The Decoy (8 page)

'Sure.' Claire holds out a book of matches from the Royalton. When the other woman makes no move to take it, she opens it herself and strikes one. Dr Leichtman takes hold of her wrist to steady the flame. Her thumb, sliding beneath the wide watch strap Claire wears, touches harder flesh and tightens.

'May I?' she says around the cigarette, twisting Claire's hand so that she can peer at her wrist with sharp eyes. After a moment she looks up. 'And
this?'
she says. 'Was
this
fair?'

Claire pulls away. 'I fell on some glass.'

'With
both
wrists?'

Angrily, Claire pushes the matches back into her pocket. Dr Leichtman, unfazed, gets out a lighter and lights her cigarette herself. 'I do actually need to know this stuff,' she says apologetically.

Claire sighs. 'It was when we were filming the movie. The one you had the clipping about. He was — well, you'd know his name if I said it. He was the star, and the money: without him the film would never have got backing. He's famous and good-looking and everyone knows he has one of the happiest marriages in showbusiness. So when he fell in love with me I knew it was the real thing.' She laughs bitterly. 'That was before I heard the phrase they use on movie sets. DCOL, darling. Doesn't Count On Location.'

'And?'

'After seven weeks his wife… well, I guess she'd heard the rumours. Or maybe she was just used to his little ways. She turned up on set with his four kids in tow. Suddenly I was needed for new wardrobe fittings, second unit reshoots, technical rehearsals with the grip and focus puller. The word had gone out to keep me away from him.'

'So you decided to show him that, for you, it hadn't been just acting.'

'Something like that.' Despite the heat, Claire shivers. 'It was pretty messy. I was in hospital for a month. They had to write me out of the script. Afterwards, I found I was unemployable. I'd committed the cardinal sin, you see. I'd been unprofessional.'

'Thank you, Claire,' Dr Leichtman says quietly. 'That's all I needed to know.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

When they get back, Frank is waiting in Reception. 'How's it going?' he asks.

Claire's expecting the psychiatrist to take him off somewhere to talk in private. But Dr Leichtman just says matter-of-factly, 'Well, she's insecure, she's impulsive, she's desperately searching for some authority in her life and, though she tries very hard to hide it, she craves approval like a junkie craving a fix. What can I say, Frank? She's an actress.' She sighs. 'None of that matters, of course. If you want to know whether I think she could do it, then yes, I think she probably could. She's a quick learner, she's tough and she's smart. Somewhat against my better judgement, I think this might just be worth a try.'

Claire sits at a table in the office block. She holds a pen in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.

Consent forms. Dozens of them.

Personal-injury waivers, surveillance permissions, confidentiality agreements. And forms about the forms. Forms that say she understands what she's doing when she signs the other forms. Forms that say she gives her agreement freely and in the certain knowledge that it will fuck up her life. Forms that say she should really have a lawyer to explain the other forms.

She works through them, initialling each page and signing where requested.

'Welcome to boot camp, soldier. Now your ass is mine,' Dr Leichtman growls, gathering them up.

It's the worst Denzel Washington impression Claire's ever heard.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Training begins in a big, empty auditorium somewhere in the bowels of the building.

'First, a history lesson,' Connie says. 'Let's take a look at some monsters.'

The house lights dim. The psychiatrist clicks a remote control in her palm. Smoke from her cigarette pours across a projector beam, clouding the face on the screen.

'This is Peter Kürten, otherwise known as "The Beast of Düsseldorf". His wife told the police psychologist, a man called Dr Berg, that their sex life had been completely normal. Kürten, on the other hand, told Dr Berg that he fantasized about throttling her every single time they made love. These next slides are some of Kürten's victims, just as he left them.'

When Claire can bear to look again, there's a different face on the screen.

'Bela Kiss, who preserved his victims' bodies in empty petrol drums. Joachim Kroll, "the Ruhr Hunter". Hans van Zon; his turf was Holland in the 1960s. Among others, he killed his own girlfriend in order to have sex with her corpse.'

Somewhere behind Claire, the carousel of slides whirrs and clicks, slotting another face and another grainy image of a crime scene into Connie's litany. A jumble of names and atrocities, from which occasional details stand out.

'Patrick Byrne. He left a note by the violated body of one young woman that read simply, "This is the thing I thought would never come." Jack the Stripper — not his real name. The British tabloids called him that because flecks from a paint gun were found in his victims' hair. Your countrymen's famous sense of humour, I suppose. Jack literally asphyxiated his victims by pushing his penis down their throats. Albert Fish. Earle Nelson. Donald Fearn, who was obsessed with Pueblo Indians. He tied seventeen-year-old Alice Porter to an altar in an abandoned church, tortured her all night, smashed her skull with a hammer and raped her as she died.'

The list goes on and on, like a roll-call of evil.

'… kept the bodies of his victims in his apartment because, he said, "It was nice to have someone to come home to." These are some of the sketches Nilsen made of his victims. Good, aren't they? Jeffrey Dahmer. George Russell. And last,
but
certainly not least, Andrei Chikatilo, the Rostov Ripper, executed in 1994 for the torture and post-mortem violation of over fifty-two victims.'

Dr Leichtman stands up and walks to the front. Andrei Chikatilo's projected eyes swim briefly across her forehead. Then the house lights come up and the illusion is broken. 'I'm not showing you all this stuff just to spook you, Claire. As a result of studying these people, we know a considerable amount about the way a killer's mind works. We can look at the way he leaves a crime scene and make predictions about his personality, his intelligence, his relationships, even what kind of car he drives.' She holds up a bulging folder secured with a rubber band. 'This is everything we think we know about Stella Vogler's killer.' She places it on the desk in front of Claire. 'I warn you, it doesn't make easy reading.'

'Is this what they call a psychological profile?' Claire asks, picking it up.

'That's part of it, yes. And there are also photographs, case histories and some excerpts from textbooks. Our job is a bit like bomb disposal. Before you start pulling at the wires, you'd better know which one leads to the explosive.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Christian Vogler knocks on the door of room 507 on the fifth floor of the Lexington Hotel.

Stella Vogler says cautiously, 'Who is it?'

'Room service.'

'I didn't order anything.'

There's no reply. With a gesture of impatience she goes to the door and pulls it all the way open. 'You've got the wrong—'

But Vogler has already pushed his way in. When she sees who it is, she takes a step back.

'Christian. What are you doing here? I thought—'

'Hello, Stella.'

'Christian, please. This isn't what it seems.'

Vogler throws a bag onto the bed. It makes an ominous, heavy noise. He looks over at Dr Leichtman. 'Do I hit her now?'

'Probably. The first thing you'd want to do is establish control of the situation. You'd need to get the gag on first, then the cuffs. That would happen now, while she's still disorientated.'

Frank nods. Back in character, he empties the bag onto the bed — a tangled snake coil of metal chains, handcuffs and strips of cloth for gags.

'I'd scream,' Claire objects.

'Not necessarily. However much people tell themselves they'd resist in these situations, the reality is that they're paralysed by a combination of indecision and disbelief. Plus, if Christian has hit you, you'll be in shock. He'll use that interval to get the restraints in place.'

Frank mimes hitting Claire across the face, then twists her round and snaps a cuff onto her wrist. His hand on her arm is heavy and implacable, twisting it back. She feels the masculine strength of him and yelps.

'Sorry,' he says, easing up.

Welcome to Necropolis.

This is a members-only adult website for those whose fantasies include total power exchange and extreme domination scenarios. It contains material offensive to the vast majority. We make no apologies for what we are, but we do warn you not to enter if such material is not for you.

In Necropolis, there are no limits. In real life, practise safe sex.

Claire signs up and waits while the computer submits her form electronically. A few minutes later the computer beeps. Her membership password is in her e-mail.

===OO=OOO=OO===

'When the police took Vogler's computer in, they went through his hard drive for fragments of erased data,' Dr Leichtman told her earlier. 'They discovered the computer had been used to access more than a dozen hardcore Internet sites.' She handed Claire a slip of paper. 'This is today's homework assignment. Find out everything you can about the people who visit these places. Read about them, talk to them. See if you can figure out what makes them tick.'

'Talk to them? Won't they want to talk back?'

'Of course. You'll have to start thinking about your cover story.' Dr Leichtman looked at her watch. 'I'll be back in a couple of hours to see how you're doing.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Claire types her password into a log-in screen, and suddenly she's in. The site's divided into different sections: Photos, Fantasies, Lonely Hearts, Chat. A message appears:

Since you're new, why not sign our guest book and introduce yourself? Read what some other new members have said, or go directly to the chat room and say hello.

What to put? She wishes Connie Leichtman was there to advise her. Then she realizes that the psychiatrist is deliberately letting her do this alone. What do teachers call it? Learning by doing.

Evidently the tests aren't over yet. She's had the oral, this is the written.

She types:

>>Hi. My name is Claire. I'm twenty-five years old and I live in NYC.

She takes a deep breath and continues:

I don't know if I would ever have the courage to explore my fantasies for real, but I would love to share experiences, dreams and thoughts with other members.

Within a few moments she has three replies.

>>Hi Claire. Like the photo?

She watches, appalled, as a picture downloads a strip at a time. It's a naked girl, clutching a knife to her stomach, gore and blood spreading everywhere.

But, in truth, it's so obviously posed that, once the picture is fully loaded, it seems no more threatening than a cartoon. She types back:

>>No. It looks pretty dumb to me.

The second reply is longer and more detailed. The writer, who calls himself The Beast, wants her to know that he would love to strangle her, spread her legs and force himself on her as she chokes underneath him. He wants to hear her beg for mercy. He wants to hear her beg for more. She types:

>>I seem to do a lot of begging for someone who's choking to death.

The third reply says simply:

>>It's kind of quiet right now because it's the middle of the day — the only people around are these frat-house brats. Why not come back this evening and I'll introduce you to the grown-ups? Regards, Victor.

>>Thanks,

she types gratefully. She moves on to another site.

===OO=OOO=OO===

At a restaurant, they discuss sex murders over the dish of the day.

'Get this straight, Claire. Our killer isn't a sado-masochist in the modern sense of the word. But he may well choose to hide amongst practitioners of S&M, because he shares certain of their interests. Where they use bondage as a shortcut to sexual pleasure, he uses it as a shortcut to the things
he's
interested in: humiliation, degradation, the power of life and death over another human being.'

The waiter comes over to pour some more water for them. He smiles at Claire. Dr Leichtman, oblivious, carries on talking.

'Sadomasochism is very interesting, actually. Why is it suddenly hitting the mainstream? It used to be thought that a propensity for masochism was caused by physical punishment in childhood. But strangely enough, it's the Spock generation, the ones who were never smacked, who've grown up wanting to experiment with bondage and control.'

The waiter, fascinated, can't tear himself away.

'Sometimes we can understand
how
a person's sexuality is wired, but not
why.
You ever watch a butterfly trying to mate with a fluttering leaf? Sex crimes are just another example of biological overkill.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

There are white plastic teacher's boards on three of the four walls of the little classroom. Dr Leichtman, Frank and Claire stand beside them, one apiece.

'OK,' Connie says. 'I'm the killer. Frank, you take Vogler.' She tosses a marker pen to Frank, who uncaps it and writes 'Vogler' on his board, just as she is writing 'Killer' on hers.

'What do I do?' Claire asks.

'Nothing, yet. But if we both write the same word — in other words, if there's an overlap — then you write it on your board, too.'

'First of all,' Frank says, 'he's smart.' He writes 'High IQ' on his board.

'Same here,' Dr Leichtman murmurs. 'Claire, that's your first overlap.'

'He's a loner.'

Dr Leichtman nods. 'While over here we've got poor heterosocial skills.'