Incubi

Some leads, Jack thought, smoking. His drink kept beckoning him. He felt Dr. Panzram was right about Charlie, and she was probably right about Jack. He’d like nothing more than to down the rest of his Fiddich and order another — no, two more at once — but to do so would make him afraid of what she’d conclude of him. Without pretense, then, the words tolled: I’m an alcoholic.

“If I didn’t feel secure in what I’ve told you, then I wouldn’t tell you,” she said over her mussels. Each one she delicately removed with her fork, inspected, then consumed. The shelled mussels looked like little vaginas. “I’ve seen all kinds, for the last twenty-two years. Charlie’s definitely different, but he’s just as easy to type as a hebephrenic or hallucinotic. You can trust my speculations. The majority of my conclusions, though are graphological.”

“You mean the writing on the walls,” Jack said.

“Not the writing itself, but how he wrote it. You can tell as much about someone from one writing sample as six months of psychotherapy. I’m sure you’ve deduced from the bloodfall and entrance wounds that Charlie is left- handed.”

“Sure. A majority of sex killers are. So what?”

“You can also tell he’s left-handed by how he inscribed the symbols, the letters, and the triangle. You’d be surprised how objective the human mind can be when analyzed comparatively. Different types of people tend to do the same types of things whey they externalize themselves. Our graphological references are quite accurate. Tell a patient to draw a house, and what he’s really drawing is an aspect of his subconscious. Have a patient write the alphabet, and you see the insides of all his feelings, what he loves, what he hates, and so on. I can’t drop Charlie into a neat psych category for you, but I can tell you all about him, comparatively, simply by the way he draws and writes.”

“I’m all ears,” Jack said. And all mouth too, which I’d really like to fill with Scotch.

“Writing is an equiposture of consciousness, subconsciousness, and mental structure. And that’s the most important part from your end — his creative revelations.”

“Huh?”

“The letters and symbols aren’t as much written as formed. They were applied quickly but with great accuracy. The angles of the symbols, and especially the triangle, are almost perfect, as though he used a compass to outline them. Would you like some?”

“Huh?”

She pushed the plate of mussels toward him. A dozen little vaginas peered up through their shells. Some even had tiny beards.

“No thanks,” Jack said. “I gotta drive.”

Karla Panzram smiled. “That’s interesting, Captain. Something about mussels distresses you. Hmm. I wonder what that could be.”

“Fear of female genitals, right? I’m not afraid of women, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Oh, but you are, Captain. Women terrify you, because you get lost in them. You’re very passionate too.”

“Like Charlie?”

“Oh, no. Your sense of passion is much more primitive—”

“Thanks.”

“—but much more real. However, you’re afraid to let your passion out, because you’re afraid it will disorient you. You’re afraid of rejection. You’ve been recently rejected, haven’t you?”

Jack lit another Camel and sighed smoke. “I like you, Dr. Panzram. You’re smart, and I admire you. But I hate it — and pardon my French — I fucking hate it when people try to analyze me.”

“I know you do, Captain.” She forked another mussel, daintily plucking its bread with her fingers.

“You were saying something about the structure of the symbols and the triangle. Accuracy.”

“Oh, yes. It could be of no investigative significance at all, but Charlie’s very creatively inclined. He may be an artist.”

He’s an artist, all right, Jack added. And that was a hell of a piece of artwork he left in that apartment.

“That’s all I have for you now,” she said. “When you get more, send it to me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“I appreciate that.”

Karla Panzram was tapped out. She was a very strong woman; dealing with people who didn’t want to help themselves wasn’t as bad as dealing with people who couldn’t. It made Jack think again of what Craig had said, about taking things for granted.

When the meal — which she’d consumed completely, double-baked potato included — was done, Jack reached for the check, but she snatched it up first. “This is not a county tab, Captain. Shame on you for lying to me.”

“Hey, I lie to women all the time.”

“You feel emasculated when a woman pays?”

“Pay the goddamn tab, Dr. Panzam. You can pay my phone bill too, if you want, but that wouldn’t make my balls feel any smaller.”

Karla Panzram laughed out loud. As they were leaving, she said, “Forgive me for toying with you, Captain. You’re a moving target. Did you know that?”

Jack lit another Camel. “A moving target for what?”

“A woman’s psychology. We’re all devils on the inside.”

“Do you hear me arguing?”

But on West Street she turned serious. She looked at him almost dolefully. “I’m worried about you, Captain Cordesman. If you decide you need some help — and I don’t mean with the Triangle case — please call me.”

She left him at the corner walk, disappearing like an angel — or like a ghost — into the glare of midday sun.

Chapter 7

“Meat racks!” Ginny whispered.

“Shhh!”

The two figures stepped through the foyer. “Ah,” Erim Khoronos said. “Here they are now.” He turned from the bar, pouring glasses of spring water. “Marzen, Gilles, it’s my pleasure to introduce our guests, Ms. Virginia Thiel and Ms. Veronica Polk.”

Veronica felt an itch of rage. Why didn’t he introduce me first? she thought as a child might. But Ginny was right. These guys were…gorgeous.

Standing before them were two tall handsome young men in identical baggy white slacks and sleeveless T- shirts. Marzen had long blond hair; Gilles’ was black and cut like a marine’s. Veronica’s gaze felt immobile on them, and she could sense Ginny’s dopey man-grin. Both men were well-muscled and well-tanned.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Marzen said, shaking hands. His hand was large, rough. His accent sounded German.

“We’re happy you can be with us,” Gilles added. A French accent, obviously. His hand was softer, more delicate.

Veronica raced for something to say but found nothing.

“See to their bags,” Khoronos said.

Marzen and Gilles left.

Shit! Veronica thought.

“Shit!” Ginny whispered.

“Marzen and Gilles are my charges,” Khoronos said. “I think of them as sons.”

“They seem very nice,” Ginny said. “How did you meet them?”