Every Wickedness (10 page)

The appearance of Ida McKenna around noon made Beth wonder what else could possibly go wrong.

“Rex won’t be in to work today, so I brought this by. Your rent cheque,” the woman said. Ida’s voice was decibels softer than the last time Beth heard it, the volume trapped behind clenched teeth. “I assume that’s why you phoned yesterday. The other one was made of rubber, am I right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“That’s what he told me when I finally dragged it out of him. Never can tell when a man’s lyin’, can you? Sorry for the inconvenience. Business has been a little slow.”

“These are tough times,” Beth agreed.

“You seem to be doin’ okay.” Ida turned over the price tag on a Sheraton sideboard.

“There are good and bad days,” Beth said, trying to defuse the potential bomb.

Ida took another look around, grunted, then turned tail and left. With a sigh of relief, Beth watched the woman cross the street, get into the beat-up Civic, and drive away.

O
n Tuesday morning, Jim Kearns woke up with a bugger of a headache. After meeting with his task force, he felt worse. The Chief of Police had played racquetball with the mayor, and after drinks in the fitness club’s lounge, the question naturally arose, So how many days until the Spiderman’s behind bars? Kearns was sure when they smashed that little ball around the court, it was really his head they were vicariously pounding. The stink was all over him, and since he believed in sharing, Kearns deflected some of the smell onto the task force. The gathering had been ugly, accusatory, demoralizing. Tonight, at least one cop would pick a fight with a spouse or spank a kid. And so went the cycle in this, the house that the Spiderman had built.

By 10:00 a.m. Kearns had already popped a smorgasbord of pain relievers, and even forced himself to grab a decent breakfast, but the pounding persisted. The sky seemed to have sunk lower with the weight of the grey clouds, and the change in air pressure turned his head into a bowling ball.

No wonder he was sick. Now he hated reading the papers, too. The proponents of capital punishment were out in full force, demanding the killer’s blood. Kearns, like his psych colleagues, didn’t
advocate frying the bastard, preferring instead to keep the son of a bitch alive to study him. Besides, death would be too quick. The editorial columns were devoted almost exclusively to people’s views on what should be done with the Spiderman, as well as what should be done with the police. Kearns wondered whose carcass the jackals wanted more.

Another hysteric wanted more involvement by the FBI. Kearns laughed when he read that, amazed that the general public still thought a bunch of guys in trench coats would start combing the streets and somehow save the day. The FBI assessed crime scenes, worked up profiles of killers, offered advice, and the agents wore some pretty snappy suits. The real fun — the tracking and apprehending — they left to the cops.

The true lunatic fringe, the psychologists, were having a field day too, contributing their two cents’ worth about the killer’s troubled childhood and making generalizations about abuse. If Kearns heard one more word about dysfunctional families and neglected youth, he’d upchuck on some shrink’s shoes. Hell, his childhood was no fairy tale, but he never thought carving up some defenceless woman would make him feel better.

Disgusted, he pitched the papers in the garbage. Bottom line, there were a whole lot of people out there who thought they could do Kearns’s job better than he could. Well, shit. They could have it.

He stared at the array of headache medicine on his desk. There might be enough in each of the plastic
bottles to cure his headache, but his stomach would probably disintegrate first.

The Deputy Chief of Investigations was on the blower almost daily now, seeking updates on the task force’s progress. His bureau captain rode his back like a cowboy. And Devereaux was still being Devereaux. Kearns had so many people grabbing him by the short hairs, it was no wonder he couldn’t get it up anymore.

On a whim, he headed to Ghirardelli Square.

One of the upscale stores located in the renovated chocolate factory had an interesting collection of gadgets designed to rid the body of tension. For the budget conscious, there was a hard plastic ball covered with nubby spikes that you could roll all over yourself. At the other extreme was a reclining leather massage chair that Kearns wouldn’t have minded trying out, exorbitant price tag be damned. He could almost hear Mary laughing at his foolishness and imagined what such a chair would look like in his dinky apartment with the rest of the twenty-year-old furniture. But it looked like he wasn’t going to get the chance to even see how the rich relaxed. A tourist, with dirty bratwurst toes and a stomach too full of sourdough, wouldn’t get out of the damn chair.

In the end, he seriously considered a hand-held, battery-operated contraption with a nozzle end that vibrated against one’s aches and pains. At ninety-nine dollars, Kearns thought it was worth it. The
thing felt great on his neck, and he could keep it in his desk.

It was when he was reaching for his wallet that he saw it: the store’s glass-enclosed knife display. He would have passed right by it, except one knife in particular drew Kearns closer to the rack — a nine-inch slicer with a pure white blade.

“Excuse me,” Kearns said to a passing clerk. “The blade on this knife. What’s it made of?”

The salesclerk, a walking Ralph Lauren ad, seemed pleased to share his knowledge. “Ceramic blade, sir.”

“Many people buy it?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. But it’s quite a piece. That blade will never rust.”

Or produce metal shavings for the fibre boys, Kearns thought. Aloud, he asked, “How much?”

“Only $69.95, sir.”

Kearns bought it. “If I pay cash, there’s no way this knife can be traced to me, is there.”

“No, sir,” the young man replied. A frown line appeared on his forehead.

“Relax, kid. I’m not Jack the Ripper.”

Kearns’s reassurance had little effect. The clerk completed the transaction quickly, though Kearns suspected the guy was memorizing every detail of his face.

“Save you the trouble, kid. Forty-eight years old, five ten, two hundred pounds. Police officer.” The clerk’s frown line disappeared. “Good job, too,”
Kearns said reassuringly. “We need more people watching. Just one thing though,” he said, producing his badge and showing it, “don’t believe someone’s a police officer just because they tell you.” He grinned, took the package and left.

The killer’s weapon. This could be it. With all the researching, interviewing, and investigating his team had done, it was Kearns who, because of a stinking headache, might have stumbled onto it, here, in of all places, a yuppie store. Naturally, the Spiderman would have paid cash. But just in case he was a little stupider than he seemed, Kearns would assign someone to get the store’s credit-card receipts for knife #ID050 anyway. He’d put the push on to match the blade with the wounds to the victims’ wrists too. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he had an hour ago.

What he needed now, more than an electronic or medicinal cure to ease the pressure, was an arrest.

H
e always loved his vodka, preferring it from a very young age to any other alcohol, though in those days, he couldn’t be as discriminating. He drank whatever he or the older boys could steal. Now, it was Stolichnaya or nothing. He filled a tumbler with
ice
, then poured the Stoli to within an inch of the rim.

He had started drinking early to fit in, like most kids. He didn’t worry about that now. He knew he was different. There were two ways to look at it — you could either consider yourself weird or special. He knew what he was. Though he often felt removed from the mainstream, he had read dozens of biographies of notable people who had felt the same way.

Geniuses.

He smiled and took a long drink. To think he used to be punished for being different. Now he was famous for it.

He loved the complete sensuousness of the ritual, the feel of the blade penetrating skin, the most superficial slice sending explosions of blood coursing from the radial artery. He could never understand the hurried butchery of many of his predecessors, couldn’t imagine why a Ted Bundy or an Andrei Chikatilo would want such a sublime experience to be over so quickly. Art, like grand cuisine or vintage
wine, was meant to be savoured, to be left lingering on the palate. When blood streamed from the women, it spattered everywhere, much of it on him, covering him with the warmth of a womb.

The smells, at first, he couldn’t appreciate. He tried to mask the odour of blood, urine, and feces with scented candles, incense, aerosol deodorizers. Now, those smells were with him all the time. Disguising them would be artificial.

The sound of his victims, like sacrificial lambs bleating, had a music of its own.

He raised his glass and toasted the pair of priests who had taught him about the richness of symbolism, the beauty of agony. They taught him how to
feel
, at least some of the time. He’d shake their gnarled hands in gratitude this minute if he could. If they were alive.

Though he didn’t appreciate their efforts at the time, he now gave the two old bastards credit for giving him a routine he could depend on.

Not like her.

The woman changed her hair colour as often as she changed underwear. Apartments, men — there was always something better around the next corner.

Naturally, he wouldn’t be getting a thank-you call for the gifts. She was still likely flattering herself, thinking some lovestruck millionaire was trying to win her affections.

The next gift wouldn’t be quite so subtle. He had toyed with her long enough. It was time to turn up
the heat, get
her
to feel something for a change.

He drained the last of the vodka and checked his watch. Time to get a move on.

It was Patricia Mowatt’s day off, and ninety minutes from now, true to form, she’d be jogging along the Marina Green. She would act surprised to see him, though he knew she’d secretly be thrilled he had showed up. Women were so transparent.

He laced up his Nikes and headed for the Marina.

“G
oddamn,” Kearns muttered looking for a place to spit. “Another homicide. Manny, you sure know how to murder a cup of coffee.” With a dramatic grimace, Kearns swallowed the bitter mouthful, then thumped the nearly full mug onto his desk. Brown liquid sloshed onto a stack of files.

“Sorry I’m no Wolfgang Puck,” Fuentes countered. “You want gourmet, go see your girlfriend.”

“Knock it off, Manny. Beth’s not my girlfriend.” Kearns thought back to last week’s visit, regretting having mentioned it to Fuentes who had been razzing him ever since. “She can have any guy she wants. Dating some pilot now, as a matter of fact.”

“So she says. How do you feel about that?”

“Save the Gestalt. I’ve got no designs on the lady.”

“No one would blame you, you know. Mary’s been gone a long time. A man can get lonely on a cool autumn night.”

“Loneliness can happen any time of day, in any season,” Kearns said then quickly added, “but Manny, you’re forgetting. I’ve got you.” He puckered his lips and blew a kiss across the desk. “And my faithful soldiers. Just look.”

Fuentes turned back to look to where Kearns pointed. The squad was earning its salary. A few had
already hit the street to check out the latest string of Spiderman sightings. Ted Weems was on the telephone nodding patiently to whoever was at the other end. Sharon Anscombe, who apparently didn’t mind Fuentes’s coffee, was sipping her third cup as she thumbed through a text on religious symbols, researching the significance of the Christogram. Beside the text, Anscombe had amassed several church bulletins, as well as a listing of religious bookstores and seminaries in the Bay area, hoping that the killer’s insignia would jump off one of the pages as someone’s logo. As yet, it hadn’t.

Erik Bauer, at the desk furthest away, had removed his corduroy sports jacket and loosened his tie. He was hunched over a slew of file folders. With his small hands busily shuffling credit card stubs, Bauer reminded Kearns of a nervous insect. The medical examiner had matched the ceramic knife’s blade to the Christograms on the victims’ wrists; one of Kearns’s lousy headaches had yielded a minor miracle and now Bauer was trying to link one of the yuppie store’s customers to the murder weapon.

“Isn’t that a beautiful sight? What more could a guy want?”

Kearns tried to stifle a yawn, but it was no use.

“Maybe you oughta go home. Take a day off.”

Damn Paxil, Kearns thought. If it wasn’t the yawning and insomnia, it was the trots. Aloud he said,
“I’m fine
.”

“You seem tired,” Fuentes persisted.

“And you seem nosy. I told you I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice sounding more edgy than he’d intended.

Fuentes shot him a look, part curious, part accusatory. He opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

She was a frail young thing, with eyes that seemed to fill her face. Her lips, devoid of makeup, were naturally red, as though she’d spent the day crying. The girl’s gaunt frame was swallowed up by a scoop-necked madras cotton dress. Her collarbone protruded almost painfully, barely covered by pale, translucent skin. Even her strawberry blonde hair was thin. Kearns thought fifteen pounds and a good hairdresser could make this girl a knockout.

Ted Weems, who Kearns thought of as “the Kid,” ushered the girl into Kearns’s office. With his quarterback’s neck and broad square shoulders, the young cop made the girl appear that much more fragile. “L.T.? This is Stefanie Gorman. Natalie’s sister.”

Fuentes and Kearns simultaneously rose to their feet. Fuentes beckoned her inside and offered his chair. “Sit down, Ms. Gorman. Please.”

“I don’t want to interrupt —”

“Not at all,” Fuentes said, holding his chair for her. He leaned against a metal filing cabinet. Weems retreated from the office.

Kearns shook the girl’s hand and said, “Miss Gorman, may I say how truly sorry we —”