“Somewhat melodramatic, isn't it?”
“Scatch the surface of Byron and what're you left with but melodrama? I'm telling you this poisoner thinks of himself as the lone man standing against the machine of society, the establishment, the human condition, you name it.”
“That is remarkable. You've gotten all that from the victim photos?”
“Copies actually, but yes. Eriq faxed 'em to me. But I really need to see the originals, lay my hands on the real deal. Parry's told me that can be arranged.”
Over the phone line, Jessica heard Kim's hands thumbing through papers. “Let me read you what we have so far from the killer. It's known that this fellow left behind flowers and wine along with the poems. Some task-force members think these may be offerings, keepsakes for the deceased to take to the other side with them.”
Jessica took a moment to listen intently to the poetic lines, nodding as she did so. When Kim had finished, she said, “You may be onto something here, Kim.”
“Aside from the classic feel of the poems, the killer's… I don't know… writing to the gods, the fates, the angels, as well as to the victims he dispatches, but he's not directing a word to anyone in authority, anyone, say, like you or me…
Jessica asked, “What're you saying?”
“He's not at all interested in us. His poems are an homage to the victims, what you'd call…”
“Eulogies?”
“Exactly.”
“That is a new wrinkle. A guy kills you and then writes your eulogy.”
“Loves to write your epitaph on your corpus delecti,” Kim quipped. “Really would like to get my hands on the originals.”
Jessica knew what she meant. Kim was a psychometrist: she “read” information from the objects a victim or a killer handled. She had received vivid images both in the New Orleans case and in the Houston case merely by handling objects belonging to the victims.
“Want to feel the originals, don't you? But that means laying your hands on the bodies in Philadelphia.”
“Hands-on, right. One reason I need to go there. I want you to hear another of the poems. Listen to this one, Jess.”
Kim read the lines the killer had penned, the lines that had killed one of his victims:
Chance… whose desire is to have a meeting with stunned innocence.. and to tell it again; luminescent green is the color of the script, and ice-blue hues embrace the images.
They make skin crawl with miniature electric devotions, huddled and yearning, hushed whispers waiting on the shadow of a flickering light.
“Whew… pretty heavy shit,” Jessica remarked, unsure what to say. “The Philly detectives think the killer is working out of some sense of pity for his victims. Maybe he sees his murders as an act of mercy.”
“Yeah, I got that much from Eriq. But this sounds like a type of mercy killer we haven't seen before.”
“Mercy killer, maybe… that is, we only know that Philly PD has characterized him as such. Seems the fellow kills his victims after sharing wine, cheese, and a laying-on of a deadly pen.”
“Wine and cheese I get, but what kind of pen is he using?”
“Something around the turn of the century or a couple, few years before. Definitely dips the thing, as he's left drops of poisonous ink stains on bedclothes and floor. From the depth of the cuts, it's been surmised that the delivery system is sharp.”
“ 'Cutting edge' long before high tech adopted the word?” suggested Jessica, wincing. “Sounds painful.”
“Not if you're knocked out on booze. Bread and wine. wine and cheese, sometimes pizza; point is, they spend a long and pleasant evening together, killer and victim, ending with a bit of poison-a poison, by the way, that continues to defy analysis. No one seems to be able to agree on its properties or give it a name. And as a final touch, his victims appear to sit for the poetic writing, er… killing, willingly.”
“Persuasive guy, this Shakespeare. What kind of profile do they have on him?”
“Mixed bag. Not even sure he's a he; could just as well be a female killer, given the choice of weapons. As to the victims, two women, one man, all young, all into New Age thinking and beliefs, all living in an area that's gone ape-shit for this new craze of 'living poetry,' and curiously enough no other tattoos or nose rings or tongue piercings found on the vies.”
“Conservative about how they used their bodies, but all talked into doing the body-writing thing,” Jessica mused.
“Save for that, their ages, the fact that they appear to have been easily beguiled, and their close geographical proximity to one another and to the clubs, they have little in common.”
“Sounds like an unusual victim type.”
“Well, this guy in Philly-or woman-his or her poetics are different.”
“Do you get a sense that maybe it's a woman, Kim? And what exactly do you mean by different, huh? How so?”
“I don't know for sure, but one thing's certain: it's a gentle person, feminine, I suspect, in many ways. At the same time I'm getting this singularly masculine word insinuating itself on any reading I do.”
“What word is that?”
“It's paradoxical, just the opposite of femininity.”
“What's the word, Kim?”
“Rampage.”
“Rampage? As in kill spree rampage?”
“All I know is the word keeps coming through loud and clear.”
“Hardly a gentle, feminine word.”
“Precisely… so… how am I to be sure of the gender of the poet?”
“Maybe it's coming through from somewhere else? The victims, maybe?”
“I don't know… yet. But rampage keeps forcing itself into my readings.”
“Maybe it has some symbolic meaning, then?”
“Maybe it's a quiet rampage, like a personal quest.”
“Rampage… quest…” Jessica muttered. “You think?”
“The word quirk or quark is also coming through, along with a number.”
“What number?”
“Nineteen… means nothing in and of itself, but I get it strong and clear.” Jessica bit her lip. “Let's hope that's not a preset number of victims he's planning to sacrifice.“I can't say one way or the other, not really.”
“What do you think of the poetry itself?” asked Jessica.
“I believe the poetry is original. Nothing else like it in my experience, and the killer is definitely sending a message of some sort.”
Jessica thought of her parting words with Eriq Santiva earlier. He had left the ball in her court, saying she must decide by eleven p.m. and that hour had come and gone. Now Kim sat perched on the phone with her, doing all she could to persuade her to take on the case. Had Santiva sicked Kim onto her? Kim's words even sounded like Santiva's, as she ended with, “So, Jess, are you in or out? Do you want to have a look into this or not? I leave the decision up to you.”
Yes, Kim sounded as if she were reading lines from Santiva's script. “Eriq put you up to this phone call, didn't he?” Jessica wanted her to admit it. If she did, then perhaps there was no cause for alarm; if she denied it, then there must surely be.
“What, I can't call a dear friend and beg her help?”
Both women knew that if Jessica took on the case, it would be for two reasons: her unquenchable curiosity as a forensic scientist, and the need for closure on a long-term relationship.
“Well, all right, Jess. Eriq and I discussed it from top to bottom, and we both feel that you're the best person for the task, and frankly, I'm not sure I'm going without you.”
“I'll see you at the airstrip at six a.m. tomorrow, Kim.”
“Good… good. Would you like me to inform Eriq?”
“That's your call.”
“My call?”
