The comment rolled right off her. “All right. When you were in here earlier, I was using the manual mode to step through the virtual crime scene. I mentioned that there is also an auto mode, which directs the computer to fill in unknown events—to use its imagination, I guess you could say. I was getting ready to go home, and I decided to try a quick auto run to test out some changes I made in the facial expression routine. The results were interesting. I want you to see this. Don’t say a word. Just watch.”
Schultz obediently nodded. She made a couple of selections rapidly from the drop-down menus. Once again, the screen showed a 3D view of the porch and the stairs. Genman climbed the stairs, carrying the box containing the flowers, and knocked on the door. Burton asked who it was, and Genman gave his spiel about delivering flowers. The door opened and Genman forced his way in, spilling the flowers onto the floor. Burton stumbled back and fell. Genman hit him on the head with the pry bar, then stood over the prone man and pulled on latex gloves. It was all the same as it had been before. Schultz was about to say so when PJ hushed him and pointed back to the screen.
Instead of going into the kitchen, Genman left the apartment. He went back down to the alley and opened the passenger door of a stylized car which was not recognizable as any particular model. He removed a large gray case about as tall as his arm was long. It looked substantial, but he had no difficulty carrying it back up the stairs, so it must have been either empty or simply lighter than it looked. Once back in the apartment, he locked the door and went into the kitchen. The display followed him there, into the room piled with cardboard boxes. He encountered the cat, wrapped his bloodied arm in the kitchen towel, and picked up one of the kitchen chairs.
Back in the living room, the killer placed the chair a few feet from the sofa, dragged Burton to it, hefted him with difficulty, and sat him up with his legs straddling the back of the chair. He secured Burton’s arms and legs with two lengths of clothesline from his pockets. Then Genman positioned the gray case next to the chair and unlatched the lid. He took out a rolled vinyl case tied with string and a large item wrapped in brown paper. He put the large package down on the floor and removed the paper. A gleaming, wicked-looking cleaver was revealed, the kind that you might find in a Japanese steak house. He sat down on the large carrying case, putting himself at the right height to work on Burton’s back. Then he put the rolled vinyl case on his lap and took from it a small cutting tool. At that point, PJ reached for the mouse. She double-clicked on the vinyl case. The motion halted and a description appeared in the upper left corner, along with an enlarged view of the open case.
It was a set of sculptor’s tools, with straight and curved blades of varying lengths and thicknesses, some for crude stone work and some for exacting detail.
PJ clicked again, and Genman resumed his grim business. He carved rapidly on Burton’s back, his arm moving in a blur.
“This isn’t real time,” she said, speaking almost in a whisper. “The computer analyzed the detail of the carving and indicated that it took about an hour and a half. I requested a hundred-to-one speedup on this part of the simulation, so it will take about fifty-four seconds.”
Genman changed tools repeatedly in a cartoon-like speeded up way, and blood dripped rapidly on the carpet. Somewhere along the line Burton had regained consciousness, and occasionally he moved, arching his back in pain and throwing back his head. His soft moans were silenced with a click of the mouse as PJ muted the sound. Schultz was surprised to find himself relieved that he could no longer hear the man’s agony. Although his logical mind knew that this was only a simulation, he was caught up in what he was seeing, and thought of the representation on the screen as Burton. After all, it had Burton’s face. He was acutely uncomfortable watching the events on the screen, even though the movements were speeded up a hundred times, which made them look jerky and artificial.
It was a long fifty-four seconds.
Genman’s hands slowed and returned to normal speed. He stood and admired his work. From within the large case, he drew a small thirty-five millimeter camera and took several pictures, starting a dozen feet away and ending with a close-up of the carving.
PJ spoke, startling Schultz. “Serial killers often take souvenirs or photos or both of their crimes. That’s part of the psychological profile I entered.”
Genman put the camera back and took out a black plastic trash bag and set it on the floor. He picked up the cleaver.
Schultz fought the urge to turn his eyes away from the screen. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and he tasted bile at the back of his throat. The hairs on his arms rose as he watched the three inch figures on the screen perform their deadly duet.
Burton was conscious. He knew what was coming, and he struggled with the ropes as only those who smelled death in the air around them could.
Genman stood up, grasped Burton’s hair, and stretched his neck. With a smooth, practiced swing, he severed the head. The body convulsed, tied in the chair, as Genman held the head over the already blood-soaked carpet to let it drain. When the blood flow diminished, which was surprisingly soon, Genman maneuvered the head into the bag and sealed it.
The tools were meticulously cleaned with white towels and then placed into the large carrying case along with the red-stained towels, the kitchen towel which had stanched the flow of blood from the wound given by the cat, and the head. Genman latched the case and carried it over to the apartment door. The view momentarily left Genman and zoomed in on the carpet, showing the four indentations. The killer’s weight had pressed the rubber feet of the carrying case into the pile.
Genman noticed the flowers on the floor. In the kitchen he opened cabinets until he found a cut glass vase. He filled it with water and took it back into the living room, where he arranged the red rosebuds artlessly and stood the vase on a marble-top table.
The case was heavier on the way out. Genman toted it down the stairs with both hands and put it back into the passenger seat of the car. The screen went black.
Schultz breathed out noisily. His face was hot, and he was certain he looked flushed. ‘That’s some story you’ve got there.”
“Yes. It affected me, too,” she said simply. Schultz glanced at her. He could tell that was an understatement. The tightness of the skin around her eyes and mouth made her true feelings apparent.
“Can you show me that carrying case again? I’d like to see it close up.”
“Sure.” PJ ran the simulation back a short way, until the case was on the screen. She double-clicked on it. The enlarged view showed first the outside and then the inside, padded with gray foam shaped in a bumpy pattern. The text indicated that it was a hard-shell case used to carry photographic equipment or large slide projectors, the kind that have a built-in screen for presentations.
Schultz stood and found that his legs were shaking. “I don’t know about you, Doc, but I’ve got to get away from this place for awhile. Let this whole thing sink in. See what comes of it after a night’s sleep.” He met her eyes, and saw that excitement had replaced the sadness of a few moments ago. It was a feeling he knew well: the excitement of the chase.
“Come on, Leo. That was the most dramatic thing you’ve ever seen. Don’t I get a few words of encouragement, or even some faint praise?”
“Let’s not rush it. There are some good ideas there, but don’t underestimate good old-fashioned detective work.”
“And you’re just the good old-fashioned detective to do it.”
“Damn straight.”
“Well, that part about the night’s sleep sounds good to me,” PJ said. “I’m famished, though. Can I take you to dinner first, before we split up? Kind of celebrate?”
“I’m not sure what we’d be celebrating, and no dame takes this married man out to dinner.”
“Tell you what. You know this city a lot better than I do. You choose the place, and I’ll pay.”
“We split the bill,” Schultz said, already halfway out the door, “and I’m not sur
e I know the kind of places where shrinks congregate. Especially brainy female shrinks.”
“Why, Leo, I didn’t know you cared.”
He ducked his head back into the office to scowl at her, but she was on the phone with her son.
“Tuck yourself in,” she said in a soft voice, “and I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek when I get home. Miss you.”
The scowl slid off his face like syrup sliding off a stack of pancakes, and he was stabbed by a longing for close family ties, intimacy, or just a sincere “miss you” on the phone. He put his hands in his pockets and hurried off down the hallway, leaving her to catch up with him.
CHAPTER 10
THEY ENDED UP AT Millie’s Diner, an unpretentious place with chrome-legged stools, glass sugar dispensers with shiny tops, the kind with little flaps that always dumped out too much sugar, and black-and-white checkerboard linoleum. PJ wasn’t exactly sure what the difference was between linoleum and vinyl flooring, but she was certain that the floor of Millie’s Diner was linoleum. It had just begun to rain outside, and flashes of lightning stopped the rain drops in midair and froze the wetness in rivulets as it ran down the large windows. The rivulets formed a pattern on the window that reminded PJ of the veins and arteries in the Visible Man she had put together as a child. She had been fascinated with the plastic man, with his hands spread as if in supplication and his see-through abdomen that opened so that the organs could be removed and studied, and the tantalizing but undetailed bulge of his groin.
There were a few customers at scattered tables, but no one at the counter. PJ would have preferred one of the tables near the windows, but Schultz headed directly for the counter and she trailed along like a baby duck following Mama.
“Hey, babe,” Schultz said to the woman behind the counter, “saunter over here and take our order, willya? A guy could starve to death in here.”
The woman shot him an icy stare and returned her attention to her order pad. Apparently it contained something fascinating, because it was a full five minutes before she approached them. PJ passed the time listening to her stomach rumbling and flipping open the flap on the sugar dispenser with her fingernail and letting it fall.
Tink.
“Yeah, what’ll it be, you old coot? And where’d you get this looker? She don’t seem like your style. Too classy.” In a theatrical aside to PJ, she said, “Say, Dearie, you sure you want to sit next to this guy? I always got to wipe the stool with disinfectant after he leaves. The floor, sometimes, too.”
By now PJ had caught on that this was familiar territory for both of them. No response was really expected of her. She settled down to enjoy the exchange.
Tink.
“This place could use some class, and I’m not just talking about the food. This is Doctor Penelope Jennifer Gray,” he said, rolling out the syllables of her name so that they impressed even her. He looked directly at PJ. “This, in case it isn’t obvious, is Millie, the owner of this so-called eating establishment.”
“Pleased to meet you,” PJ said.
Tink.
“I’ll have a double burger,” Schultz said, “and don’t give me one of those paper-thin slices of tomato this time. Christ, you must get a hundred slices out of one tomato. And a decent-sized serving of fries, which means more than I can count on one hand.” As Schultz spoke, Millie poured him a cup of coffee.
“Yessir, Your Majesty Sir, this time I’ll only get fifty slices out of the tomato. Got a rotten one I been saving for you anyway.” Millie looked expectantly at PJ.
“May I see the menu, please?” PJ asked.
Millie shot a triumphant look at Schultz. “There, you see, that’s class. You should take notes.”
Schultz wasn’t the least bit fazed. “Double burger. When you can spare the time.”
After PJ looked over the menu, she ordered a double burger, an order of fries, and a chocolate milkshake. Schultz nodded approvingly. They talked about the weather until the food arrived. It came on heavy white china plates and was adorned with Millie’s trademark, a toothpick holding a tiny flag aloft over the bun. In spite of Schultz’s degrading remarks, her burger was delicious, if a little greasy. There was a veritable mountain of fries, and the slice of tomato was about three-quarters of an inch thick.
“So, Detective,” PJ said as she twirled a fry in ketchup, “what do you think of CHIP now?”
“Same thing that I thought yesterday and the day before. Video games are no substitute for honest police work.”
PJ decided to ignore the jab about video games. “You mean that what you just saw in my office didn’t give you any ideas? Didn’t help the investigation?”
“We saw one scenario. There are others.”
“You are a stubborn ass.”
“And proud of it. Just ask Millie.”
“You seemed more enthusiastic back in the office. In fact, I seem to recall that you were genuinely affected.”
“I get affected by porno movies too, but that doesn’t help solve murder cases.”
Exasperated, PJ paused for a moment. She ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth, feeling the coating of grease.
“How would you like to play the part of the killer?” she said. “Be right in the action?”
“I don’t get any thrills offing people, Doc.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean that the next step for the simulation would be to put you in the world and let you move around like the killer did, seeing what he saw.”
“I have only two words to say about that: video game.”
“If you’re so dead set against using computers on this case, why did you get involved?” PJ said. “Why did Howard put you on CHIP?”
“You want a truthful answer to that?”
“Of course. I think I have a right to know.”
Schultz paused. “Well, I guess you’d find out anyway. I took this assignment because it looked like the only way I could get back into field work. I’m not cut out to be a desk jockey, and that’s what I’ve been for the past ten years.”
“Oh? What happened then? Step on the boss’s toes?”
Schultz grunted. “Don’t be fooled by Lieutenant Wall’s sweet face. He’s got balls of steel, and toes, too.” Schultz slurped his coffee noisily. PJ could hear the quiet hum of other conversations around the diner but no distinct words. A gust of wind blew rain against the window. Millie walked by to deliver a gigantic slice of apple pie to a customer. Schultz waved at her, pointed at the pie and held up two fingers. When he continued, his voice was steady and low. “I got a black mark against me when my partner got killed back then. No formal charges, nothing like that, but the Department’s a weird place. Not like out in society where you’re supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. The guys just closed ranks, and all of a sudden I was on the outside of the circle looking in.”
“How did your partner get killed?”
“Christ, Doc, you want it all at once, don’t you.”
“I’m a psychologist. I’m accustomed to hearing everything in a one hour session. Doesn’t foster patience.”
“Vince and I had this creep nailed for burglary, had an informant who saw him peddling the hot stuff from the back of his pickup and bragging how he was going to rob himself enough to open a warehouse. Anyway, we went to his apartment. We had this guy figured for a lamb, thought he would get spooked and try to run out the back when the cops knocked on his door. So I sent Vince to the front door and I went around back myself. Vince was just a kid. He was twenty-eight. Hell, my son’s almost that old now. I went up the fire escape. That’s when I made my second mistake for the day.”
“What was the first one?”
“I didn’t check this creep out enough. Turns out pushing hot VCR’s was just a sideline for him. He was a dealer, had a stash in his place worth maybe five hundred thousand.”
“He wasn’t a lamb, then?”
“No. My second mistake was when I poked my head up to the window to see what was going on. There
was a frosted window that was open three, four inches, and I figured it was the bathroom. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe that I could get in quietly from the back. I took a quick look and ducked back down. I saw the creep in the bathroom, his back to me. I saw his face in the mirror. He was shaving. I didn’t think he saw me because he acted real cool. Didn’t jerk his head around, didn’t even look sideways. Cool. How was I supposed to know he was in the bathroom? I didn’t know what else to do, so I tried a second look. That’s when I knew he had seen me.”
The two slices of pie arrived, and Schultz stopped talking while Millie refilled his coffee cup. PJ inhaled the apple pie scent, closed her eyes, and let the memories flow: floured hands, spiral peels of apples, open jars of spices, crimping the edges of the crust together with her fingers as her mother guided her eager hands. She brought a forkful to her mouth.
“Good pie,” she mumbled to Millie around the mouthful.
“Thanks, Dearie,” Millie responded. She directed her cutting gaze at Schultz, who sat with eyes downcast. “Class.”
“So what happened?” PJ asked after Millie left.
“When I took a second look, he was gone. That’s when I knew I had spooked him toward Vince. Not to me, like it should have been, but to Vince. I went in through the bathroom window. I heard the shotgun blasts, two of them. Vince took it in the chest and in the face. Never had a chance. I took the creep down, shot him right through the heart while he stood looking down at Vince.” He paused, raised his eyes. PJ saw a hint of fire in them. A cold fire.
“Self-defense, of course,” he said.
“Of course.”
“After that, nobody was anxious to be my partner. Big surprise there. I did some desk work while Internal Affairs checked me out for use of deadly force without cause. They couldn’t make anything stick, but by then I was an outsider. Never was able to get back in. Worked a few cases solo, but just couldn’t seem to get the fire lit again.”
PJ nodded. As a psychologist, she knew there were many variations of job burnout, and those who worked in law enforcement experienced the whole range.
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