The doorbell rings again, longer this time, as if the bell was being leaned on. On and on it rings and I know that they're not going away. I trudge over to the door and open it.
“Good afternoon, Marvin,” says Marcinko.
“Hiya Lisa, this is a nice surprise.” Turner is standing behind her, his mouth clamped shut.
“Can we come in?” she asks.
I think about going through the old “do you have a warrant” routine, but I can't be bothered. I'm tired. I don't answer, I just open the door wide and go back to my chair. So long as I don't give them my consent anything I say isn't admissible in a court.
Turner closes the door and leans against it. I get the feeling that they've decided that Marcinko should do all the talking. That's fine with me because Turner gets on my nerves, big time.
“I see your television is back,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“So it's fixed?”
“Sure.”
She nods thoughtfully and I wonder if she's going to ask for the receipt. “So you'll be following the case again?”
“I watch the news, yeah. I gather she's still missing.”
“Sarah Hall?”
“Who else? Do you think she's dead yet?”
“No way of knowing. We haven't found any of the victims, remember?”
“Yeah, I forgot.” I flick the hair out of my eyes. “So how do you know that they're dead. All you know is that they're missing, right?”
“We know that they're dead, Marvin. We know that they're dead and that the their bodies have butchered.”
I frown. “That's not been on TV.”
“We're holding back some of the details.”
“But if the bodies haven't been found, how do....” Realisation dawns and I sit back in the chair.
“I get it. He videos the murders. And the dismemberment. Wow!”
“Wow?” repeats Turner. “You're impressed, are you?”
“It's a great idea for a movie. In fact...” I realise that I'm about to tell them about The Bestseller, but under the circumstances, that's probably not a bright idea. “Anyway, what is it you want? Is it about the lie detector test?”
“We just wanted a chat, Marvin. That's all.”
“What about the polygraph? Have you get the results?”
“Dr Kumagai is still working on them,” she says.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, I don't think so.”
I can see by the look on her face that they haven't managed to get anything from the polygraph and I force myself to keep a straight face. I bet it's a real disappoint to them and I bet Dr Kumagai got a tongue-lashing from Turner. “So, what's the problem?”
“We've been looking into your background, and it's thrown up a few questions.”
“Really?” I'd been expecting it, obviously. I'm now their prime suspect and they're going to keep digging until they charge me or clear me. “What in particular?”
Turner walks over to the television set and kneels down to examine it. Marcinko stands by the kitchen door. She'd obviously prefer to sit but I'm got the only chair. “It's the profile, Marvin. The one we got from the FBI.”
“Single, white, good-looking male with an interest in movies? Yeah, I remember.”
“Well, the more we look into your background, the more similarities we find.”
I sit back in the chair and steeple my fingers under my chin. “I'm all ears,” I say.
“One of the things the profile points to is that the killer comes from a dysfunctional family.”
“Dysfunctional?”
“In all probability there was no father figure in the household, either because of death or divorce. His mother would have been a weak personality, possibly an alcoholic.”
“Oh, come on, there's no way the evidence suggests that.”
“The profile is based on interviews with hundreds of convicted serial killers around the world,”
she says. “The Quantico boys are usually accurate.” She pauses. "Tell me about you father,
Marvin."
“If you've been digging, you already know everything there is to know.”
She smiles tightly. “I only know what's in the files.”
I sigh softly. “He was a film producer. He left when I was nine years old.”
“Left? You mean he walked out on you and your mother?”
“Yes.” Turner straightens up and stands watching me.
“Did you see him after he left?” asks Marcinko.
“Once or twice.”
“Did you resent him leaving?”
I shrug. “Maybe. It was a long time ago.”
“You admired your father?”
“Admired? No, I don't think so.”
“Why not?” says Turner, speaking for the first time. "He was a real writer. Sixteen movies,
either as director or writer. Five Academy nominations. One Oscar. Four wives. A hell of a life."
Marcinko reads something in my face. “You didn't get on, did you?”
“My father was...difficult.”
“Difficult?”
“Yeah, difficult.”
“How did he die?”
I can't believe she doesn't already know, but I answer anyway. “Heart attack. He had a history of heart trouble.”
“When was this?”
“When I was fifteen.”
“Were you with him when he died?”
“Of course not?”
Her eyes harden and I know that we're about to get down to the nitty-gritty. “But you were with your mother when she died, right?”
“Right.”
Turner sniffs. “Bit unfortunate, huh?”
Marcinko glares at him and he pushes his spectacles up his nose with his forefinger.
“She killed herself, didn't she?” says Marcinko. Her voice is soft and gentle, like she doesn't want to upset me.
“That's right.”
“It couldn't have been easy for a nine-year old.”
“I was ten.”
She puts her head on one side. “It said nine in the file.”
“Yeah, well you don't want to believe everything you read.”
“How did she do it, Marvin? How did she kill herself?”
“Like the Romans. A hot bath. Cold steel.”
“And you found the body?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“But the file said...”
I interrupt. “I was there.”
“You mean you were there when she did it?”
I nod. There's a sadness about her, as if she doesn't want to ask the questions. “I don't want to continue with this line of questioning, Lisa.”
“But.....”
“I'd rather stop.”
“Why, Waller?” asks Turner, raising his voice. “What is it you're trying to hide?”
“I'm not hiding anything.”
“Bullshit. The profile fits you, Waller. It fits you like a fucking glove.”
I look up at Marcinko. “If you've nothing to hide, Marvin, you've nothing to lose by talking to us,” she says.
“Don't try to play with my mind, Lisa.”
“What do you mean?”
"You know what I mean. You're trying to get inside my head. I'm telling you now, don't bother.
I've been worked on by some of the highest paid psychiatrists in the country."
“And?”
“And if they didn't get inside me, I'm damn sure you won't be able to.”
“We'll see,” says Turner.
“What was their opinion?” asks Marcinko. “The psychiatrists?”
I shrug. “Mixed reviews.”
“They weren't as smart as you, were they?”
I smile at the feeble attempt at flattery. “No, Lisa.”
“No one's as smart as you, are they?” growls Turner. “You're so sharp you're liable to cut your own throat.”
Lisa walks over to the coffee table and sits down on the edge, her legs pressed together. It puts her head only inches away from mine. She's so close I can smell her perfume, and the faint odour of cigarette smoke on her breath. “It can't have been easy, Marvin. Losing your mother. Your father remarrying so often. His career. By all accounts he wasn't much of a father.”
“Don't,” I whisper.
“Don't what?”
“Don't try to get inside my head. It's not a pleasant place, not for a nice lady like you. It's a dark place. A scary place. You wouldn't like it.” My voice goes quiet and she has to lean forward to hear me, like a priest taking confession. “Best you stay out, okay?”
She looks at me like she cares. Like she's my friend. “Why did she do it with you around?”
“What do you mean?”
“I'd have thought a mother wouldn't want her son within a million miles if she planned to kill herself.”
“You didn't know my mother.”
“You mean she wanted you to see her kill herself? She wanted you to watch?”
“She was an actress. It was her final performance. Anyone else would have stopped her.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I don't know. I was just a kid.”
“Ten isn't that young,” she says. “You must have known what she was doing.”
“Maybe.”
Turner rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “Maybe you wanted her to kill herself.”
Marcinko's lips press together and her eyes harden. She glares at Turner and he walks away to stand at the entrance to the sleeping alcove. “It wasn't a cry for help, Lisa,” I explain. “She knew that she was losing my father. She didn't want to be alone.”
“But that doesn't explain why she wanted you there.”
“She wanted to hurt him, and there was only one way she could that - by turning me against him. Her last words were 'your father made me do it.' Her final speech. Fade to black.”
Marcinko swallows. “I'm sorry.”
I shrug. “It was her choice.”
She gives me a weak smile and slowly reaches out to put a hand on my knee. This time there's no spark. “You know, Detective Marcinko,” I say, “sometimes you remind me of my mother.” She pulls back her hand as if she's been burned.
“Very funny, Marvin,” she says, standing up.
“Maternal suicide is in the profile, is that it? My mother killed herself, so that makes me the serial killer you're looking for, right?”
“Maybe,” she says. She takes a cigarette packet out. “Okay if I smoke?” she says.
“Go ahead. If you want to smell like an ashtray, that's your lookout.” She lights up then puts the pack and the disposable lighter on the coffee table, next to the typewriter.
Turner steps forward, his hands swinging free by his sides. “This thing you have about secretaries, where does it come from?” he says.
“I've already told you.”
“There's more, and you know there's more.”
“I'm not sure what you mean, Ed.”
"You know exactly what I mean, Waller. You've got a very good reason for hating secretaries,
haven't you?“ I say nothing. That seems to annoy him even more. ”Are you refusing to answer,
Waller?"
“No, I'm not refusing. But it wasn't a real question.”
“Your father left your mother for his secretary, didn't he?”
I feel my eyes narrow involuntarily. “I'm not sure that the two events were connected.”
"Your father dumped your mother to live with his secretary. And your mother killed herself.
That's why you hate secretaries, isn't it?"
“Leave me alone,” I say quietly.
“I'm not going to leave you alone until I get some straight answers from you.”
“I'm warning you....”
Turner's upper lip curls. “Yeah? What are you going to do, Waller? Are you going to kill me like you killed those women?”
“You'll be sorry, Ed.”
“That's it? That's the best you can do? I'm shaking, Waller. I'm so scared I think I just wet myself.”
I nod slowly. “Okay, Ed. You want to play games?”
“This isn't a game, Waller. This is for real.”
I smile and stare into his eyes. “You asked for it.” That's it, that's all I say, because I learnt a long time ago that there's no point in making threats. You either do something, or you don't.
“Go for it, Waller,” he says, his eyes as hard as pebbles. “Step over the line and I'm going to beat the living shit out of you.”
“You don't scare me, Ed,” I say. I go over to the door and hold it open for them.
“Marvin,” says Marcinko as she goes out. “Don't do anything stupid.” She looks like she wants to say more, but instead she shakes her head and walks away.
* * *
You sit with a cup of coffee in your hand and press the play button on the remote control.
You settle back on the sofa and prop your feet up on the coffee table as you watch Sarah play with herself. There's a subservient look in her eyes, a look that says she'll do anything you ask. You went to an SPCA dog's home once and you saw the same look in the eyes of the strays: dogs that had been whipped and starved and beaten, but who still hoped that they'd be well-treated if only they were subservient enough. That's how it works in the animal kingdom, the struggle for superiority ends when one of the combatants shows subservience.
Wild dogs and wolves fight with tooth and claw, but once one of them gives up, the fight is over. There's a victor and a loser and both live to fight another day. With humans, it's different. Humans don't feel safe unless the loser is dead.
You chose a beagle from the dog's home, or at least a beagle crossed with something else.
You chose it because of the way it looked it you, its eyes downcast and fearful, a slight wag of the tail, and a hunching of the shoulders that suggested it would flinch from any sudden movement. The dog had no name and you didn't bother giving it one. You didn't plan to have it for long. You learned a lot about dismemberment from that dog.
On the large screen TV, Sarah is leaning over the bed, her legs apart, her right hand between her thighs, stroking and caressing herself, shifting her weight from leg to leg as you told her to. You can see the sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, like a racehorse after a training run. As you watch you undo your trousers and slip you hand inside. It feels good when you touch yourself, but nowhere near as good as when Sarah touches you. You stare at the TV screen. She moves, she climbs up onto the bed and lies on her back, stroking her breasts and moaning, then her hands move slowly up and down her body. Her eyes are closed, her face tense as if she was in pain. That she'd have to change, you wanted her to look as if she was enjoying it, as if what she was doing to herself was better than anything else,
better than any man could ever do. It was good, though, no doubt about that. Sarah is learning fast.
You decide to go downstairs, to have a little fun with her, but when you put your eye to the peephole you're filled with a rage. You tap in the door code and throw back the door. She takes a step backwards, knowing what's about to happen. She starts to plead but you hit her across the face, hard, slapping with your hand open so that you don't break the flesh. The crack echoes around the basement, then you slap her again. She tries to block the blow with her raised hands so you knee her in the stomach. The breath explodes from her throat and she doubles over, gasping and wheezing. You grab her hair and yank her head back so that her face is upwards. Tears run down her cheeks. With your other hand you grab her throat,
digging your nails into her tracheae. You put your face close to hers, so close that you can feel her warm breath on your cheek. “Don't ever try that again, Sarah. Do you understand?”
She nods fearfully. You let go of her hair and she slumps forward onto her hands and knees, retching like a sick cat. You stand over her, shaking your head. “You were doing so well, Sarah. You were making such progress.” You kick her in the side, careful not to break her ribs.
The gasps turn to sobs. She sits back on her haunches, covering her face with hands. “I told you not to go near the door, didn't I?“ She nods. ”And what did you do?” You'd watched her through the peephole as she'd tried to reach the keypad, a futile attempt because there's an override switch on the outside of the door which deactivates the internal keypad when you're not in the room with her. But that isn't the point. The point is that she disobeyed you, and you won't stand for that. She has to obey without question. She has to be compliant. Any sign of disobedience must be stamped on, hard.
“Sarah, take your hands away from your face.” She does as she's told. She's wearing a red silk robe and you can see that she's naked underneath it. Under other circumstances you'd be tempted to play with her, but first she has to learn the error of her ways. “Put your hands behind your back.”
“Please don't...” she begins to say, but you hold up a warning finger. She stops mid-
sentence and slowly puts her hands behind her back. She arches her back and the motion pushes her breasts forward. She licks her lips and you realise that she's trying to use her sexuality to distract you. You smile and stroke the side of her face. It's reddening from the slaps but there wouldn't be a bruise. You were careful not to bruise her.
“You're going to have to be punished, Sarah. I don't want to, but I must. You do understand that, don't you?“ She nods, slowly. ”You have to learn to obey me.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispers.
“But sorry doesn't make it right.”
“I won't do it again.”
You smile. “Oh, I know that.” You take the stun gun out of your pocket. Instinctively she turns her head away but you grab her hair again, forcing her to look at the crackling electrodes. Her chest heaves and her eyes are wide and staring.
“Please don't hurt me...” You cut her short by backhanding her across the face and she falls to the ground, the robe riding up around her waist. You touch the stun gun against the soft white flesh of her lower leg and press the switch. She screams and her body goes into spasm. “There, there,” you say soothingly as she writhes in pain. “It'll soon be over.”
* * *
There's a chill wind blowing through New York and on CBS's early morning news they there's a seventy per cent chance of snow before the end of the week. I'm wearing a thick wool overcoat,
belted at the waist, and I've got my hands deep in the pockets. I'm in the park because I needed a breath of fresh air. I've been in the apartment for three days, pacing around. I've a lot on my mind.
I want to get my own back on Turner, I've still not got any further with Checking Out, and I've decided that The Big Loser isn't worth pursuing. The characters just aren't sympathetic enough,
and there's nothing I can do to make it work.
I think the problem is that I'm better at thrillers than comedy. While I was pacing around the flat trying to come up with a big bang ending for Checking Out I had a sudden brainwave. I saw a documentary about hypnotic regression last year and it impressed me so much that I scribbled down some notes. I found the notes when I was going through the briefcase under my bed and I read through them as I walked around the room. The idea hit me like a cold shower.
A class of psychology students are learning about hypnosis. A lecturer is demonstrating past life regression on an old man, taking him back to a former life as a Roman soldier. Most of the students are fascinated, but a girl is sure that the whole business of past life regression under hypnosis is a con. She argues with her boyfriend, who is also a psychology student, and they end up making a wager. The next time the lecturer demonstrates the technique, the girl volunteers. To everyone's surprise she is a perfect subject, and quickly slips into a trance. She takes on the persona of a middle-aged woman, married with children. What starts as a look at her life takes a sinister turn - the woman is murdered and the girl comes out of the trance badly shaken but not remembering anything. She and her boyfriend decide to find out all they can about the woman, but attempts to identify her are fruitless. They persuade the lecturer to hypnotize her again, and when he agrees they discover why they weren't able to trace the woman - far from being a past life of the girl, the woman was killed only fifteen years previously. The student has recalled something from her past, not a previous life, and the memories get stronger and stronger, though she cannot recall the face of the killer.
We gradually realise that the murder happened when the girl was very young, that she saw her father kill her mother but then blotted it out of her mind. When her father discovers what is happening, he realizes he must kill his daughter to keep his secret safe. The title came to me as I pulled on my coat to go out. Past Imperfect.
I walk to Strawberry Fields. It's just about my favourite place in Central Park, though sometimes there are some weird people about. The sort who think that John Lennon isn't really dead, and that he's serving burgers with Elvis in Cleveland. Crazy types. Today I'm alone so I stand there for a few minutes looking up at the Dakota building, wondering if Yoko is in there,
prowling around from room to room, missing her man.
I recognise Marcinko from more than a hundred yards away, even in the bulky coat and the scarf wrapped around her neck. She's on her own, carrying a manila envelope in a gloved hand and heading in my direction. There's no sign of Turner and I wonder what she's doing out on her own and if it's a coincidence that we're both in Central Park at the same time. I watch her walk towards me. The way she smiles and gives me a little wave almost suggests that we'd arranged the meeting,
two friends getting together for a walk, maybe going for a meal or a movie. “Hi, Lisa,” I say as she gets close.
“Marvin, how are you today?” she says.
“Fine.”
She stands by me and looks up at the building. “Is she in?” she asks.
“Is that a trick question?”
She laughs and for a moment I forget that she's a cop. “No, Marvin, it's just conversation. Do you want to walk?”
“Sure,” I say, and we turn our backs to the Dakota and walk into the park. Two blonde girls in skin-tight spandex whiz by on rollerblades, too cool to be cold.
“Can you remember what you were doing when he was killed?” she asks.
“Pacing,” I say.
“Where?”
“Pacing. I was in LA. I was pacing around the apartment, the television was on in the corner with the sound off. I had MTV on and they flashed up his picture.”
“What did you do, when you heard?”
“Played all his albums.”
“Yeah. Me too. The world changed, didn't it?”
I shrug. “Sort of.”
“I mean, the world became a more dangerous place.”
“For stars?”
“For everyone, Marvin.”
I nod. An old woman walks by with two very large Dobermans in tow. One of them sniffs at my leg. “Is this a social call, Lisa?” I ask.
“I was heading towards your apartment when I saw you,” she says.
I look at her sideways. I can't think of any route from her precinct to my apartment that would take her across the park. Besides, detectives have cars. “On your own?”
“Turner's taking some sick leave.”
“Yeah?” I can tell from her voice she's lying. “What's wrong with him?”
“Oh, the flu I think.”
Yeah, right. Lisa Marcinko isn't half the liar she thinks she is. “Well, I hope it's not serious. Do you think I should send flowers?”
She laughs quietly. “No, Marvin, I don't think you should.”
“Yeah, you're probably right.” We walk in silence for a while.
“What's in the envelope, Lisa?” She's been tapping it against her leg for the past fifty yards.
“It's the script you sent to Brian DePalma. The Bestseller.”
“Yeah? What do you think?”
“It's interesting.”
“Is that why you're here, Lisa? Because of The Bestseller?”
“It's not good, Marvin.”
“It's only a synopsis, Lisa. The finished script will be much better, it'll....”
“No,” she says, interrupting me in full flow. “You don't get it, Marvin.” She holds the envelope up, almost pushes it into my face. “What do you think this looks like?”
“An A4 envelope,” I say, giving her the boyish grin, but now she's not laughing.
“Is this some sort of joke?” she asks.
“No, of course not.”
“Did you really think anyone would buy this?”
“Sure. It's a thriller.”
“It's scary, Marvin. It's a story about a serial killer who craves media attention. A killer who thinks he's so smart that he won't get caught. A killer who dismembers his victims.”
“Victim,” I say, correcting her. “He only kills one woman.”
“Okay, but you can see where I'm going with this.”
“I'm not sure that I can, Lisa. You think that if I was the killer you're looking for I'd be stupid enough to give myself away like that. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Where did you get that from?”
She hesitates as if she's thinking that maybe she shouldn't tell me, but then she nods to herself as if deciding that it's okay. “One of the studio execs you sent it to in Hollywood had been following stories of our serial killer and thought they should pass it on to us.”