PA, and here the motif was a weird and wonderful fantasyland, a “Middle Earth” kind of place where gnomes and hobgoblins of all sizes and shapes and misshapes, wart-covered or otherwise, resided. The tables were toadstools and tree stumps, decorated lavishly with the carved faces of gnomes and other strange creatures, as were the walls. The ceiling was plastered with the stars and the planets, and vines hung everywhere from this mini- firmament. The place was dark and the music loud. Jessica and Kim found themselves surrounded by the faces of the youth of present-day Second Street. Many of them called to mind the victims the FBI women had spent so much time with at the morgue. All around them the laughing, smiling, whooping faces of teens, male and female, many of the same sex making public their absolute affection for one another.
Jessica said over the pounding of the music meant to warm up the crowd, “Do you realize that you and I are the only two people in here who have any idea what an LP record album looks like?”
“Only albums they know about are photo albums. Face it, they're too young to have a notion about the meaning of the term broken record,” Kim agreed.
“They've never played Pac-Man, and have never heard of Pong.”
“They're too young to remember the space shuttle explosion or Tienemen Square.”
“The Day After is a pill to them, not a movie, and if you asked the average teen today what polio is, he'd say a designer shirt for old farts. As for Cold War fears, forget it.”
“On the other hand, they've grown up with the specter of AIDS,” countered Kim.
“Most of the people here were likely born in 1980 or '81.”
Their mood had significantly soured; they continued to drink. But everything changed after midnight when suddenly the stage mike was taken over by a series of “living poems” who showed off their bodies and the poetry that had been written on them. Jessica watched in awe and sadness as the poems' authors just offstage read the lyrical lines from the gyrating bodies. One of the dangers had style-possibly a moonlighting stripper, Jessica thought. While some patrons appeared genuinely interested in this peculiar brand of art, the art-for-art's-sake crowd, others jeered. Still, applause and laughter won out at the end of each performance, but for Jessica and Kim, the event only dampened their spirits.
As they watched the show, eyes wide, Jessica told Kim, “This is so bizarre, so unusual. I'd never heard of this weird fad, or the urban legend that spawned it before arriving here.”
Another round of walking, undulating “poems” took the stage. While some in the audience howled and commented on the body parts of the naked men and women parading by, others tapped with spoons and forks against glasses to show their appreciation. Still others took photographs.
Jessica took note of one poem in particular, whispering into Kim's ear how it reminded her of their killer's handiwork. She listened to the lines with fascination, knowing she must collar the kid with these words on her back before she disappeared, to learn who had created them, and fearing the young woman might well be next in line for the Poet Killer.
She relayed her fears to Kim, who said, “I agree, although her body size and appearance are at odds with the androgynousness of the other victims, and with as many drinks as we've had-”
“No, this is close, real close,” Jessica disagreed.
They had listened intently as the poem was read, and the performer continued to dance long after, giving Jessica the opportunity to study the lines further. The poem read:
Your feathered wings enclose me by day, just as the velvet leather of my embracing finds you at midnight- where the divine heels disturb waves of fallen leaves.
Look at me…
I am the helpless lover, drowned in the sanguine lotion of your touch, directly before, a moment during, and even after my death. Now I am the crystal air, still, perpetual- melting into wind so that I may touch you forever.
Jessica stood and approached the young woman, who stood putting her top back on at the foot of the stage. Jessica didn't flash her badge or announce herself, but rather simply asked, “May I know the poet's name?”
“It's Dontella Leare. She's a great poet. I took a class with her. She's simply inspiring.” The young ash-blond woman beamed. “You liked the performance?”
“It was the best of the evening.”
“So far, you mean,” she replied. “There's more.”
Another young person, a male this time, had already claimed the stage. “This poet Leare, she teaches at the University of Philadelphia?”
“That's right. If you can't afford to take her class or don't have the time, the bookstore's got all her work. She's a successful poet, an amazing feat in a society that devalues poetry.”
“Aren't you afraid of, you know, becoming one of the victims of the Poet Killer, the poisoner?”
“No, not so long as I stick with Donatella; it's kind of like sticking with one lover if you're afraid of AIDS… kinda.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Jessica asked the young woman her name and where she might contact her.
“Is this a pickup?” the girl asked.
“No, no… sorry, I failed to introduce myself fully. I'm Dr. Jessica Coran, FBI medical examiner, and I'm part of the task force looking into the Second Street poisonings.”
“You're a cop?” the girl almost shouted.
“A doctor, actually.”
“Well, you're looking in the wrong place. No one here could do such a thing as what happened to those kids, certainly not Donatella Leare.”
“I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, and do be careful.”
“Like I told you, one poet only touches my backside.” The sexual innuendo in the remark was clearly meant to leave Jessica in no doubt as to the relationship between poet and “poem.”
Kim had watched the conversation with mounting interest, doing her best to read their lips. When Jessica returned to the table, she told Kim all the details.
“Hard to believe, isn't it?”
“What?”
“This whole scene, this whole new thing kids have come up with, and now some maniac using it as a weapon to kill them.”
“Body art, piercings, now writing on the body. In a way, it's like a natural next step, an evolution of the tattoo, going from image to language, whole communications, even artistic ones. Unfortunately, there's a lot of chaff in the wheat.”
“Like trying to find a truly good horror novel amid the crap?” Jessica asked.
“Yeah, like that.”
“It still boggles my mind that anyone would endure so much pain for some idea about art.”
“People who can't create great art have always opted to be the doormat for those who can,” replied Kim, slurring her words a bit. “Look at Picasso's women.”
“So why does all this body stuff come as such a surprise to me?”
“You can't be expected to keep up with all the fads,” Kim said. “I saw a feature on it on MTV not too long ago.”
Jessica blinked. “You watch MTV?”
“On occasion, sure.”
“You're full of surprises.”
“The big surprise is that someone would take a fad and turn it into serial murders,” Kim countered.
“Let's get out of here,” Jessica suggested. “The noise is getting to me.”
“Headache?”
“Getting there, yes.”
Walking back to the hotel, Jessica thought of how proud she should feel, having faced James Parry and made her position clear. Neither she nor Kim had spoken a word about the dismal state of the case. Tonight, the subject had almost been taboo, but in the face of the performances they'd witnessed at Hobgoblins amp; Gnomes PA, discussion was inevitable. Still, they had managed to stay off die subject of men, despite having to fend off advances, some from young men half their age, all evening long. When men approached them, they declined each offer of a drink, causing more than one of the barroom Casanovas to believe that the two beautiful women were
