter, I am going to play the role of my heroine onstage. Her name is Lucinda, and she is a raven-haired temptress with a voracious sexual appetite. She has been abused in the past but refuses to be a victim.

  I have also enclosed some photographs from my portfolio. There are a few risqué ones that I think you will enjoy. I have been told that I resemble the exotic beauty Isabelle Adjani. I’ll leave you to judge whether I’m suited to the role of Lucinda!

  Yours,

  Veronica

  June 25, 1980

  Dear Kenneth,

  Another week and no reply! Perhaps I am not your ‘type’? It’s true, I’m more voluptuous than your victims, but most males adore my full breasts, my son included! CJ is almost eight years old but still loves to nestle up to me and fondle me through my clothes — the sly cherub!

  I wonder, is it because you weren’t breastfed? I know from the newspapers that you were adopted. Oh, yes, I have been following the coverage of your case very closely. Still, your true self eludes me. Who is Kenneth Bianchi? What is in his heart?

  I have felt deeply drawn to you, ever since I first saw you on the six o’clock news. Tears were running down your handsome face. You spoke of your guilt and Angelo’s. It was the most moving thing I’ve ever seen in my life!

  Bianchi. Whiteness. Innocence. What poetry there is in contradiction, the dark acts connected to your white name! I’ve seen Angelo on television too but feel nothing for him. He doesn’t have your poetry, Kenneth, your deadly innocence.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  June 30, 1980

  Dear Kenneth,

  I want you to know that I don’t disapprove of what you do. Killing, I mean. It is a natural thing, and everything natural is beautiful. Everything natural is meant to be.

  Will you feel more comfortable corresponding with me now? I hope so! I have such a strong attraction to you and your case that I know we are destined to meet.

  Don’t fight destiny, Kenneth. Don’t fight what is natural. Giving in is so much sweeter.

  I have seen pictures of your victims, posed naked on the hillsides. There is something both poetic and erotic about how frail and submissive they look in death. I’ve been trying to do a painting of Lauren, who looks especially beautiful curved on her back, with her hand dangling near her cunt. Did I tell you I’m a painter, too?

  Most people don’t understand how such things can be beautiful. As an artist, I do. I believe your victims did, too, in their last moments, when they saw how strong you were and made the decision to submit.

  What is it like to have such strength, Ken? What is it like to hold someone’s life in your hands and watch them submit? I would like to know, for the purposes of my art.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  P.S. This is a sketch for my painting of Lauren. I’ve added some ligature marks for effect. Photography does not do your work justice!

  July 7, 1980

  Dear Ken,

  Today the sun is shining on me, more brightly than it has in months! Do you know why? It’s because your letter has arrived. It has arrived, with the sudden hot brilliance of a midsummer’s day!

  I am sitting at my desk in a little patch of sunlight, thoughts swirling faster than I can scribble them down. There is so much I want to say to you, Ken, that I don’t know where to start! Perhaps I can say it better in verse …

  Two lovers open up their veins

  Out flows the ink, blackly, a rain!

  To mark the sacred slip of white

  That soars, on Destiny’s wings, across the sky

  From Him to Her, a cageless dove!

  The dove is a metaphor for your letter, which comes to me freely, though your body is caged. I don’t believe in cages. My parakeet, Dalí, has flown free since the day I rescued him from the pet store. His droppings are truly a small price to pay for the joy of watching him in flight.

  It is the same with you, Ken. You deserve to be free. Any harm that comes from you following your nature is inconsequential. What are a few girls, next to the beauty of a predator in motion? Mere droppings on the face of the earth!

  Yet, as long as you are confined, you must write to me. Writing is self-expression. Self-expression frees the spirit. I can see already that you have the spirit of an artist, wild and unquenchable. Oh, Destiny! Do you hear that? It’s my heart beating in rhythm with your heart.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  July 14, 1980

  Dear Ken,

  Thank you for another wondrous letter! I am very flattered that you enjoyed my verse. Finishing a play always depresses me, so I often turn to poetry for guidance. Perhaps you too could find solace in poetry.

  Have you finished reading The Mutilated Cutter yet? I am very eager to know your opinion of it, but don’t let me rush you! My play is very sensuous and should be savoured like a fine wine or an afternoon of lovemaking. How I adore those luxurious afternoons in bed — dropping everything to be brought to climax slowly, over and over again, until the sheets cling to my body like a second skin …

  In answer to your question: yes, I do have a telephone. The possibilities of phone communication hadn’t occurred to me, perhaps because the written word is my natural medium. It may come as a surprise, but I’m actually a very shy person. Of course, for you, I’m willing to come out of my shell!

  My number is XXX-XXXX. You may call me at any time of the day or night, except for weekends, which I spend with my son. During the week, CJ stays with my papi in Bel Air. My relationship with Papi has been tumultuous, and my heart aches constantly being apart from my boy. But I am certain that he enjoys a finer lifestyle than I presently can offer.

  I am breathlessly awaiting your call.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  July 22, 1980

  Kenny,

  Never have I had such a stimulating conversation! I am still reliving it in my head, committing your words and sweet tones to memory. Of course, I’ve heard your voice before on television, but to have you speaking into my ear felt so intimate.

  Our conversation was stimulating in more ways than one. I was too shy to tell you at the time, but when you recited those lines by Robert Frost, I had an orgasm. Oh, I am blushing as I write this! Did I hide it well? I may be an actress, but some feelings are impossible to conceal.

  It is strange, because I don’t even like Frost. Just imagine the effect you might have on me reading Shakespeare! Could you do me a favour and memorise Hamlet’s soliloquy before we meet? Please? You must have heard it before; it’s the one that begins ‘to be or not to be’ … I think it is among the most beautiful things ever written, so to hear it in your voice would bring me great pleasure.

  In exchange, I would like to do something nice for you. Hush, darling, no questions permitted! It’s a surprise — and only if you do for me the thing I asked you.

  One week until we meet!

  Yours,

  Veronica

  July 26, 1980

  Ken,

  It has just occurred to me, thinking about our meeting in three days’ time (64½ hours, to be specific) that no one knows I’ve been corresponding with one of the infamous Hillside Stranglers. If you were free, I might fear for my life. Instead, it is my heart I fear for. How I wish only my life was at stake!

  You are the beautiful, dark secret that occupies me when I should be thinking innocent thoughts. I have CJ with me this weekend. After much argument, Papi let me borrow his credit card, and I spent a heavenly day showering my little prince with gifts — polos, madras shorts, the darlingest sailor suit. And some sexy things for myself, of course.

  Tomorrow, I think I shall take him to Malibu.

  I’ve been having beautiful fant
asies of lying on the sand with you, Ken; tasting your salty lips and feeling your touch on my scalding flesh. Already you are so real to me. How can I possibly be in the same room as you without combusting?

  Don’t be surprised if the world goes up in flames before my visit on Tuesday.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  P.S. I hope you have been reading your Shakespeare like a good boy — though, if you have been bad, I cannot hold it against you. I’ve been very bad, too.

  July 30, 1980

  Dearest Ken,

  Everything about you is perfect beyond imagining. Your luscious dark hair, curling gracefully around the nape of your neck. That neck — such delicacy, such sinew and structure. What I wouldn’t give to be your razor, so I could nick your faultless white skin and watch the warm crimson flowering!

  Strangulation, I know, is a very erotic method — but have you ever thought about slitting throats?

  I think it would be wonderfully sensuous to cut a girl’s throat then bathe in her blood like the Countess Elizabeth Báthory. She only killed virgins, and would drain them of blood then bathe in it. She also kept barrels full of blood in her cellar, which she’d drink at the table instead of wine.

  When you are free, we’ll have our own house of horrors, with a cellar for storing bodies. There will be dozens of them, all young and beautiful, and after we’ve drained them of blood we can toast each other over their corpses. Then we’ll each take a draught of the rich redness and our lips will meet, still sweet with the taste of innocence …

  Can you tell I am in a vampiric mood, darling? You are to blame, with your beautiful neck and all your rousing talk about Dracula. You are very clever to have picked up on the connection between my Lucinda and the vampiress Lucy Westenra! But it doesn’t surprise me that you are clever. I am only ever attracted to intelligent men.

  Soon I will begin auditioning actors for The Mutilated Cutter. After your splendid performance as Hamlet, I would gladly cast you in the role of Francisco! I was so wet, my darling, I don’t think they’ll ever get my scent out of the visitors’ chair! But I am so glad you liked my surprise.

  As I write this letter, my musk hangs over me like a heavy, tropical storm cloud. Do you smell it, Ken? Give this paper a sniff, if you are unsure. There’s a reason why the ink is running, my sexy strangler!

  Thinking of you always.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  August 4, 1980

  My Dearest,

  You know me so well, though it has only been a few weeks. Who but you could have thought of such a gift? I love it, darling!

  Most men’s sperm has a stale odour when it’s dry, but yours is light and buttery, verging on sweet. Freshly spilled, it must smell delectable! My mouth is already watering at the thought …

  What plushness! Ah, what luscious red!

  To circle your blood-swollen head

  And lick the subtle, knife-made slit

  That runs across, oozing manly bliss!

  Sweeter than nectar, that first drop of love

  Melting like a snowflake on my tongue.

  I would be eternally grateful if you would describe it for me. The length, the thickness, the curvature, the hue — everything. I have seen many members in my life, but none as beautiful as I imagine yours to be.

  Do you want to know about my first? It belonged to a boy from my neighbourhood. I was twelve. He was seventeen. His father worked for MGM, and they lived in a beautiful white neo-colonial. After he got me high and drunk, he took me to Topanga in his black Mustang and wouldn’t let me go until morning.

  It was a painful experience, but I am glad for it, as I am for all my experiences. A woman must know pain, before she can experience pleasure in its full measure.

  Yours,

  Veronica

  August 10, 1980

  Kenny,

  I am so infinitely blessed to have a man like you in my life, who is not only strong and exciting but so much more … intelligent, sensitive, poetic.

  You have not been appreciated by the women close to you. If I were your mother, I would not hesitate to provide you with an airtight alibi. If I were the mother of your child, I would not keep him from you. Anyone who has spoken to you should know that you would never harm an innocent child.

  CJ knows about you. Not you, exactly, but he senses that there is somebody. I’ve told him not to breathe a word to Papi, who never approves of my choices, though who he would approve of, I honestly don’t know. I started dating Papi’s friends when I was fourteen: lawyers, agents, acting coaches, even a heavyweight champion. I married the son of one of Papi’s friends at seventeen. None of them were ever good enough for me.

  Or maybe I was never good enough for them?

  If only you were free — Papi’s approval wouldn’t matter, and I know CJ would adore you. It is his eighth birthday later this month. Papi has agreed to let me plan the party, on the condition that I hold it at his place. I have great ambitions for the day. Rest assured, CJ will have the time of his short life!

  Yours,

  Veronica

  August 15, 1980

  Darling,

  There are days when I am seized by a love for you so violent, I feel the world cannot take it, and must unleash some violence of its own. Last night, I heard gunshots outside my trailer, sirens howling in the streets. When I picked up my morning paper, there was a story about a Playboy model who was raped and murdered by her ex-lover. Is this all our doing, Ken? Or is it our love merely a symptom of some greater insanity?

  I must be satisfied with my dissatisfaction, all the more as the days get hotter. At this very moment, I’m sitting inside my sweltering trailer, writing with one hand and rubbing my clit with the other. Can you picture me, darling? The fan is beating at my back. The Santa Anas blow through my purple curtains, offering no relief. My dark hair tumbles around my shoulders and hot beads of perspiration shoot down my breasts. I am perpetually on the brink, yet nothing can bring me over, save the real thing …

  They are saying that after murdering her, the killer had her corpse as well. Then he shot himself dead in a guilty rage. They say it is a tragedy for a beautiful young woman to die that way, but I can think of worse ways to go.

  A bullet each, Ken. How about it?

  Yours,

  Veronica

  August 21, 1980

  My Darling,

  Your poem was so beautiful, it brought tears to my eyes. How have you been hiding such gifts from me for so long? Of course, I was aware you were gifted, but if I’d known you could write like that, I would’ve asked for a love poem long ago!

  One hundred years from now, people will be quoting ‘Ode to Veronica’, as we quote Shakespeare today. Our love will echo through the ages, even when our bodies are buried in the ground. I can see us already, lying in a single casket, our hair growing long in death. As your skin shrinks from your skull, I will kiss your death’s head grimace and fuse my bones with yours.

  I have been very busy with preparations for CJ’s party. Today I bought some cellophane and crêpe paper — my plan is to fill the house with homemade flowers and butterflies. For his gift, I am working on a painting called ‘The Jungle of Delight’. It features all his favourite animals in an exotic jungle and the figures of a man, woman, and child, all naked. Some may disagree, but I believe in teaching children that the body is a beautiful thing.

  You have asked, so I am enclosing a photograph of CJ. He is very much my own, with his beautiful brown eyes and thick eyelashes, though he reminds me more of you every day! You are his spiritual father, I feel. He has your innocence, your passion for freedom.

  In return, I would love to have a photograph of you, Ken. Not like the ones in the newspapers, but something just for my eyes. Could you do this for me? Perhaps you could write to your mother and ask her?
Oh, it would please me so much …

  Yours,

  Veronica

  August 25, 1980

  Kenny,

  The party was a great success! CJ loved being the centre of attention, the little show-off! I won’t be surprised if he grows up to share my passion for performing. Even Papi was full of praise! He spoke of extending my hours with CJ and buying us a villa near his school.

  I didn’t expect it, but now that the party is done, I have so much energy! I’ve barely slept all weekend, I’m in such a frenzy — writing, revising, practising my lines. Don’t be mad, but I even paid a visit to your mother yesterday! It wasn’t planned, but when I called her about those photographs, she was so happy to hear from a friend of yours that she invited me over.

  We spoke for hours. She loves you very much, Ken, and really seemed to like me — better than your son’s mother, whom she had no praise for. She served me espresso and cannoli, and we spent a long time going over pictures of you. She still thinks of you as a nice Catholic boy. I don’t blame her. You were such a sweet-looking child, especially in your first communion suit.

  I went to a Catholic school when I was very small. I can’t say I remember much about it. My life has been so full of chaos that I have trouble recalling anything from before I was ten years old. I do remember my finishing school, how cruel the blue-eyed blondes were, calling me ‘chihuahua’, ‘taco’, all the typical names. It was not easy being a ‘Barrera de Campero’ in a place like Bel Air. The only other Mexicans I saw were the so-called ‘help’, and Papi did not like me speaking with them.

  I tried to change your mother’s mind about your alibi. Though she believes Angelo led you astray, she wouldn’t consider it. I wish there was something more I could do to help. None of my successes truly feel like successes without you here to share them. Your freedom is my freedom. Your chains are my chains.

  What do I have to do to bring you home to me? I will do anything, darling!

  Yours,

  Veronica

  August 29, 1980