Lupo pulled the car up to the garage recently added behind the main house, slipping in between an old Evinrude tri-hull on a rusty trailer and the Pathfinder that belonged to Jessie Hawkins. He turned the key and rolled down his window, letting the chill air sweep through his nose and hair. And the quiet. There was no sound but the rustle of a breeze through the pines, and the occasional bird call. It was serene and it was exactly what he needed.
Cold still gripped the woods at night, but during the middle of the day an active person could generate enough heat to counteract the chill. From Lupo’s experience, there would be a good two months yet of the cold, as the calendar slowly edged into late spring and finally early summer. It would warm up in July and August for a few short weeks, and then the chill would set in once more.
The cottage’s back door opened and his landlord stepped outside, waving.
For a second he was entranced. Her sinewy body, tall but not gangling, was superb in the khaki shorts and light brown suede shirt she wore loosely tucked in at her hips. Her dark hair cascaded over her face and hid everything but her eyes, and he saw the smile in them and reacted the same way.
She stopped before his car and tossed her hair aside, revealing a wide smile that matched the one in her eyes and made his heart beat a little more rapidly.
It was almost like going home. He felt the woods welcoming him like a loving parent. Some of the sadness left him, and some decided it would let him be for now.
“So you decided to drive up all of a sudden, just for a night or two?” Jessie Hawkins asked, opening the garage door for Lupo before he could do it himself.
“Yes, I need a hideout for a couple days!” Their longstanding joke was that he needed a place to lie low, like a mobster.
He watched her as she muscled the cranky door that often gave him trouble and surprised himself by smiling widely. He wiped the smile from his face before she could see it and ask him why he looked so silly. The fact was that he had forgotten both how much he genuinely liked his Up North landlord and how attractive she was in her outdoorsy outfit.
He waved again as Jessie stood aside and allowed him to drive into the garage. He was taking his duffel bag from the car when his senses overloaded with the scent of her, a slightly sweaty and healthy outdoor smell that encompassed both her femininity and the smokiness of the crisp air surrounding them. Almost an autumnal scent, reminding him of fireplaces and cozy Christmases he’d never had. He turned and greeted her again as she approached him.
“Greetings!” he said, then kicked himself mentally. What kind of idiot says Greetings?
She laughed with her full throat, and he joined her, appreciating the sound. Sanity amid recent insanity.
“Greetings, Earthling!” she said, attempting the Vulcan salute and settling for a rough version.
“I don’t usually say that!” He laughed again and noticed how her hair bobbed around her features.
She closed the distance between them and extended a slim, strong hand. Her handshake was firm but delicate. Only then did he realize how truly happy he was to see her.
Martin
Martin nosed the old man’s inconspicuous Buick into the turnoff for Circle Moon Drive. Seeing Lupo’s car enter the tree-lined driveway, he slowed and hoped the bastard was too busy to notice him. He drove past slowly and parked a ways down the curving asphalt road, which really was a circle. He flicked on the car’s flashers and risked a short walk to the edge of the driveway. Through the straight trees, Martin watched as Lupo climbed out of his car and shook hands with a stunning beauty.
What’s this? How many women does this asshole have?
Caroline’s old journals mentioned his hideaway in the woods, and how he’d learned to get away from the city and let his monster side out. But Caroline’s tight hand had hidden any knowledge of a woman. Martin wiped sweat from his forehead. Was he hallucinating? Caroline’s journal was years old. This woman would have been too young to have known the cop or his secret. No, she was a more recent development.
An interesting development.
From here, the sight of her made his palms itch.
Martin returned to his car and quietly drove off, following the circle until he was on the main road again, about a mile away. He saw the historical marker just in time to turn in and park where a narrow path disappeared into the woods. Just another idiot tourist.
He slid the heavy .44 Magnum into the holster he wore, locked the car, then headed back the way he’d come. Martin had a curiously developed sense of direction, a fact that often served him well. After a short hike, he was again in the center of Circle Moon Drive, near Lupo’s hideout. Enjoying the midday warmth, gnats of some kind buzzed around him, but he ignored them as he gently made his way through the undergrowth, following the gentle contours of the hill. A swirling flash of glinting sunlight told him there was a lake or river down there. Not that he cared. His target was the dense woods on one side of the picturesque cedar-sided cottage. Windows lined that side, and he hoped his luck held. After all, he could have lost the cop on the way up here and wasted his trip. Instead, it appeared he was about to be rewarded for his patience.
Yes indeed.
Jessie
“I just finished opening up for you,” Jessie said, lingering in his handshake. It seemed he didn’t mind. “It’s still cold at night, so I turned on the furnace and made sure all the appliances work. Checked your mail, too, Detective Lupo.” She smiled. She wasn’t about to tell him about the tree she’d had to hack up, or her run-in with the local village idiot.
“Thanks! But you didn’t have to go to any trouble.” He turned to glance at the cottage. His image was distorted in the back door’s glass panel, rendering him into a black-clad blur with shoulder-length dark hair. A very nice blur. “Really, I’m just here for some good nights’ sleep. And after all these years, you’re supposed to call me Nick!”
She blushed. “No trouble at all, Nick, and I was going to open it next week anyway, so…” She kicked herself. I sound inane. “I heard about the murders in Milwaukee. Two women now, isn’t it?”
He grimaced and she saw pain and rage, and maybe something else there.
I shouldn’t have asked.
“Yeah.” He stood, still as a wooden post, and she thought he was just going to dismiss her and slam the door in her face. Then he half-smiled, as if making a decision. “Want to come in? I could use some coffee. And a set of ears.”
What a curious way to invite me in. She was through the door before her brain knew she’d made her own decision.
He rifled through the mail stack and thoughtfully separated out the same long white envelope that had caught her eye. She was surprised when he slit it with a sharp fingernail. He slid out the single sheet, unfolded and read it, folded it again, then carefully set it on the table.
“How about some coffee, Dr. Hawkins?” he said, looking up, embarrassed at his instinctive slipup.
“My God, call me Jessie! Or Jess! We’ve known each other for, well, a long time. And I’d love some coffee, Nick. You know, why don’t I make it?” she added, not waiting for him to argue.
“Hi, Jessie or Jess,” he said, almost shyly. “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t bother to argue, instead taking cups and saucers off the cupboard. Creamer from the counter and sugar. Spoons.
She noticed that he scratched his hands a lot, as if he’d been bitten by a swarm of mosquitoes. It was too early, though, wasn’t it? No, she’d seen some already. Have to warn him about the West Nile virus, in case he doesn’t know. She made coffee while he perused the rest of his mail. The quietly domestic situation surprised and thrilled her. She hoped he noticed how much she enjoyed it, but he seemed preoccupied.
After the coffee was poured—a rich Arabian blend she’d taken the liberty to stock for him—they sat not quite across from each other and she sensed that he wanted to talk. That a part of him needed to talk. It was the same intuition she had used in her practice for so long, a sort of sympathetic
understanding that made people comfortable around her and willing to open up (even uptight young tribesmen and their old-fashioned grandparents).
Jessie looked into his eyes and saw the troubled past written there. There was something else. Fear. A sense of loss. What else?
“The first of the two women killed was my friend, Corinne,” he began. And he nearly broke down.
The story poured from his own lips, confirming some of the details she’d heard on the radio. What the creep had done to the poor woman and how he’d arranged the corpse. Taunting the police with the photo strip. He told her that they hadn’t released that information yet, hoping it would confirm any confessions, but no one had taken credit for the murder. “Credit,” he growled. His left hand seemed to be scratching his right hand below her view, under the table.
Jessie’s eyes filled with tears. She felt his loss, the pain and the guilt at not thwarting the killing. He mentioned the bloody message—he knew it was meant for him, he said—and she sensed that this blurting out of information wasn’t like him at all. He seemed to have dropped all his defenses. She felt a shiver, as if someone were watching her.
“The police psychologist is MIA in this one,” he said. “She should be profiling, but I think she’s having an affair or something. And she hates my guts. No help at all. I think this guy’s after me. He’s killed a friend of mine and he’s threatened my partner’s family, but I can’t tell anyone about our friendship or they’d pull me off the case. Ben knows, but he’ll keep it quiet—he wants me to stay on. I really think we need that profile, something to get a line on this guy. By the time I get back, there may be a task force.”
“Is he a Dahmer or Ed Gein copycat?”
“Ah, the famous Wisconsin Duo of Death. If you drop in Chicago’s Gacy, the three make up what I call the Midwest’s Bermuda Triangle of serial killers.”
“And Richard Speck? Doesn’t he make it a rectangle?”
He was ready for that one. “Speck was a spree killer or mass murderer, not technically a serial killer. So my triangle of death holds, except this guy’s trying to add his mark. He’s got a definite, uh, style.”
“What about the way he stages the crime scene?” she asked.
His eyes widened. “You know a lot about staging?”
“You forget, my father was assistant coroner up here for about thirty years. After I finished med school, I assisted for a while in an almost official capacity here and in Minocqua. I’ve worked for Sheriff Bunche a few times, too, when they needed a medical opinion. Or a coroner’s opinion without a coroner.”
He nodded. “Okay, you pass. Besides his hatred for me, I’d have to say part of his staging and the other connecting link is, well, lipstick. There’s evidence he needs heavy use by the women, according to what’s on the photo strips. Plus he seems to apply some on them, uh, after he’s killed them.”
Jessie felt herself blushing. She felt the sticky lavender lipstick she had applied before his arrival, and the slick gloss she’d rolled over it. There was a violet half-moon mark on her mug.
“He’s clearly fetishized the cosmetic,” she said. “He must be terribly excited by it, though I doubt it’s the reason he’s killing…”
“I’m the reason,” Lupo said.
She nodded, thinking. “But the lipstick must be important to him. Can I ask if there’s a specific color he’s using?”
“Corinne was wearing a light purple, I guess. My partner says the second victim had on a hot pink. But maybe that’s just what they had.”
She considered his words. “True, but I wonder if maybe he’s just not as turned on by earth tones. You know, maybe the brassier, less natural colors are his thing… Oh, I didn’t mean…”
He waved a hand. “No, no. I know what you meant. What might have made him want to use so much after they’re dead? It’s as if he’s masturbating with their made-up lips.”
Her thoughts raced. Leaning over, she rummaged in her purse and took out her lipstick, blushing again as she handled it. “See how phallic the tip is when I twist it open?” She demonstrated.
“Damn it, I do.”
“Watch.” She applied some of her Wet Shine Diamonds without a mirror, monitoring his expression. A light layer on her bottom lip, then the top lip. Then she repeated the process, leaving a much heavier than usual layer of shimmering color behind. She leaned the rounded lavender tip on her full lower lip for a few seconds, emphasizing her point.
“It’s pretty erotic, right?” She felt uncomfortable but secretly glowing.
“Uh, yeah.” He shifted in his seat, maybe unconsciously. “And the picture strips show him being fellated by his victims?”
“What I’ve seen, anyway.” He nodded, following.
“He’s obsessed with oral sex.”
“Aren’t most men?” he asked, clearly still ill at ease.
“I imagine. But he’s tied the sex in with his revenge on you, and maybe women. He knows you and hates you, for some reason, but he also has a hatred for oral sex.”
“Whoa,” Lupo said, caught by surprise. “Hatred of oral sex? I thought we agreed he likes it.”
Score one for me! a voice in her head couldn’t help but shout with glee.
“I’d say he’s obsessed with it, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he likes it. I’m no profiler, but he strikes me as someone resentful of it, of the sexiness. He’s resentful of the women too, and certainly of the mouth as a sexual hotspot. There has to be a reason for that.” She sipped from her cooling cup. “Do you know why women use lipstick?”
“To make themselves attractive? To stand out from the crowd?”
“Yes, but also there’s something called ‘body mimicry’, a theory I guess, that says women of most cultures unconsciously make their mouths resemble their aroused vaginal lips when they use lipstick and gloss. Which is supposed to make them more erotic and therefore more attractive to prospective mates… It’s a primal urge to attract mating opportunities, though we’ve outgrown the desperate need our ancient ancestors had.”
She realized how flushed her face felt again. What had she done shortly before his arrival, after all?
“I guess that makes sense, but I never thought about it.”
“For most women, the theory goes, it’s happening at the subconscious level. They just think of it as making themselves prettier or more presentable usually, except if they’re making up for a special date or something. I bet most men who react to it don’t even know why. But there’s something wrong in this case, as if it’s inverted or something. Do you know anything about this guy’s childhood?”
“No, if we did, we might be able to figure out who he is. My partner’s checking juvie records, but most are sealed.”
“Well, you can start by checking into court records on abused children—victims—and see if any connection can be made to cosmetics. Maybe he was forced to…” Her voice faded. The silence between them seemed to rise in volume.
“And that would cause him to kill like this?” Lupo couldn’t tell her about himself, but he wanted to pick her brain.
“No,” she replied. “From my reading, I’d say a bad environment magnified the effects, but he was probably miswired from birth. I think his oral sex fixation may tie in to what happened to him as a child, but he was probably ticking before that.”
Lupo grinned suddenly, but there was no mirth in it. “Damn it, Jess, you’ve given me a whole new angle with the lipstick fetish. And there’s something else I can’t quite remember…”
Lupo
But he did remember.
It was sudden, like a head-on collision on the freeway in a dense fog that had suddenly lifted.
He remembered Caroline Stewart’s youth as she’d described it. His Caroline had been abused. Caroline had suffered at the hands of her father and then, in an absurd twist of fate, had suffered even more at the hands of her younger brother. What was his name? Lupo remembered more now, could almost see Caroline, lying in bed, opening up an
d replaying all the evil to which she’d been subjected by a crazed father whose wife would not consent to “dirty” sexual favors, and so who’d rationalized he’d been driven to sate himself on his teenage daughter. But then the elder Stewart, sick fuck that he was, had slipped off the edge and begun abusing Caroline’s younger brother the same way, except even worse because of the boy’s resemblance to his mother.
And as sick and twisted as that story had been, Caroline had capped it off with the revelation that her brother was jealous of their father because he, too, had loved her. And he too had molested her, even though he was younger. “I was so mixed up then, Nick,” she’d said, tears running down her cheeks. “I could have stopped it, but for a long while I didn’t know how. My father scared me physically, but my brother—he scared me even more, as if the evil in him threatened to engulf us all. When he molested me, he would wear lipstick—just like my father made him wear when he was molesting him, because I wouldn’t. My brother made me—he put it on his penis. He would rub it all over me and pretend I was our mother, probably because that’s what my father did.”
Lupo had just held her until she stopped crying. “I can’t figure out who was worse of the four of us. My mother for denying my father and turning a blind eye, my father for abusing us, my brother for using his experiences to make mine worse, or me for being a stupid victim to both of them. My brother loved me, he said. He loved me so much, he killed our parents and they locked him up for it, but as a juvenile. He’s at the Stevensen Institute, where he can’t hurt anyone, but if it was up to me, they’d have put him to death. There was so much blood. Not that I ever had reason to mourn my father, the bastard, or my mother, who let him use us. At least, I blamed her when I was a kid, but now I see that she just didn’t know how to stop their evil. I hated all of them at the time. I just wanted to get away and forget they existed. And I know they’re the reason I wanted to learn psychology like my uncle. Oh, Nick, I thank God you walked into my classroom, because you’re the only one who could possibly understand me. You and I are similar in many ways. You have your secrets and I have mine.”
Wolf's Trap (The Nick Lupo Series Book 1) Page 21