The Decoy (11 page)

To: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

Well, since you ask... but maybe that would be too much...

From: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

To: 'Claire Rodenburg' ([email protected])

What? Please, my evenings are long and lonesome at the moment, and I hate to think of you Melancholy in Memphis, or wherever it is you are.

From: 'Claire Rodenburg' ([email protected])

To: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

Well, I miss those fantasies he used to send me.

From: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

To: 'Claire Rodenburg' ([email protected])

In that case, perhaps the enclosed will keep you company on your travels.

<>

'It's all there,' Frank says. For the first time since Claire has known him there's a flicker of excitement on the detective's face. He re-reads Vogler's fantasy for the third or fourth time. 'My God, it's all there.'

Dr Leichtman doesn't answer. The only sound is her pencil tapping against her teeth.

'It's just as you expected,' Claire says to her. 'Everything you said he'd write about. Violence, pain, control.'

The pencil continues to tap.

Frank reads aloud, '"The musky smell of your arousal fills the room, like the sickly perfume of a rare flower, an orchid that releases its heavenly odours only as it starts to wither and decay…" This is weird shit, Connie.'

The tapping stops. Dr Leichtman says, 'He could have gone down to the bookstore and copied that out from any one of half a dozen books in the adult fiction section. It's mildly deviant, sure, but I couldn't put my hand on my heart and say that only a killer would have written it.'

'He hasn't eliminated himself, though.'

'He hasn't, no. Not yet.'

'So what do we do now?'

Dr Leichtman turns to Claire. 'It's possible he's simply holding back. You need to show him you're tougher than he thinks you are. Write back. Give him something in the same vein, but stronger.'

'You want
me
to write it? Couldn't you?'

Dr Leichtman shakes her head. 'Uh-uh. Why do you think we got you to spend so much time on those websites? It needs to be in your voice —
or the voice of the person you're pretending to be.'

Sitting down at her laptop, Claire has to remind herself that she's done harder things than this, that she once went out into the New York streets and sold sweaters made of hippopotamus wool.

From: 'Claire Rodenburg' ([email protected])

To: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

Dear Christian,

Thank you for the fantasy. It's wonderful. But believe me, Christian, the things you describe are fairly tame for me. The things I like... sometimes I scare myself with how extreme they are
--
God, why am I telling a total stranger this? --
Sometimes I look at the things that turn me on, things that humiliate me, that make me powerless and vulnerable and afraid, and think there's something wrong with me or that I'm weird in some way.

I'm only telling you this because I sense that you might actually understand. I'm almost nervous of you writing anything else in case you get it wrong. Perhaps it would be better to say goodbye now, before this takes us any further.

I wrote something myself. Tell me if you like it.

With love,

Claire.

<>

From: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

To: 'Claire Rodenburg' ([email protected])

Claire,

What a remarkable woman you are turning out to be. I am very much looking forward to meeting when you're back.

In the meantime, you may find the attached a little more to your taste.

<>

In the second fantasy he wrote for her, Christian described how he would blindfold Claire and beat her with a belt. He wrote, 'The belt strokes your body. It's a snake, a long black serpent that insinuates itself into the curve of your perfect breasts, the dip of your armpit, the prow of your pubic mound and the swollen, glistening tongue of your sex.

'You're trembling. The snake draws back. But it has only drawn back to gather power for its bite.

'Just as you are tensing for the blow, you feel something touch your lips: the end of the belt. "Kiss it," I order, and obediently you touch your mouth to the soft, cruel lips of the snake. There is a pause. Then, suddenly, you scream. You have felt the sweet sharp sting of its teeth across your belly and your breasts.

'I say quietly, "One"…

In his third fantasy he described Claire lying on a bed of freshly laundered sheets, surrounded by a dozen candles, like a body laid out on a white stone altar. 'I pick up the candles one by one. They are fat and heavy, like the candles in a church. The flames are shaped like spear points, big and white hot, tipped with inky smoke. Each flame is surrounded by a disc of clear molten wax. I hold the first candle above your motionless body and tip the hot wax onto your skin. You flinch, but you do not cry out. The wax hardens on your soft skin, like a scar.'

In the fourth, he described her being surprised in her hotel room by a cold, mysterious stranger, who ties her to the bed with ropes.

'This is good,' Dr Leichtman says, reading from the screen. 'We're getting a lot of material here.'

'Like what?' Frank asks.

'This stuff with the restraints, for example. He's moving progressively closer to the actual circumstances of the killing. And setting it in a hotel room, that's a very significant overlap.'

'But nothing that only the killer would know. And a lawyer would say that we'd suggested the hotel room ourselves by telling him that Claire's travelling at the moment.'

'Give him time, Frank. On the strength of this, I can already say that Vogler has a sexual deviance that only a tiny proportion of the population would share. The chances that Stella knew two people like that are minuscule. Let the net close slowly. It'll be all the tighter when it does.'

From: 'Claire Rodenburg' ([email protected])

To: 'Christian Vogler' (CV@nyscu)

Very nice, Christian. But, I wonder, how much further do you dare to go?

As for meeting, we'll see. I suppose I'm in two minds. A part of me is saying, you must meet up with this incredible person who understands you so exactly. Another part is reminding me that I've been let down so many times before. And, once
-- well, as I told you, once I wasn't let down, and that was even worse in the end. A long story, and a tragic one, which maybe I'll tell you all about some day.

I read your last e-mail in a cybercafé in Chicago with two very straight college kids on the next machine. If only they could have seen what I was reading! Couldn't wait to get back to the privacy of my hotel room, as a matter of fact...

There's a passage from Baudelaire I found in a bookshop here:

Is ours so strange an act, so full of shame?

Explain the terrors that disturb my bliss.

When you say Love, I tremble at the word,

And yet my mouth is thirsty for your kiss.

Keep writing me, Christian. Please.

Claire

X

'Today,' Dr Leichtman says, 'we're going to learn how to listen.'

'What?'

'I said, today—' She stops. 'Oh. Ha ha. Very amusing.'

It's the morning of the ninth day, and both of them are wondering what the hell they've got themselves into.

'What I'm going to show you now', she continues, 'are some basic neurolinguistic techniques.'

She puts a chart on the overhead projector. It's divided into two columns, one headed 'Wrong', the other headed 'Right'. She points to the first item.

'First, try to refrain from making judgements. Saying "that's disgusting" or even "that's wonderful" is less useful than a neutral response such as "I see" or "how did you feel about that?" Advice — "why don't you try this?" — is also not so good. Better to make observations: "I can see you're feeling tense" or… you're fidgeting, Claire. Is something wrong?'

Claire shrugs. 'We covered all this in week one of my acting classes. Except we called it blocking and accepting.'

'I think you'll find this is actually a little different. Now then—'

'How much longer are we going to go on
talking
about all this?' Claire moans.

'My training lasted seven years. I hardly think that nine days—'

'I hardly think that nine days—' Claire parrots. The mimicry of Dr Leichtman's voice is so exact that the psychiatrist flushes.

'That reminds me, Claire,' she says frostily. 'You must tell us when you're having your periods. We may have to structure the operation around your
moody
times.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Halfway through the afternoon session, Dr Leichtman's pager goes off. Connie pulls it out of her pocket, reads the message quickly, then hurries to a phone.

'Anything exciting?' Claire says when she comes back.

'Sort of.' Dr Leichtman puts the pager down on the desk.

'Well?' Claire says when Connie doesn't elaborate. 'What is it?'

'There's been another murder. The police think … it's possible it was the same killer. They'd like me to take a look.'. She looks at Claire. 'Want to come?'

'Me?' Claire says, surprised.

'I think it might be useful for you to see exactly what we're up against here,' Dr Leichtman says quietly.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Another hotel. This time it's a cheap flophouse on Second Avenue, among the city's last remaining peep shows and sex cinemas. Judging from the smell in the corridors, it's the kind of place where most of the customers don't stay a whole night.

Claire and Dr Leichtman have to wait downstairs for Crime Search to finish up. Dr Leichtman is visibly agitated. At first Claire mistakes it for nerves, but gradually she becomes aware that it isn't fear the other woman's feeling.

Connie's excited.

She catches Claire looking at her. 'It's rare to get a chance to see a scene this fresh,' she explains.

They're given white paper jumpsuits, to contain any stray fibres from their clothes, and elasticated plastic bags to put over their shoes. Then they're escorted upstairs.

Durban is already there. He watches them as they edge into the room.

'Why's she here?' he says, pointing at Claire.

'I wanted her to come.'

For a moment Claire has the impression that Frank's about to object. Then he shrugs.

'When they found her, this is how she was,' he says, gesturing at the bed. A blanket covers the outline of a body.

'Were the blinds drawn?' Dr Leichtman asks.

'No.'

'Suggests it was still dark when he left,' she murmurs. 'He didn't stay here long.'

Frank puts his hand to the blanket. 'This isn't pretty,' he warns Claire. He pulls the blanket back.

Claire gasps, but no air comes. It's as if someone has sucked all the oxygen out of the little room.

The body on the bed is black and female. It's lying face up, except that it has no face. It has no head, either. Where the neck should be is a bloody stump, a flattened sleeve of skin encasing a slender tube of white gristle.

The policeman pulls the blanket back further. Between the girl's naked legs is a head. Oil gleams in the short, afro hair. The bulging, swollen tongue has been aimed directly at the junction of the thighs.

Claire turns, runs into the bathroom and heaves into the shower.

After a few moments Frank comes after her. 'Sorry,' she chokes.

'Don't be. No-one should get used to seeing this stuff.'

She indicates the puke in the shower. 'Have I—'

'Contaminated the crime scene? Don't worry. We were done in here. Look, if you don't want to go back—'

She shakes her head. 'I'll be OK.' She follows him back into the bedroom.

'See her ears?' Frank says to Dr Leichtman. On either side of the girl's head, two bloody holes have been ripped in her ear lobes. 'The earrings have been pulled off. Same with the navel stud.'

'Taken as trophies?'

'No. Thrown down the John. Flushed, but they were too heavy to get round the bend.'

'Interesting,' Dr Leichtman says. 'Stella's jewellery was removed as well, wasn't it?' She peers at the stump of the neck. 'Did she struggle?' Like Frank's, her voice is flat; a professional monotone.

'The ME's not sure. There are signs of a fight: scuffed walls, a broken lamp.' He shows her. 'Trouble is, in a place like this it could have been that way before.'

'Polaroids?'

'None that we know of.'

'What about intercourse?'

Frank shakes his head. 'One of my colleagues used to work in Vice. He thinks the victim's a hooker. If that's right, and if she's had other clients in the last twenty-four hours, forensics aren't going to be much use.' He shrugs. 'We'll try anyway, of course. Maybe we can track her other customers and eliminate them.' He doesn't sound hopeful. 'What do you think, Connie? Are we looking at the same guy?'

'I'm not sure. On the one hand, it's a hotel room, it's another over-the-top killing, and the jewellery — that certainly seems to indicate a pattern. But you have to look at all the dissimilarities, too. It's a hotel room, yes, but a very different hotel, and a very different set of circumstances. Stella's killer came prepared. He took pains over what he did; he wanted it to be perfect, to match his fantasies exactly. This looks less organized, less controlled.'

'The hotel may have been all he could get, for cash,' Frank says. 'I've had someone check; there are two big conventions in town. There isn't a free room this side of the river.'