Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 21

"What symbol?" Spence inquired. "You mean the cross?"

"Exactly." Simmons patted the ma.n.u.scripts. "It's relative to something in her past that she feels protected by. And in this protection she realizes the truth of her delusion."

"But I can't nail it down. I don't even know how to begin."

"You may never nail it down," Simmons enlightened him. "The totem of the typical serial killer is usually a gross abstraction. Something that makes sense only to the afflicted. Psychopathic totems are generally related to the prominent parental figure-the killer's mother, in this instance-and always carries back to early childhood. Strong initial religious a.s.sertions, perhaps. Perhaps her mother took her to church as a child, and she remembers seeing the cross above the altar, or maybe she recalls the priest making the sign of the cross. It could've been something her mother gave her, or something her mother wore, a cross on a necklace perhaps. It could be anything."

"In the ma.n.u.script she referred to the cross as being illuminated," Spence said. "She writes that it 'glows' like a 'beautiful white fire.' I've got some people checking out all the area churches, to get a geographic list of the ones with illuminated crosses-"

"You're wasting your time," Simmons cut him off. "Psychopaths regularly see the critical symbols of their lives enshrouded by some kind of light-a protective aura, so to speak. These symbols, in other words, aren't really illuminated. The light is a hallucination. The psychopath believes that the light emanating from the totem will protect them. Forget about the cross, Jeffrey. It's a dead end."

It occurred to Spence just that moment: Simmons was the only person who addressed him by his first name. He didn't know anybody else well enough. Poor me, Poor me, he thought. he thought. I don't have any friends. I don't have any friends. But what did it matter? "I feel useless," he admitted. But what did it matter? "I feel useless," he admitted.

"Don't. You're a very perceptive person. You're driven, Jeffrey, by your sense of duty." Simmons paused to smile. "But for the life of me I can't figure out what that is."

Neither could Spence. This is all I have This is all I have, he thought, and suddenly it was a dreadful thought, fertile with despair. Idealisms didn't work now; the world was a scape of rain and failure. Of inhumanity and lies. Catching one killer would not amend that status. Nor would catching a 1,000. The world would remain as it was. Disinterested. Unflinching in its evil.

Spence felt crushed in the fine clothes. "I don't know what to do," he said. "I don't know how to proceed from here."

"There's never an easy way out, Jeffrey. You know that." Simmons' eyes, in spite of their accrual of years, s.h.i.+ned crisply and bright as an infant's. "But you can take heart in some rather indisputable statistics. The Totem Phase always burns itself out, leaving in its wake a catastrophic aminerelated depression. It's called the Capture Phase. Very quickly the falsehood of the delusion is unveiled; the bipolar mental state reverses poles, so to speak, locking the killer in an inescapable feeling of capture. The psychopath's selfimage is reduced to total meaninglessness... Suicide is the most frequent result."

Spence found no solace in this possibility. He wanted the killer caught, not dead by her own hand. He wanted to see her; he wanted to look into her living face and see that same face looking back in all its reality. Without that evidence, and without the hope of it, he wouldn't feel real himself. He'd feel as though he'd been cheated by a myth, or a ghost.

"She's objectifying the delusion now," Simmons went on.

"How do you know?"

"She killed her pimp-an objective gesture of revenge. Expect her to identify even more closely now with what I told you about the other day. With the nascent."

"Kathleen Shade," Spence said.

"Yes. Kathleen Shade is the link between the murders and the killer's sense of purpose. Throughout the Totem Phase this perception will amplify. The psychotic delusion will build Shade as a trustfigure. The killer will believe that Shade approves of the murders. This can be easily exploited if you handle it right. The killer, as I've said, identifies with Shade for whatever reason. If you can trust Shade, you're at a great advantage. But, of course, if you can't-"

"I'm screwed," Spence said.

"Yes, and so is Shade. She could easily wind up dead." Simmons seemed relaxed as he spoke of this. "Shade, after all, is using the killer's delusion for her own advantage; she has a vested interest."

"The book."

"Precisely. Can you trust Shade to cooperate?"

"I think so."

"Are you still maintaining an acrimonious relations.h.i.+p with her?"

Spence laughed lightly. "She can't stand me, and she thinks I can't stand her."

"Then you're convinced she's unduly independent?"

"Yes, otherwise the Bad Guy routine wouldn't work."

"Good. You remember well. Just be careful. The person you must trust the most, in this case, is not Shade. It's yourself. And I think you know what I'm talking about."

Spence nodded. The easiest way to catch the killer would be to use Kathleen Shade as bait. Spence wondered if he was too ethical for that, and felt slightly shamed when he came to no solid conclusion. As if to pardon the thought, he said, "I tried to get her to move out of her apartment, but she refused."

Simmons smiled. "Did you try very hard?"

"I guess it's pretty stupid for me to lie to you," Spence admitted. "No, I guess I didn't. But I've got a tactical guy in her parking lot, and I'm on her phones under the table."

"Good. Better safe than sorry, civil rights notwithstanding."

Spence didn't much care. "Thanks for your time," he said, and got up. "Did you hear the one about the guy who joined Paranoiacs Anonymous?"

"They never told him where the meetings were held," Simmons said. "How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?"

"How many?"

"One, but only if the lightbulb wants to change."

Spence shook his head. "One question before I go. Not only did she cut off her pimp's genitals, she cut off his right hand. Any idea why?"

"Her totem, after all, is more than likely religious. Perhaps it's biblical."

"Biblical?"

"If thine right hand offends thee," Simmons theorized, "cut if off."

Spence contemplated this when he left the office. Objects of abuse serve as objects of power to be envied-hence the missing p.e.n.i.ses, Objects of abuse serve as objects of power to be envied-hence the missing p.e.n.i.ses, he recalled Simmons telling him a few days ago. In a monstrous way, it made sense. he recalled Simmons telling him a few days ago. In a monstrous way, it made sense. But...the hand? But...the hand? he wondered now. What purpose did she have in cutting off Tyrone Chaplin's hand? he wondered now. What purpose did she have in cutting off Tyrone Chaplin's hand?

(III).

Earlier she finished typing "The Mummy."

Then she Express Mailed it to Kathleen Shade in the special Express Mail box so she wouldn't have to go into the post office.

She drove past The Cross on the way home.

It reminds her of something but she never knows what.

In the bas.e.m.e.nt she feeds the prost.i.tute.

She's getting so skinny, her mother says. her mother says.

"I know."

You forgot to feed her yesterday.

She blinks. "I forgot?"

Yes, honey.

Suddenly she wants to scream.

How could she forget...

You also forgot to go to work last night.

Her teeth clacked shut.

She goes to the shelves, to the toolbox.

She takes the scratch awl.

She lays her hand on the bench, palm up.

"I will not forget," she says and sticks the awl into the center of her palm.

"I will not forget."

"I will not forget."

"I will not forget."

"I will not forget."

When she's done there's a cross in her hand formed of punctures.

"I'm sorry I forgot to feed you," she says to the prost.i.tute.

Sego Strawberry today.

The prost.i.tute's ribs show like crevices along her side, or like gills.

She's dirty and pale bound to the bench.

Lacerations crust her wrists and ankles.

She inserts the plastic tube between the st.i.tches in the prost.i.tute's lips.

The lean throat wobbles as the liquid meal is quickly gulped down through the tube.

"Isn't that good?" she says to the prost.i.tute. "For dinner we'll have Dutch Chocolate."

Then she goes upstairs to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e in Daddy's Room.

The feelings build.

Beautiful, hot flashes of feelings.

She thinks of blood pouring out of incisions.

Men's blood.

As the feelings build she thinks of little birds crowded in a cage, their wings flapping in chaos to get out.

She always waits weeks and weeks to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e.

She likes the way the feelings build up.

She likes to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e in Daddy's Room because she can see the fiery white light of The Cross in The Window.

Her mother is standing by The Window now, looking out as her beautiful daughter's sleek, strong body writhes in pleasure on the bed, the perfect legs spread, the perfect st.i.tches bared, the c.l.i.toris radiating at the intent manipulation, and the intricate, maladapted brain dreaming of all the men she will kill.

The st.i.tches hum.

Her o.r.g.a.s.m bursts...

Like the little birds released from the crowded cage all at once.

She's been masturbating not with her own hand but with the hand of Tyrone Chaplin.

Chapter 19.

(I).

Maxwell worked on the new poem all day. Often times arose for artists when the creative elan tapped itself out. Maxwell followed William Faulkner's advice: he quit writing in the middle of his peak rather than drain himself dry. There was nothing worse for a poet than an aesthetic hangover due to overwork. Maxwell kept a reserve for the next day-at all costs-or the next day proved useless.

I know you're home, he thought, his ear to the phone. He called Kathleen repeatedly, but she wasn't answering. This did not surprise him. It was a woman's way of articulating the need for distance. he thought, his ear to the phone. He called Kathleen repeatedly, but she wasn't answering. This did not surprise him. It was a woman's way of articulating the need for distance. Distance, hogwash, Distance, hogwash, he thought. He would just go to her apartment, uninvited. You did things like that when you were in love. Love had its privileges. he thought. He would just go to her apartment, uninvited. You did things like that when you were in love. Love had its privileges.

She loves me, came the thought with a s.h.i.+ning certainty. She just doesn't realize it yet She just doesn't realize it yet.

In faded jeans, then, and a powderorange T-s.h.i.+rt that read Hanson's Magazine of Literary and Social Interest, Hanson's Magazine of Literary and Social Interest, Maxwell locked up, went out onto P Street, and hailed a cab. Twentyfive minutes later he was striding up Kathleen's echoic apartment steps. A white plastic Blockbuster Video bag dangled from one hand. Maxwell locked up, went out onto P Street, and hailed a cab. Twentyfive minutes later he was striding up Kathleen's echoic apartment steps. A white plastic Blockbuster Video bag dangled from one hand.

The bag contained a loaded .38 Colt revolver.