office on the ninth floor of a peeling, half-deserted medical high rise at the corner of Pico and Bundy, south and west of West Hollywood. The office was done in the Jung Moderne style favored by psychiatrists everywhere: industrial furniture, a battered leather couch, and spiky seventies abstracts on the wall. Some of them seemed to be made of stretched and pasted yarn, a medium that, for me, at least, ranks right up there with tempera on black velvet.
Friday afternoon had rolled around at last, bringing the promise of a more than usually stifling weekend, and the office’s unwashed windows offered a daunting view of traffic clogging both streets in all four directions. Dirty sunlight highlighted Schultz’s really remarkable nose as he ran a finger down the page to check his memory and then glanced up at me. “This is between us, right?”
“Right.” I’d assured him it was confidential four or five times when I’d called him the day before, as soon as I was sure Spurrier was gone, but Schultz was a cautious man.
He went on being cautious. “Who’s your client?”
It was a good question. I’d turned down the five hundred dollars Christy had offered me to go talk to Max, and no one had mentioned money since. “I suppose you could say I’m working for the victim.” Another freebie for Max.
He nodded automatically, glanced down at the list, and then heard what I’d said. His head stayed down but his eyes came back to me. “How’s he going to pay you?”
“Think of it as pro bono. And don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have anything to do with keeping this talk confidential. Treat me like a patient.”
“Might not be a bad idea,” he said, keeping a lemon-yellow forefinger in place on the page. “A little introspection might do you some good.”
This was getting to be a familiar theme. “I’m not interesting enough to think about for any length of time.”
“You have no idea,” he said, giving me the teeth again. Fluorescent light gleamed on his skull. “You’re a locked box, Simeon, and that’s not healthy.”
“Five, you said?” I asked, trying not to sound impatient.
Schultz looked disappointed. “Counting the man here, the new one. I’m assuming they were all killed by the same person.” He drummed his fingers on the desk and then realized that the gesture had cost him his place. “Why aren’t you married?” he asked, searching for it.
“Norbert,” I said, “there’s already a small caucus working on that issue. Is there any reason to think it might not be the same person?”
“Always a possibility,” he said. “But there hasn’t been much press on this guy, so a copycat isn’t very likely.”
“Why hasn’t there been much press?”
He stabbed the paper with the yellow finger and made a grimace of distaste. “A good reason and a bad one. The bad one is that the press isn’t much interested in what happens in the gay community. The good reason is that this clown wants press. And the kind of press he wants, most papers don’t want to give.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve had enough enigmatic this week to last me a year.”
“Well, he’s essentially trying to kill them twice.”
“Norbert, are you getting metaphysical on me?”
He opened the desk drawer and took out a pack of Benson amp; Hedges to replace the empty he’d just tossed in the wastebasket and tapped it twice against the back of the hand splayed across the page. “Nah. It’s perfectly obvious. First he kills them the conventional way, always by beating, followed by an amputation with something sharp-” He paused to pull at the cellophane with his teeth.
“A carpet cutter,” I said.
His eyes came up, looking interested, and then he went cross-eyed as he lit up. “Could be. Sharp but not very long. That’s indicative right there because it means he carries his tools with him, the mark of a real obsessive. Not that there’s much doubt about that, considering the amount of effort he expends.”
“You were telling me about that.”
Schultz blew smoke at me without thinking about it, and then fanned it away apologetically. “He set the pattern with the first one,” he said over a stream of smoke. The printout claimed his attention. “This is a little more than two years ago. Victim was in his fifties, a college teacher, living in Chicago. They all live in big cities, all come from smaller ones. All leading, as novelists used to like to say, double lives. At home, they’re straight. In the city, they’re openly gay.”
“How many cities?”
“Three. Chicago, New Orleans, Los Angeles.”
“You said there were five.”
He showed me his lower teeth this time, the worst ones, drawing them over his upper lip. It made him look like a shrunken head. “We’ll get to that. Anyway, he killed the guy, although that’s an understatement. First he kicked him to death, and then he cut him open from groin to sternum. One swipe, clean as a razor.” I thought of the sound the cutter had made as it slit the blankets, and something small and cold stirred in the pit of my stomach. “In fact, they thought it might be a razor at first.”
“Not deep,” I said.
“Not deep. Then he cut off the man’s right hand.” He eyed the cigarette, a gravity-defying tube of ash, and tilted it to the vertical. “Three days later, a reporter at the paper in the victim’s hometown opened his mail and found the index finger, along with some letters and photographs that made it clear what kind of a life the victim had been living in Chicago, and a note suggesting that the newspaper might want to verify the victim’s identity by printing the finger. Clever, huh? The letter went on to suggest that the folks back home might like to read all about it, see what kind of a pervert they’d sent into the world.” He checked the cigarette, too late. “Yipes.” Ash tumbled into his lap.
“If all he sends is the finger, why does he need the whole hand?”
He brushed at his crotch in a panicky way that, in a patient, would have engaged his full attention. “Pardon?”
“Surely it’s easier just to cut off a finger. Why does he take the whole hand?”
Schultz transferred the cigarette to his left hand, holding it Russian-style between his thumb and forefinger. This was an affectation that had once irritated me deeply. “Maybe he’s got a collection,” he said. “That wouldn’t be unusual. You’d be amazed at the things these lunatics keep. They don’t clean out their freezers very often, either.”
“What kind of a note?”
“The new kind, technological anonymity. A laser printer. No way in the world to trace it.”
“He goes to a lot of effort, doesn’t he? First the beating, or kicking, then the hand, then the letter and the finger-”
“And that’s not all. He’s a ball of energy. He gets inside these guys’ houses, inside their lives, before he kills them. He finds out where they’re from, learns that the people back home don’t know they’re gay. He’s probably young, by the way. Not meaning to stereotype, but most of these guys aren’t interested in older men.”
“He’s young,” I said.
“So in a sense,” Schultz said, sounding pleased with himself, “he kills them twice. First he kills them physically, in the big city, and then he sends their remains home and kills their memory there.” A light high on the wall behind him went on, flickered, and went out. That was the second time.
“A bone polisher,” I said.
He paused in the act of lighting a new cigarette off the stub of his old one. “Beg pardon?”
“In Chinese culture, in the old days, when someone died outside China without enough money for his body to be shipped home and buried in the soil of the Middle Kingdom, they’d bury him temporarily wherever he died. Later, when the family had earned enough money, he’d be exhumed and his bones cleaned up to be sent back to China. That was the bone polisher’s job.”
“But that was benign,” Schultz said.
I got a little prickly. “It’s just a metaphor. I’m not claiming perfection.”
“We work in metaphors,” Schultz said loftily, and I caught another glimpse of the man I hadn’t liked. “We take them very seriously.”
“I’m sorry as hell,” I said, “poaching on the linguistic territory of the mental-health profession.”
