Dark Eye

by William Bernhardt

  He had to remember not to blame the girl. What could she know? She only acted out of fear, ignorance. He bent over and lightly brushed his lips across her forehead. Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, / And tempted her out of her gloom…

  He threw a tarp over her, hid the axe behind the seat, and pulled out onto the street.

  That was sloppy, he scolded himself, driving away. He’d been clumsy, foolhardy, as if he wanted to be caught. And it had almost cost him everything.

  He could take no more risks. His work was too important. She was the third, the final component in the sacred trinity. First Helen, then Annabel, and now Lenore. The chosen offerings. After this, there would be only rejoicing. He was the Instrument who would usher in the Golden Age. As it was meant to be. As it was foretold.

  10

  It was a miracle I woke at all, much less before nine o’clock. I didn’t know which was dragging me down more-the reading all night or the drinking all night. I’m not sure when I finally gave it up. I was in the middle of “A Tale of the Ragged Mountains”-a jolly Poe yarn about someone being killed via a poisonous leech-when my eyelids finally gave in.

  A quick glance at the watch told me I had less than thirty minutes until I was supposed to pick up Darcy, who was about ten minutes away. My first instinct was to just grab my keys and go-what would he care if I was groomed or not? But O’Bannon might be lurking about, and he’d know something was up if I came in looking disheveled, distraught, or drunk. He’d fire my sweet ass in a heartbeat, and then I’d have no chance of reclaiming Rachel. So I showered quickly, steaming the smell out of my skin, and I brushed my teeth relentlessly.

  I stared at the smoky brown liquid resting at the bottom of the bottle on my nightstand. If I polished that off, I could ditch the bottle. That would be smart. Get rid of the evidence, just in case Lisa or O’Bannon dropped by.

  But if you start drinking first thing in the morning, I reminded myself…

  Don’t be idiotic. It was barely a swallow. I raised the bottle to my lips and downed it. It burned going down, but it burned good.

  And then I brushed my teeth some more.

  I may have violated a few traffic regs making my way to O’Bannon’s, but they were minor ones, I’m sure. After I’d been in the car a few minutes, my cell beeped out the theme from Dragnet.

  “Pulaski.”

  “Susan, it’s Colin. I’ve got something for you.”

  “Talk to me, Einstein.”

  “Those messages you left behind-they really are messages. Coded messages. I can confirm it.”

  Since he couldn’t see my face, I figured it was safe to smile.

  “It’s a code, but an insanely complex one. A normal substitution cipher has twenty-six characters, for obvious reasons. This one has three hundred and forty.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “And given the relative brevity of the messages, that leaves a lot of characters to decode on not much information. Over half of the symbols appear only one or two times. See, he starts by substituting each letter for another symbol, then transposes these symbols, creating a hybrid substitution-transposition cipher. The cipher alphabet changes after every seven letters. So each letter of the plaintext is represented by several different symbols in the cipher-text. It’s called polyalphabetic cryptology.”

  “So,” I ventured, “have you cracked it?”

  “No way. It’s a major accomplishment just to have figured out what it is. I suspect a full decoding will require one of those mainframe code-breaking computers at the CIA. All I have is a few words. That first cipher says something about a grave. A deep one, I think.”

  “ ‘Deep, deep, and for ever, into some ordinary and nameless grave.’ ”

  There was a pause. “Could be. Where’d you get that?”

  “And the other one reads, ‘In the multiplied objects of the external world I had no thoughts but for the teeth.’ ”

  “Teeth?” He fairly squealed into the receiver. “No wonder I didn’t- What kind of message is that?”

  A damn good question. “You ever read Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “ ‘The Gold Bug.’ ”

  “ ‘The Gold Bug’?” I hadn’t gotten that far yet. “What’s that?”

  “Short story. Big hunt for pirate treasure. Which they find by solving a substitution cipher.”

  “Poe wrote about ciphers?”

  “He was the first writer to ever use one in a story, if I’m not mistaken. He’s probably the granddaddy of American codes and code breaking. He was really into it. The story gives a mini-lecture on how to solve cryptograms. As I recall, he ran ciphers in whatever magazine he was editing at the time and challenged people to send him one he couldn’t crack. I don’t think he was ever stumped.”

  Codes were important to Poe. And so of course they were important to anyone to whom Poe was important.

  “You know, Susan, if your killer’s really into Poe, he may be up to some seriously bizarro business.”

  I let Colin sign off, with that sobering thought ringing in my head.

  After a brief stop, I pulled into the O’Bannon driveway at a quarter after nine. Darcy was waiting for me on the front porch.

  “You came!” he said, plainly delighted. Was he worried that I wouldn’t? I approached bearing tall ones from the corner Starbucks clone. I needed a cobweb clearer, and I thought he might, too.

  “How ’bout a cup of jamoke? Your choice-regular, or the more exotic white chocolate mocha.”

  He stared at them, not taking either. “On Wednesdays I have two eggs and bacon and the eggs sunny-side up and not touching the bacon and a half glass of orange juice at eight o’clock. Then I take Bus 17 to the day care center so I can be there by nine, except today I called and told them I wasn’t coming so it’s okay that I’m not there yet.”

  And they say autistics are inflexible. “So you want coffee or not?”

  He was still staring at the cups. “Did you know that most coffee comes from the west coast of Africa?”

  “I thought South America…”

  “Less than ten percent comes from South America. Most comes from Africa, where acid rain is constant and bathes the coffee beans all year round.”

  That explains the rich aroma. “Come on, Darcy. Choose your poison.”

  “Caffeine has been used as a highly effective poison in many agricultural arenas.”

  “Well, I’m not a plant. Take one.”

  He hesitated, looking at the cups the same way he had looked at the spider. “Did you know that caffeine is more addictive than cocaine?”

  My arms were getting tired. “No…”

  “It’s also a diuretic. It dries you up and creates an addiction. Causes headaches and diarrhea and other physiological ailments.”

  I sighed. “You don’t want any coffee, do you?”

  “Scientists say that it’s best to avoid addictive substances. Do you think that it’s best to avoid addictive substances?”

  The cups were starting to burn my fingers. I poured the mocha into the grass. “Absolutely. Horrible things, those addictive substances. Avoid at all costs.”

  The Poe Gallery. Of course. The significance of this burial site was increasingly apparent, thanks to Darcy.

  There were only a few cops left at the Transylvania. A couple of techs and one uniform standing guard. Another day or two and the room would likely be released back to the hotel. What they would do with it, I had no idea. I suspected the memory of a real corpse turning up in this Disney-Meets-Death joint might spoil the fun for some of the patrons.

  Tony Crenshaw was on the scene. I decided to walk over and give him a good chin-wag. “Anything new?”

  “No. Not here, anyway. There’s a rumor the coroner might release something later today.”

  “Be still my heart.”

  I noticed that Darcy was hanging back. Probably shy around people he didn’t know. I thought about introducing him around, then decided it was probably best to let him absorb the
crime scene in his own way at his own speed.

  “You see my e-mail on the Poe connection?” I asked.

  “Jesus Christ, yes. The whole office was buzzing about it this morning.”

  “What’s the general opinion at the watercooler?”

  “Either the killer is crazy or you are. Possibly both.”

  I smiled a little. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should’ve kept your theories to yourself. Something that warped is bound to leak out.”

  “What if it does?”

  “This is nutty stuff, Susan. The press is already leading with this story. If they get wind of this development…” He made a slashing gesture across his throat.

  “I just wanted to get my theory on the table so I could get input from the other geniuses in the department.”

  “Other?”

  And of course I wanted to show everyone that I wasn’t too inebriated to do my job. That O’Bannon hadn’t committed a spectacular error in judgment by involving me. I wanted to make sure I got credit. Even if my brilliant breakthrough was mostly attributable to a twenty-six-year-old autistic guy. “You read much Poe, Tony?”

  He shrugged. “I’m more of an Anne Tyler man myself.”

  “Just as well. Better for you.” I saw that Darcy was hovering over the grave site. The body was gone, of course, but the coffin was still where it had been found, the half lid open. I walked over to him. “Kind of spooky, isn’t it?”

  His hands were flapping in tiny circles. “I think it’s strange that that one died. Do you think it’s strange that that one died?”

  I didn’t quite grasp his line of reasoning. “I… think the whole scenario is strange.”

  “In ‘The Premature Burial,’ the man gets away.”

  I thought back to my reading the night before. It was all a bit hazy, but I could recall a few details. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “In ‘The Fall of the House of Usher,’ Madeline is buried alive.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She gets out, too.”

  “Huh.” Hadn’t gotten to that one yet.

  “In ‘Ligeia,’ a woman is buried alive.”

  Jeez Louise. Poe was really hung up on this plot device, wasn’t he? “Does she get out?”

  “Sorta.” He glanced down at the coffin. “But that one did not get out, did she?”

  “No, Darcy. She didn’t.” Which raised an interesting point, at least in my head. If my killer was trying to re-create scenes from Poe, and the characters in the stories don’t die, why had he let this victim die? What purpose did he think the deaths would serve? “She must’ve been awake, though. Look how she clawed at the lid, trying to get out.”

  “At the top. Not at the bottom.”

  “I suppose it’s everyone’s first instinct to use your fists to try to pound your way out of something.”

  Darcy’s head tilted to one side, as if that computerized brain of his was momentarily processing information. “Are your arms stronger than your legs?”

  I thought for a moment. “I suppose not.”

  He pointed to the coffin. “Were that one’s?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but-”

  “Did you know that men usually have more upper-body strength than women?”

  “Well, I’ve won a few arm-wrestling matches in my time.”

  “But girls sometimes have strong legs, don’t they? Especially young ones. How old was this one?”

  “We’re not sure. Sixteen or so.”

  His head tilted again. “Why do you think she did not use her legs?”

  “I… guess she didn’t think of it.” Which sounded lame even as I said it. “Or she couldn’t.”

  “Were her legs tied up?”

  “No.”

  “Then-”

  “He’s using a drug.” Damn. It was obvious-once the kid fed it to you. “Some kind of paralytic agent. That’s how he controls his victims.” I pondered a moment. “But nothing showed up on the preliminary tox screen.”

  Darcy jumped up and down eagerly. His voice sounded as if he were reciting at high speed. “Some paralytic drugs, like poisons, will not be detected by general screening procedures. Progressive laboratory screening from the general to the more specific is required. For example, an anion gap on the electrolyte panel combined with metabolic acidosis on arterial blood gases would prompt an inquiry into ASA, methanol, or ethylene glycol as potential etiologic agents.”

  I stared at him, doing my best not to gape at this astounding feat of mimesis. Even if he didn’t understand everything he was saying, his memory was preternatural. “Did you go to medical school while your father wasn’t looking? How on earth do you know this?”

  “My dad has books about criminology. Lots of them. When books at his office were replaced by newer editions, he always brought the old ones home.”

  “For you to read. And memorize.” I began to get the picture. “Darcy, you’re a one-man forensic lab. I’m going to call the coroner. Patterson hates interference from detectives, but if I gently pass the word that a singular screen for paralytic agents before he files his report might be a good idea, he can do it and act as if it were his idea.”

  I punched my cell and delivered the message. When I finished, I found Darcy staring at the double doors that led to the main hallway outside.

  “That’s how the killer got in,” I explained. “Looks like he fired up an acetylene torch to weaken the chain, then used his spade to break it.”

  Darcy didn’t respond. He continued staring at the door, the jamb, the place where the chain had been.

  “We think he came in around two or three in the morning,” I continued. “The coroner should be able to nail the time for us. There’s a service driveway on the other side of the hallway. No one would’ve been out there early in the morning. He’d have the time and opportunity to drive up from wherever, break in, and do whatever he needed to do.”

  Darcy was still staring at the door, doing that weird head-tilting thing.

  “We’ve photographed the door, of course, and the chain is back in Evidence. I can take you to see it, if you like. I can show you the enlargements of the doorway-”

  “That’s an ugly black spot.”

  He was pointing to a longish horizontal mark, slightly triangular, that scarred the green paint at about the level of the doorknob. It was widest on our side, then narrowed toward the hallway.

  “Yes, very unattractive. Hotel employees can be such slobs. Probably some workman carting in furniture in a big hurry.”

  Darcy scraped the black place with the tip of his fingernail. It flaked off a bit. “It’s burnt.”

  “Burnt?”

  He nodded. “My dad works with a torch, in the garage. For his pottery.”

  Okay, this time I had to do a triple take. “Your dad makes pottery?”

  “Yeah. I like pottery. Do you like pottery? He’s good at it. He has a kiln for the big stuff, but he uses a torch on the ashtrays.”

  “Let me make sure I’m getting this. Your dad makes ashtrays?”

  “And bud vases.”

  “Chief of Police Robert O’Bannon makes bud vases?”

  “I think he is very good at it. He whistles while he does it, so I guess it makes him happy.”

  I had no reason to doubt the guy. But I had a hard time conjuring a mental image of this big gruff cop straddling a potter’s wheel, much less baking dainty knickknacks.

  Darcy redirected my attention to the black scar. “This is from the torch.” He tucked his chin, made that irresistibly silly face. “One time my dad made a mark like that on his workbench. He said some very bad words. I could tell you about them but he told me I was not to repeat them.”

  “That’s quite all-”

  “The only other time I heard my father talk like that was when I dropped his first-edition copy of Brideshead Revisited in the bathtub and-”

  “Is there some significance to this, Darcy?”

  He had no an
swer. I could tell something was bothering him. But the cranial computer hadn’t quite lined up all the data yet.

  “Don’t sweat it, Darcy. You’ve been brilliant enough for one day. I can’t believe you know so much about toxicology.”

  “Do you think that I know a lot of things? My dad says I know more stuff than an encyclopedia, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t have the sense to know what to do with it.”

  “That’s okay, my friend,” I said, linking my arm around his. “Because I do. Let’s go to the next crime scene.”

  Did I make her happy I think maybe I made her happy and she looked happy but I remember sometimes Mommy looked happy and it turned out she wasn’t. She made me go to those places I didn’t like and Susan brought me to this place I didn’t like but it’s okay if it makes Susan happy. I found out that Susan is not married anymore and if she’s not married then she could marry me and we could have babies. She doesn’t have any babies but she could I know she could and that would be even better than the day care center. An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. I don’t know why it made her so happy all I told her was what was obvious but her voice was faster and higher and she touched my arm so I think that means she was happy so I’m happy too. I wonder if my dad will be happy. I wonder if he will let me go out more. Maybe he would even let me be a policeman. He thinks I don’t want to be a policeman, but I do. I want to make him happy. I just don’t understand why people do all these things they do. People always think I act crazy but I think the things other people do are crazier and I don’t understand them.

  Maybe Susan can explain it to me. I would like that.

  Even as I drove him out to the second crime scene at McCarran, I knew I had no right whatsoever to expect Darcy to come up with more breakthroughs, or to spark new ideas in me, or whatever it was he was doing. But I couldn’t help hoping, just the same. I wonder if that’s why God stopped with the miracles after the New Testament days. People are never satisfied. They always want more.