Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 15

"I hope you're feeling better."

At first she didn't know what he meant, but then she remembered the debacle of last night. "Yes," she said. Her thoughts hovered. "I read your poem."

The pause gaped. "That's impossible," he claimed. "I burned it on your balcony."

She glanced out the slider and noted ashes on the cement. She frowned. "My typewriter has a memory for corrections."

"Oh," he said.

Another gaping pause. "It's not about me, is it?"

"No."

I guess I know him better than I thought. "I also read your note."

This third pause seemed to drip. "You don't sound very happy."

"We need to talk," was all she said.

"Okay, we can do that. I'd like to."

"Not on the phone. We'll go out to dinner or something, and we'll talk. I'll pick you up at 7:30."

"Okay," Maxwell said.

"'Bye."

The driest phone conversation of my life, she concluded. And how must he feel? She felt even drier showering and then getting dressed, her arms and legs like putty as she put on her underthings. The sun blazed in the slider, a face of fire. How could she possibly nail down her feelings? I don't even know what my feelings are. I don't even know what my feelings are.

She sat and waited for time to pa.s.s. She smoked her hourly Now 100, listening to the radio shrink's show. More parity More parity, she realized. She and the radio shrink had essentially the same jobs: counseling the desperate, the confused and the disillusioned. Yet Kathleen could only relate as a listener. "...I've been dating him for over three years," another listener was saying. Their voices always sounded distant, despairing. "I've always loved him, and I've always wanted to be married to him."

"Yes, go on," said the radio shrink.

"But in all the time we've been seeing each other, he's never said he loved me. He's never said anything that would indicate he wants a real future with me."

"And that depresses you," a.s.serted the radio shrink.

"No!" the caller exclaimed. "Because this morning he finally did. He finally did say that he loved me. He asked me to marry him."

"And let me guess," the shrink postulated. "Now you don't know how you feel."

"Right. Exactly. When he finally told me what I've wanted to hear all these years, I turned into a block of ice. I don't even know if I want to see him anymore." The caller sobbed. "None of it makes any sense."

"Your dilemma is a common one, believe it or not," the response drifted frailly through static. "It's much more than the contrived case of cyclic desire, that when we get what we want, we don't want it anymore. In your instance, though I don't know you, I'd say that you've been hurt, misled, or deceived so thoroughly in the past that your psychological makeup has erected a subconscious defense mechanism. Your psyche sets off an alarm-technically it's called a 'biogenicamine fulfillment s.h.i.+ft'-when a romantic situation approaches a commitment phase. Consciously you want love, you want marriage. Unconsciously, however, your psyche throws in a mental monkey wrench, so to speak, to ruin a situation which could lead to further heartbreak and turmoil..."

Kathleen stared limply at the radio.

(II).

"...but I was able to get a rundown on the suture material," Kohls was saying as the sun went down. Spence drove. Kohls rode shotgun. "PMMA it's called, synthetic micronic twine. Brand name's Vicryl, or I should say the stock name. Took me all day to find that out."

Spence looked at him. "Did you call the manufacturer, find out which-"

"To find out which hospitals buy that brand?" Kohls finished. "Of course I did. And you know what? You know how many hospitals buy that brand?"

Spence frowned. "Every-"

"That's right," Kohls laughed. "Every f.u.c.king hospital in the country. b.u.mmer, ain't it?"

Spence rounded St. Thomas Circle in the unmarked. Two 3rd District plainclothes followed him in another unmarked, and behind them came a TSD van full of bad boys. "You may have busted the whole case," Spence informed his companion. "How long it take you to find the print on Weston's body?"

"About a minute and a half. Tell me about our girl."

Spence slipped him the girl's booking photo: fiery perfectly straight red hair, deep green eyes, and a pretty face were it not for a tiny harelip. "Willet, Heather, B., four busts for soliciting. High school dropout. She's an orphan. Worked the Starlight Inn, Good Guys, Dawn Rose, and some of the other P.G. County strip clubs before she decided to peddle her a.s.s."

"Sounds like she got a monkey on her back in the clubs," Kohls hypothesized. "You get the r.i.a. back yet on the hair?"

"Yeah, but just PCP and pot. No crack, no skag, nothing pharmaceutical. Simmons was right. Nutritionally depleted, typical pross. Probably eats one Big Mac and fries a day at the 14th and K Micky D's."

"Place of residence on the rap sheet says College Park," Kohls observed. "How come we're heading lower Northwest?"

"That address is phony. We're going to go have a little chat with her pimp."

"There's something, though..." Kohls hesitated. He lit a cigarette off the one he'd just smoked down. All evidence techs chainedsmoked one their way to a possible workup scene. Once they got there, smoking was forbidden. "Something..."

"I know," Spence agreed. "The medical angle. What's a streetwalker doing with acute medical knowledge, and access to hospital supplies?"

"Maybe she's got funny friends. Maybe her pimp's a kink."

"Maybe," Spence said. He eyed the big gothic church just off the circle, and the great steepled cross. The Cross The Cross, he recalled from the killer's pa.s.sages. It seemed to be a point of reference, an obsessional one. Simmons had said she had monomanic symbol obsessions. The Cross. What did it mean?

Is it this cross? Spence wondered. Spence wondered. This cross right here, on this church? This cross right here, on this church?

"Who's her pimp by the way?"

"Tyrone Chaplin," Spence said.

"Ah, 'Rome," Kohls recognized, snorting smoke. "The guys at POU say he's a pretty nice guy as far as pimps go. Say he kicks girls out who ripoff johns."

Spence didn't care. "I don't care if he's the nicest guy in the world," he said. "One of his hookers might be a serial killer. I want her."

Nightfall came like a slow bleed. Dented and stripped cars lined the sodiumlit street. The rowhouses looked like abandoned fortresses: boarded up, bricks streaked by age and decay. The few that were occupied had barred doors and windows. That mystical ent.i.ty known as "The Mob" owned all these blocks and domiciles. There really was still a mob. Phony real estate companies hidden by financial "pyramids" worked integrally with the prost.i.tution networks and the fading heroin trade. Soon crack cocaine and crystal meth would push everything out, but until then...

"There's his wheels," Spence said. A white BMW, four door. Pink Cadillacs and cheetahfurlined seats were a thing of the past. "You got a piece?"

"I'm a forensics tech," Kohls countered, "not Wyatt Earp. What I need a piece for?"

"In case somebody tries to kill you." Spence unlocked his glove box and gave Kohls his departmentissued Glock 17.

"Where's the safety on this thing?"

"Don't ask me," Spence laughed. "Why do you think I carry a revolver? Just stick it in your pants and hope you can figure it out if someone starts popping caps."

"Great. That's just great."

Vehicle doors chunked behind them when they got out. "You two," Spence directed the plainclothes. "Get your tin in plain sight and go around back in case things get hairy. Grab anyone who comes out." Then he addressed the TSD men; they weren't technicians like Kohls, they were what parlance referred to as Goons, big guys for moving bodies, busting doors, taking parts off cars. "Follow us up," Spence said.

"Nice neighborhood," Kohls remarked. Trash littered scrub front yards, broken gla.s.s glittered in dry gra.s.s. The street wafted a familiar coalescence of scents: fried food, cooling suncooked garbage, and, strangely, paint. Tyrone Chaplin's rowhouse stood dilapidated in the yellow street light. Red paint had blistered on its bricks.

Spence and Kohls walked up the steps. When Spence knocked, the door opened against three burglar chains almost at once. Spence stuck his badge and ID in the gap. "I'm Lieutenant Jeffrey Spence, D.C. Police. I'd like to talk to you."

"Talk to who?" asked a defiant black face.

"You," Spence said. "Tyrone Chaplin."

"He's not in."

"Open up, Mr. Chaplin. I have a dated warrant from the D.C. Magistrate to search this premise. Either open the door, or I'll knock it down."

"You and whose army?"

Spence was glad he'd said that, for at the same time his three bulldogs congregated at the bottom of the steps. They all wore brightred utility s.h.i.+rts emblazoned with METROPOLITAN POLICE TECHNICAL SERVICES DIVISION. Two carried aluminum field kits in fists the size of croquet b.a.l.l.s. The third calmly sported a handled steel bar with a big square steel block at one end-a portable doorram.

"Like I said," Chaplin changed his tune. "Come on in. This door cost 1,500 bucks." He took off the chains. Spence and his crew walked into a nice foyer which led to a wellfurnitured living room. Nice throw rugs, nice halfpaneled walls, nice framed prints. Outside looked like a typical tenement. Inside looked like typical middlecla.s.s home.

Chaplin turned off the stereo; Spence recognized Beethoven's Piano Concerto #2. Alfred Brendel, Alfred Brendel, he noted. Chaplin himself was more proof that the average conception of a pimp was largely stereotype. No gold chains, gold rings, no flamboyant clothes. Chaplin wore Gucci's, quality Italian gray slacks, and a handmade s.h.i.+rt, which left Spence a little disillusioned. he noted. Chaplin himself was more proof that the average conception of a pimp was largely stereotype. No gold chains, gold rings, no flamboyant clothes. Chaplin wore Gucci's, quality Italian gray slacks, and a handmade s.h.i.+rt, which left Spence a little disillusioned. This pimp wears better clothes than me, This pimp wears better clothes than me, Spence realized. Spence realized. I should ask him where he shops I should ask him where he shops.

"You want a beer, Lieutenant?"

"No thank you," Spence said. "Let's be nice about this, all right? I have a warrant, which means my men search your place whether you like it or not."

Chaplin sat down in a plush, b.u.t.toned armchair. He opened a can of St. Ide's Malt Liquor. "Go ahead. I keep the machine guns and cocaine in a warehouse on New York Avenue."

At least he's got a sense of humor, Spence thought but did not allow himself to laugh. Kohls and his three goons branched off. Spence thought but did not allow himself to laugh. Kohls and his three goons branched off.

Spence went on, standing, "I want to ask you some specific questions, and I need you to give me specific answers. If you bulls.h.i.+t me, I'll take you to headquarters for more intensive questioning."

Chaplin blinked and rapidly shook his head. "Did I wake up in Iran? Did someone rescind the Const.i.tution?"

"I want to know about one of your prost.i.tutes. Heather B. Willet, Caucasian, red hair, 26 years old."

"She dead? Creamy?"

"Who?"

"We call her Creamy. She'd got gorgeous, creamywhite skin, Lieutenant. White as snow and not a pock on her. She's quite beautiful. All my girls are. Would you like to see some of them? I can arrange it."

"Why did you ask if Creamy was dead?"

"Why else would some badnewslookin' white cop like you be here?"

"Just answer the question."

Chaplin had bright, intelligent eyes and an intense face like an activist or something. "First of all, I don't want you to think of me as a pimp. I'm a service manager. I provide a service."

"But the service you provide, Mr. Chaplin, is against the law."

"So is letting your dog p.o.o.p on the sidewalk. So is jaywalking. You ever jaywalked, Lieutenant?"

"No," Spence said. He probably hadn't.

Chaplin made gestures with his hands. "I got an attrition rate here like about 25%, like most any business. Creamy was typical top drawer. You see it a lot."

Top drawer, oddly, meant a prost.i.tute of low seniority or performance status. A bottomdrawer girl, on the other hand, was the best a pimp had to offer.

"I'm not a slaver, Lieutenant. Some guys out there, sure, but not me. All my girls are clean; they're good girls. If a girl wants to work for me, and she meets my criteria, then I let her work for me. When one of my girls decides she doesn't want to work for me, then I let her go. Like any businessman, I don't want disgruntled employees. You got a girl who's unhappy, she f.u.c.ks up. Bad for business. A girl wants to fly, I let her fly. A girl thinks she can do better with someone else, I let her work for someone else."

"What's this got to do with Heather B.- With Creamy?"

"Really top drawer. Beautiful, sure, like I said. She was really beautiful bodywise." Chaplin shrugged. "But she wasn't very good. Didn't turn much business, not aggressive, not too good at selling her attributes. Lot of girls think they'll rake big money working the street, but the truth is it's hard work. Lot of girls can't cut the trade once they're out there."

"I still don't see what this has to do with-"

"She booked," Chaplin said. "Flew the coop about two weeks ago or so. You walk in here with your storm troopers so I figure she got into some trouble, got herself killed."

"Did she discuss it with you?"

"Discuss what?"

"Her decision to leave."

"No, no. She just up and left. Disappeared. Didn't even come back for her things. What, you expect a working girl to put twoweeks' notice?"

Throughout Chaplin's monologue, Spence was careful to watch his face, as Simmons had taught him. Tarsal plate fluctuation-the muscles beneath the top eyelids-usually indicated a negative impulse, or a lie. Chaplin held the beer can in his right hand; statistically his eyeline would drift left when lying. Yet Chaplin exhibited none of these characteristics. It was almost a disappointment. He's not bulls.h.i.+tting, He's not bulls.h.i.+tting, Spence concluded. Spence concluded.

"Did she live here?"

Chaplin smirked broadly. "None of my girls crib here. Most of them have their own apartments, Greenbelt, College Park, Bladensburg. They make livings, Lieutenant. They have cars. They drive to and from work every day just like you. New girls, or slow learners, I crib myself 'til they can get on their feet in the trade. I gotta a rowhouse two blocks down. That's where Creamy lived, with three other girls." Chaplin scribbled the address down on the back of a lawyer's business card. "You want to send your motley crew down there, fine. All my girls are clean. You find any drugs, let me know. I'll give them their walking papers."

Spence found it hard not to like Chaplin. It was hard to exhibit himself as an authority figure. "So your girls don't do drugs?"

"h.e.l.l, no. I mean maybe a little crank or pot when you can get it. But none of the tough stuff. You don't believe me, why should I give a s.h.i.+t? I don't want none of that crack s.h.i.+t in my stable. And any girls who fire up, they're out the door. Needle marks on a girl are bad for business, and they don't exactly make for a positive public sensibility these days." Chaplin lounged back, complacent, articulate. "A guy like you, prim, proper, John Law, you probably got me nailed as a bad guy because I happen to provide a mutually agreeable service that's against the law. Crack, skag, ice-that's against the law too, but there's a big difference between that and s.e.xual services rendered between two consenting adults. You ask me, you ought to take all these drug people, line them up along a brick wall, and kill them. I believe that hard drugs are evil; that's why I won't touch a girl who's into them. If I worked girls who were strung out or c.o.keheads, I'd be just as bad as the a.s.sholes who sell the s.h.i.+t to 9yearolds on the playground." Chaplin shrugged, sipped his St. Ide's. "That's how I feel. You don't believe me, you think I'm feeding you a line? That's too bad."

A pimp with ethics? Spence wondered.