Gladyss of the Hunt (35 page)

I was woken by the sound of Maggie's door closing. It was dark. I had slept for twelve solid hours, after dropping off with the cell phone against my ear. I threw on a bathrobe and knocked on Maggie's door.

“I just wanted to apologize about last night,” I said when she peeked out. I was still embarrassed by my attempted arrest of Venezia.

“I warned you that these assholes use up people like us,” she said softly, looking at the ground.

“Well, I finally lost my virginity, which was all I really wanted.”

“Gladyss, you were drunk off your ass. Isn't that called date rape where you work?”

Her response surprised me. She thought Noel had taken advantage of me, and since she didn't know how deeply I had fallen for him, I guess it must've seemed that way.

“I kind of consented beforehand,” I equivocated.

“Really?”

“What can I say, Maggie? Feelings have a way of just creeping up on you. I mean, I didn't even know I felt like that about him until I saw him in the news with that bitch. I mean, if I didn't get drunk last night . . . But I feel like such an idiot. I can't believe I tried to arrest her in front of all those people.”

“Gladyss, last night was
not
a good thing.”

“Don't you think I know that?”

Lowering her voice, she said, “Look what they've turned us into!” She was still seeing Crispin but obviously didn't care for the way he was treating her. I sympathized with her, but I didn't feel the same way about Noel.

“Whatever it is we've turned into, we did it on our own,” I said. ”We have to take responsibility for our actions.”

She looked almost ashamed. I wanted to say that she never should've insinuated herself in my goddamn life in the first place, but she was now my friend as well as my neighbor, so instead I said, “Maybe you should stop seeing Crispin.”

“I'm going to, but . . .” She was struggling with something.

“What?”

“Well,” she lowered her voice again, “when I initially asked you
about Noel, you said you didn't particularly care . . .”

“Care about what?”

“You said you wouldn't mind me . . . dating Noel.”

“
Dating
Noel?”

“Sleeping with him,” she clarified.

I remembered I had said that, but that was when
I
wasn't involved with him. Now it was a very different story. I was so aghast at Maggie mentioning the idea of sleeping with the man I was beginning to think of as my boyfriend that I was unable to respond. Her star obsession had clearly supernovaed, but I was still too exhausted to get into a messy fight. Afraid to talk, in case I lost my temper, I just nodded my head tiredly.

She nodded her head back. After a minute or so I retreated to my apartment and closed the door.

I was determined to return to work on Thursday morning. As soon as I walked in, Annie told me that Miriam Williams had arrived back in the country and agreed to come in for an interview at noon. She said Bernie had called a meeting for 11:30 to recap everything we had on the Marilyn murders and try to work up a new profile of our copycat.

I entered the conference room just after Barry, the forensic psychologist. Taped evenly to the wall of our squad room were crime scene photos of our two unsolved cases: Jane Hansen and Caty Duffy. Below them were the photos the killer had emailed of the murders
while
they were being committed. Using a magnifying glass, Barry inspected them carefully.

“We should have realized these were two separate cases from the start,” the psychologist began. “The make-up and platinum wigs, for one thing. Not to mention the fact that he signed the photos with these arcane references before uploading them to this Marilyn Monroe web site. He was clearly someone other than Nessun O'Flaherty.”

“But in taping up the arms and legs, he really did make an effort to copy him,” Bernie said emphatically.

“This second killer might not be as prolific but he's more sophisticated, what with the jpegs and the fact that he's mimicking,” Annie said.

“If he is a copycat, what will he do now that we've caught the guy he's copying?” I asked.

“That's a good question,” Alex said. “One thing's for sure, he won't stop.”

“We do have one potential clue,” Barry said to Bernie. “The killer mugged you and used your credit card.”

“Yeah.”

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Almost a quarter century,” Bernie said tiredly, taking another hit from his inhaler.

“And presumably you considered that this guy might be someone you had once put away?”

“First thing I did was spend a night going through my last ten years of cases.”

“Anything?”

“The smartest and angriest of them are either in prison or dead.”

“Why do you think this second guy chops off the breasts instead of the head?” Alex asked.

“He wrote several poems in which he verbally abuses his mother.” Bernie reminded him. “He referred to her as Marmalyn.”

“Sounds like mammaries. The breasts are classic symbols of motherhood. I wouldn't be surprised if our man has an awful relationship with his mother,” Barry had a knack for stating the obvious.

“Maybe it was something about O'Flaherty's murders that triggered this guy,” Annie suggested.

“Well obviously he's fixated on O'Flaherty's murders, but I don't see how that would trigger him.”

“And why would anyone repeatedly act out killing Marilyn Monroe?” Annie asked.

“What does Marilyn represent? Glamour? Vulnerability? Promiscuity?” Bernie asked.

“Did a new book or documentary about her just come out?” Barry asked.

“That would be a good question to ask this Miriam woman,” Bernie said, looking strangely at me.

“What else are you planning on asking her?” Annie asked.

“Well, the killer is posting the murders on her web site as a kind of performance piece,” Barry said. “He even wipes them clean when
he's done, almost like he's doing it just for her.”

“See, this is what I figure,” Bernie said. “He
is
doing it for her! So she must know the killer. I bet she got into some big discussion or fight with him about Marilyn. And these murders are his response.”

“What's the connection between you and Miriam, exactly?” Barry asked me almost accusingly.

“She's a friend of Noel Holden's, and she seems to like me.”

“And how does he know her?”

“She produced a film he was in.”

“So maybe that's the tie-in,” Bernie said.

“What is?” Annie asked.

“The killer wants to fuck Miriam, but she's got the hots for our young friend here.” Bernie pointed to me. “Maybe he's attracted to this William Holden wannabe as well.”

“Noel does not want to be William Holden,” I said defensively.

“That might make sense,” Barry said. “How else could he compete with a hot young cop and a movie star?”

“That's the point of the murders,” Bernie said. “He's responding to his powerlessness.”

“Let's size up our suspect,” the profiler concluded. “He's white, and in his thirties, possibly his forties—”

“You don't think he's older, with his Marilyn fixation?” Alex asked.

“Unlikely, 'cause he's computer literate. The poems and references to obscure historical figures like Catherine of Alexandria suggest that he probably went to college. Maybe he even has a graduate degree. Considering all the Mama-Marilyn stuff, he may well be adopted, or has a screwed-up relationship with his mother. Like O'Flaherty, he may even be impotent—it was her lover Caty Duffy had sex with shortly before she died, not her murderer. In fact, given the costuming and make-up, I haven't ruled out that he might be a repressed homosexual, maybe a crossdresser. Unlike O'Flaherty, he may not have a criminal record. Because he's computer-savvy, he may have an account on eBay, or Amazon. Regarding his Marilyn Monroe fixation, he might belong to some fan club or attend conventions, something like that.”

Barry paused a moment then asked, “Anyone want to add anything?”

“I was looking at the photos,” Annie said, staring at the display wall. “If you think about the composition and the lighting, he doesn't seem particularly skilled at photography.”

“I thought about that, too,” Barry said. “In fact, they suggest a distinct
lack
of skill. And when we consider how thorough he has been in cleaning up his crime scenes—just like O'Flaherty—it seems inconsistent. So he might be bad at taking photographs, or he might deliberately be making them appear amateurish to hide his skill.”

“It's a good point,” Bernie said. “The guy has a clear visual excitation. Hell, he might even
be
a photographer.”

A moment later Barry's cell phone beeped. He answered and hung up quickly. “I'm due on the stand. I've got twenty minutes to get down to Centre Street.” With that he was out the door. Almost immediately we got a call from the desk sergeant saying that Miriam Williams had arrived.

“Since she likes you,” Bernie said to me. “You take the lead on this.”

I went downstairs and walked her up, telling her how much I'd enjoyed her party and her fabulous apartment. I introduced her to Bernie and the others, and together we led her into the conference room.

“I'm sorry about being away so long,” she began. “I'm trying to get some European backers for my latest project, and I ended up going to sixteen different cities in two weeks. It was exhausting.”

“You told Officer Chronou in advance that you were leaving town,” Bernie replied. “We should have got to you before you left.”

“I just hope that my little web site didn't somehow encourage this nut.”

“I don't want to alarm you,” I started out, “but we're currently operating under the assumption that the killer knows you or might even be targeting you with these pictures.”

“Oh my God! Really?”

“I'm afraid so. What we need to do is come up with a list of possible suspects based on who you know. A good place to start might be with someone who for some reason has very negative feelings about Marilyn Monroe.”

“Gee . . .” She thought about the question.

“He's probably white and in his thirties or forties,” I parroted
Barry's line. “He may have an odd relationship with women, and difficulties with his mother. He might even be adopted. And he might be a computer person, or possibly a photographer.”

“Well,” Miriam exhaled. “There have certainly been people I knew who didn't
like
Norma Jean, but none of them really fits that bill.”

“Maybe just focus on anyone who didn't like her,” Bernie said, as if I weren't there.

“Okay.” Miriam stared up at the blank wall from which the crime scene photos had just been taken down. “Let's see . . .” she mulled it over for a minute. “Linda Sanders once said that she thought Marilyn acted the same way in all her movies . . .”

Bernie pulled his chair closer. “Do you know any guys between twenty and fifty who hated the actress?”

“Well,” Miriam replied, “there
is
Roddy Potter's son, Blair. What a young cad! During a dinner party he said he found Marilyn annoyingly cloying in
Asphalt Jungle
. But that was a small role. And yes, come to think of it, I clearly remember him saying that he found her ditsy in
Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend
.”

“Ditsy?” Bernie seemed amused.

“I believe so.” Miriam said very correctly.

“I don't suppose you know anyone with violent tendencies?” I asked, hoping to trim the fat.

“Oh, of course!” Miriam snapped her fingers. “Sammy Wochenskil! Why didn't I think of him before. He despised Marilyn Monroe like no one else alive.”

“Who is Sammy Wochenskil?” I asked.

“You know, the fashion designer,” she replied as though he were the president of the United States.

“Is he gay?”

“Heavens to Betsy, yes. Actually he retired a number of years ago. I don't know what became of him, but I remember he just detested Marilyn.”

“You sure it wasn't Marilyn Manson that this Sammy guy detested?” Bernie asked. I thought he was kidding, but apparently he was serious.

“No, it was definitely Marilyn Monroe. When she was still alive he used to call her Miserable Marilyn.”

“You never heard him refer to her as Marmalyn, did you?” Annie asked.

“No,” she replied with a chuckle. Then she asked if she could use the bathroom.

After I'd given her directions, Bernie explained that murderers usually selected their victims within their own groups—straights usually hunted straights, and gays usually hunted gays. Still, he said, this might explain why our second killer dresses them up, almost like drag queens, and doesn't have sex with them. He asked me to dig up anything I could find on Sammy Wochenskil, then got on the phone. I was about to go online and Google the guy when it occurred to me that Crispin Marachino knew Miriam well. And, being a director, he certainly had some kind of background in photography. He was part of the whole Hollywood world, too. He seemed a weak suspect, but we had virtually no one else in our sights right now. I grabbed a second phone and called Noel's private cell phone.