To anyone under thirty, as relevant as wax cylinders. The Seville has a different opinion. She’s a ’79 who rumbled out of Detroit a few months before Detroit turned her successors into Bloatmobiles. Fifteen thousand miles on the third engine with an enhanced suspension. Regular oil and filter changes keep her appeased. I retrofitted a CD player years ago, a hands-off phone system recently. But I’ve resisted an MP3 and kept the original tape deck in place because back when I was a grad student tapes were a major luxury and I’ve got lots of them, purchased secondhand back when that mattered.
As I got back in the car, the growling in my head grew thunderous. I’ve seen a lot of bad things and I don’t get that way often but I’m pretty sure where the noise comes from: hiding from my father when he drank too much and decided someone needed to be punished. Blocking the bump-bump of my racing heart with imaginary white noise.
But now I couldn’t turn it off and just as amphetamines quiet a hyperactive mind, my consciousness craved something loud and dark and aggressively competitive.
Thrash metal might’ve been nice but I’d never bought any. I flipped through tapes, found something promising: ZZ Top. Eliminator.
I slipped the tape into the deck, started up the car, resumed the drive home. Covered a block and cranked the music louder.
Minimalistic guitar, truck-engine drum, and ominous synthesizer backup worked pretty well. Then I turned off Sunset and got close to home and the peace and beauty of Beverly Glen, the sinuous silence of the old bridal path leading up to my pretty white house, the prospect of kissing my beautiful girlfriend, patting my adorable dog, feeding the pretty fish in my pond, sparked a sly little voice:
Nice life, huh?
Then: malevolent laughter.
The house was empty and sun-suffused. Wood floors tom-tommed as I trudged to my office and left a collegial message for Dr. Bernhard Shacker. His soft, reassuring, recorded voice promised he’d get back to me as soon as possible. The kind of voice you believed. I made coffee, drank two cups without tasting, went out back and tossed pellets to the koi and tried to appreciate their slurpy gratitude and continued on to the tree-shrouded studio out back.
A saw-buzz sounded through an open window. Beautiful Girlfriend was goggled and masked and brightened by skylights set into the high sloping ceiling as she eased a piece of rosewood through a band saw. Long auburn curls were bunched under a red bandanna. Her hands were coated with purplish dust.
Adorable Dog crouched a few feet away, nibbling on one of the barbecue-sauce-crusted bones Girlfriend prepares for her with customary meticulousness.
Girlfriend smiled, kept her hands working. Dog waddled over and kissed my hand.
The saw rasped as it ate hardwood. Loud, nasty. Good.
I sat with Blanche on my lap until Robin finished working, rubbing a knobby little French bulldog head. Robin switched off the saw, placed the guitar-shaped slab on her worktable, pushed up the goggles, and lowered the mask. She had on red overalls, a black T-shirt, black-and-white Keds.
I placed Blanche on the floor and she followed me to the bench. Robin and I hugged and kissed and she mussed my hair the way I like.
“How’d it go, baby?”
I touched the rosewood. “Nice grain.”
“One of those days?” she said.
How much I talk about cases has always been an issue for us. I’ve progressed from shutting her out completely to parceling the information I think she can handle. Sometimes it works in Milo’s favor because Robin is smart and able to bring in an outsider’s perspective.
As if I’m an insider. I’m not sure what I am.
I said, “Definitely one of those.”
She touched my face. “You’re a little pale. Have you eaten?”
“Bagel before.”
“Want something now?”
“Maybe later.”
“If you change your mind,” she said.
“About food?”
“About anything.”
“Sure.” I kissed her forehead.
She eyed the rosewood. “I guess I should get back to this.”
I said, “Dinner will probably work. Maybe a little on the late side.”
“Sounds good.”
“If you get hungry sooner, I’m flexible.”
“You bet,” she said.
As I turned to leave, she touched my face. Her almond eyes were soft with compassion. “The bad days, long-term planning doesn’t work so well.”
I returned to my office. No call-back from Dr. Shacker. I did some paperwork, paid some bills, got on the computer.
A search of disemboweling and murder pulled up a disquieting mountain of hits: just under a hundred thousand. Nearly all were irrelevant, resulting from the use of both words in complex sentences, song lyrics by deservedly obscure bands, political hyperbole by blogo-simps who’ve never lived with anything worse than a paper cut. (“The current administration is disemboweling civil liberties and committing premeditated murder on personal liberties with the bloody abandon of a serial killer.”)
The literal murders I found were mostly single-victim crimes: stalking outrages fueled by sexual fantasy or long-simmering resentment before building to a starburst of violence that led to mutilation and sometimes cannibalism. The crimes were generally carried out carelessly and solves were quick. In several cases, floridly psychotic suspects turned themselves in. In one instance, an offender dropped a human liver on the desk of a police receptionist and begged to be arrested because he’d done a “bad thing.”
The few open cases were of the historical variety, most notably Jack the Ripper.
The scourge of Whitechapel had engaged in abdominal mutilation and organ theft, but differences outweighed any similarities to the meticulously organized degradation visited upon Vita Berlin.
Vita’s abrasive personality said this could very well be a one-off.
I hoped to God it had nothing to do with the child she’d humiliated.
I surfed a bit more, trying abdominal mutilation, visceral display, intestinal wounds, had gotten nowhere when my service called.
“Dr. Delaware, it’s Louise. A Dr. Shacker just called, returning yours.”
“Thanks.”
“He’s one of you, right? A psychologist.”
“Good guess, Louise.”
“Actually, it’s more than a guess, Dr. Delaware, it’s intuition. I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“We all sound alike?”
“Actually you kind of do,” she said. “No offense, I mean that in a good way. You guys tend to be calm and patient. Surgeons don’t sound like that. Anyway, he seemed like a nice guy. Have a good day, Dr. Delaware.”
A pleasant, boyish voice said, “Bern Shacker.”
“Alex Delaware, thanks for calling back.”
“No problem,” he said. “You said this was about Vita. Does that mean you’re the lucky guy treating her now?”
“I’m afraid no one’s treating her.”
“Oh?”
“She’s been murdered.”
“My God. What happened?”
I gave him the basics.
He said, “That’s dreadful, absolutely dreadful. Murdered… and you’re calling me because…”
