obsession with status, his loneliness), whom I had transformed into a fictional serial killer, and I was not about to put myself through that experience again—of revisiting either Robert Ellis or Patrick Bateman. I had moved past the casual carnage that was so prevalent in the books I’d conceived in my twenties, past the severed heads and the soup made of blood and the woman vaginally penetrated with her own rib. Exploring that kind of violence had been “interesting” and “exciting” and it was all “metaphorical” anyway—at least to me at that moment in my life, when I was young and pissed off and had not yet grasped my own mortality, a time when physical pain and real suffering held no meaning for me. I was “transgressive” and the book was really about “style” and there was no point now in reliving the crimes of Patrick Bateman and the horror they’d inspired. Sitting in my office in front of Kimball, I realized that at various times I had fantasized about this exact moment. This was the moment that detractors of the book had warned me about: if anything happened to anyone as a result of the publication of this novel, Bret Easton Ellis was to blame. Gloria Steinem had reiterated this over and over to Larry King in the winter of 1991 and that’s why the National Organization for Women had boycotted the book. (In a small world filled with black ironies, Ms. Steinem eventually married David Bale, the father of the actor who played Patrick Bateman in the movie.) I thought the idea was laughable—that there was no one as insane and vicious as this fictional character out there in the real world. Besides, Patrick Bateman was a notoriously unreliable narrator, and if you actually read the book you could come away doubting that these crimes had even occurred. There were large hints that they existed only in Bateman’s mind. The murders and torture were in fact fantasies fueled by his rage and fury about how life in America was structured and how this had—no matter the size of his wealth—trapped him. The fantasies were an escape. This was the book’s thesis. It was about society and manners and mores, and not about cutting up women. How could anyone who read the book not see this? Yet because of the severity of the outcry over the novel the fear that maybe it wasn’t such a laughable idea was never far away; always lurking was the worry about what might happen if the book fell into the wrong hands. Who knew, then, what it could inspire? And after the killings in Toronto it was no longer lurking—it was real, it existed, and it tortured me. But that had been more than ten years ago and a decade had passed without anything remotely similar happening. The book had made me wealthy and famous but I never wanted to touch it again. Now it all came rushing back, and I found myself in Patrick Bateman’s shoes: I felt like an unreliable narrator, even though I knew I wasn’t. Yet then I thought: Well, had he?
Kimball had articles printed off the Internet that he was now leafing through and wanting to share with me, as I sat disconsolately in my office, staring out the window at the lawn sloping toward the street and the detective’s car parked there. Two boys raced by, teetering on skateboards. A crow landed on the lawn and picked disinterestedly at an autumn leaf. It was followed by another larger crow. The lawn instantly reminded me of the carpet in the living room.
Kimball could tell I was trying to distract myself, that I was trying to wish it all away, and gently said, “Mr. Ellis, you do understand where I’m going—”
“Am I a suspect?” I asked suddenly.
Kimball seemed surprised. “No, you’re not.”
There was a tiny moment of relief that fled in an instant.
“How do you know I’m not?”
“The night of June first you were in a rehab clinic. And on the night Sandy Wu was murdered you were giving a lecture at the college on . . .” Kimball glanced at his notes—“on the legacy of the Brat Pack in American literature.”
I swallowed hard and collected myself again. “So this is obviously not a series of coincidences.”
“We—that is, myself and the Midland Sheriff’s Office—believe that whoever’s committing these crimes is actually following the book and replicating them.”
“Let me get this straight.” I swallowed again. “You’re telling me that Patrick Bateman is alive and well and killing people in Midland County?”
“No, someone out there is copycatting the murders from the book. And in order. It’s not random. It’s actually fairly careful and very well planned, to the point where the assailant has even gone so far as to locate people— victims—with similar names or similar, if not exact, occupations.”
I was freezing. Nausea started sliding through me.
“You have got to be kidding me. This is a joke, right?”
“It’s no longer a theory, Mr. Ellis” was all Kimball would say, as if he was warning someone.
“Do you have any leads?”
Again, Kimball sighed. “The big obstacle in terms of our investigation is that the crime scenes themselves— even with the fairly formidable amount of planning and time the killer spent at each one—are, well, they’re”—and now he shrugged—“immaculate.”
“What does that mean? What does that mean when you say ‘immaculate’?”
“Well, basically forensics is baffled.” Kimball checked his notes, though I knew he didn’t need to. “No fingerprints, no hair, no fibers, nothing.”
Kimball repositioned himself on the couch, and then looking at me directly asked, “Have you received any strange mail lately? Any kind of correspondence from a fan that would lead you to suspect that maybe something isn’t quite right?”
“Wait—why? You think this person might contact me? Do you think he’s after me?” I was unable to contain my panic and immediately felt ashamed.
“No, no. Please, Mr. Ellis, calm down. That doesn’t seem to be where this person is heading,” Kimball said, failing to reassure me. “However, if you feel someone has contacted you in a way that’s inappropriate or a violation of some kind, please tell me now.”
“You’re fairly sure whoever this is is
“That’s correct.”
“Well, I mean, then who is he heading for . . . next?”
Kimball looked at his notebook, even though again I was positive he didn’t need to. It was a calculated and empty gesture and I resented him for it.
“The next victim in the book is Paul Owen.”
“And?”
Kimball paused. “There’s a Paul Owen in Clear Lake.”
“Clear Lake is only fifteen miles from here,” I murmured.
“Mr. Owen is now under heavy surveillance and police protection. And what we’re hoping is that if anyone suspicious shows up, we’ll be able to apprehend him.” Pause. “This is also why these connections between the crimes haven’t been leaked to the press. At this point that would only compromise the investigation . . . And of course we hope you won’t say anything either.”
“Why do you think this person isn’t gonna come after me or my family?” I asked again. By now I was rocking back and forth in the swivel chair.
“Well, the author of the book isn’t in the book,” Kimball said, offering a pointlessly reassuring smile that failed utterly. “I mean, Bret Ellis is not a character in the book, and so far the assailant is only interested in finding people with similar identities or names of fictional characters.” Pause. “You’re not a fictional character, are you, Mr. Ellis?” Kimball knew this smile hadn’t reassured me and he did not attempt it again. “Look, I can see why you’re becoming so upset, but we really feel that at this point you’re not in any danger. Still, if you’d rest easier we could offer you police protection that would be extremely unobtrusive. If you want to talk this over with Ms. Dennis—”
“No, I don’t want my wife to know about this, yet. No. I’m not discussing this with my wife. There’s no need to freak her out. Um, but I will let you know as soon as possible about your protection services and all that”—I had gotten up, and my knees were shaking—“and I really don’t feel well so . . . um, I’m sorry, I really don’t feel well.” The room was now filled with despair, torrents of it. I knew even then, half-drunk on vodka, sobering up at a rapid pace, that Kimball would not be able to rescue anyone and that more crime scenes would be darkened with blood. Fear kept bolting me upright. I suddenly realized that I was straining not to defecate. I had to grip the desk for support. Kimball stood uneasily beside me. I was of no use at that point.
A card was handed out with various phone numbers on it. I was instructed to call if anything “suspicious” or “abnormal” (those two words uttered so soothingly that they could have existed in a nursery rhyme) came up, but I couldn’t hear anything. I blindly walked Kimball out to his car while mumbling my thanks. And at that moment Jayne
