Incubi

Chapter 6

After the rain, the sun drew steam up Main Street’s bricks. Past the City Dock, boats rocked idly in their slips as the bay reflected clean light like slivers of shaved metal. Jack parked up by Church Circle, electing to walk.

He hoped the walk might clear his head. The after-storm air and salt breezes often revitalized him; that’s why he lived here. Every place he saw, though, and every place he passed reminded him of Veronica. He should’ve known. He should’ve driven.

There was the second-floor crab house he’d taken her to. That had been their first date, hadn’t it? Up ahead, he eyed Fran’s, which had been their last. He stared into the window of Pendragon’s, remembering the silver locket he’d bought for her there, then across the street to the art supply store where he’d bought her a bunch of pastels and things for her birthday. Two stores down was the record exchange where he’d found some obscure tape she’d mentioned — Cocteau Twins, a group he’d never heard of. Later they’d made love for hours to the layers of sedate, shifting music.

He felt disgusted with himself, a little boy pining over a first crush. Everywhere he looked, he saw Veronica.

He wondered about his guy Khoronos, and this retreat thing. He wondered when he’d see her again, and what seeing her again would be like. Strained smiles. False greetings…

A car horn blared, and a voice. “Is that pig I smell?”

Jack turned. Who the f—

“Hop in.”

It was Craig, grinning behind the wheel of a white Alfa Romeo Spider, a convertible. Vanity plates ALLINYT, and Sinatra crooning “Summer Wind” from the in-dash CD. Flawless white lacquer made the car look made of ice.

The door clicked shut like a well-oiled lock. “I see barkeeps in this town do pretty well. That or you’re a gigolo on the side.”

“Me? A kept man?” Craig shifted up to the light. “Haven’t met a woman yet who can afford to even look at the price tag.”

Jack shook his head, bemused. But oddly Craig went on, “You look like something’s bugging you.”

“What makes you think—”

“Yeah, something’s bugging you. Veronica, right?”

Now Jack frowned. “Since when do barkeeps read minds?”

“It’s part of the job, man.”

Veronica, Jack thought. It shows that much?

“Tell me if my keep’s wisdom is on the mark. You’ve been busted up with her for a couple weeks now, right? You’re depressed because she got over it quick, and you haven’t gotten over it at all. Right?”

Jack showed him a lackadaisical middle finger.

“You think she’s forgotten all about you. Right? And that makes it worse because you still love her. Right?”

Shut up, Jack wanted to say. “Yes,” he said. “How can you tell all that just by looking at me?”

“I’m a bartender. When you see things from the other side of the counter long enough, you know them at a glance. Trust me.”

“Fine. I’m impressed. What do I do?”

“Put yourself above it. If you don’t, you’re putting yourself down, and that’s a waste. You have to look at it this way: ‘I’m better than that. I’m better than her, and I’m better than whoever she’s balling now.’ You don’t have to have faith in other people, Jack. You only have to have faith in yourself.”

Faith in yourself. This sounded like good advice, but right now Jack didn’t feel better than anybody. “That’s kind of selfish, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Craig said. The light changed, and the Spider jumped past the light. “But isn’t it more selfish to feel that your whole life’s falling apart because of a girl?”

Jack tried to assess the question. “I don’t get you.”

“We think we’ve got it tough? Shit, we don’t know what tough is. Ask people in Siberia about tough, ask people in India, in Africa. Ask all the poor fuckers who’re starving, or blind, or quadriplegic. They’ll tell you what tough is. What I’m saying is we shouldn’t take things for granted. My tuition just got hiked, and I’m pissed. You think your whole life’s shit because Veronica dumped you for some other guy. Poor us, huh? In Cuba, you’ve got to save three months to buy a pair of shoes that’ll fall apart in three weeks. In Chile, they torture people with power tools. Kids in Africa have to eat tree bark and dirt. And we think we’ve got it bad? Shit.”

Jack felt slimed in guilt. “I get you now.”

“When we take life for granted, we’re assholes. Every day we wake up and the world’s still turning — that’s a great day.”

Craig was right. Jack was taking things for granted. He was forgetting how lucky he was simply to be living in a free state. Usually simple things were the answers to the most complex questions.

The Spider’s engine hummed. Now Main Street came alive in the after-storm glitter. “So where you headed?” Craig asked.

“The Emerald Room. I’m meeting someone.”

“That’s the spirit. The best way to get over one girl is to go out with another.”

“Drop me off here is fine,” Jack said, indicating the corner of Calvert Street. “This isn’t what I’d call a hot date.”

“Who are you meeting?”

Jack began to get out. “Thanks for the pep talk, Craig. I’ll see you later tonight at the ’Croft.”

Craig’s sunglasses reflected duplicates of Jack’s face. “Don’t bullshit me, man. Who are you meeting?”

“A forensic psychiatrist whose specialty is criminal insanity.”

Of the city’s many outstanding restaurants, the Emerald Room was the best, and it had class without being stuck up, unlike certain other restaurants down on the Square. Immediately a stunning hostess smiled despite Jack’s attire, then noticed the shield clipped to his belt. He wore faded ink-stained jeans and a ratty dark raincoat through which his Smith.38 could easily be seen. “I’m here to meet a Ms. Panzram.”

“She’s right over here. Follow me, please.”

Jack had never actually met Karla W. W. Panzram, though he’d spoken to her many times on the phone. She was chief psychiatric consultant at the Clifford T. Perkins Evaluation Center. This was where all state criminals were evaluated for psychological profiles; whether they would be considered criminals or mental patients was decided here, and Karla Panzram was the one who did the deciding. She also consulted on the side for many outside police departments. Jack had couriered the TSD summary (of which there was very little) and the Barrington case file (of which there was even less) to Perkins that morning. On a psycho case, moving very quickly was very important, even when there was little to move with.

The voice on the phone had always showed him a large, even Amazonish woman. Reality showed him the opposite: delicate, if not frail, a petite woman. She had coiffed, steelish blond hair, and looked about forty. She wore a plain gray skirt and white blouse.

“Captain Cordesman, we finally meet,” she said, rising to shake hands. Her hand was cool, dry. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“I know. I look like a hippie who sleeps in a cement mixer.”

“Oh, but, you could never do that. You’re a claustrophobe.”

Jack flinched. This was true. “How did you know that?”

Her smile showed small even white teeth. “The way you walked to the table. As though something were hovering over you.”

She’s psychoanalyzing me before I can even sit down.

“You’re also sad about something,” she said.

Jack sat down. He was tired of everyone telling him about himself. “I appreciate you doing this for me on such short notice.”

“And whatever it is you’re sad about, confronting it, to yourself, or to others, makes you feel insecure.”

Jack laughed feebly. “Tell me about my killer, not me.”

“I think I can do that, Captain.”

“I know a little bit about the ins of these kinds of things, but you know the ins and outs.”

“You’ll probably never catch him,” Karla Panzram offered. “And you won’t luck out with a reactive suicide or a guilt-reversion.”

“You’re telling me he’s stable, right? And smart?”

“He’s very smart. Very ordered thought patterns, high IQ, and an attention for detail. He’s logical, and he’s a planner.”

Lots of sex killers had high IQs, well past genius levels. But this was ritual, and Jack knew nothing about that. “He’s not psychotic,” he said more than asked.

“No, and he’s not paranoid, psychopathic, or unsystematized. He’s not even acting like a sociopath.”

Jack let that one sit. The Emerald Room was not only known for the best food in town but also the best service. When their waitress arrived, a beautiful redhead in black pants and white blouse, Jack said, “Order whatever you want. Tab’s on the county.” This was a lie, however: Jack was picking this one up himself. Olsher could justify consulting fees but not dinners. Dr. Panzram ordered steamed mussels, crabmeat flan, and grilled Muscovy duck for appetizers, and blackened prime rib. Where’s she going to put it all? Jack wondered. He ordered a dozen oysters.

“Cocktails?” the waitress asked.

“I never drink on d—” He beamed at his watch: 4:01 P.M, “Fiddich, rocks, Dr. Panzram?”

“Just a Coke,” she said.

When the waitress left, Karla Panzram added, “You drink too much.”

Jack gritted his teeth. First Olsher, then Randy, then Craig, and now this woman. They knew more about him than he knew himself. “I haven’t even had one yet, and you’ve pegged me as—”

“Retraction of the mimetic muscle groups and lid margins, fluctuation of the frontalis and lateral pterygoid, and the usual facial inflections. It’s the best lie detector. It’s also a wonderful way to gauge subconscious excitement. Your face lit up like a pinball machine when you looked at your watch and saw you were off duty.”

This depressed him, but what else was new? When the waitress brought his drink he had to fight not to touch it.

“Let’s call him Charlie,” Karla Panzram said. “Let’s make him human instead of a shadow. Charlie is erotomanic but not in the same way as your usual sex killer. He’s not a sadist, a sexual sociopath, or some horny nutcase with the wrong levels of FSH and LH in the brain. Charlie’s compulsions are not founded by cerebral defect or biogenic deviations. He’s very…passionate. Passion, I think, is a key word here. He’s also deflectional.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means he didn’t want to kill the girl.”

“He did it for an outward reason, you mean? The ritual angle?”

“Yes, and whatever the ritual is, it’s not an unsystematized symbol or an idea of reference. Charlie’s very level-headed. The only way he’ll fuck up is if he lets his passion get in the way.”

Hearing this delicate woman use the word fuck unnerved Jack, like knocking over a vase in a crystal shop.

“Passion,” she repeated. “Remember that. It was his passion that allowed him to go through with the murder.”

Passion, Jack thought. He lit a Camel. Here is my love.

“It’s not the ritual itself, but his association with the ritual that’s important. It involves some personal belief mechanism that allows him to vent his passion. Did you run the M. O. through triple-I?”

“Yeah, nothing yet, but they’re working on it.”

“What about Interpol CCCS?”

Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t bother. You think he could’ve done this in another country?”

“Sure. Look where we are.”

“A seaport,” Jack acknowledged. He felt instantly stupid.

“If I were you, I’d be calling every port city on the coast. And run the M.O. with Interpol too.”

“Good idea. I’m also getting a researcher to try and get a line on the ritual.” But as Jack spoke, his eyes kept flicking to his drink.

“It’s calling you, Captain.”

Up your ass, he thought. He liked this woman, but he didn’t like the truths she made a point of rubbing his face in. The aroma of the Scotch was almost erotic. He took a sip, then sighed.

“Charlie is very conative; there’s something in his life that’s turned a hesitant impulse into a free act. He’s probably never even come close to a reality break. He knows right from wrong as clearly as you do. His passion is purposive.”

Jack wasn’t sure if he got that. “You mean the impetus, right? And you’re saying it’s objective?”

“Yes, er, at least to Charlie it is. And that’s the funny part. Heavy purposive fantasies generally have roots in a very deep delusion. But Charlie’s not deeply delusional.”

“Neither are sociopaths, but you say he’s not sociopathic.”

“You know a lot more about these cases than most cops, but you should also know that a sociopath wouldn’t have drawn the symbols, and he would’ve terrorized the girl. Charlie didn’t. He even blindfolded her so she wouldn’t see what was coming. Sociopaths like to see the terror in their victims’ eyes. They have no feeling for them, but Charlie did. I may be wrong about some of this, but I’m not wrong about that. Plus, a sociopath would’ve turned the place upside down for valuables, and he would’ve taken her money. Whatever Charlie’s delusion is, he’s got it under complete control.”

Jack sneaked another sip, thinking, his long hair kept falling in front of his face.

“Charlie’s also persuasive, a magnetic personality. He’s probably very attractive. The victim was willing from the start, and that too is a key word. The bondage wasn’t forced. Otherwise the wrist and ankle lacerations would’ve been more severe. Most girls don’t let a man they just met tie them up. There was something special about him, something that made her trust him instantly. Girls with andro-compulsive desires have a tendency to fall for guys fast. It never lasts, but that doesn’t matter.”

This definitely didn’t last, Jack thought.

“Willingness. Remember that,” Karla Panzram induced. “You’re looking for a charmer with a knack for making girls sexually willing in situations that would normally project reluctance on the part of the female. Lots of male erotopaths are like that — the only difference is they don’t kill the girls afterward. One question: Did the girl have a drug history?”

“No, but her tox screen’ll be in today.”

“Have your tech check for cocaine, and also the usual synthetic morphine derivatives. There’s a lot of Demerol and dilaudid going around now that the coke prices are up. He may have enticed her with something to make her less inhibited, and if so, you’ve got another string to diddle with, someone with drug connections.”

“What about Charlie himself? Do you think he’s a drugger?”

“I doubt it,” Karla Panzram said. “The act is very important to him — there’s no way he’d round off any of the corners of the experience with drugs. The way he wrote the stuff on the walls shows me someone with a clear head. We TAT drug users all the time and what they come up with is completely different. I know this may all sound very obscure to you, but I still assert that the major keystones here are passion and willingness.”

“But there was blood in the vagina. Not much, but still. I’m thinking vaginal abrasions.”

“She must’ve been on her period, then; ask your tech. Charlie is not the type of personality to commit rape. It’s a priority that his victim be willing. I even think that if one of Charlie’s prospects turned out to not be willing, he’d leave. He wouldn’t go through with it. Charlie is not a hostile person.”

Jack almost winced. “Not hostile? Shanna Barrington looked like a botched autopsy. He tore her up.”

“He tore her up out of passion, Captain, via the ritual delusion. Not hostility, passion.”

Some leads, Jack thought, smoking. His drink kept beckoning him. He felt Dr. Panzram was right about Charlie, and she was probably right about Jack. He’d like nothing more than to down the rest of his Fiddich and order another — no, two more at once — but to do so would make him afraid of what she’d conclude of him. Without pretense, then, the words tolled: I’m an alcoholic.

“If I didn’t feel secure in what I’ve told you, then I wouldn’t tell you,” she said over her mussels. Each one she delicately removed with her fork, inspected, then consumed. The shelled mussels looked like little vaginas. “I’ve seen all kinds, for the last twenty-two years. Charlie’s definitely different, but he’s just as easy to type as a hebephrenic or hallucinotic. You can trust my speculations. The majority of my conclusions, though are graphological.”

“You mean the writing on the walls,” Jack said.

“Not the writing itself, but how he wrote it. You can tell as much about someone from one writing sample as six months of psychotherapy. I’m sure you’ve deduced from the bloodfall and entrance wounds that Charlie is left-handed.”

“Sure. A majority of sex killers are. So what?”

“You can also tell he’s left-handed by how he inscribed the symbols, the letters, and the triangle. You’d be surprised how objective the human mind can be when analyzed comparatively. Different types of people tend to do the same types of things whey they externalize themselves. Our graphological references are quite accurate. Tell a patient to draw a house, and what he’s really drawing is an aspect of his subconscious. Have a patient write the alphabet, and you see the insides of all his feelings, what he loves, what he hates, and so on. I can’t drop Charlie into a neat psych category for you, but I can tell you all about him, comparatively, simply by the way he draws and writes.”

“I’m all ears,” Jack said. And all mouth too, which I’d really like to fill with Scotch.

“Writing is an equiposture of consciousness, subconsciousness, and mental structure. And that’s the most important part from your end — his creative revelations.”

“Huh?”

“The letters and symbols aren’t as much written as formed. They were applied quickly but with great accuracy. The angles of the symbols, and especially the triangle, are almost perfect, as though he used a compass to outline them. Would you like some?”

“Huh?”

She pushed the plate of mussels toward him. A dozen little vaginas peered up through their shells. Some even had tiny beards.

“No thanks,” Jack said. “I gotta drive.”

Karla Panzram smiled. “That’s interesting, Captain. Something about mussels distresses you. Hmm. I wonder what that could be.”

“Fear of female genitals, right? I’m not afraid of women, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Oh, but you are, Captain. Women terrify you, because you get lost in them. You’re very passionate too.”

“Like Charlie?”

“Oh, no. Your sense of passion is much more primitive—”

“Thanks.”

“—but much more real. However, you’re afraid to let your passion out, because you’re afraid it will disorient you. You’re afraid of rejection. You’ve been recently rejected, haven’t you?”

Jack lit another Camel and sighed smoke. “I like you, Dr. Panzram. You’re smart, and I admire you. But I hate it — and pardon my French — I fucking hate it when people try to analyze me.”

“I know you do, Captain.” She forked another mussel, daintily plucking its bread with her fingers.

“You were saying something about the structure of the symbols and the triangle. Accuracy.”

“Oh, yes. It could be of no investigative significance at all, but Charlie’s very creatively inclined. He may be an artist.”

He’s an artist, all right, Jack added. And that was a hell of a piece of artwork he left in that apartment.

“That’s all I have for you now,” she said. “When you get more, send it to me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“I appreciate that.”

Karla Panzram was tapped out. She was a very strong woman; dealing with people who didn’t want to help themselves wasn’t as bad as dealing with people who couldn’t. It made Jack think again of what Craig had said, about taking things for granted.

When the meal — which she’d consumed completely, double-baked potato included — was done, Jack reached for the check, but she snatched it up first. “This is not a county tab, Captain. Shame on you for lying to me.”

“Hey, I lie to women all the time.”

“You feel emasculated when a woman pays?”

“Pay the goddamn tab, Dr. Panzam. You can pay my phone bill too, if you want, but that wouldn’t make my balls feel any smaller.”

Karla Panzram laughed out loud. As they were leaving, she said, “Forgive me for toying with you, Captain. You’re a moving target. Did you know that?”

Jack lit another Camel. “A moving target for what?”

“A woman’s psychology. We’re all devils on the inside.”

“Do you hear me arguing?”

But on West Street she turned serious. She looked at him almost dolefully. “I’m worried about you, Captain Cordesman. If you decide you need some help — and I don’t mean with the Triangle case — please call me.”

She left him at the corner walk, disappearing like an angel — or like a ghost — into the glare of midday sun.