The Prettiest Feathers

by John Philpin

  I went over the material the good lieutenant dropped on me. Your wolfman is charming, suave, attractive, deliberate, very cool. He develops his dramatic scenes for murder in fantasy ahead of time (sometimes it’s days in advance—as it was in this case; other times it’s only hours). Also, well ahead of time, he could have drawn for you the tableau depicted in the crime scene. All of which, of course, reveals his first weakness: rigidity. He might say that he can’t be stopped. But I would say that, once in motion, he can’t stop himself—other than to make a few minor adjustments. He must carry out his fantasy/plan.

  This “rigidity” translates into a number of things. He gives obsessive attention to detail, can’t tolerate imperfection. He has to be in absolute control. He’s an organizer and a collector, like Christopher Wilder, that fellow who terrorized the country several years back. After Wilder was killed in a shoot-out in northern New Hampshire, Florida police found a copy of the Fowles book (The Collector) on his shelf. No, I don’t know what he collects, but if he is your ME, his collection wasn’t in that house. He has another, more permanent residence (and identity), one that he has never compromised.

  He requires not only respect, but adulation. Like any narcissistic psychopath, however, as soon as he receives his praise, he dismisses it, and dismisses anyone stupid enough to be suckered by him. But even so, when he isn’t worshiped, he’s enraged.

  Although it galls him to create his works of homicidal art, display them, and not be able to take the credit, he is sufficiently in control to recognize his own need for anonymity. His rather smooth exterior masks a turbulence inside. He has to go away for a while and hide, but that bothers him, too. No doubt he can busy himself with his collection—but not for very long. He has a thirst for risk and excitement.

  I suspect that he had (has?) a sister—probably younger (these are crimes of control, power, manipulation; an older sister would have thumped him one). His mother was inadequate, but indulged him. This would be the most common family arrangement, with father, if present in the home, aloof and removed, except in matters of discipline, which would have been quite physical. Mom failed to protect him ’from Dad—she was caught in her own bind (Defy her husband? Unthinkable!). And I suspect there was a blowup (at least one) when the wolfman was a mere cub. Think about it. Read Laing’s Sanity, Madness, and the Family. There has to be tension in the familial relationships. Study physics, dear daughter, and chaos theory: turbulence eventually explodes. We’re talking about an adult who believes that he has a license to Cuisinart the world. Primal learning supersedes all other education.

  So what did he learn? His preferred status in the family disappeared when little sister squirmed her way out of the womb. The sex/aggression fusion evident in the crimes requires that he was old enough to jerk off when she was born (self-reinforcement). Mom might ignore the stains on the sheets, but Dad would beat the piss out of him, further reinforcing the equation of sexual exploitation and violence. We’re so civilized I could puke.

  I don’t think that Sarah Sinclair was planning to marry. While there was something ceremonial about her dress, the setting, etc., the ceremony was more likely his. She does sound like something of a romantic—one who was swept off her feet by this fellow—but marriage? I doubt it. I can understand the confusion. Sarah would have used extravagant words when speaking about what, to any other woman, would have been simply a special date or a significant moment. Sarah seems to have done nothing in moderation. When she withheld herself from relationships, she did it with a fierce determination. And when she opened herself to her killer, she did it with abandon. But her marriage had failed. Why fly into another?

  Something about this man summoned forth a side of Sarah that had lain dormant for too long. Maybe there was no stopping him. But there was no stopping her, either.

  Sorry to be so clinically distanced about all of this. If you come up with any more information that you want to run by me, feel free, but keep in mind that I cannot and will not become physically involved in your manhunt. I’m counting on the vast resources available to you law enforcement wizards to bring him to ground. I have no desire to pierce my soul with another fishhook in order to lure out the land sharks this culture creates with such abandon.

  Pop

  P.S. Please advise about other unsolved cases. You must have collected a few by now.

  P.P.S. Examine the photo marked #011. Sarah’s house is neat. No doubt she vacuumed in anticipation of the evening. You’ll need a magnifying glass in order to see what I believe to be a blue jay feather just beyond her fingers, next to the table.

  P.P.P.S. Please send me a copy of Sarah’s journal. She has much to tell me.

  Before tucking a copy of Sarah’s journal into the manila envelope I had already addressed to Pop, I stuck a Post-it note on a page that I knew would interest him:

  John is unlike any other man I have ever known. He says things that seem, on one level, to make sense. But when I think about his words, I realize they lead nowhere, say nothing.

  Today he went with me to visit Liza’s grave. I told him how much I wished that I could go back and undo the mistakes I have made. “I would be a better mother,” I told him. “I would hold her more, kiss her, and tell her I love her.”

  He nodded and said, “The hummingbird is the only bird that is able to fly backward.”

  I wonder where his mind goes to retrieve such thoughts. I want to visit that place. I want to understand it.

  Sinclair came in just before showtime with the feds, but refused to attend. I didn’t push it because he looked worse than I did. I was hoping that he also smelled worse. He reeked of Old Milwaukee, and something else that I couldn’t identify.

  Maybe it was getting a whiff of him that made me feel so queasy. Whatever it was, I was rocky on my feet and I felt terrible. So when Special Agent Walker cornered me after the briefing to tell me that “we girls” should work together, share whatever we dig up, show “the boys” who the real sleuths are, I didn’t even try to be tactful. I gave her a flat no. She wanted me to turn over all my files, but she had no intention of giving me anything. That’s the way the feds operate. They’re real good at taking, but just try to pry anything out of one of them.

  I hadn’t told Robert the one piece of essential news that had come across my desk that morning. It had arrived by fax during the briefing: a jawbone found in the debris of the Hasty Hills explosion, with three teeth still intact, had been matched up, via dental X rays, with a fellow named Bernard Lallendorf. He was the missing handyman I told Sinclair about earlier. According to the report, he was employed at the Hasty Hills Municipal Building, the same building that I had reached when I pressed the redial button on Sarah’s phone. It was also the building where our pseudo Chad-wick’s office was located. Someone up there had noticed that Lallendorf went missing the same day the crater turned up where Chadwick’s house used to be.

  God, how I hated this case. All it did was make me dizzy. I had to quit letting fatigue, my bad mood, and my upset stomach get in the way of the investigation. I swallowed my frustration as best I could, and went searching for Robert to update him on the jawbone. But he was nowhere to be found. I had no idea how long it would be before he’d check in again, so I copied the report and left it on his desk. I left the same information on his answering machine, and told him that Hanson had asked me to take a polygraph.

  Robert wasn’t even supposed to work the case. Because of his rank, Swartz never acted as lead anymore. I had walked into it. God, how I wanted to walk out of it. I was in over my head—wishing I could be back in uniform, but no longer sure I could handle even traffic, B&Es, or domestics. That’s what this case had done to whatever confidence I once had.

  For the first time in two months, I also wanted the comfort of Robert. I remembered the last time we were together. Robert and I got dressed and ate breakfast in silence that morning, not even looking at each other. It was a relief when we finally climbed into our separate cars for the drive to
the precinct—and, once there, immediately fell back into our “cop mode,” bantering and biting just like always. Anyone watching us would figure that we hated each other—or were in love.

  I knew that Robert and I couldn’t be. But it didn’t make me want it any less.

  A ringing telephone pulled me back to the present. It was the one on Robert’s desk.

  “Detective Sinclair’s office,” I said.

  “Is Detective Sinclair in?”

  “He’s on temporary leave. Perhaps I can help you. This is Detective Frank.”

  “My name is Henry Street. I was Sarah Sinclair’s psychiatrist.”

  “I’m heading up that investigation, sir.”

  Street cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m more than a little uncomfortable,” he said. “I keep remembering how Susan Forward went public after Nicole Simpson was murdered, and all the criticism she encountered.”

  I didn’t say anything. If the man knew something that could help us, I certainly wasn’t going to bring up professional ethics.

  “I’m wondering how I might assist you,” Street continued. “I know that you can gain access to Sarah’s records through the appropriate filings with the court, but there’s someone else you might want to take a look at—and I’m trying to figure out just how I can guide you toward him. It’s someone I learned about several years ago. A case in Vermont.”

  I waited.

  “Are you still there, Detective Frank?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And are you interested?”

  “Intensely.”

  “Then let me grapple with this. I’ll have to get back to you. Meanwhile, you may want to get the proper wheels turning regarding the records I have here at my office.”

  This was going to be touchy. I wasn’t too sure I wanted to see the outpourings of Sarah Sinclair’s heart, especially if I was mentioned in those records. And I didn’t think Robert ought to get his hands on that stuff, either. But it was my job, just as her journal was required reading. So, as soon as Street and I had said our good-byes, I got in touch with the DA’s office. I told an assistant DA what we needed and where to find it, then, on impulse, asked if I could speak with Robbins.

  “I haven’t got time to switch you around,” she said. “Why don’t you call back and ask for his extension.”

  Just as I was hanging up the phone, Miller was at my desk.

  “Did you get my note about the fingerprints?” he asked.

  “I tried to call you last night. What’s up?”

  “We got another match on those Chadwick prints. They come back to an Eric Randolph, a guy who spent eighteen months as a cop in Contra Costa county, California, in the early seventies.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “And to Lester Walden, who drove an armored car for a few months in Denver, Colorado, during the mid-seventies. Lieutenant Swartz gave the company a call. According to their records, Walden just dropped out of sight. Didn’t report to work one day and that was it. Denver has two unsolved cases from that time period similar to ours.”

  “Jesus.”

  “And there’s one more. This one’s a criminal match. A case that dates back to the mid-sixties, in Vermont.”

  “Vermont?”

  “Right. But it was heard in juvenile court. I doubt if we can get the name. The file is sealed.”

  “I think I love you, Miller,” I said. “We just had our first piece of good luck.”

  Miller dropped the reports on my desk and left, not even asking what I meant. I looked up Street’s office number and gave him a call. He answered his own phone.

  “This is Detective Frank,” I said. “Was that Vermont situation you mentioned a juvenile case, by any chance?”

  “You do work fast, don’t you?”

  “And would it have anything to do with a fellow named Chadwick?”

  No response.

  “How about Wolf?”

  I thought I heard a slight intake of breath on the other end of the line.

  “John Wolf?” I asked.

  “The weather isn’t perfect, but it’s certainly getting warmer.”

  “John …”

  “Cold.”

  “Wolf.”

  “Hot.”

  “Does the first name begin with an A?”

  “Brrr.”

  “B?”

  “Brrr again.”

  “Listen, could we get together and go through the alphabet? I could be there in a half hour.”

  He agreed, but not with much enthusiasm.

  On my way to Street’s office, I stopped at Radio Shack, where I bought a fax machine to install in my apartment, along with a switcher box so I wouldn’t have to put in a separate phone line. Maybe Hanson didn’t want Pop on the case, but I did. I also didn’t mind the idea of communicating with him in a more private way. There was no telling how many pairs of eyes were reading his faxes before I did.

  Street was seated in his office, with the door open. As soon as he saw me in the reception area, he stood up and came toward me, a smile on his face and his hand extended in a warm welcome.

  “Detective Frank,” he said. “This is a genuine pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  I must have blushed because right away he fell all over himself apologizing.

  “I meant from your father, not Sarah,” he said. “He and I trained together with Dr. Herman up in Boston, then kept in touch over the years. I understand he’s retired now.”

  “Somewhat.”

  “And how is your mother—Savannah, isn’t it?”

  “Still curing animals in Africa.”

  “Well, come in, sit down,” Dr. Street said, ushering me into his office. “May I get you a Pepsi?”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Pineapple juice?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.”

  “Punch?” he asked, almost spitting the “p” at me.

  “We aren’t by any chance looking for a Peter Wolf, are we?”

  Street laughed. “Cold,” he said.

  “The only other male name I can think of that begins with a P is Paul.”

  “Really?”

  “Is that it?”

  “If you’re too warm, I can turn up the air-conditioning.”

  “Are we talking about the mid-sixties here?”

  “I think sixty-four is a comfortable temperature, don’t you?”

  “Vermont?”

  “Wonderful climate.”

  “Please,” I said. “No more games. I really need to know about this guy.”

  Street rose from his chair and walked to the window, where he stood with his back turned toward me. He stayed there for what seemed like several minutes, though I suppose it was less than that. Then, still not looking at me, he said, “Sarah Sinclair met someone shortly before her death—someone who claimed to have had some sessions with me. She said his name was John Wolf.”

  “Then it’s John, not Paul?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Street said, turning to face me. “She said John, but the name meant nothing to me. And then this thing happened, and I couldn’t get that conversation out of my mind. The last name—Wolf—kept rolling around in my head. And then I remembered. Paul Wolf. Saxtons River, Vermont. A troubling case, a terrible case, really—and I couldn’t help wondering if that was the fellow she met. He’d be about the right age.”

  “He was a patient of yours?”

  “No. His case was part of my training, something one of my mentors used when illustrating the rights of minors, the limits of confidentiality—that sort of thing. I talked with the presenter afterward. We became friends and that case came up in conversation several times later. It stuck with me, at least in part because it was so brutal. I don’t know how Sarah’s fellow happened to know my name. I don’t even know if the Wolf that she met is the same one I knew about. But I did feel that it was worth mentioning to you.”

  Street explained that the case had fascinated him because i
t focused on the requirement to report an explicit threat. The question was, “Can a threat be reported if it’s made by a juvenile?”

  “This was before Tarasoff in California, when there were no real guidelines,” he said. “This young man had specific plans to kill a dozen different people. The therapist and social services people screamed confidentiality, so the youth’s rights were protected. Then one of those people he named was killed in precisely the way he said he would do it. He was in a private school at the time, technically in state custody, but he had a history of leaving the place whenever he felt like it.”

  “Was he ever tied to the murder?”

  Street shook his head. “The investigation produced nothing. I also remember that when they removed him from his home, they searched his bedroom. There were small bones, feathers, crudely cut pieces of animal pelts—shoe boxes filled with the stuff. Curiously, there was no odor. Everything had been cured in some way. He was an extremely primitive but exceptionally intelligent young man. That can be a deadly combination, especially in someone with no regard at all for other people.”

  “Since we’re exchanging confidential information,” I said, “fingerprints found in Sarah Sinclair’s house matched up with someone in a sealed file in Vermont. A case from the mid-sixties. A juvenile.”

  “Perhaps I can find the notes I took when the Wolf case was presented to us. I know I wouldn’t have hung on to them, but my mother was a pack rat, saved everything, absolutely everything. My first tooth, my first bib. Thank God she had the sense to throw away my first diaper. I’ll see what we’ve got in the attic. I was so outraged by the case, I may well have written home about it.”

  As I was leaving, Dr. Street took my hand and held it in both of his, staring into my eyes the entire time.

  “Please remember me to your father,” he said. “And forgive me for the silly game I put you through. It’s just that these ethical quandaries always confuse me.”