One cabinet held a collection of penis sheaths, including the nightmare that had killed Margaretta and Faith. A water blaster and a steam cleaner sat in one closet, another held rubber mattress covers, linens, cotton blankets. A large supermarket chest freezer sat against one wall; Carmine opened it to reveal an immaculate interior.
“He discarded all the linen and covers after each victim,” Patrick said, lips pinched together.
“Look at this, Patsy,” Carmine said, flipping a curtain.
Someone called down the stairs. “Lieutenant, we know who the victim is! Delice Martin, a boarder at Stella Maris Catholic girls’ school.”
“So he didn’t need a car,” Carmine said to Patrick. “Stella Maris is only half a mile away. He carried the girl across his shoulders all the way back.”
“Drawing attention to himself, grabbing a victim so close to Ponsonby Lane” was Patrick’s comment.
“In one way, yes, but in another, no. He knew we had all the Huggers pinned down, so why should it be him? To the end, he believed the tunnel was his secret. Now will you come and look at this, Patsy?
Carmine pulled an ironed white satin curtain aside to show an alcove lined in polished white marble. An altarlike table held two silver candlesticks with unburned white candles in them, as if something was to be deposited on a silver platter that stood atop an exquisitely embroidered cloth. A sacrifice.
On the wall above were four shelves, each of the top two supporting six heads; two more heads sat on the third, and the fourth was empty. The heads were not frozen. They were not in jars of formalin. They had been immersed in clear plastic the way gift shops sold beautiful butterflies.
“He had problems with the hair,” said Patrick, clenching his fists to stop his hands trembling. “You can see how much better he gets with practice. Painfully slow, those first six heads! A clamp to hold the head upside down in his mold while he poured a little plastic in, let it set, poured some more in. He made a breakthrough on the seventh head – probably devised a way to get the hair as hard as concrete. Then he could fill the mold in one pour. I’d like to know how he dealt with anaerobic decay, but I’d be willing to bet that he removed the brains, maybe filled the cranial cavity with a formalin gel. Under that tasteful gold foil frill, the necks are sealed off.” Patrick retched suddenly, controlled himself with an effort. “I feel sick.”
“I know liquid plastic is prohibitively expensive, but I thought it didn’t work for specimens this large,” Carmine said. “Yet even Rosita Esperanza’s head looks in good condition.”
“It doesn’t much matter what the textbooks or manufacturers say. These fourteen contradictions tell us that Charles Ponsonby was a master of the technique. Besides, the mold is snug, not much bigger than the head. A quart of plastic would be too much.”
“Turn your talismans into butterflies.”
The two technicians had come to look, but not for long; it would be their job to take down each head, box it for evidence. But only after every inch of the place had been photographed, sketched and catalogued.
“Let’s have a look in the bathroom,” Patrick suggested.
“He brought Delice Martin in,” Carmine said after looking, “tossed her on the bed, then came in here and showered. That’s what he wore to abduct her.”
It was a black rubber diving suit of the kind worn by those who didn’t go deep – thin, light. Ponsonby had removed its colored stripes and bands, dulled its gloss. A pair of heelless, smooth-soled rubber boots stood on the floor primly together, and a pair of thin black rubber gloves were folded neatly on a stool.
“Supple,” said Carmine, flexing one of the boots between his gloved hands. “A failed researcher he may be, but as a killer Ponsonby is phenomenal.” He replaced the boot exactly.
They walked back into the main room, where Paul and Luke had begun the photography; they would be days and days on the many tasks Patrick would call for.
“The heads are all the evidence we need to charge him with fourteen counts of murder,” Carmine said, closing the curtain. “Funny, in a way, that he kept them so prominently displayed, but it doesn’t seem to have occurred to him that anyone would ever find this place. Ponsonby will fry. Or else he’ll get fourteen consecutive life sentences. I hope our Ghost dies in prison, abused every single day by every other inmate. How they’ll hate him!”
“It’s a good thought, but you know as well as I do that the warden will isolate him.”
“Yeah, a pity, but true. I just want him to suffer, Patsy. What’s death, but an eternal sleep? And what’s isolation in a prison, but the chance to read books?”
Chapter 28
For reasons he didn’t want to explore, Wesley le Clerc could never think of himself as Ali el Kadi in his aunt’s house. So it was Wesley le Clerc who dragged himself out of his bed at six o’clock; Tante Celeste insisted that he do. Having spread his mat and prayed, he went to the bathroom for what he called his four S’s – shampoo, shower, shave and shit.
Mohammed’s rally was all together, and, anyway, Mohammed said he was to be a model Parson Surgical Supplies employee as well as his Hug spy. At Wesley’s workplace he had moved on from Halstead mosquito forceps to instruments for microsurgery, and his supervisor was talking about some special training that would enable Wesley to improve or even invent instruments. With the federal government leaning hard on equal-opportunity employment, a gifted black worker was precious in more ways than mere excellence; he or she was a statistic to keep Congress at bay. None of which mattered to the frustrated Wesley, who burned to strike a blow for his people
Otis was just leaving for the Hug when Wesley walked into the kitchen. Tante Celeste was manicuring her nails, which she kept long, crimson and rather pointed to emphasize her slender, tapered fingers. The radio was blaring; she turned it off and got up to serve Wesley his breakfast of orange juice, cornflakes and wholemeal toast.
“They caught the Connecticut Monster,” she remarked, smoothing margarine on the toast.
Wesley’s spoon plopped into the sloppy cereal, splashed the table. “They what?” he asked, wiping up the milk before she saw what he’d done.
“They caught the Connecticut Monster about fifteen minutes ago. It’s all over the news, they haven’t even played a song yet.”
“Who is he, a Hugger?”
“They didn’t say.”
He reached to turn the radio on. “So I’m bound to hear about it now?”
“I guess so.” She returned to her nails.
Wesley listened to the bulletin with bated breath, scarcely able to believe his ears. Though the Monster’s identity had not been revealed, WHMN was in a position to know that he was a senior professional medical man, and that there was a female accomplice. The two would be appearing before Judge Douglas Thwaites in the Holloman district court at 9 A.M. today for arraignment and the fixing of bail.
“Wes? Wes?
“Huh? Yeah, Tante?”
“You okay? Not gonna pass out on me, are you? One bad heart in the family is enough.”
“No, no, Tante, I’m fine, honest.” He pecked her on the cheek and went to his room to don his floppiest jacket, gloves, a knitted cap. Though it was a sunny day, the temperature wasn’t very much above freezing.
When he arrived at 18 Fifteenth Street he found Mohammed and his six intimates in a panicked huddle; three days were all they had to reorganize the theme of the rally, somehow make capital out of this unexpected development. Who could ever have dreamed that those incompetent pigs would make an arrest?
With a sheepish, apologetic smile Wesley slipped past them and entered what Mohammed referred to as his “meditation room.” To Wesley it looked more like an arsenal, its walls smothered in racks that held shotguns, machine guns and automatic rifles; the handguns were stored in a number of metal cabinets that had once resided in a gun store, their drawers specifically designed for handgun display. Boxes of ammunition stood on the floor in high stacks wherever there was room.
