The Dead Room (29 page)

Work before pleasure. It’s a lost secret, son.

He stepped back behind the large canvas, deciding he wouldn’t look at her again for the rest of the day. Not until he could tell if she was moving or not. Not until he backed out of the wrong alley. He dabbed his brush in the paint, swirling it through a blend of deep reds. He’d spend the afternoon working on the background. The buildings and lights along the streets that were in his head.

The doorbell rang.

Eddie flinched, his brush driving across the canvas and ruining an entire section of the large work.

The bell rang again. His jaw muscles tightened as he heard it vibrate through the house. He wanted to scream. Instead, he wiped the brush stroke away with a rag and assessed the damage to his masterpiece. It would take him all night to fix. It might take him longer if Rosemary didn’t wake up and start cooperating.

Someone began pounding on the front door. Eddie threw the rag down.

“Sit still,” he ordered Rosemary.

Then he hurried up the steps, too upset to worry if the neighbors were eavesdropping on his mind or not. He entered the kitchen and saw a figure through the living room window. It was Mrs. Yap, staring back at him and beaming. Her needless visit had almost ruined his life’s work.

He tried to control his anger. Faking a lose smile, he crossed the room, switched the lock, and popped open the door.

“I was worried about you,” his landlady said. “I stopped by the other day, but you didn’t answer. May I come in?”

He nodded as if he had a choice, stepping aside as Mrs. Yap entered.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she went on. “I was afraid I might have to use my key or call the police. You don’t look so good.”

The chattering had started. Her peppy energy only seemed to turn his anger into rage. He followed her into the kitchen, watching her grab the teapot like she owned it and fill the vessel with tap water. As she rambled on, she noticed the curtains were drawn and pulled them open.

Eddie squinted as the light struck his face. He looked through the window at the house on the corner. There was a man on the roof, adjusting the fake satellite dish pointed at him. Their listening device was down, the monitor on their computer, blank. The watchers had no idea what he was thinking.

Eddie was free. At least for now he was.

He looked back at Mrs. Yap. She had the drawer open, admiring his Sterling silver flatware. She was dressed in bright colors—the mouth below her beaklike nose prattling in overdrive. Soon the babbling turned into chortling, the woman transforming into a bird before his eyes.

It wasn’t the drug after all, he thought. It was his vision. His strength.

He drew the curtain. When he saw the giant canary turn from the stove, he noticed he was trembling. Still, he moved toward the bird without hesitation. It was pecking at him with its beak, flailing its wings in the air. It seemed so close. So fucking real.

Eddie lunged at the animal, biting its beak off and spitting it on the floor.

The canary did a stutter step and looked overwhelmed and defenseless. Blood spewed all over its nape and chin, staining the brightly colored feathers on its chest. The bird’s eyes widened and the pecking stopped. It flapped its wings again. When the bird tried to fly away, Eddie grabbed a butcher’s knife off the counter and plunged it into the animal’s back. Over and over again until the pesky thing stopped jittering and collapsed onto the living room floor.

FORTY-ONE

Teddy ran up the stairs to Nash’s office, sensing something had happened. It felt like a cold draft, working its way inside him until it blew against his core.

When he entered the office, Nash wasn’t there. Instead, he found someone he didn’t know seated at the jury table with the murder book and a copy of their initial profile. The man looked at him and smiled. Teddy guessed he was about fifty. His light brown hair was streaked with gray, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement.

“You must be Teddy,” the man said, offering his hand as he acknowledged Nash’s absence. “He’s giving an exam. He’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve spent the morning reading through all this and trying to catch up.”

The man introduced himself as Dr. Stanley Westbrook, a criminal psychiatrist from the FBI’s Behavioral Science section who’d made the trip up from Washington via the Metroliner as a favor to his friend. He said he’d been a student of criminal behavior for most of his career, and worked with Nash many times in the past. When he mentioned some of the cases he’d been associated with over the last ten years, Teddy recognized most of them and knew Westbrook was real.

A copy of the
Daily News
was set on the table. As Teddy glanced at it, he tried to find some assurance in the psychiatrist’s presence, but couldn’t. It felt like they were moving too slowly. Like their feet were anchored in piles of dry sand.

“There’s been a leak,” he said.

“Nash told me about it,” Westbrook said, glancing at the newspaper. “He admires you, by the way. He trusts you. He wishes you’d been his student and thinks we should hire you.”

Taking a seat at the jury table, Teddy handed over the medical examiner’s report Powell had given him. As Westbrook opened the file and scanned through the autopsy results, Teddy couldn’t help but think about what he’d said to Powell just a half hour ago. Even though a life was at stake, he’d been out of line and didn’t feel very proud.

Westbrook thumbed through the report until he reached the toxicology results and shook his head. Teddy noted the coffee cup on the table set beside an ashtray.

“This is troubling,” the psychiatrist said, still eyeing the report.

The door opened and Nash walked in, carrying a sheaf of papers and dumping them on his desk. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “You two have had a chance to meet?”

Westbrook looked up from the report and nodded.

“Good,” Nash said, opening a fresh cigar and joining them at the table. “So where do we stand?”

“I think you’re correct,” Westbrook said. “You’re looking for a man in his twenties or thirties with a history of serious mental illness. He was abused as a child, or suffered some great emotional crisis as a young boy. If we could look back at his childhood, I’m certain we’d find numerous cases of animal abuse as well.”

“What are the chances that he’s an artist?” Teddy asked. “Even an attorney? Have you thought about the tattoos, or is it a stretch?”

“I don’t think it’s a stretch at all.”

The crime scene at the Lewis house flashed before Teddy’s eyes before the psychiatrist could say anything more. The sitting room on the other side of the hall with the magnificent paintings by Seurat, Gauguin, and Cezanne hanging on the walls. He hadn’t thought of it before. He’d seen it, but its meaning hadn’t registered.

“A chair was turned toward the paintings,” Teddy said. “Someone had moved the chair to look at the art. At the time, I thought it was the owner.”

Nash and Westbrook traded looks and nodded as if the insight impressed them. For Teddy, this new observation read like everything else. It wasn’t evidence of anything. But it was another sign.

Westbrook lit a cigarette and looked at him. “Nash told me your theory, and I agree. Darlene was rejected because of the marks on her skin. Since there’s a good chance you’re dealing with an artist, there’s a certain appreciation for purity going on here. Valerie Kram is a different story. She spent time with the killer. She modeled for him. When she was used up, he threw her away. But remember, Valerie Kram was part of his work by then, something akin to sacred, so she was placed in the water where he found her and cleansed.”

“What about Holmes?” Nash asked.

“Based on your profile, I’d say he’s outside the model or field of inquiry. Of course I’ve never spoken with the man and there’s always the chance that I’m wrong. What interests me most is the condition of the body found in the river.”

“The cut down the middle of her chest,” Teddy said.

The psychiatrist nodded and turned to Nash. “Teddy brought the toxicology report with him,” he said. “Cutting the victim open could have more meaning than it seems. The medical examiner found drugs in her system. It’s a safe bet they’re in his system as well. You’re looking for a user and your profile should be amended to reflect that. Valerie Kram may have died from strangulation. But she was on the verge of overdosing on Ecstasy as well.”

This was new. Teddy hadn’t looked at the toxicology report Powell had given him earlier. He was too upset with her, too upset with himself for treating her the way he did, and he’d been running late. But Teddy knew something about Ecstasy. It was pretty much the drug of choice with his classmates in school. He’d used it a handful of times himself, but stopped when he woke up one morning overwrought with depression. He knew the drug’s effects, though. He knew its power and what a single dose could do.

“He’s using Ecstasy as a way of controlling his victims,” Teddy said. “He’s using the drug to soften them up.”

Westbrook glanced at Nash again, then turned back. “But Ecstasy has a nasty side effect, Teddy. Particularly in high doses. Beyond what chronic use can do to the brain, the drug causes a marked increase in body temperature. In an overdose like this, Valerie Kram was literally cooking from the inside out.”

“Then this could be another explanation for dumping her body in water,” Nash said.

Westbrook sat back in his chair. “And for cutting her open. Steam would have been venting from her body. Her internal organs would’ve felt hot to the touch. Don’t forget the sexual implications of the knife.”

Teddy grimaced as the horror settled in. The sickness. The idea that the murders were a result of the killer’s twisted sexual fantasy.

As Westbrook showed Nash the toxicology report and discussed the results, Teddy looked up at the photographs tacked to the wall—the girl’s faces watching them from the other side. They seemed so familiar, so innocent. He noted the time and began to feel anxious again. He turned back to the psychiatrist.

“Tell us who we’re looking for,” he said. “Give us your best guess.”

Westbrook lowered the toxicology report and folded his hands on the jury table. “You’re looking for a mad-dog killer,” the psychiatrist said. “A real motherfucker with delusions of grandeur. Someone whose paranoia is off the charts. Someone who suffers from hallucinations, not necessarily from the drugs he’s taking, but because of his illness and the way he was mistreated as a child. If you were ever to meet this individual, you’d know instantly that something was wrong. If you were ever to meet this individual, I’d make sure you knew how to handle a gun. You’re not looking for a human being, Teddy. He’s past that now. You’re looking for an animal.”

This time it was Nash and Teddy who traded looks. Ominous and sobering looks. The situation appeared so grim, Teddy could taste it in his mouth.

FORTY-TWO

Eddie Trisco peeked through the curtain, wondering if it was safe to go outside. The sun had set an hour ago, yet the windows in the corner house remained dark. He checked the roofline and saw the satellite dish pointed toward him. He couldn’t tell if the strange device was working or not, but the man he’d seen making repairs this morning was long gone. So were the cars parked along the street. Maybe this was the break he’d been waiting for. Maybe they were between shifts.

He turned away from the window, staring at Mrs. Yap’s body on the living room floor as he considered his options. He needed to get rid of her car. He could deal with her body later. Still, he didn’t want to leave Rosemary alone.

He went downstairs and found her sleeping in the chair before the easel. He checked the clasps on the handcuffs and ankle irons—the chains running through the arms and legs of the chair. She’d been sleeping for most of the day. He didn’t want her to wake up like this. She might be hungry or need to use the bathroom.

The decisions in an artist’s life could be so hard.

He opened the bottom drawer in the cabinet, pulled a blanket out and draped it over her. Then he turned his back on her and marched upstairs.

Although the lights were out, he could tell that Mrs. Yap had lost her feathers. She wasn’t a bird anymore. She wasn’t peppy. He stepped over the body and opened the closet by the front door. Pulling on a hooded ski jacket, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and grabbed his gloves. Then he picked up her purse and went through it in the darkness. This was her fault, he reminded himself. She’d stuck her nose in his business and almost ruined his life’s work. What did she expect?

He found the keys to her new Mercedes and dropped the purse on the floor. Cracking the front door open, he checked the street. Christmas lights adorned most of the houses in the neighborhood. All except his and that house on the corner where the watchers lived.

The coast looked clear.

Eddie slipped out of the house, pulling the door shut and locking it with a key. But as he hurried toward Mrs. Yap’s Mercedes, he heard something in the air. A chopper in the black sky. Ignoring the arctic breeze, he bolted for the car with the key ready, then yanked open the door and jumped inside.