by Mic Palmer
Jack saw himself reaching for her throat, pressing down, crushing her scrawny neck, and all at once his body became constricted, stiff, wooden, like a puppet on a string. Just then, however, a couple pulled in, the lights of their vehicle bouncing off the green door of his motel room. They were drunk, giggling, happy.
Having entered his car, he felt as though it was closing in on him, squeezing the air out, collapsing his lungs. All he could think of was to drive, but even then, with all of the windows down and the powerful crosscurrents beating against his face, he found it difficult to breathe.
Not surprisingly, he wound up at the beach, where the miles of sand and endless sea finally provided him with a sufficient amount of space. While sunny out, it was a bit chilly, even with his hooded sweatshirt.
Taking a deep breath, he found a bench and sat down. Before him were two Indian boys and what appeared to be their grandfather. Running up and down the beach, they were attempting to launch a kite.
Shaped like a dragon, it had a green thorax and bat like wings, but the wind was capricious. Gusting in one direction then another, it would suck the kite into the sky only to quickly smash it against the ground.
The old man cursed in Hindi and the children broke out in hysterical laughter. Studying the swirling white clouds in the neutronium blue sky, he seemed to be bargaining with them, and for a moment he appeared satisfied that they had come to an understanding, but then the wind shifted and he was again swearing.
“Oh no,” said the boys, simultaneously.
The wing had dislodged and their grandfather was furious. Buffeted by the wind, his fluffy white hair stood up on end. “Come,” he told the disappointed children.
Next to Jack was a plaque noting the origin of the name, “Rockaways,” which apparently derived from the Chippewa word, “Reckanawahaha,” meaning “place of laughing waters.”
Breaking onto the shore, the surf was relentless and before long took on the sound of a raucous crowd. The only question was whether it was laughing with him or at him.
Having been sold by its original inhabitants, the peninsula eventually came into the hands of Richard Cornell, whose descendant founded Cornell University. Later on, the land was parceled off to create a world class resort and amusement destination, but the beach had long since reached its heyday. The Playland had gone broke and the fancy hotels had closed. The mirthful waters, however, remained, and no matter who took what from whom, or what was built, or how rich some people would become, they always seemed to have the last laugh.
Pulling a pad from his pocket, Jack began to sketch the frothy waves, ever moving, ever different. Perpetual annihilation. Never ending creation. To capture them in pencil was at best a conjuration, at worst a conceit, but sketch he did, and after he had finished with the breaking waters, he moved on to the stilted lifeguard stand, which given the low lying sun cast a shadow much like a skyscraper. Rubbing it in with the side of his pencil, Jack’s hand seemed to move with a will of its own.
All at once an idea came to him. Turning the page he began to sketch what he recalled from the photograph in Pelletier’s office, the brown eyed boy, the wide faced mother, the bench, the little tables, the book store – yes it was a book store, not a coffee shop – and finally the rectangular shadows of the buildings, one of which was significantly longer than the other.
In and of itself Jack’s memory was a disaster, but place a pad and pencil in his hands and long forgotten details came alive. “Of course,” he finally whispered, having produced a rather impressive facsimile of what he thought he had seen.
The shadows had lied. What had created them were not two differently sized buildings, but twin towers, at different angles with the sun. As to the bookstore, it had to have been the Borders located on the corner of Church and Vesey, right in the shadow of the World Trade Center.
Having been there at least a dozen times, Jack beat himself up for not catching it sooner, but the fact was that Pelletier had made the photograph seem rather recent, meaning that his wife, or whoever the woman was, wasn’t just away, but gone. Otherwise he would have had something more up to date, but why did he feel the need to go on about the two? Was it that they made him seem more normal or did he actually miss them?
“So what,” Jack thought to himself. Maybe it was just a way to soften up potential customers. In any event, he had an alibi. Jack had seen to that. Having called him at home right about the time of the last murder, Jack had in effect cleared him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t let it go.
Watching a seagull dive into the surf, he considered the pathologically short fingernails, the unnecessarily complicated lies, the spotty work history, the contemptuous arrogance, and most importantly, the expensive Moroccan carpets. Even if they weren’t used in every crime, the fact remained that the killer had to have had access to them. How was one to explain that?
Just then the surf retracted into to the sea, as if the forward movement of time had suddenly reversed itself. “Of course,” Jack thought to himself, already castigating himself for not thinking of it earlier. It was so obvious, so simple: Pelletier wasn’t THE killer; he was one of the killers. Clearly, there were two of them, most likely working independently of one another. This would explain not only the different types of carpets, but the varying methods of execution.
Damn journalists! Maybe if they hadn’t spent all of their time talking about “the Cleopatra Killer,” he wouldn’t have become fixated on the idea that it was one person. On the other hand both killers seemed to go out of their way to further the narrative. Was that really possible?
“Think!” Jack told himself.
Whereas the more brutal of the two killers had left the snake, the other had left the flowers. Nevertheless, they were both trying to create the same impression.
“Why?” Jack asked himself.
“Could it be that two unrelated psychopaths simultaneously decided to kill women, roll them up in carpets, and pretend that it had something to do with an ancient queen?”
“Wait a minute,” he responded. The props had come later, before which the only commonality had been the carpets. Nevertheless, given the way they were rolled up and all, they were enough to create the impression of one killer, the nickname of which shaped everything that followed.
“The Cleopatra Murderer,” Jack grumbled.
That’s what had thrown him. The image was unforgettable, addictive, impossible to shake, on every channel and in every newspaper, influencing not only the general public, but most likely the killers themselves. As a matter of fact they seemed to be attempting to outdo one another, infatuated with the manufactured narrative of a man obsessed with the once great queen.
“What about the police?” Jack wondered. “Could they really be that blind? Doubtful. As a matter of fact they had probably suspected multiple killers all along, but then why go on allowing the press to keep creating the impression that only one person was involved, unless of course they saw this as some kind of advantage?”
“It makes sense,” he reasoned. People who commit crimes like this don’t just do it for the thrill; they do it for the attention. Thus, if indeed there were two of them, they were probably in competition with one another, not only for headlines, but respect.
As crazy as it may sound, they had images to protect, which is why they probably hated one another. Whereas one perhaps wanted to appear powerful but humane, the other seemed bent on creating the impression of brutality and irreverence. For the former, civilization still mattered; for the latter it was just an arbitrary set of rules. Their messages however were being jumbled, thereby making them more determined than ever to express themselves. Nevertheless, neither was ready to come out and say that there were two of them. The notion of one killer was just too advantageous. The answer therefore was to snipe at each other through their differing methods and symbols, but could the less violent of the two really be so clever as to come up with the idea of wilted lilies? The message he seemed to be sending was that his
rival was not only influenced by others, but impotent, at least based on what the psychologist had to say, but perhaps she was just following the instructions of the police. After all she was in their employ.
“That made sense,” Jack thought to himself.
Without revealing that there were two of them, she was pitting them against one another, making them angry, forcing them to reveal themselves. As a matter of fact, who was to say that it wasn’t the police themselves who planted the flowers?
For Pelletier to have heard this beautiful and assertive woman say that he was impotent, when in fact she was basing her diagnosis on the insinuations of his comparatively soft hearted rival, must have sent him into convulsions, but this was probably just what the authorities wanted. Maybe he would send in some letters or even make a phone call to clear things up.
“But wait a minute,” Jack shuttered. What if the killers decided to capitalize on the fact that the police seemed to be after one man by just disappearing? How would Jack possibly clear himself?
“I can’t go on like this?” he sadly reflected, replacing one scenario with the next, until no possibility seemed less likely than another.
With each passing day a little piece of himself was forever lost, chipped away by revelations, contradictions, and ultimately a deeply rooted sense of doubt, making the prospect of waiting for the police an existential impossibility. Another few days of this and there’d be nothing left of him. His only option, therefore, was to take matters into his own hands – the consequences be damned.
Chapter Sixty-Five
It was only about three o’clock, meaning that Pelletier was most likely at work, but just to make sure, he figured he’d give him a call. Having located a roadside phone booth, he pulled down his hood and began to dial. Although his first impulse was to just hang up once he heard his voice, he considered the weird phone call from the night before. A hang up, therefore, might be just enough to cause him to bolt. Thus, he decided to make a quick inquiry about something he was sure not to have.
“I’m looking to purchase some Moroccan delicacies,” Jack confidently told him.
“Ok,” responded the merchant, “but they won’t be cheap.”
Jack was shocked. “Well how expensive are they?”
“That depends on what you want. What interests you?”
“What would you recommend?” inquired Jack, livid over the fact that he had again allowed himself to be drawn into a conversation.
“You don’t know?”
Trying to sound as squeaky as possible, Jack racked his brain for an explanation. “Well to tell you the truth, my girlfriend is from Morocco, and I thought I’d try to impress her parents.”
Pelletier was very understanding, almost cheerful. “I see. A Berber girl?”
“Yes.”
“They can be very alluring.”
“Thank you.”
“Well let’s see… There’s always dates and nuts, but that’s a bit pedestrian. Perhaps some sweet dried fruit.”
“That sounds good.”
“And maybe some wine to wash it down. Our Sirouas and Toulals are excellent.”
“It depends on how expensive.”
“Forty dollars a bottle. Cheap. But to top it off you should get them a desert. I’d recommend some gazelle’s horns or maybe a serpent cake.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Pelletier had a lilt to his voice. “Wonderful. There are dozens of stores throughout the city that deal in just these products. The question is why you called me?”
Jack paused for a moment. “Your listing says exports.”
The merchant was cold. “No. It says imports involving Moroccan decor. What it does not say is that we’re a grocery store.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I made a mistake.”
“That’s funny. You’re the second fellow in twelve hours to make such a mistake.”
“Again, I apologize, but I have to tell you. The stuff you mentioned sounded good. Can you refer me to a place?”
“Check the yellow pages.”
Having heard a click on the other end of the line, Jack wiped his hands on his shirt. “Could he know? I should’ve just hung up. Now he’d probably take extra precautions, maybe buy a dog or a surveillance camera. Worse yet, he might dispose of the evidence and go into hiding.”
Just then Jack felt the lights of a passing truck beating down upon him. “This might be my last chance,” he thought to himself.
Jumping into his car, he again headed out to Great Neck. Even if the merchant was doing the same, Jack would beat him by at least forty five minutes, if not more.
Arriving at about 8:30 a.m., he parked down the street and made his way over, all the while looking out for unmarked vans, occupied cars, and movement about the adjacent homes. For all he knew Pelletier was already being monitored, but as far he could see everything appeared to be in order.
Sneaking into the backyard, he observed the tree that had scratched his neck. Stupidly, he felt the urge to kick it, shake it, break one of its branches. Nevertheless, he proceeded to the back door where he peaked through a crack in the blinds to make sure that no one was home.
In his pocket were lock picking tools from a course he had taken when he had first begun working as an investigator. Although he never actually got to use them in the field, he often practiced and found that he was good at it.
His instructor told him that he had an excellent internal, visual-mechanical imagination. Indeed, he could almost picture the tumblers. Oddly, he was not the slightest bit mechanical – at least not in the normal sense of looking at something and comprehending how it worked. Conspicuous visual representations seemed only to confuse him, as if there was too much to see. Never quite knowing where to focus, his mind would invariably take in the whole without ever really appreciating its parts, the result of which was a thorough lack of understanding, but again this was only when he could see. Give him a tiny dark space to probe around in, and suddenly he’d know exactly what was going on.
Jack attributed this rather dubious gift to the years he had spent in church looking for something to do. Week after week he’d sit there in his spiffy blue blazer feeling as if time had taken a holiday. That all changed, however, when he discovered a penny in his pocket.
Substituting the coin for Abraham Lincoln, he’d pretend that he was trying to escape from the Grand Canyon, wherein often times he’d have to fight some sort of creature resembling a blob of gum, paperclip, or pebble. Eventually, however, this wasn’t enough, so he’d bring with him miniature soldiers, play dough, and even match box cars, the tumult of which soon caused the seams to fall apart. With the damage, however, came an unexpected benefit. Suddenly, his hand could fit into the vast expanse of the jacket’s lining, giving him a whole new world to explore, and before long he knew every stitch, every fold, and every frayed piece of fabric, even while objects right under his nose continued to elude him.
“Could this really be my only talent?” he’d sometimes ask himself. Pocket theatre was fun, but the world of light only rewards those who can see.
“Damn it,” Jack muttered, in the chill of Pelletier’s pathologically groomed yard. As if to make the point, he had forgotten the surgical gloves he had meant to bring – this despite the fact that he had laid them down next to his keys so that they wouldn’t slip his mind.
“No more mistakes!” he told himself, which is why he checked the doorframe for tape. This was a trick his father used to employ to make sure he hadn’t snuck out.
“Looks ok,” Jack thought to himself, leaving him free to see if he was as good as he thought he was.
In order to pick a lock you need to have a sense of the pins, which when lined up properly allow the cylinder to turn. Just using a pick, however, would be futile. Once you release one pin, to move onto the next, the first springs right back into place. The secret then is the torsion wrench, which turns the cylinder just enough to create a ledge, but the pressure must be just right. While too
much will prevent the pins from moving, too little will allow them to slide, making it a very delicate procedure.
All those movies where the hero picks the lock with a single hair pin or a lone piece of wire are a bunch of nonsense. Without some sort of tension device the pins would bounce right back to their original position. On top of that you’d have no way of turning the plug. Fortunately, Jack knew exactly what he was doing. His only concern was the sign indicating that the house was protected by a security system.
“No way,” he quickly told himself. “It had to be for show.” Someone like Pelletier was not about to risk bringing in the police over a random thief or mechanical failure.
Jack rubbed his palms together, as if trying to start a fire. Soon he could feel the frictional warmth radiate into his fingers. “Here we go,” he told himself, and within seconds he was done. Feeling the last pin click into place, he gently pressed on the wrench until the bolt snapped back into the door. Edgy yet confident, he turned the knob.
“Son of a bitch,” he croaked, as his teeth began to rattle. The alarm seemed as though it could have been heard a half mile away. It pierced his eardrums and buzzed through his brain. Yet despite it all, he had the presence of mind to quickly reset the lock.
“Idiot,” he shouted. Yet again he had made a false leap, but as much as he was ready to collapse into a bout of recriminations, he found that he was surprisingly centered. As a matter of fact he didn’t care. Whereas a few days ago he might have started thinking about the possibility that he suffered from multiple personalities, today it no longer seemed to matter. Through all of the indignities, challenges, and revelations, he finally knew who he was – or was that the psychosis talking?
Now in his car, with the rusted fan of the heater clicking away and the sound of the alarm fading into the background, the pendulum of his thoughts inevitably swept downward. How did he know he wasn’t delusive and that his new found confidence was nothing more than the manic offspring of a diseased mind?