Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 14

"What do you mean no?"

"The word denotes a negation, denial, or disagreement," Kathleen told him. "It's an adverb."

Spence's jaw set like a brick. He closed his eyes for a moment. "You're telling me that the killer mailed this to your home address?"

"She didn't mail it. She taped it to my front door."

"My G.o.d." Spence tapped his blotter, a Morse code for his thoughts. "You told me your address was unlisted."

"It is," Kathleen said.

"Then how did the killer get it?"

"I don't know. Ask her."

"I should bust you," Spence said. "You've withheld critical investigative data for over 24 hours."

"And let me tell you something," she went on. She knew his threats were idle. He couldn't touch her. "I don't appreciate you hara.s.sing my acquaintances."

"Acquaintances? You mean Maxwell Platt? A man you slept with only hours after meeting him?"

"You have no right to invade my privacy and sabotage my romantic life."

"It sounds like a onenight stand to me, a cheap pickup."

He always did this. He always went out of his way to rile her up, to offend her, to insult her. Now he was implying she was promiscuous. Don't react, Don't react, she thought. she thought.

"And it's interesting that you chose Jonah and the Whale to take him for drinks. Research, right?" Spence smiled. "For your book about the killer?"

"I can't believe you had me followed," Kathleen evaded the remark. "They don't even do that in Russia anymore."

"It was for your protection." Spence creaked back in his chair; his white dress s.h.i.+rt stretched across the enormous chest. "You seem to keep forgetting that the chief function of a police department revolves around the protection of citizens. I want you to find someplace else to live for the time being. I'm going to put a female decoy officer in your apartment. What's your dress size? 12? 14?"

Kathleen's teeth ticked together. Withholding her rage felt like trying to reel in a huge fish on high seas. Was there no limit to Spence's insolence? "You're a p.r.i.c.k, Lieutenant," she said. "Do you know that? You're an absolute p.r.i.c.k."

Spence blinked in confusion. "Did I say something wrong? I need to know your-" Then he paused. "Oh. I wasn't implying that you're overweight. Is that what you thought? No, no. I have to a.s.sign a decoy officer who's similarly proportioned to you. That's why I need to know your dress size."

Kathleen's size, incidentally, was 8. "That's c.r.a.p, Lieutenant. And it doesn't matter anyway because you're not putting anyone in my apartment."

Spence sighed. "Maybe it hasn't occurred to you, but you're in a quite a bit of danger. Read my lips. The killer knows where you live. She could come to your apartment and kill you."

"She won't kill me," Kathleen felt a.s.sured. "She needs me, remember?"

"Of course. For the bestseller. And due to that you're convinced she'd never want to harm you? How intelligent a conclusion is that? She's pathological."

"Forget it. No way. I won't permit it."

Spence shook his head. "Look, I'm going to have an undercover officer in your parking lot anyway. There's going to be someone watching your building round the clock. If you let me put somebody inside your apartment, we have a much greater chance of apprehending the killer."

"No," Kathleen said flatly. "I'm not going to be forced to move out of my home because of a nut. It's that simple."

Spence smiled again. It was unnerving the way he smiled; the gesture seemed inhuman on the already inhuman, blank face. Kathleen wondered if he had ever smiled in genuine good will in his life, and doubted it. "You don't put on a very good show," he said. "The reason you're not going to cooperate is obvious. You don't want us to catch her, not yet. Not until she's given you enough profile material for your book."

Kathleen thought of landslides, of cliffs falling. Her outrage, her absolute loathe, felt like a high fever. "You're so ignorant I'm not even going to respond to that," she said.

"It's true and you know it." He withdrew a thin cardboard box from his desk and slid it over to her. The box read CRIMINAL RESEARCH PRODUCTS, LTD. Sample Pair, Size Medium. "Do you think you could at least cooperate to the extent of wearing these whenever you open correspondence from the killer? Would that be too much trouble? They're polymer evidence gloves, so you won't get your fingerprints all over the evidence and further disrupt our efforts."

Kathleen put the box in her purse. She wished she could put Spence in her purse, and b.u.t.ton him up. "I'm happy to oblige," she mocked.

"Use the gloves, photocopy the material, and bring it to me immediately."

"You should read that material," she suggested, pointing to the Xerox of Initiatory Rites Initiatory Rites and and Childhood Memories. Childhood Memories. "In all your harping about evidence, you haven't even looked at it." "In all your harping about evidence, you haven't even looked at it."

"You think it will distress me, unsettle me."

"I know it will, Lieutenant."

"I've seen floaters pulled out of the Anacostia. A floater is a waterbound corpse. Maggots and putrefactive gas make them buoyant. I've seen crack stools hung upside down and gutted like deer. When I was a cadet, a p.o.r.no theater on Vermont Avenue burned down with about 40 people inside. The exit door was chained from the outside. The bodies were essentially a single congealed ma.s.s. They were cooked together. It was my job to separate them."

"Should I stand up and applaud?" Kathleen asked. "Just read the material, Lieutenant. I'll wait."

Spence's CRT screen blinked amber rap sheets. Behind him a picture of a young man in a police hat hung on the wall. The boy looked youthful, innocent, but Kathleen immediately recognized the stoic stare. It was Spence. She wondered if he had a wife, a family, yet she doubted he had either. Solitude incarnate, Solitude incarnate, she thought. she thought. The existential triumphant. The existential triumphant.

What does he do on Christmas? she wondered, adjusting her hem. she wondered, adjusting her hem. What does he do for fun? Does he go out with friends? What does he do for fun? Does he go out with friends? She could not picture a man like Spence with friends. He would consider friends a weakness, wouldn't he? His only friend, she guessed, was his job. His function. She could not picture a man like Spence with friends. He would consider friends a weakness, wouldn't he? His only friend, she guessed, was his job. His function.

"Jesus," Spence whispered.

The golem quails, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought.

The whisper had sounded stark, desperate. He read on through the killer's ma.n.u.script, blanching. Every so often he'd wince, though she knew he was making every effort not to. Spence was not a man who felt comfortable revealing his humanity.

"Interesting," he eventually said. He set the sheaf of papers aside.

"That's all? Interesting?"

"It should be very helpful in determining the details of the killer's psychiatric profile," Spence went on. "Our forensic psychiatrist should have a hay day. I'll admit, though. It's probably the most disgusting thing I've ever read. But it's also quite sad."

"Yes, it is," Kathleen agreed. "How is the investigation coming? Any leads?"

"No," Spence said.

Kathleen's nose crinkled as if at a funny smell. She'd been looking right at his face when he'd replied. "Why do I have this odd feeling that you're lying?"

"Because you're a renegade militant feminist," Spence answered. "It is your intractable opinion that all men, uniformly, are liars. That's sad too. Everybody, everybody in the world, has insecurities. It's sad that you've let yours ferment into an unrelenting, distrustful philosophical hostility."

"May I leave now?" Kathleen said. "I mean, is there any reason why I should continue to sit here and be insulted by you?"

"No," Spence said. "There's no reason at all."

Kathleen grabbed her purse and stood up. Her dislike for Spence made her feel clammy. "Have a good day, Lieutenant," she said with no real meaning at all.

"Are you going to mention me in your book?" the policeman asked.

"Oh, you can rest a.s.sured I will."

"How are you going to embark?"

"What?" she said, now weary just hearing his voice.

"I mean how are you going to put the book together? What, you're going to publish the killer's writings and then make your own commentary?"

These were surprising inquiries. "I'm going to characterize the killer by a sociological, psychiatric, and subjective a.n.a.lysis, and yes I'll also publish her writings in conjunction. When you catch her of course I'll interview her. My book will show all of her facets. The objectified woman, the innocent abused child, and the demented psychopath."

"And, naturally, the parities," Spence added.

"What?"

"The similarities between yourself and the killer. The book would never be complete without that, right? And it would certainly never be honest."

Kathleen made no reply. She stood in the doorway, her purse dangling-looking at him.

Spence looked back at her for an irreducible moment. Then he picked up a pen and proceeded with his paperwork as if Kathleen weren't there at all.

She left in a haze of feelings, none of which were positive, a drone in her head. No, there were no limits to Spence's concerted efforts to injure her. Why? Why? she wondered all the way out of the huge building. she wondered all the way out of the huge building. It's not logical It's not logical. Spence was trying to catch a killer; he was not maintaining a constructive relations.h.i.+p with Kathleen. And why had he lied earlier? The reason eluded her, yet Kathleen felt certain he'd lied in response to her question about leads. Men frequently lied openfaced-Kathleen's romantic past provided an indisputable testament. Thinking further back, all of Uncle Sammy's promises had been made with an identical expression. Spence's arcane strategy irked her. Did he think that subtle hara.s.sment would make her more eager to cooperate with him? Oh, he'll be in the book all right, Oh, he'll be in the book all right, she vowed to herself. she vowed to herself. You can bet on that, Lieutenant. You can bet on that, Lieutenant.

Traffic jammed Indiana Avenue; it would take forever to get out. Spence, Spence, Spence, Spence, her thoughts continued to tap at her. her thoughts continued to tap at her. Parity, Parity, she thought. The steering wheel baked in her hands, nearly too hot to hold. A great swordblade of sun glared across the winds.h.i.+eld. What had Spence said? she thought. The steering wheel baked in her hands, nearly too hot to hold. A great swordblade of sun glared across the winds.h.i.+eld. What had Spence said? And, naturally, the parities... The similarities between yourself and the killer. And, naturally, the parities... The similarities between yourself and the killer. Spence obsessed over reminding her of the part of her past that she needed to forget in order to remain whole. He felt driven, for some reason, to sufficiently hurt her, to rub her face in the facts that both she and the killer were s.e.xually abused as children. Spence obsessed over reminding her of the part of her past that she needed to forget in order to remain whole. He felt driven, for some reason, to sufficiently hurt her, to rub her face in the facts that both she and the killer were s.e.xually abused as children.

Was she beginning to see his psychology? Spence steeped insults and accusations on her, and then pitted her against them. A good example was his implication that her book would not be honest without her own admission of being s.e.xually abused herself. Spence's cruelty was diabolical. Suddenly she realized, He's going out of his way to accuse me of being a phony because he knows the accusation will keep me involved. He's going out of his way to accuse me of being a phony because he knows the accusation will keep me involved.

Was it that simple?

Crossing 6th and C Street, a quick glance showed her the District Courthouse. Uncle Sammy, in a cheap brown suit, loped down the stone steps until Kathleen blinked at the wheel. There he was again, walking into a toy shop. Down the next block a brunette with snow white teeth smiled on a poster ad for Salem Lights, plastered inside a bus portico. A person sitting on the bench lowered a Was.h.i.+ngtonian Was.h.i.+ngtonian: Uncle Sammy. The heat stuck his thin brown hair to his forehead. He stared at her...

Almost, almost. Alm- Here.

Kathleen blinked the mirage away and drove on. Sleepytime, Sleepytime, Sammy had always called his visits to her childhood bedroom. Sammy had always called his visits to her childhood bedroom. It's Sleepytime, Kathy It's Sleepytime, Kathy. It was always from behind, so she couldn't see him, nor his genitals. This struck her oddly now: in the innumerable ways he'd penetrated her, she'd never fully seen his erection. She'd glimpsed it only once; when she was little she'd had a stuffed toy rabbit named Horace, and she remembered seeing Uncle Sammy wipe his p.e.n.i.s off with it one night when he thought she'd fallen asleep.

Heat hung in the air; she could see it. Spence's distractions had made her forget all about Maxwell. Is it over already? Is it over already? she wondered. Somehow the question seemed coldly objective. He'd left this morning without waking her, without even leaving a note. She hated to think how uncomfortable things must've been for him last night. Yet he'd seemed so caring, so interested in helping her. she wondered. Somehow the question seemed coldly objective. He'd left this morning without waking her, without even leaving a note. She hated to think how uncomfortable things must've been for him last night. Yet he'd seemed so caring, so interested in helping her. I freaked out right in front of him, I freaked out right in front of him, she reminded herself. How could she expect Maxwell to be at ease with all the baggage of her past? she reminded herself. How could she expect Maxwell to be at ease with all the baggage of her past?

The phone began to ring when she stepped into her apartment; she rushed to it. Maxwell! Maxwell! she thought. "Kathleen?" came a familiar female voice. It was her editor at she thought. "Kathleen?" came a familiar female voice. It was her editor at '90s Woman '90s Woman. "Oh, hi," Kathleen said.

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, no."

"You're usually a week early with your column," the editor told her. "The next issue goes to press in three days. It's in the mail, right? Please say it's in the mail."

The phone felt numb against her ear. Oh, no Oh, no, she realized. "It's not in the mail," she confessed. "I'm sorry. I forgot."

The long silence revealed her boss' disappointment. "We pride ourselves here at '90s Woman '90s Woman on being a very professional publication. I realize your column is quite popular but that does us little good if your miss your deadline." on being a very professional publication. I realize your column is quite popular but that does us little good if your miss your deadline."

Quit harping, she thought. she thought. I haven't missed my G.o.dd.a.m.n deadline. I haven't missed my G.o.dd.a.m.n deadline. "I'll Express Mail it to you in the morning, okay? It's all done, I just kind of forgot. I've had a lot going on the past week." "I'll Express Mail it to you in the morning, okay? It's all done, I just kind of forgot. I've had a lot going on the past week."

"I see. Please make sure it's on my desk by deadline."

The connection severed. Your magazine would be squat without me, Your magazine would be squat without me, Kathleen told herself, or at least tried to. She didn't blame herself, she blamed Spence, Uncle Sammy, the killer-every negative distraction. She kicked off her shoes, shrugged out of the hot dress, and went to her desk to get the submission together. She looked down, then, and noticed the index card in her typewriter. Kathleen told herself, or at least tried to. She didn't blame herself, she blamed Spence, Uncle Sammy, the killer-every negative distraction. She kicked off her shoes, shrugged out of the hot dress, and went to her desk to get the submission together. She looked down, then, and noticed the index card in her typewriter.

Maxwell left a note after all. The thought elated her, until she reeled it out of the platen and read it.

I LOVE YOU.

The three words terrified her.

Chapter 14.

(I).

Kathleen deliberated for hours. Men had said they'd loved her in the past, and she knew they were lying. In bra and panties she sat baking in the hot apartment. Her typewriter hummed. She couldn't figure it. Why am I mad? Why am I mad? she asked herself. she asked herself. Just because all those other men lied doesn't mean Maxwell is. Just because all those other men lied doesn't mean Maxwell is. This was a fair judgment. This was a fair judgment. How come I don't feel fair? How come I don't feel fair?

She knew she'd have to call him, to talk, but she pursued any excuse not to. Work on the book for a little while. She wasn't fooling herself, she was only trying to. Not calling Maxwell was an escape, an exit.

Unbidden, she pushed the REPRINT code on the typewriter. He'd typed the note-perhaps he'd typed something else. The $1000 typewriter had a small memory for making line corrections. As suspected, the machine typed out by itself:

EXIT by Maxwell Platt

Resplendence is truth, yet it's escaped me somehow, and I don't even remember what you look like now.

But in the trees, in the clouds, in the heavens above even the angels are burning up with all my love.

Another poem ent.i.tled "Exit." Kathleen read it over and over. It's not about me, It's not about me, she thought. That much was clear. It's about someone else, or a lot of people. It was about the love in his past. A moment ago she'd been thinking about escapes, about exits. she thought. That much was clear. It's about someone else, or a lot of people. It was about the love in his past. A moment ago she'd been thinking about escapes, about exits. Is this his escape? Is this his escape? Yes, she thought it must be. Was Maxwell, through his poetry, making an exit from his past so that he could proceed into the future? Yes, she thought it must be. Was Maxwell, through his poetry, making an exit from his past so that he could proceed into the future?

Why can't I do that? she wondered. she wondered.

She picked up the phone, dialed at once. "Maxwell, this is Kathleen."

"Hi," he said. "How was your day?"

"All right."