Iceman

blind them. He could be very good-looking in the conventional sense, but he sees himself as inadequate or repulsive by his own standards.'

“And let's say he's the most dangerous type ... I always get this confused, is he the sociopathic type or the schizzy type?'

“Jack, that's the paranoid-schizophrenic. You need to look at your DSM-III. It's got all that broken down for you.'

“Your what?'

“Oh, your Diagnostical Statistical Manual, roman numeral three. And if you can get a three-slash-R. Revised update. Give you the definitions for all the terms.'

“All right. Okay. Now. We're back in Texas or wherever, and we're ugly or we have an infant-sized penis or whatever. When the moon is full we go out and get a woman, force them to go down on us, then we strangle them or stab them with an icepick. Let's say we symbolically blind them or punish them. Right so far?'

“Right—defacing, Jack. Think DEFACING. That one shot with the icepick to the eye—that's the textbook classic. Keeps them from seeing him, you understand, and he's defacing THEM, too, as well. Get it?'

“Yeah. All right. Now suddenly we stop. For twenty years we don't kill again. Then, suddenly, another killing. Why do we stop? Why didn't we keep killing? Why did we start up again? Give me some scenarios, can you?'

“First off, he's not your same killer. He didn't stop. The first factor you can take to the bank is this: NOBODY stops. Serial killers don't stop. Not ever. You're the expert. You tell me. When did you ever hear of a serial killer who stopped?'

“Zodiac.'

“Hmm?'

“Zodiac. Dude out in California? We never caught Zodiac. He stopped.'

“No, Jack. He was caught. Or he was killed or he died or was imprisoned. By caught I mean for something completely unrelated. For a theft, let's say, and he goes to jail. He's imprisoned. Well, there would be one scenario. Your man is imprisoned for twenty years. He got out and resumed? Huh?'

“I wish thieves DID go to jail for twenty years, but that's another story. Yeah, I've been over that ground a little. The mental institutions and all.'

“Sure, could be institutionalized for twenty years. That's one scenario. But you take my meaning. Unless something like that happens, nobody stops. They like to kill too well. Unless they mess up, get too cocksure of their own invincibility, and the coppers take them out of the game, they keep on going. But twenty years, Jack? No, a more likely scenario is that he died, or what might be is he got murdered himself. Violence begets violence. Make your own scenario but keep one factor in mind. Nobody ever stops. You can't count on that happening. These persons are deeply deranged and they kill till they get caught.

“He's also telling something about himself in the demographic profile of the victims. Look at the age group of the women you just read off to me. Now a younger woman. But that could be so consistent, you see, because HE'S older, so he relates to the victim in a different way. There might be a clue in the victims’ profiles. That's where to begin.'

“Yeah. Listen, Doc, while I've got you. On another subject. I just wanted to get your thinking. I realize this isn't your line, but let's say you got a murderous psycho and he has a child. Genetically, is there any way of determining whether, you know, the kid is going to have any inherited traits, er, ah—'

Geary took over and lost Jack after the “DNA stepping stones,” and when he paused, Jack said “Okay,” and thanked him.

But there weren't no okay to it this time.

North Buckhead

“You smell delicious,” he told her, his arm pulling her close.

“Oh!” Thunder struck again and she shivered. Diane was sitting on his bed beside him. She felt small and she was glad she wasn't spending the night alone.

“Are you afraid of a little thunderstorm?” he whispered softly, cuddling her.

“Uh huh,” she said, like a little girl. It had been a weird night with Nicki, the secretary calling for her. All businesslike and somewhat brusque. Making her bring a suitcase, of all things, helping her pack, which she kind of fought until it was explained that he was planning some kind of nutty surprise. He was going to take her somewhere ... But what about the bank? All taken care of, they assured her. Something very weird going on here. A surprise vacation? She had put in for three long weekends and a week in the spring. But he was being groomed for the board at the bank and was on a first-name basis with her boss. He played golf with her boss, he assured her, which she didn't believe at first. HOW? she wondered.

“You don't have to worry about a little thunder, baby. You're safe and cozy,” he purred to her. He had given Nicki instructions. Bring this. Bring that. She was packed for a longer stay than a weekend. He promised he'd tell her later. Then there were the crazy notes. He made her write this nonsense note to Bonnie, and a note to somebody without a salutation much less an address. Notes on postcards. A gag, he said. Some sort of practical joke.

The thunderclap made her jump again and he chuckled.

“Don't be scared. You're so beautiful,” he told her, kissing her on the hair.

“No. I'm not.'

“You know what you really are?'

“Huh?'

“I tell you no lie, Princess Di. You're fucking drop-dead beautiful!” And that broke him up and he laughed with joy. “That's it, darling. Drop-dead beautiful!” He kissed her through the giggle and she snuggled close. And then she started to ask him about all the mystery.

“What's all this with the suitcase and the cards, honey? Please. Tell me what's going on?'

But just then Nicki came in the room, saying, “Excuse me, hope I'm not interrupting,” talking to him about something she couldn't follow, sitting on the bed beside her quite naturally as she spoke, her long, slim legs stretched out in front of her, the three of them together on the bed.

“Hey, Princess, I've got a neat idea,” he said to her softly. “Why don't the three of us kind of cuddle together? Would you like that, baby? You and me and Nicki?'

She thought he was joking. “Oh, sure.'

“Hear that, Nicki, she likes the idea.'

“So do I,” Nicki said.

“Hey! What the hell? I was just kidding.” She moved Nicki's thin fingers from her arm. “What the hell is this?'

“Just a little lovin'? Don't you like Nicki?'

“I like guys, if you haven't noticed. I don't happen to go for other girls.” She was irritated now. Diane was rather homophobic, for one thing.

“Well, that's no big deal,” her strange boyfriend told her. “Nicki ain't a girl, she's a guy.'

She knew as he spoke that it was true. “Oh, sure,” she said again. The damn thunder was making her jumpy. And now THIS dumb scene. “Listen, I think I wanna go home. Would you mind?” She thought of the woman's face. The jawline. Mannish in profile.

“I don't think she believes us, Nick. Are you gaffed?” The slim woman beside her shook her head. “Pull up your skirt, doll. Show Princess Di what you have between those lovely legs.'

“Come on,” she told him. “This isn't funny ... JESUS!” She jumped out of bed. Nauseated. Shocked. Nicki's long, dark penis lay across her thigh. Diane was horrified. “GOD!'

“See?'

“Get away from me.'

“Okay. Okay.” He got her gentled down after Nicki left the room.

“He's a MORPHIDITE!” She was in a chair across the room looking at the bed where the man still lay, his paralyzed legs stretched out in front of him.

“Noooo. I believe the correct phrase is preoperative transvestite, but, you know, if she makes you nervous —'