The Dead Room

glowed. It was her body that was wrong. She didn’t match the others. She seemed too voluptuous. Even with her eyes closed, she radiated too much beauty, too much life.

He looked back at her and wondered if she might not be moving. She’d been sleeping for the past three hours-in a stupor since they’d become friends and partied on the Love Drug.

Eddie moved in for a closer look. He couldn’t really tell. Maybe she was moving, but maybe she wasn’t. When his eyes fell across her naked body, his dick got hard again and he swore. It was a pitfall that went with the job. A wrong turn up a dead end alley if he wanted to become famous.

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