Authors: C. E. Lawrence
The French couple approached them, smiling; the serious young man they called Jonathan lingered just behind them, as if he wanted to be a part of the discussion, too, but was too shy to come forward.
“We found most interesting what you had to say,” the Frenchman said.
“Yes,” his sharp-faced wife agreed. Her accent was thicker than his, though Lee could tell from her English that she was educated in British schools. “Mon
Dieu,”
she said with a little laugh, “how do you ever catch zese criminals?” “Well, sometimes we don’t.”
The French couple nodded and murmured something polite Lee didn’t quite catch. Jonathan stepped forward at that moment, blushing.
“But when you do catch them, how do you do it?”
By this time anyone in the group who hadn’t yet left the restaurant had gathered around to listen to what Lee had to say. The Russian stood at the back, clutching his thick volumes and pulling at his beard.
“Sometimes they make mistakes,” Lee said. “They get sloppy or careless.”
“Because zey wish to be caught?” the Frenchwoman said.
“Like Raskolnikov?” the Russian added hopefully.
“Not really. That would be nice, but most of the time these guys are eaten up in the end not by their crimes, but by the pressure of being on the run, having to look over their shoulder all the time.”
The Frenchman nodded. “It is very stressful, being pursued,
n’est-ce pas?
Like your Raskolnikov,” he added with a glance at the Russian.
The Russian scowled and clasped his books to his chest.
“So zey feel no remorse for what zey do?” the Frenchwoman asked.
Lee shook his head. “Remorse doesn’t seem to be part of the equation with most of these killers. They never really see their victims as people.”
“You mean people like Ted Bundy, for example?” Jonathan said.
“He’s a good example,” Lee said. “It’s amazing they didn’t catch him earlier. By skipping state to state, he managed to duck under every net they attempted to throw over him. Then, when they did finally collar him, he used his charm and skill to escape not once—but twice.”
“So he was charming—but he was a monster,” the Frenchman remarked.
“If anyone was, Bundy was. Like most serial predators, he dehumanized his victims in order to consummate his crimes—it’s a switch he turns to the off position before he can continue. For most of us, that switch doesn’t even exist. For the serial killer, it’s part of what makes him who he is.”
Lee was aware of a tugging on his sleeve and turned to see Kathy looking at him. The expression in her eyes was clear: she wanted to leave.
“Okay,” he murmured, irritated that, having dragged him here, she now wanted to go.
Though he usually attempted to keep any memories of his father at bay, he heard Duncan Campbell’s deep, sardonic baritone say,
Isn’t that just like a woman?
It was all a lark, really—they were a couple of Jersey boys on a Friday-night spree, hitting the bars on the Upper East Side, trawling for some action. But these
Sex and the City
chicks were so stuck up—thought they were all that, with their designer shoes and their two-hundred-dollar haircuts and expensive boob jobs. They weren’t going to mess with a couple of dagos from Bayonne, so Joe and Bobby figured they’d go down to the Village just for a gag and see what the faggots were up to.
Bobby said he knew about this place on Christopher over by the river where the trannies hung out, so they headed down there to see the freaks. They’d go in and pretend to pick one up, then give him—or was it her? Ha!—the slip, maybe even mess her up a bit. They had plenty of time and plenty of rage.
When they got to the place it was dark and crowded and smelled like a cross between a locker room and the perfume counter at Bloomingdale’s. It also smelled like sex. There was music, if you could call it that—house music with the repetitive chords and insistent drumbeat. Joe hated house music. In high school he organized a band in his parents’
garage and wrote all the songs himself. They broke up eventually, after playing a few local gigs, but Joe still thought of himself as a musician, and no self-respecting musician likes house music. He wanted to leave, but Bobby wanted to stay for a while, so they ordered drinks and looked around. The place was packed with freaks—Joe had to admit some of them looked pretty good, in their high heels and short skirts. With their shaved legs and wigs they looked like tall chicks from a distance—it’s downright creepy, he said to Bobby. But Bobby said what you have to look at is the Adam’s apple—that’s the giveaway. And the hands—the hands are bigger than a chick’s hands. There were also guys dressed regular like Bobby and Joe, but Bobby said they were all faggots.
They wandered around for a while until this one tranny started eyeing Joe. He wasn’t too tall, and had on this long, dark wig and really long legs under a little black leather skirt. A lot of the freaks were black or Hispanic or Asian, but this was a white guy—his face was actually kind of girlish, Joe thought. He wasn’t really attracted—no, that was too weird—but if the he/she had been a chick he definitely would have looked twice.
They were on about their sixth round when finally this freak caught Joe’s eye and winked, and just for a lark Joe winked back. And then this tranny was all in his face, and asking if he can buy them a round, and when had Joe ever turned down a free drink, so he said sure, why not? The tranny bought a round and Bobby bought a round, and then they were totally plastered and laughing, and the freak said her name was Violet, and Bobby said is that like the color or the flower, and she said whatever you want it to be, and they laughed and laughed.
Bobby had to go take a piss, so Joe and Violet were alone at the bar, and Violet put her hand on Joe’s knee and said she’d like to show him something, so Joe figured why the hell not—he wasn’t getting any other action tonight—so he went with her out the back door into this little alley, where there were garbage cans and those blue recycling bins. It wasn’t really dirty, though—it had been swept and was pretty tidy. You had to hand it to faggots for being clean. Violet said she forgot something and went back into the bar for a minute. Joe leaned against the brick wall of the building because he had a lot to drink. He could hear a dog barking from one of the nearby apartments, one of those fluffy little dogs that faggots like.
The air was warm, and he could hear the music from inside the bar. It was still that damn house music, and he was starting to feel not so good. He was ready to go in and tell Bobby it was time to leave when Violet came back out and said she had something for him, and she pulled a condom out of her brassiere (her tits were pretty big—probably falsies) and said they should get it on there in the alley, and suddenly Joe felt terrible, like he was going to be sick, but she was still all up in his face, pawing at him and purring, and it was disgusting, and he just wanted to go home.
He tried to push her away, but she wouldn’t listen, so he finally got fed up and started punching her—not to mess her up too much, just to get her to leave him alone. She went down easy. After just a few blows she staggered back against the brick wall and slid to the ground and just sort of sat there, staring. Joe wanted to ask her if she was okay, and help her up or something, but just then Bobby came out of the bar and saw them.
He grabbed Joe and said they had to leave
now
before they got in trouble. Joe was feeling really sick, so he didn’t argue and stumbled after Bobby, through the alley and around to the front of the building where they parked their car. When they got there Joe told Bobby to wait because he was going to be sick. After he finished throwing up on the curb, he looked around before getting in the car, just in time to see Violet staggering out of the alley toward them. He felt bad about having to hit her, but he didn’t hit her that hard, and he was more scared about getting into trouble. So he climbed in Bobby’s car and they drove away. He couldn’t help turning back to look out the back window one last time, and saw Violet standing there in the street. She looked sad, and he felt kind of bad, but Bobby was snickering and punching him in the shoulder and saying what a close call that was with that faggot, and wait till they tell their friends. So Joe laughed and reached into his jacket for a cigarette, and they headed toward the Holland Tunnel, driving down Varick Street, with all the windows open to let in the steamy summer air.
Tanika Jackson looked at the clock above her on the wall. It read 11:32
P.M.,
which meant she had been manning the 911 line for almost ten hours. This was the second Friday in a row she had worked overtime—her shift was almost over, thank God. She was thinking about those new slinky three-inch heels she was going to buy with her overtime pay. They were gold with little teensy straps, and they were going to drive Kevin wild with desire when he saw her in them.
She couldn’t wait for Shirley to see them, too—the biatch. That would teach her to hang around someone else’s man—like she even
had
a chance with Kevin to start with, with her big-ass booty and fleshy upper arms. Good Lord, that girl was a walking tub of lard. In her cheap leopard-print shirts from Target she looked like a fat hooker. Tanika prided herself on her slim figure, which she kept trim by running, working out three times a week, and watching her diet.
Tanika looked down at her sociology textbook, trying to concentrate, but her mind kept wandering to those sandals. It had been a slow night for a weekend. No stabbings or shootings or anything like that, which is how she liked it. Unlike some of the other 911 operators, who worked the lines because they enjoyed the drama and excitement, Tanika was only here for the money. She just wanted an uneventful shift so she could study for her classes at Mercy College, where she only had six months before getting her degree as a social worker. She didn’t like to think of people hurting one another. She had lost a cousin to a gang shooting, and she knew firsthand the toll violence takes on people.
She looked down at her textbook, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. Damn, she was tired. Her line rang. She picked up, and, trying not to let her voice betray her fatigue, she said the words she had said a thousand times:
“911—what’s your emergency?”
The voice was soft, almost breathy. “I’d like to report a drunk driver.”
Tanika thought it was a man’s voice, but she wasn’t entirely sure. She could hear music playing in the background. She adjusted her earphones and moved the microphone closer to her mouth. “What is the location?”
“Christopher and Greenwich.”
“Has anyone been injured?”
“Not yet, but the driver was very drunk.”
“Do you have a description of the car?”
“I have better than that—I can give you the license plate.”
“Go ahead.”
He described the car and gave a New Jersey tag. She asked him to repeat it, writing it down both times just to be sure.
“I’ll alert officers in the area. Do you wish to give your name?”
“No, thank you.”
“Thank you for your call.”
“Thank you,” he said politely, and hung up.
Tanika immediately dispatched a call to the Eleventh
Precinct, in the West Village, alerting them of the complaint. She didn’t know what they would do from there, but she hoped they nailed the bastard—she hated drunk drivers. In her neighborhood a sweet little girl had been killed a few months ago by a hit-and-run they never caught. She walked past the girl’s shrine every day. Sometimes Tanika bought flowers and laid them next to the yellowing photographs and stuffed animals and packages of Gummi bears. She had a little sister, and she didn’t know what she’d do if anything ever happened to her.
She looked back down at her textbook,
Sociology for the 21st Century,
and stifled another yawn. She looked back up at the wall clock: it was 11:37
P.M.
The night was so dark that Lee could barely see where he was going. He stumbled through a thicket of vines and branches tripping and clutching at him like skeletal hands, digging their cold, dead fingers into his flesh until it shivered with the dread and disgust of their touch.
And then he saw it in front of him—the Ansonia Hotel, with its ornate balustrades and rococo masonry. It beckoned to him, rising out of the mist like a stone leviathan, lights blazing in all the windows—and brightest of all in the penthouse apartment.
He struggled on through the forest, keeping his eyes on the grand old building, perched atop a stony hill, like a fortress. He sensed that this was not the usual look of Broadway and Seventy-third Street, but couldn’t quite remember what it was supposed to look like. So he dragged himself on through the thick, clinging vines and underbrush, vaguely aware that it was odd to see such forestation on the Upper West Side. It occurred to him that maybe he was lost, but there was the Ansonia, so how could he be lost?
He wasn’t sure why he was there, though—did he know someone who lived there? He didn’t think so, but then suddenly he was out of the forest and riding up in the elevator, the button that said
PENTHOUSE
lit.
When he rang the apartment bell, the door swung open and there was his father, looking just as he had the last time Lee saw him: young, handsome, and dashing, his curly black hair just a bit shaggy, suggesting the poet/philosopher that he was in life. Without a word, Duncan Campbell beckoned his son inside and closed the door behind him.
The room was elegant, tasteful, and old-fashioned looking, with expensive Art Deco furnishings. His father had always gravitated toward the elegance of that era, whereas his mother preferred the heavier Victorian designs.
He sat on a sleek satin sofa, admiring the silky fabric as he looked around the room. In the middle of a black-and-white throw rug, his childhood beagle slept peacefully. The dog’s paws jerked convulsively, as he chased rabbits in his dreams. Lee was about to ask his father why their dog was here in New York, but when he turned to ask, his father ducked behind a curtain. Moments later he came out carrying a long, sharp spear, which he plunged into Lee’s side. Shocked, Lee cried out in pain as the cold metal ripped through his flesh.
He awoke with the sound of his own voice in his ears. He knew he had cried out in his sleep—but Kathy lay next to him sleeping soundly. She slept like the dead, he thought, even without the earplugs she always wore. Fearing he had disturbed the neighbors, he listened for sounds upstairs. Hearing none, he threw off the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was sweating and panting, the gash in his hand throbbing. He looked out the window at the mimosa tree swaying in the wind, its branches hitting his window softly, rat-a-tat-a-tat. To his frayed nerves the sound was like machine-gun bursts.
He took a deep breath and went into the kitchen for a glass of water, passing the piano. It sat silent in the corner of the living room, moonlight reflecting off its shiny black veneer, a reminder that it would be a long while before he would be able to play again. He poured himself a glass of water.
So the demons still raged in his soul. He took a drink, cursing his father for leaving him with nothing but memories and bad dreams.