For all cops, the specter of weight gain loomed large, due to the hours, the pressure, the ease of living a fast-food life. Not to mention the booze. For women cops, it was worse. She had known many fellow female officers who had entered the force a size four and left a twelve or fourteen. It was one of the reasons she had gotten into boxing in the first place. The steel mesh of discipline.
Of course, as soon as these thoughts crossed her mind, she caught the aroma of warm pastries wafting down the escalator from the cafe on the second floor. Time to go.
She had to meet up with Terry Cahill in a few minutes. They were going to canvass the coffee shops and lunch counters near Stephanie Chandler's office building. Pending identification of the Actor's second victim, it was all they had going.
Near the checkout counters on the main floor of the bookstore she saw a tall, freestanding rack of books labeled LOCAL INTEREST. Displayed were a number of volumes about Philadelphia, mostly small-press editions covering the city's history, attractions, colorful citizens. There was one title that jumped out at her:
Gods of Mayhem: A History of Murder in Cinema.
The book was about crime film and its various motifs and themes, from black comedies like Fargo to classic noir movies such as Double Indemnity to bizarre fare like Man Bites Dog.
Aside from the title, what caught Jessica's eye was the short blurb about the author. A man named Nigel Butler, PhD, professor of film studies at Drexel University.
By the time she reached the door she was on her cell phone. FOUNDED IN 1891, Drexel University was located on Chestnut Street in West Philadelphia. Among its eight colleges and three schools was the highly respected College of Media Arts and Design, which also included a screenwriting program.
According to the brief biography on the back of the book, Nigel Butler was forty-two, but he looked much younger in person. The man in the author photo had a salt-and-pepper beard. The man in the black suede blazer in front of her was clean-shaven, and that seemed to take a decade off his appearance.
They met in his small, book-filled office. The walls were lined with well-framed movie posters from the 1930s and '40s, mostly noir: Criss Cross, Phantom Lady, This Gun for Hire. There were also a number of eight-by-ten head shots of Nigel Butler as Tevye, Willy Loman, King Lear, Ricky Roma.
Jessica introduced herself and Terry Cahill. She took the lead in the questioning.
'This is about the video killer case, isn't it?' Butler asked.
They had kept most of the details of the Psycho killing from the press, but a story had run in the Inquirer that the police were investigating a bizarre homicide that someone had filmed.
'Yes, sir,' Jessica said. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions, but I want your assurance that I can count on your discretion.'
'Absolutely,' Butler said.
'I'd appreciate it, Mr. Butler.'
'Actually, it's Dr. Butler, but please call me Nigel.'
Jessica gave him a basic background on the case, including the discovery of the second tape, leaving out the more gruesome details, as well as anything that might compromise the investigation. Butler listened the whole time, his face impassive. When she was finished, he asked: 'What can I do to help?'
'Well, we're trying to get a handle on why he is doing this, and where this might be going.'
'Of course.'
Jessica had been wrestling with a notion since she had first seen the Psycho tape. She decided to just ask. 'Is someone making snuff movies here?'
Butler smiled, sighed, shook his head.
'Did I say something funny?' Jessica asked.
'I'm sorry,' Butler said. 'It's just that, of all the urban legends, the legend of the snuff movie is probably the most stubborn.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean they don't exist. Or at least, I've never seen one. Nor has any of my colleagues.'
'Are you saying that this is something you would watch if given the opportunity?' Jessica asked, hoping her tone wasn't as judgmental as she felt.
Butler seemed to think about this for a few moments before answering. He sat on the edge of the desk. 'I've written four books on film, Detective. I've been a film buff my whole life, ever since my mother dropped me off at the movies in 1974 to see Benji.'
Jessica was appropriately surprised. 'You're saying that Benji started a lifelong scholarly interest in film?'
Butler laughed. 'Well, I saw Chinatown instead. I've never been the same.' He pulled a pipe out of a rack on the desk, started the pipe smoker's ritual: cleaning, filling, tamping. He filled it, got a coal going. The aroma was sweet. 'I was an alternative-press film critic for years, seeing five to ten movies a week, from the sublime artistry of Jacques Tati, to the indescribable banality of Pauly Shore. I own sixteen-millimeter prints of thirteen of what I consider to be the best fifty films ever made, and I'm nearing the purchase of number fourteen-Jean-Luc Godard's Weekend, in case you were wondering. I'm a big fan of French New Wave and a hopeless Francophile.' Butler puffed his pipe, continued. 'I once sat through all fifteen hours of Berlin Alexanderplatz, and the director's cut of JFK, which just seemed like fifteen hours. I have a daughter studying acting. If you were to ask me if there was a short film I would not watch, based on its subject matter, just for the experience, I would have to say no.'
'Regardless of the subject matter,' Jessica said, glancing at the photo on Butler's desk. In it, Butler stood at the foot of a stage with a smiling teenaged girl.
'Regardless of the subject matter,' Butler echoed. 'To me, and if I may speak for my colleagues, it is not necessarily about the subject of the film or the style or motif or theme, it is basically about the committing of light to celluloid. The fact that it was done and it remains. I don't think too many film scholars would call John Waters' Pink Flamingos art, but it remains an important artifact.'
Jessica tried to absorb this. She wasn't sure she was ready to accept the possibilities of such a philosophy. 'So you're saying there's no such thing as a snuff film.'
'No,' he said. 'But every so often a mainstream Hollywood film will come along, stoking the fire, and the legend is reborn.'
'Which Hollywood films are you talking about?'
'Well, 8MM for one,' Nigel said. 'And then there was that silly exploitation film Snuff from the midseventies. I think the main difference between the concept of a snuff film and what you're describing to me is that what you're describing to me could hardly be classified as erotic.'
Jessica was incredulous. 'And a snuff movie is?'
'Well, according to legend-or at least in the simulated brand of snuff film that has actually been produced and released-there are certain adult-film conventions.'
'For instance.'
'For instance, there is usually a teenaged girl or boy and a character that dominates them. There is generally a rough sexual element, a good deal of hard S and M. What you're talking about seems to be a different pathology altogether.'
'Meaning?'
Butler smiled again. 'I teach film studies, not abnormal psych.'
'Can you glean anything from the choice of films?' Jessica asked.
'Well, Psycho would seem an obvious choice. Too obvious, in my opinion. Every time there is a top one hundred horror film list compiled, it always places near the top, if not the top. I believe it shows a lack of imagination on this… madman's part.'
'And what about Fatal Attraction?'
'An interesting leap. The films are twenty-seven years apart. One is considered horror, the other is a rather mainstream thriller.'
'What would you choose?'
'You mean, if I were advising him?'
'Yes.'
Butler sat on the edge of the desk. Academics loved academic exercise. 'Great question,' he said. 'Off the top of my head I would say, if you really wanted to get creative about all this-staying in the horror genre, although
