Every Wickedness (2 page)

Beth, like many in the predominantly female audience, was here to learn more about self-protection, but, though she hated to admit it, even to herself, she was intensely curious about the killer the media had christened the Spiderman.

“It’s like he lures women into his web,” television personality Sondra Devereaux had said after the third victim had been discovered. “A real predator.”

Spiderman, Beth thought. What a clever journalistic invention. Perhaps Devereaux could still get a rebate on her college tuition. Thankfully, Jim Kearns made no mention of the silly moniker when he addressed the crowd. He maintained a professional stance and business-like tone, trying to counteract the hysteria generated by the media. He spoke calmly about pepper spray, mace, eardrum-splitting alarms, and warned about the false confidence of self-defence classes. Some women were taking notes.

Someone in the audience asked about the killer.

“He will have experienced some form of abuse during childhood,” Kearns explained, “either physical, sexual, or emotional. Too, there is the homicidal triangle — arson, cruelty to animals, bed-wetting. There’s frequently evidence of one or more of these in a killer’s childhood. Teachers may have noticed a loner or a bully, someone who delighted in damaging someone else’s possessions …”

“Shit,” whispered someone behind Beth. “I’m a teacher. He’s describing half my class!”

“… some form of sexual deviance, too, a possible arrest for voyeurism, exhibitionism …”

A sixtyish woman seated beside Beth nudged her. “A pervert in San Francisco? There’s a narrow field.”

Beth managed a polite smile.

“… charming, convincing,” Kearns continued. “Generally, his victims went willingly. No defence wounds, indicating the killer either elicited their trust, or they were already acquainted.”

Who was he, Anne? Why did you go with him?

“How old do you think this bastard is?”

Beth craned her neck to catch sight of the speaker, a husky-voiced woman seated in the second row.

“At least twenty-five,” Kearns responded, adjusting the microphone slightly, “but more than likely in his thirties. He’s becoming more accomplished with each crime. We think he’s been fantasizing for quite a few years. Also, he seems comfortable with the city, judging by where he’s left the victims’ bodies.”

“He dumps them like yesterday’s trash,” the woman beside Beth whispered.

She was right, Beth thought. That’s exactly what he’s doing.

The first victim, Carole Van Horne, a dancer well known to local theatre-goers, had been discovered by a hiker at the base of a steep incline on Route I just north of the city. Beth recalled the hiker’s unfortunate quote. “Didn’t know what it was at first,” the newspapers had printed. “Thought it might be a pig.”

Esthetician Monica Turner, the killer’s second victim, was found at the bottom of the Lyon/Broadway steps in Pacific Heights. The Spiderman had gone to a lot of trouble to position the body so that it would tumble down dozens of steps.

A shaken tourist located what was left of the third victim, salesgirl Lydia Price, when he’d paid his quarter to look through the high-powered Bausch and Lomb binoculars in the circular parking lot at Coit Tower. Swivelling the viewer from the Angel Island setting to scan the flower gardens snaking up Lombard Street, he’d lost his grip, and the binoculars tilted straight down the hill to where Lydia lay, blockaded from street traffic below by a chain link fence.

And the fourth victim, Anne Spalding. How many times had that vision haunted Beth’s sleep? She couldn’t think about Anne now. She had to focus on the present.

“He doesn’t appear to mind driving with the bodies in his vehicle,” Kearns was saying, “searching for what he considers a suitable place for the bodies to be found. In fact, this particular type of killer loves to travel. He’ll roam the city, frequenting places where women go, trolling for his next victim.”

Beth looked around the room, in itself a great place to troll. A roomful of potential victims, women of all shapes and sizes, their palpable fear an aphrodisiac for a killer. Was he here now, enjoying his publicity, laughing at the police? She had to stop
this. Lately, she was seeing the bogeyman in every parked car, behind every bush.

That was the problem, of course. With the Spiderman having achieved cult status, he seemed to be everywhere, and everyone was reporting having seen him, too. The phone at the Night Investigations Unit must be ringing off the hook.

Beth quelled a shudder, thinking of all the evening walks that she used to take, alone, to rid herself of everyday stress. It was the end of September now, her favourite time of year, but her last nighttime walk was almost a month ago. Anne’s death had changed everything.

“This city will not mourn another victim,” Kearns promised the audience. “We will all be more aware, be on the lookout for anything that strikes us as unusual. The person who keeps odd hours. The acquaintance who has a stash of sadistic pornography, the boyfriend who—”

“Boyfriend?” The husky-voiced woman spoke again, her tone raised to near soprano. “You mean this guy could be dating somebody?”

Kearns nodded. “It’s a possibility. And he’ll go to work, just like you and me, but all the while, he’s a dormant Vesuvius. Then, after the explosion, he experiences a period of intense depression, when he realizes the murder he has committed can’t measure up to his fantasies.”

Beth shivered again. Someone right now could be having a glass of Chablis with this man. Maybe
someone was picking out the perfect birthday card, telling him a dirty joke, hiring him for a job. No one existed in a vacuum. Someone must know, must sense something. Maybe even someone here. No one could be such a monster without it showing.

Beth had to believe that the Spiderman wasn’t human. For what sort of human being could stand by while his victims slowly bled to death?

T
here was a smell in the room he liked, a mixture of perspiration, urine, and blood, that when blended, equalled fear. He wondered if anyone else detected the scent, then thought not. He had always been acutely sensitive.

It was a singularly stupid crowd for the most part, plain people asking plainly stupid questions.

“When will the killer strike again?”

“Is the FBI involved in the investigation?”

“Do you have any leads?”

“How can we protect ourselves?”

He resisted laughing. Didn’t they know there was nothing they could do? He would strike when he needed to, when he was ready, and he’d fool them all over again.

“Watch the ones you know,” Kearns replied.

It was amusing, listening to the profile of the killer. Organized. That word cropped up frequently during Kearns’s presentation. He liked the sound of that, because that’s exactly what he was. An organized, calculating machine — well oiled, smooth running, long lasting. A real Duracell man. And, contrary to what was being said, he’d never pissed the bed in his life.

Kearns and his henchmen would be prepared, of course. They got enough of it right to predict
he would be sitting here tonight, basking in his glory. He didn’t bother hiding from the cameras, knowing that the jeans, T-shirt, Giants cap, and four day-old stubble altered his looks without resembling a disguise. He’d even pressed a little dirt under his fingernails. Over the next few days, when the police viewed the videotapes and analyzed the male faces in the crowd, they’d come up with nothing. No vicap match, no adult arrest record. He’d even chosen his seat carefully — there was a single woman on his right to whom he spoke from time to time, a couple holding hands on his left. On the tape, they would look like a foursome, just two married couples who’d probably slip out for a few beers after.

He leaned toward the single woman. “My dad would say it’s time to bring back the lash. Guy like this should suffer.”

That was good. A little folksy, but good.

The woman nodded in agreement.

“Tell ya,” he said, “this makes me wanna rush right home and hug my wife.”

The woman leaned toward him. He could smell her perfume. “This makes me want to catch a plane for anywhere,” she said.

“No kiddin’.”

Amazing. In spite of everything they’d been told tonight, women still talked to strangers, still persisted in being friendly and polite. This one had no idea who she was dealing with.

He looked up at the podium. Kearns was dishing out more advice. “Band together. Phone someone. Let someone know you’ve arrived safely at your destination. The same streetproofing tips you’ve taught your kids will help your loved ones sleep more easily.”

Then the presentation was over. Kearns looked bagged. The audience seemed to organize itself into protective clusters — those going to underground parking lots assembled in one corner, those taking the Powell cable car behind the hotel congregated at another exit, and on it went, until everyone seemed to have a partner or ten to escort them from the hotel.

Be smart. What a joke.

It made no difference. Too bad that clown Kearns couldn’t understand that. It was already too late.

F
or some time, many native San Franciscans had begun to think of their city as seedy, equating its decline to the arrival of the hordes of transients seeking warmer climates and generous social assistance programs. In spite of the growing number of homeless, San Francisco was, to Beth, a transplant from Eureka Springs, Arkansas, still the most beautiful city in the world. The sight of the Golden Gate Bridge cloaked in mist still thrilled her, as it had the day she’d arrived, eight years ago.

Tonight, driving home from the Fairmont, Beth was struck by the sensation that indeed, something had changed. On Lombard, the city’s motel row, the sidewalks were empty. Friday evening, and not a tourist in sight. Reflexively, she checked that her car doors were locked, then realized she’d already done so. Twice. When Beth steered onto Chestnut Street, with its generally thriving village atmosphere, she spotted a bit more life. Still, the cafés, boutiques, and two Art Deco cinemas didn’t burst with the usual tgif crowd. The deli, where Beth stopped to have a salad, was nearly empty.

It wasn’t until she reached her own street in the Marina district that Beth relaxed her grip on the wheel. Her shoulders sunk back into place. The Marina was
a safe neighbourhood, not like the areas south of Market that the cabbies warned the tourists away from. “Respectable,” her parents had said when they’d come out for their first visit.

Beth’s automatic exterior lights were on, as was a table lamp in her living room window. The alarm system, installed scarcely a month ago, provided a measure of security, though there were still the last few steps to climb at the top of the tunnel entrance that rendered Beth’s front door invisible from the street. Anyone could be lurking there, waiting for her. A sub-zero shiver skimmed her spine.

She dismissed the fear with a furious shake of her head, ashamed at the hysterical thoughts she’d been having lately. Sondra Devereaux had done her job well.

Seeing her pale yellow Mediterranean house with its clay-tiled roof usually cheered her, but now the view of the blackened second-storey windows filled her with dread. Just a few short months ago she’d joked with Ginny about how ideal it was having a flight attendant for a roommate. Anne was hardly ever home.

Anne Spalding had come to San Francisco to begin a new life. She had fled from an abusive ex-husband and hoped, once the dust settled, to explore the city like a tourist. Months after her arrival, Anne was found in one of the most touristy areas, Golden Gate Park, her body having been hoisted over a railing near the Academy of Sciences, then dropped
onto a path about twelve feet below. The bitter irony made Beth want to scream. Anne, who wanted to fade into the woodwork, made the front page of the
Chronicle
. FLIGHT ATTENDANT SPIDERMAN’S FOURTH VICTIM. Beth felt a lump lodge in her throat.

Anne had occupied Beth’s furnished guestroom and was thrilled with it. She had brought few possessions. Her clothes, which had barely filled the closet, had been donated to charity. Beth kept the half-dozen paperback novels Anne had owned. Within days, the few tangible traces of Anne Spalding had disappeared. Beth swallowed hard, shut off the ignition, and stepped out of the car.

The wind had picked up. She had always loved the wind, preferring it and the West Coast climate to the blistering heat that rose relentlessly from Manhattan’s miles of pavement. But tonight the wind whistled mournfully, adding an eerie melody to the preternatural quiet. It was as if some alien craft had descended and plucked the street’s inhabitants, their radios, and televisions, from their roosts, all vanishing without a trace.

“Idiot,” she said aloud, her voice sounding oddly disembodied as it was swallowed by the wind.

Everyone was inside. Everyone except Tim O’Malley. As Beth approached her front steps, Tim emerged from the house next door. Thirty-four years old, Tim was always on the go, but he still managed to find time to prune the shrubs on his lush rooftop garden. Tim moved toward his freshly waxed
white van, his company name, “Wearing of the Green,” proudly displayed on the side. The landscape architect’s well-respected name was attached to several of the city’s loveliest gardens, and many overseas as well.

“Big night tonight, Tim?” Beth called out across the grassy median separating her home from his.

He grinned when he saw her. “Thought I’d grab some dinner, maybe hit a few clubs later. Usual Friday night stuff. How ’bout you?”

“Something tamer. I’m exhausted.”

“I watered your evergreens,” he said, pointing to the pair of conical boxwoods in large terra cotta pots that flanked the entrance to her home. “Hope you don’t mind. They dry out pretty fast in those containers. Oh yeah, your heartthrob’s been by on his skateboard.”

“Bobby? What did he want?”

Bobby Chandler was Beth’s paperboy, a fourteen-year-old with a huge crush on Beth, which Tim apparently found amusing. “Probably wanted to wash your car again. Maybe walk your cat.”

“Poor Bobby,” Beth said. “I’m old enough to be his … older sister. I hope you didn’t tease him.” Beth sized up Tim’s muscular build, bright smile, and sandy blond hair. Was it her imagination or was Tim sizing her up, too?