Incubi

Olsher sat down and lit an El Producto. Gobs of smoke obscured his face, which Jack was grateful for.

“Word’s going around, Jack.”

“Okay, so I wear a little lingerie on weekends.”

“Word’s going around that Veronica dumped you and you’re falling apart, and that you’re hitting the booze worse than you did after the Longford case.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack said.

Olsher adjusted his paunch in the chair. “County exec’s office calls me today. They say it might be ‘prudent’ to ‘extract’ you from the Triangle case. They don’t want any ‘incongruities’ that might ‘impoverish’ the stature of the department. Then the comm’s liaison calls and says, ‘If that shitfaced walking lawsuit fucks up this case, I’ll have his goddamn balls hanging from my rearview mirror like sponge dice.’”

That’s what I call confidence, Jack thought.

“They want the Triangle case solved quick and clean.”

Jack’s heart slowed. “Don’t take me off it, Larrel.”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you three. One, I’m a Yankees fan. Two, I drink good Scotch, not rail brands. And three, I’m the best homicide investigator on your fucking department.”

“You gonna get this guy?”

“Probably not, but I’ve got a better shot than TSD or the rest of your homicide apes. Christ, Larrel, most of those guys couldn’t investigate their own bowel movements.”

Olsher toked further. Creases in his big, dark face looked like corded suet. “I like you, Jack. Did you know that?”

“Yeah, you wanna hold hands? Kiss, maybe?”

“You’ve crashed in the last year and a half. I think you’re letting the job get to you, and I think this shit with Veronica blew your last seal. I think maybe you should see the shrink.”

“Give me a break,” Jack groaned. He doodled triangles on his blotter. “Why does everyone think I’m a basket case because of a girl?”

“You tell me. And furthermore, you look like shit. You’re paler than a trout belly.”

“Can I help it I wasn’t born black?”

“And your clothes — Christ, Jack. Are wrinkles the new fashion or do you sleep in a cement mixer?”

“I sleep in a cement mixer,” Jack said. “That’s between us.”

“You look worse than some of the skell we lock up.”

“I work the street, Larrel. I work with snitches. How effective would I be with a whitewall and black shoes and white socks?” But then he thought Oops, noting Olsher’s black shoes and white socks.

“You’re not even the same guy anymore,” the DPC went on. “You used to have spark, enthusiasm, and a sense of humor. I just don’t want to see you go down. Everything about you says. ‘I don’t give a shit anymore.’”

This was getting too close to home. Jack felt like a cordon stake being hammered into soil. I’m getting my ass gnawed by my boss, I’m one hair away from reassignment and two away from early retirement, I’ve got a killer who just carved a girl up like lunch meat, and all I can think about is Veronica. Maybe I am a basket case.

Olsher let the moment pass. “What have you got so far?”

“The girl’s not even cold yet,” Jack said. “Give me some time. Eliot’s squad is doing the make, but I don’t think it’ll amount to much. I think she was random.”

“You just told me it was premeditated.”

“The murder, not the victim. The guy’s been planning this. For him, it’s the act. That’s why I think the latents’ll be useless. He left them because he knows they’re not on file. This guy’s not a delusional psychopath or a psychotic. Psychopaths tend to think they’ll never make a mistake, but they always do. This guy won’t.”

“You think he’d do it again?”

“Probably. It depends on the nature of his delusion.”

“You just got done telling me he’s not delusional.”

“That’s not what I meant. He’s delusional. But the crime scene shows someone who’s not psychopathic; he’s what a crime shrink would probably call ‘tripolar.’ He executes his crimes according to his delusion but without losing sight of reality. He’s afraid of getting caught.” Jack paused to light a Camel. “I want to fork my strategies, let Eliot and his guys follow the normal SOPs while I—”

“Go off on the other fork in the road?” Olsher said.

“Right. It works. Remember the Jamake hitter we had a couple years ago? Or the guy at the CES convention who ripped those three hookers? And there’s always the Longford case…”

“I remember. You don’t have to blow your horn for me.”

“Good. I’ll need slush money for consulting fees—”

Olsher winced like gas pains.

“I’ll need a researcher and a forensic shrink, maybe that woman from Perkins. But what I need more than any of that is for you to trust me.”

Olsher rose. No DPC enjoyed the headache of cash authorization; getting it was like standing before a Senate subcommittee. Nevertheless, Olsher said, “You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you? Maybe you do give a shit. So get on it.”

“You’re giving me the case?”

“What do you think, Jack? You’re a ragass. You’re a longhair. You’re probably a drunk. You can’t handle the psychological pressure of the job anymore, and you’re letting a busted romance pull you to pieces. The Yankees are only good because they buy players, and I’ve seen you drink house booze many times. But you probably are the best homicide investigator on my fucking department.”

Jack smiled.

“But don’t make a dick of me on this, or you’ll be the best unemployed homicide investigator…”

“Loud and clear, boss.” Jack crushed out his Camel and lit another. “If I’m lucky — and sometimes I am — I can get a line on this fucker. To catch a killer, you have to know him before you can find him. He can be the smartest killer in the world, but no matter how well he covers his tracks, there’s always one little thing he always leaves behind.”

“What’s that?” Olsher asked.

“His soul.” Jack drew smoke deep into his chest. Red, he thought. In his mind he saw red. “This guy left his soul all over the walls of that girl’s bedroom.”

* * *

It stuck in his mind — a memory more persistent than the others. He didn’t know why then, but he thought he did now. Perhaps it had been the present telling him something about the future, an eager specter whispering in his ear, saying, Listen, Jack. It’s really you they’re talking about. Listen. Listen…

A month ago? Two? He wasn’t sure. They’d gone out to eat somewhere — McGarvey’s, he thought — and then had stopped for a drink at the Undercroft. Veronica seemed particularly content; she was used to their relationship now, comfortable with it. She accepted it as part of her.

Jack, too, was very happy that night. It was a combination of complacencies. He’d just gotten a raise and a letter of commendation. Veronica had just sold two more paintings and had been interviewed by Vanity Fair. Their lives, together, were stable. They were happy, and they were in love.

That was the sum of the combination: love. It was his love that made him happy.

Romantic affection sometimes seemed silly, but that made him happy too. Just holding her hand, or the easy way their knees touched when they sat. How she unconsciously touched him when she talked. These were subtleties, yet they were also anchors, weren’t they? Verifiers. More little pieces of their love.

There’d been many nights like this, but this one stuck out because of something that happened later. As the evening wound down, some guy from the state film institute came in and introduced himself to Veronica. His name — if Jack remembered right — was Ian. He was young and had just graduated from film school; he was currently