Denial (23 page)
The front door slammed shut. I walked to a window in the den and watched Kathy's Volvo lurch down the driveway and disappear into the night. I lowered myself into the wing chair near the window. The leather cushions embraced my naked body. I groped for a Marlboro from the crystal cup on the side table, lit up and watched the tip glow red in the darkness. I inhaled as much smoke as my lungs could hold, then let it flow out my nose and mouth.
Hancock was right; there wasn't any reason for me to rush to the station. No one was likely to suggest Lucas had been psychotic when he killed Sarah and Monique. The police were free to take a confession from him if he offered one. And I had no desire to bear early witness to whatever retribution Hancock and her thugs had exacted while Lucas was locked in his cell.
I imagined him curled up on a bunk, his face swollen and bloodied, his arms and legs contused where Hancock's baton had landed. Every jingle of keys could signal another beating. He was as far from the driver's seat of his Ferrari as he could get. I took another drag and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Why wasn't I anxious to see that? I wondered. Why not take the opportunity to visit Lucas freshly shelled from his narcissism, at the height of his vulnerability? Hadn't he tried to take something I loved from me?
That last question bothered me. I wanted to be certain Kathy had been wrong, that my desire for vengeance hadn't slanted the investigation toward Lucas. I went over the facts of the case in my mind. I had no doubt Lucas was a misogynist capable of violence. I knew for sure he had been sexually involved with both Sarah and Monique. He had performed surgery on each woman's breasts. He was a predator who had grotesquely exploited the doctor-patient relationship. He had been with Monique hours before her death. He had her gold wire ring in his possession.
That was more than Hancock knew. I hadn't told her about my conversation with Ben Carlson in Texas. And what she knew had been enough for her. So why was my stomach in knots. Was I having trouble believing butchery could be the work of a meticulous surgeon? Or hadn't I resolved in my mind why a man licensed and paid to cut women would risk everything for the pleasure of mutilating them?
I sucked in another half inch of tobacco, shook my head and squinted into the darkness. The knots in my stomach were only getting tighter. I stood up, turned on the standing lamp and sat back down. When I reached to put my cigarette out, I noticed a few of Kathy's Trixie Belden books stacked next to the ashtray on the side table. I figured she'd had trouble sleeping the night before and had used the stories to unwind. I picked one up and smiled at the title,
The Mystery of The Phantom Grasshopper
. I opened it and read a few paragraphs.
Sitting around a roaring fire in the living room, the whole family played guessing games, told jokes and sang songs. Mrs. Belden reeled off a string of tongue twisters that amazed everyone. She challenged the young people to match her skill, and the results had everyone doubled over with laughter...
Later, Trixie snuggled in bed and listened to the sounds of the storm outside. Poor old Hoppy, she thought with a shudder. I hope the storm doesn't damage him.
I imagined how reading about Trixie's idyllic life might have comforted Kathy as she grew up in a family scarred by tragedy. I set the book down on my lap. Where had she run off to? She could stay in an on-call room at the hospital easily enough, or she could sit up all night with my mother, cataloging my character flaws. I guessed it was also possible she might head to the Lynn police station to visit with Lucas — a little like a moth drawn to a flame. That image stuck in my mind. I thought again of the fire that had claimed Kathy's little sister. Maybe survivor's guilt, the very psychological dynamic that had shattered Westmoreland, was the one driving Kathy. If she believed she should have died in her sister's place, she might unconsciously try putting herself in harm's way, even now.
I realized I couldn't know for sure how Kathy had suffered that night; I hadn't asked her enough about it. I didn't know whether she had jumped from a window or been carried to safety. I didn't know which family members had been at home. I hadn't asked Kathy what she remembered of her sister's funeral, whether she had kept any of her belongings, whether she believed her sister had gone to heaven. It was another black hole in our relationship. How could I have lived so long with another human being, yet kept so much distance from her?
I needed something to stem my anxiety. I walked over to a waist-high art deco wet bar that Kathy and I had picked up at an antique show in Vermont. It was made of chestnut, and the top rolled back to reveal an assortment of chrome bottles and a dozen chrome tumblers. I grabbed the bottle that held my 10-year-old Talisker scotch and poured myself a double. The aroma alone was enough to start settling me down. I drank it slowly, but without a breath, enjoying the way it warmed my mouth and throat, then my esophagus and stomach. When the glass was empty, I could almost feel the stuff leaching through my gut into blood vessels that would ferry it everywhere. I let out a deep breath and hung my head, waiting for the wave of calm to carry me off.
I was almost there when I heard a knock at the door. One knock, then nothing. Kathy had the key, so I doubted it was her, unless she had tossed the key out of the car as she sped away. She'd done that more than once before. I realized that I wanted it to be her, but when I looked outside, I saw a pickup, not her Volvo, in the driveway.
I walked to the bedroom, pulled on my pants and started down the stairs. My feet felt lighter with the scotch onboard. When I was a few yards from the door, there was another knock. "Coming," I yelled. I looked through the peep hole, but couldn't see anything. The bulb must have burned out. "Who is it?" I asked.
No response.
"Who's there?" I yelled.
"Let me in, goddamn it!"
Even through three inches of wood I recognized the precision of Paulson Levitsky's speech, every syllable its own universe. I opened the door.
Levitsky was still in his work clothes — a starched white shirt and club tie. He was clutching a manila envelope to his chest. "We have a problem," he said. He marched past me, headed for the living room. I followed. He sat down on the couch, keeping his back perfectly straight, and took a few sheets of paper out of the envelope.
"Paulson," I said, "we haven't talked. I don't know if you've been in touch with Hancock."
He looked up at me and sniffed the air. "Are you drunk?"
"I had a drink."
He stood up. "Can you think? Or am I wasting my time?" Before I could respond, he held up his hands. "Sorry." He sat back down. "I'm upset."
I took a seat next to him. "I need to fill you in on some things."
"They have the wrong man again," he blurted out.
My heart fell. "What?"
"Dr. Lucas is not guilty."
"Hold on," I said. "Do you know he put breast implants in Sarah and Monique? Silicone implants?"
"Yes. Hancock told me everything."
"She told you what she knew. But I haven't told her that Sarah and Monique
both
had the surgery. And Lucas performed it. He was also sleeping with both of them."
"Reprehensible. The man is a monster." He tightened the Windsor knot in his tie and shook his head. "He is not, however, a murderer — at least, not of these particular victims." He stared at me.
"Why do you say he's not guilty?" I surrendered.
"I
say
he's not guilty because he
is
not guilty. The killer is still killing."
"The killer is..."
He held out the sheets in his hand.
I took them from him and glanced at the first page. It was a faxed report from the Revere Police Department. I looked up at Levitsky, hoping for some sort of reassurance.
He offered none. "Go ahead," he deadpanned.
I started to read:
Fifty-one-year-old homicide victim found in vehicle with ID in wallet. Name: Michael Wembley. Address: 123 Beacon Street, Boston. Vehicle is a black Lexus SC400, plate 887NFT, Massachusetts. Discovered at end of unpaved Foster Road by jogger, Susan Rugeaux (notes of interview filed separately) at approximately 6:35
P.M.
Victim is found with eyelids removed (cut off). Victim is naked below the waist (pants at ankles). Genital area is shaved. Penis and testicles are disfigured by multiple deep lacerations.
"Holy God," I said.
"Joshua Belnick, the coroner in Revere, called me immediately and got me the paperwork. Unlike you, he keeps me in the loop when I need to be. He knew we had two bodies with shaved genitals."
"But they were women."
"That's true."
"The breasts were removed."
"What's your point?"
I wasn't sure I had a point. I went back to reading:
Watch removed from car, propped on dashboard. Rolex. Not running. Stem pulled out. Time: 6:19
P.M.
Bagged for evidence.
"What's with the watch?"
"Our murderer apparently wanted to establish time of death. It does seem accurate. According to Belnick, judging from congealing of blood, drying of the eyes, etcetera, 6:19
P.M.
is perfectly consistent. Of course, he'll need to do further studies."
"When did Lucas turn himself in?"
"He was booked at six-forty, but he'd been hanging around the station awhile."
"Not enough of a window, then," I said. "He'd have to have flown from Revere to Lynn." I looked back at the sheet of paper. "If the time of death is correct."
"It is, give or take five minutes. Belnick's no hack."
I flipped to the second page. It was a fax of two photographs showing the victim's wounds. The images were coarse, but they showed what they needed to. Without lids, Wembley's eyes seemed to bear witness to an unspeakable horror. Just below that photo, a shot of his genital area looked more like sliced deli meat . "What killed him?" I muttered.
"A blow to the head, like the other two."
"At least he was dead before the rest happened," I said.
"I don't know about that. Pubic hair was found on the driver's seat and floor mat. He shaved in the car."
"Or got shaved."
"Very unlikely. According to Belnick, the direction of the sheared hairs and the abrasions indicate the razor moved from low to high, meaning the hand holding it came directly from above." Levitsky reached down between his legs and used his own hand to show me the upward vertical strokes. "Someone in the passenger seat would have had to reach across and shave downward." He reached toward me to demonstrate.
I blocked his hand. "I get it. How'd this Belnick do so much work so fast?"
"He's a crackerjack. A trained eye. I was one of his instructors during his residency at Boston City."
"Now I understand."
He smiled. "The number of razor nicks — double-edged, by the way, like a Trac II blade — suggests Wembley was either very excited or very frightened at the time."
I looked down at the photographs again and shook my head. "Terrified seems about right."
"I'll leave the psychological postmortem to you. The more urgent matter is convincing Captain Hancock to reopen the investigation."
I nodded. "Why couldn't this be another killer? It's a different MO. Male victim. Revere, not Lynn. Different wounds."
"C’mon, Frank. I don't like being wrong any more than you do, but—"
"It's not about me," I sputtered.
"OK. If you say so."
I settled myself down. "Anyone would say there are differences in the cases."
"The lacerations on the penis were made with a blade identical to those that cut Ms. Johnston and Ms. Peletier. I'd still say a scalpel."
"The very same blade, or the same exact
type
of blade?"
"You sound like Hancock. Splitting hairs." He winced. "No pun intended."
"It isn't within the realm of possibility?"
"Anything is within the realm of possibility, Frankster. A second killer is highly improbable. And as you know, I never signed on to the idea that a plastic surgeon would leave such gruesome wounds. I think I mentioned the Mike Tyson thing."
"Yes. You did. You also compared people with birds pecking for seed."
"I stand by the analogy. Human beings have deeply ingrained patterns of behavior."
"But they're not automatons."
He looked out the window. Then, without a word, he turned back toward me and swung an open hand toward my face.
I ducked. "What the hell?"
"Sorry," he said. "I was making a point." He folded his hands on his thigh. "I swing, you dodge. Stimulus, response. Even your irritation with me is a programmed reaction. We're creatures of habit."
I didn't feel like debating the existence of free will. And I wasn't at all sure Levitsky was wrong about the killer still being out there. I stood up. "Let's go find Hancock," I said.
I wanted to drive but Levitsky insisted because he still smelled alcohol on my breath. We took his car, a 1981 Dodge Ram that rode like new. A simulated ivory bust of Einstein was propped on the dash and, to my surprise, an Alpine stereo, graphic equalizer and amplifier were stacked in the open glove compartment. I wondered whether Levitsky harbored a passion for hard rock, but as soon as he flipped the ignition, four speakers began pouring out continuing medical education on the lymphatic drainage system of the lower extremity. "The afferent lymphatic vessels," a man's voice lectured, "run along with the saphenous vein, while vessels from the knee joint run with the genicular arteries."
