Authors: Kathy Reichs
Great.
“I found a drawing of a woman with her stomach slit and her guts spread out around her. What does that suggest?”
“The Venus de Milo has no arms. G.I. Joe has no dick. What does that mean? Art? Censorship? Sexual deviance? Tough call when seen in a vacuum.”
Silence. What should I tell him?
“Did this drawing come from the St. Jacques gallery?” he asked.
“No.” I found it in my guest room trash. “You said offenders often escalate to higher and higher levels of violence, right?”
“Yeah. At first they might just engage in peeping, or obscene phone calls. Some stay with that, others move on to bigger challenges: self-exposure, stalking, even breaking and entering. For still others that’s not enough; they progress to rape and even murder.”
“So some sexual sadists might not actually be violent?”
“There you go with the sexual sadist business again. But in answer to your question, yes. Some of these guys play out their fantasies in other ways. Some use inanimate objects, or animals, some find consenting partners.”
“Consenting partners?”
“A compliant partner, someone who’ll permit whatever it is the fantasy requires. Subordination, humiliation, even pain. Could be a wife, a girlfriend, someone he pays.”
“A prostitute?”
“Sure. Most prostitutes will do some role playing, within limits.”
“That can defuse violent tendencies?”
“It can as long as she goes along. Same with a wife or girlfriend. It’s often when the compliant partner gets fed up that things go bad. She’s been his punching bag, then she pulls the plug, maybe even threatens to tell. He gets enraged, kills her, finds he enjoys it. On to the next.”
Something he’d said was bothering me.
“Let’s back up. What kind of inanimate objects?”
“Pictures, dolls, clothing. Anything, really. I had one guy used to beat the crap out of a life-size blowup of Flip Wilson in drag.”
“I hate to ask.”
“Deep-seated rage against blacks, gays, and women. Hat trick every time he jerked off.”
“Of course.”
I could hear the
Phantom of the Opera
in the background.
“J.S., if a guy does that, makes pictures or uses a doll, for instance, does that mean he probably won’t kill?”
“Maybe, but again, who knows what’s going to alter his curve and nudge him over that line? One day a naughty picture is enough, the next it’s not.”
“Could a guy do both?”
“Both what?”
“Flip-flop back and forth. Kill some victims, just stalk and harass others?”
“Sure. For one thing, a victim’s behavior can alter the equation. He feels insulted or rejected by her. She says the wrong thing, turns left instead of right. She wouldn’t even have to know. Don’t forget, most serial killers have never met their victims. But these women star in the fantasy. Or he might see one woman in one role, cast another differently. Love your wife, then go out and kill. Cast one stranger as prey, another as friend.”
“So, once someone starts killing, he could still revert to his earlier, less violent tactics on occasion?”
“He might.”
“So someone who is seemingly just a nuisance could be a lot more?”
“Definitely.”
“Someone who phones a victim, follows her, sends her gory sketches isn’t necessarily harmless, even though he keeps his distance?”
“You are talking about St. Jacques, aren’t you?”
Was I?
“Does it sound like him?”
“I just assumed we were discussing him. Or whoever it was kept the bridal suite you guys tossed.”
Open up your mind, let the fantasy unwind
. . .
“J.S. I—It’s gotten personal.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him everything. Gabby. Her fear. Her exit. My anger, now my fear.
“Shit, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things? Look, this guy sounds like bad news. Gabby’s creep may or may not be St. Jacques, but it’s possible. He stalks women. St. Jacques stalks women. He draws pictures of eviscerated females, doesn’t exactly have a normal sex life, and carries a knife. St. Jacques, or whoever this devo is, is killing women, then cutting them up or disfiguring them. What do you think?”
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
. . .
“When did she first notice this guy?” J.S. asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Before or after this whole thing broke?”
“I don’t know.”
“What
do
you know about him?”
“Not much. He hangs out with hookers, pays for sex, then plays a scene with lingerie. Carries a knife. Most of the women won’t have anything to do with him.”
“That sound good to you?”
“No.”
“Tempe, I want you to report this to the guys you work with. Let them check it out. You say Gabby is unpredictable, so it’s probably nothing. She may have just taken off. But she’s your friend. You’ve been threatened. The skull. The guy who followed you in the car.”
“Maybe.”
“Gabby was staying with you. She’s disappeared. It warrants a look.”
“Right. Claudel will rush right out and collar nightie man.”
“Nightie man? You’ve been hanging with cops too long.”
I stopped. Where had I gotten that? Of course. Dummy man.
“We have a fruitcake that breaks in, stuffs lingerie, stabs it, then leaves. Been at it for years. They call him dummy man.”
“If he’s been at it for years he can’t be that dumb.”
“No, no. It’s what he makes with the lingerie. It’s like a dummy.”
Synapse. Or a doll.
Feel me, touch me
. . .
J.S. said something, but my mind was veering off at warp speed. Dummy. Lingerie. Knife. A hooker named Julie who plays games with a nightie. A sketch of carnage with the words “don’t cut me.” News articles found in a Berger Street room, one about a break-in with a nightgown dummy, one with my picture, clipped and marked with an X. A skewered skull, grinning from my shrubbery. Gabby’s face in 4
A.M
. terror. A bedroom in chaos.
Help me make the music of the night
. . .
“I’ve got to go, J.S.”
“Tempe, promise me you’ll do what I say. It’s a long shot, but it could be that Gabby’s creep is the sicko that kept the Berger Street nest. He could be your killer. If so, you’re in danger. You’re blocking him, so you’re a threat to him. He had your picture. He may have put Grace Damas’s skull in your yard. He knows who you are. He knows where you are.”
I wasn’t hearing J.S. In my mind I was already moving.
It took thirty minutes to cross Centre-ville, go up the Main, and find my alley spot. As I stepped over the splayed legs of a wino who sat slumped against the wall, his head bobbing to the muted thud of C&W coming through the brick, he smiled and raised a hand in a one-finger wave, then opened his palm and extended it toward me.
I dug in my pocket and gave him a loony. Maybe he’d watch my car.
The Main was a smorgasbord of night dwellers through which I nibbled a path. Panhandlers, hookers, druggies, and tourists. Accountants and salesmen jostled in clumps, reckless with binge merriment. For some it was a boisterous romp, for others a joyless reality. Welcome to the Hotel St. Laurent.
Unlike my last visit, this time I had a plan. I worked my way toward Ste. Catherine, hoping to find Jewel Tambeaux. Not so easy. Though the usual pack was gathered outside the Hotel Granada, Jewel wasn’t part of it.
I crossed the street and considered the women. No one reached for a rock. I took this as a good sign. Now what? From my last social call on these ladies, I had a pretty good idea as to what I shouldn’t do. That, however, gave me no clue as to what I should do.
I have a rule that has served me well in life. When in doubt, do nothing. If you’re not sure, don’t buy it, don’t comment, don’t commit. Sit tight. Deviation from this maxim has usually caused me regret. The red dress with the ruffled neck. The promise to debate Creationism. The angry letter fired off to the Vice Chancellor. This time I stuck to my policy.
I found a cement block, brushed off the broken glass, and sat. Knees drawn, eyes on the Granada, I waited. And waited. And waited.
For a while I was intrigued by the soap opera playing around me. As the Main Turns. Midnight came and went—1
A.M
. Then 2. The script unwound its tale of seduction and exploitation. Maul My Children. The Young and the Hopeless. I played mental games, creating all sorts of clever titles.
By 3
A.M
. screenwriting no longer held my interest. I was tired, discouraged, and bored. I knew surveillance was not glamorous, but I hadn’t been prepared for just how numbing it was. I’d had enough coffee to fill an aquarium, prepared endless lists in my head, composed several letters I would never write, and played “guess the life story” of a great many citizens of Quebec. Hookers and johns had come and gone, but Jewel Tambeaux was not to be seen.
I stood and flexed backward, considered rubbing my anesthetized ass, decided against it. Next time, no cement. Next time no sitting up all night, watching for a hooker who could be in Saskatoon.
As I started to step off toward my car, a white Pontiac station wagon swung to the curb across the street. Orange Chihuly hair emerged, followed by a familiar face and halter.
Jewel Tambeaux slammed the Pontiac door, then leaned inside the passenger window to say something to the driver. A moment later the car sped off, and Jewel joined two women sitting on the hotel steps. In the pulsating neon they looked like a trio of housewives gossiping on a suburban stoop, their laughter sailing into the predawn air. After a moment, Jewel stood, hiked her spandex mini-skirt, and moved off up the block.
The Main was winding down, the action seekers gone, the scavengers just emerging. Jewel walked slowly, swinging her hips to some private rhythm. I angled across and fell in behind her.
“Jewel?”
She turned, her face a smiling question mark. I was not what she expected. Her eyes moved over my face, puzzled, disappointed. I waited for her to recognize me.
“Margaret Mead.”
I smiled. “Tempe Brennan.”
“Researching a book?” She moved her hand in a horizontal swath, indicating a title. “Ass on the Hoof, or My Life Among Hookers.” Soft, Southern English, with a bayou cadence.
I laughed. “Might sell. May I walk with you?”
She shrugged and blew a puff of air, then turned and resumed her slow pelvic swing. I fell in beside her.
“You still looking for your friend, chère?”
“Actually, I was hoping to find you. I didn’t expect you this late.”
“Kindergarten’s still open, sugar. Gotta do business to stay in business.”
“True.”
We walked a few steps in silence, my sneakers echoing her metallic clip.
“I’ve given up on finding Gabby. I don’t think she wants to be found. She came to see me about a week ago, then took off again. I guess she’ll turn up when she turns up.”
I looked for a reaction. Jewel shrugged, said nothing. Her lacquered hair moved in and out of shadow as we walked. Here and there a neon sign blinked off as the last of the taverns closed their doors, sealing in the smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke for another night.
“Actually, I’d like to talk to Julie.”
Jewel stopped walking and turned to me. Her face look tired, as though emptied by the night. The life. She pulled a pack of Players from the V in her halter, lit one, blew the smoke upward.
“Maybe you should go on home, cutie.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re still chasing killers, aren’t you, chère?”
Jewel Tambeaux was no fool.
“I believe there’s one out there, Jewel.”
“And you think it’s this cowboy Julie plays with?”
“I’d sure like to talk to him.”
She took a pull on her cigarette, tapped it with a long red nail, then watched the sparks float to the pavement.
“I told you last time, he’s got the brains of a liverwurst sandwich and the personality of roadkill, but I doubt he’s killed anybody.”
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“No. These morons are about as scarce as pigeon shit. I pay them about as much mind.”
“You said this guy could be bad news.”
“There really isn’t much good news down here, sugar.”
“Has he been around lately?”
She considered me, then something else, turning inward to an image or remembered thought at which I could only guess. Some other bad news.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him.”
I waited. She drew on her cigarette, watched a car move slowly up the street.
“Haven’t seen Julie.”
She took another pull, closed her eyes and held the smoke, then sent it upward into the night.
“Or your friend Gabby.”
An offering. Should I push?
“Do you think I could find him?”
“Frankly, sugar, I don’t think you could find your own butt without a map.”
Nice to be respected.
Jewel took one last drag, flipped the butt, and ground it with her shoe.
“Come on, Margaret Mead. Let’s bag us some roadkill.”
J
EWEL WALKED WITH PURPOSE NOW, HER HEELS CLICKING A RAPID
tattoo on the pavement. I wasn’t sure where she was taking me, but it had to beat my cement perch.
We went east two blocks, then left Ste. Catherine and cut across an open lot. Jewel’s apricot sculpture moved smoothly through the dark while I stumbled behind, threading my way through chunks of asphalt, aluminum cans, broken glass, and dead vegetation. How could she do that in stilettos?
We emerged on the far side, turned down an alley, and entered a low wooden building with no sign to indicate its calling. The windows were painted black and strings of Christmas lights provided the only illumination, giving the interior the reddish glow of a nocturnal animal exhibit. I wondered if that was the intent. Rouse the occupants to late night action?
Discreetly, I glanced about. My eyes needed little adjustment, since the amount of light inside differed only slightly from that outdoors. Staying with the Christmas theme, the decorator had gone with cardboard pine for the walls and cracked red vinyl for the stools, accessorizing with beer ads. Dark wooden booths lined one wall, cases of beer were stacked against another. Though the bar was almost empty, the air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, cheap booze, vomit, sweat, and reefer. My cement block began to hold more appeal.