Jonathan Kellerman_Petra Connor 02 (31 page)

Once again, Retzak jumped ship and hid out in South America for several months. Eventually making his way back to the States, he tramped across the country stealing and doing odd jobs, finding employment as a menial laborer, a short-order cook, or a night clerk at shabby hotels. His off-hours were spent brawling, overindulging in alcohol, opium, marijuana, and patent medicines, seducing and raping prostitutes, sneak-thieving, butchering wild and domestic animals at whim.

Murdering five more human beings.

The third victim: a matron walking her dog in Le Doux, Missouri, an affluent suburb of St. Louis. Nocturnal walk; she'd been surprised by a handsome, strapping fellow with a mutt in tow.

“I'd watched this one for days, a sturdy sow she was, and I admired her form and her walk, believed her someone I'd enjoy knowing in the biblical sense. But then the urge came over me to go beyond that merest intrusion and I stole an old yellow cur from a front-yard in her neighborhood, a wretched mongrel so old and blind that he put up no resistance when I lifted him over the fence. Fashioning a leash from a length of rope, I set out to see if he'd cooperate and he did, though in a clumsy, halting manner. I offered him a slab of meat and he regarded me as a religious fool might regard a Savior. That night, I stationed myself outside the sow's house and she emerged, as always, at nine p.m. with her fluffy little annoyance tethered by a satin cord. As she strolled from her house, she began humming a jaunty tune and that inflamed me further. I followed her at a distance until she entered a dark section of her street, then hurried after her, carrying my borrowed mongrel. When I was sufficiently close, I set the dog down, walked past her, stopped several yards ahead and pretended to be tending to the cur. My possession of a canine companion caused her to see me as trustworthy and she approached without hesitation. Within moments we were chatting idiotically and I sensed that she found me gentlemanly. After an exchange of polite utterances, she turned to leave and down came the ax handle I'd secreted in my coat. The gelatin! Her little fluffy thing began whimpering and for dessert, I stomped it. Its gelatin appeared no different to my eye than hers and I found that quite amusing. When I was finished recording the scene in my tablet, I picked up the yellow mongrel, carried it a half mile away, to a wooded place. It looked up at me with affection as I twisted its neck. After inspecting its vitals, I kicked it under a tree.”

Isaac exhaled. Klara's breathing was audible and minty. He hesitated before turning the page, knowing what would follow.

Number four: A “nigger sailor” stalked, accosted, and bludgeoned in a Chicago back alley.

Five:
“An insolent prostitute, skinny as a young girl but syphilitic and insolent,”
brutalized in a New Orleans park.

Six:
“An abominable Nancy Boy living in the same hotel as myself in San Francisco pursed his lips at me in a disgusting manner and repeated the insult the following day. I pretended to enjoy his attentions, waited until a moonless night and followed him when he went out to prowl the streets in order to accomplish what that ilk accomplishes. Accosting him in a quiet alley, I agreed to grant his request. He bent and looked up at me, much as the yellow dog had. I told him to close his eyes and proceeded to dispense the Sodomite with energy and efficiency using the handle of an ax I'd stolen that very morning. Visiting ministrations of my unique design to his perversity-filled cranium was a special joy. His brain resembled that of a normal man in every way.”

Perfect match.

But Retzak hadn't stopped at six.

Hitchhiking from San Francisco to Los Angeles, the itinerant killer decided he was now capable of drawing the human figure and face. Setting up an easel near the central railway station, he tried to earn a living drawing caricatures of tourists.

“However,” wrote Superintendent Teller, “whatever technical ability he did have was over-ridden by a tendency to depict others as leering, saturnine creatures. His rendering of the eyes, especially, was upsetting to those who sat for him and payment was often refused. Retzak kept the unsold drawings and these works have provided much fodder for analysis by alienists of both the Boston and the Vienna Schools.”

When his artist's career failed to materialize, Retzak resumed his pattern of thievery and transitory labor, working as a ditchdigger, a cook, a janitor at a school, even a foot-courier for a small independent bank. Careful never to pilfer from the money satchels, he was found stealing paper and pens from the financial institution and dismissed. It was summertime, and rather than pay for lodgings, Retzak began sleeping outdoors, near railyards and in parks. His wanderings took him to Elysian Park, where “a sanitorium for tubercular war orphans and other sick children had existed for decades in that tree-shaded and verdant place. Retzak, always careful to present himself in a clean and acceptable manner, attracted the attention of the staff by sitting on a bench near the children's rest area and drawing. Curiosity brought the young ones and their caretakers over and soon Retzak was creating pictures for them. They began regarding him as a friendly, wholesome young man. That, of course, was the falsest of false impressions.”

“I was able to impersonate the character of a sound, conventional, stupidly amiable man with laughable ease. All the time, even as I smiled and nattered and sketched the wheezing piglets, the fire burned in my brain. I contemplated luring one of them away from the trough, dashing its little brains upon hard ground, then watching the gelatin seep into the sand. It had been some months since I'd indulged myself in my favorite game, for there were periods when I did try to abstain. During those arid days, memories of my exploits served to amuse me. But of late, I had grown weary of mere nostalgia and knew that something new and fresh—a fine challenge—was called for. I'd learned what I could about brain-jelly and decided that nothing short of a complete medical exploration, from cranium down to the toes would suffice. A composite of humours, a veritable flood of release would elevate me to new heights of devilry. Not piglet humours, something mature.

“It was then that my eyes settled upon the smiley, chanting starchy-white nurses who attended to the little gaspers. My favorite was one sow, in particular, a Dago-looking type, of fine form and dark eyes. Of apparent cold nature, she had not joined the others in inspecting my sketchwork. Quite the opposite, she maintained a careful distance, gazed at me with impudence, seemed to harbor a disdain for Fine Art.

“Such rudeness could not be countenanced. I was determined to teach her a hard lesson.”

Klara stretched. “It's dreadful stuff, no?”

“When was the book donated?” said Isaac.

“Thirty years ago. Dr. Graham was a forensic psychiatrist. He died in 1971. His sons were wealthy bankers and they gave us his books as a tax deduction.”

“I need to know everyone who checked this out.”

“That would be a violation of constitutional rights.”

“Unless the F.B.I.'s looking for terrorists.”

She didn't answer.

“Please,” said Isaac. “It's essential.”

“Finish reading.”

When he did, she made him a copy of the booklet, then led him out of the reading room. He followed her down to her desk at the reference counter. One middle-aged woman spooled microfilm, her back to the desk. No sign of Mary or any other librarians.

Klara said, “Walk away. Over there.” Pointing to a stack of periodicals.

Isaac obeyed, pulled out a copy of
The New Republic,
and pretended to read as Klara sat down at her computer, put on half glasses. Typed. Brought something to the screen.

Pursing her lips, she touched her right temple. Looked around. Returned to Isaac.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I've just gotten the worst headache. Time to find myself an aspirin before it gets out of hand.”

She left, wiggling prettily.

Isaac stepped forward.

CHAPTER

46

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, PETRA'S APARTMENT, DETROIT STREET NEAR SIXTH

A
nurse,” she said.

“Maria Giacometti,” said Isaac. “Her murder was different from the others. A lot more violent. More intrusive.” Instinctively, he closed his eyes, remembering the butchery. Opened them quickly, not wanting to come across squeamish.

“Escalation is typical,” said Petra. “What turns them on in the beginning stops working so they get nastier.”

Isaac knew that intellectually; he'd learned a term for it—sensory saturation—but saw no reason to mention that. He sat at Petra's dinette table as she leafed through the photocopy of the booklet.

Such a neat, clean, compact apartment, a faint feminine smell. Exactly what he'd imagined.

She turned a page, said, “Oh my.”

At seven, she'd gone out for dinner with Eric. Then he drove up to Camarillo to visit his parents, said he'd be back in the morning. When she returned home just before nine a message from Barney Fleischer was on her machine. Isaac Gomez had been by the station, had seemed anxious to talk to her, kind of nervous. Also, Barney added, some clown from Central Gang Control was asking around about the kid.

She called the Gomez home, more out of some sort of hazy maternal obligation than expectation.

As the phone rang, she wondered if she'd wake the poor brother again. But Isaac picked up and when he learned it was her, he began talking, shouting, at warp speed. “Thank God! I've been trying to get you all day!”

“Detective Fleischer told me you—”

“I've got the
answer,
Petra. To June 28, the pattern, the motivation. Who and why, everything. Who his next victim will be.”

“Who's
he
?”

Silence. “Doebbler!”

Breathing hard, almost panting.

She said, “Start at the beginning.”

She picked him up in front of his building at nine-forty. He was pacing the curb, swinging his briefcase, jumped into the car before her tires stopped rolling. His eyes shot back reflected streetlight. Bright. Jumpy. She had to remind him to fasten his seat belt.

As he chattered, she drove back to her place. Initially, she'd figured on a restaurant meeting, then decided they needed total privacy. Bringing Isaac home was something she'd have considered out of the question an hour ago. Now things were different. Forget all the personal stuff; this was the job.

She finished the booklet. “Where's the list?”

Isaac pulled a folded slip of paper from the case. Computer printout from Klara's workstation.

Teller, T.W.J.
The Sins of the Mad Artist
Subjs: crime, U.S. history, Retzak, O.
Graham Coll. Catal. # 4211-3

Below that, a list of everyone who'd requested a peek at the booklet.

Short list.

September 4, 1978: Professor A. R. Ritchey, Pitzer College

May 15, 1997. K. Doebbler,
using an alumnus library card

Kurt Doebbler had imbibed these horrors one month and thirteen days before murdering his wife.

Seeking inspiration? Or had the bastard come across the booklet by chance and decided to emulate Otto Retzak?

She asked Isaac what he thought.

He said, “My guess would be he already knew about Retzak. He could even have read the book somewhere else and wanted to refresh his memory.”

“Where else could Doebbler have gotten hold of something this obscure?”

“It's esoteric but not really that obscure. Once I had Retzak's name as a keyword, I went back on the Internet. He's been discussed in a few true-crime chat rooms and the booklet's in the holdings of at least twenty campus libraries. Also, soon after it was published initially, it was translated into French, Italian, and German. Doebbler lived in Germany as an adolescent.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “He could've stumbled across it, gotten stimulated, decided to take a second look.” She got up and paced her small living room. Isaac watched her, then stopped abruptly and stared at the carpet.

She noticed, became aware of his maleness. Her clothing. Baggy chocolate sweater over black leggings. Skintight leggings. Revealing more thigh than she would've liked, but no one could accuse her of being seductive.

She caught Isaac's eye. He just sat there, looking like an abashed schoolboy.

She said, “Okay, let's lay it out: Marta cheated on Kurt, he found out, built up some serious anger. He'd always been a cold, controlled man, but now his control was slipping. He stewed, started to obsess, remembered the Retzak book from his impressionable teen years. Or, he was a true-crime buff, lots of serials are—any clues from those chat rooms?”

“I skimmed them searching for some indication Doebbler was chatting. If he was, I didn't catch it.”

“Let's pull them up, see if there's something traceable.”

He shook his head. “Chats can't be traced because they occur in real time, aren't stored on the hard drive. I double-checked with a guy I know who's a real computer wizard and he confirmed it.”

“Damn,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Okay, back on track . . . one way or the other Doebbler read about Retzak and Retzak's first murder stuck in his head: a common-law wife who ticked the guy off. Suddenly, Doebbler finds himself to be a ticked-off husband and Retzak's adventures take on a whole new meaning. That turned killing Marta into more than revenge. He was reliving history, assuming the persona of a big-time monster . . .” She shook her head. “Doebbler wanted to be Otto the Second, so seven innocent people died. It's beyond twisted but it makes sense . . . feels right.”

“Victims with no apparent link gave him confidence,” said Isaac. “Why would he even imagine getting caught?”

Petra smiled. “He wasn't figuring on you.”

“I was lucky.” Eyes back to the floor. Blushing. Cute, when he did that. She wished she could find him a genius girlfriend.

Seven innocent people.

She sat back down and reread the booklet. Despite Superintendent Teller's delicacy in dancing around the details, Maria Giacometti's murder was stomach-churning.

Retzak had been found sitting under a California oak, not far from the Elysian Park sanitarium, with the young woman's entrails around his neck. Peaceful expression on his face, knees crossed, like some homicidal yogi. Humming softly, seemingly entranced.

A hobo crossing the park spotted the horror and ran terrified to the nearest police officer. No big detective work necessary; Retzak had left a blood trail snaking from the playground kill-spot to his tree.

“Sounds like he lost it,” said Petra.

“Thank God,” said Isaac. “Can you imagine the next one?”

She put the booklet aside. Her head felt swollen and her heart raced.

“Seven for Mr. Retzak. Six, so far, for Mr. Doebbler,” she said. “And we're going to make sure it stays that way.”

She fixed coffee for both of them, gave the booklet's final chapter yet another scan. Otto Retzak's final days; his arrest, trial, and execution had taken all of three weeks. The good old days.

Retzak had gone defiantly to the gallows. Proclaiming his hatred for God, humanity, and “all that you brainless sheep deem sacred. Give me a chance to leave this room and I'll brain every one of you, chew on your guts, have myself a blood and gelatin party.”

Petra said, “I wonder how many Italian-American pediatric nurses are out there.”

“If Doebbler's really a stickler,” said Isaac, “we should be looking at an Italian-American pediatric nurse who takes care of respiratory patients.”

“That would narrow it down. Not that it matters. Prevention's worth a whole lot of cure. We're going to be surveilling Doebbler starting tomorrow morning. He's not going to get close to number seven.”

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

He'd scooted forward on the couch. All eagerness, misinterpreting “we.”

Uh-oh.

She said, “By ‘we,' I meant police officers. I can't afford to involve you in this, Isaac.”

His face fell. He tried to recover with a confident nod. “Oh. Sure, I can see that. No active involvement, I'll just ride along and observe. In case you need a free set of hands or there's some function I can fill.”

She shook her head. “Sorry. You're absolutely the hero of this story, without you nothing would've happened. But having civilians along on high-risk operations is a big-time no-no. Especially now. I'm in enough trouble, can't afford more.”

“It's beyond absurd,” he said, with sudden adamance. “Your suspension, I mean. Selden slaughters all those kids and the department's worried about picayune procedure.”

“The department is a paramilitary organization. I obey, therefore I am.” Putting on the calm, wise mentor persona while her mind raced: Who
did
I mean by “we”?

It would have to be her and Eric. Sorry Reverend Bob and Mary, right now I need your son more than you do.

Eric would be a major asset. He was great on surveillance, had the patience, the low resting heart rate. But a two-person surveillance was bare-bones, fine for a low-stakes, stationary watch. What if Doebbler's house provided some kind of rear escape? Or the bastard took a complicated route and they got snarled in heavy traffic?

Losing him was out of the question. No way, it just couldn't happen.

Three would be a whole lot better than two. Three pros . . .

She glanced over at Isaac. Crestfallen and trying to hide it. Could she risk it? No way. Especially not with Gang Control surveilling
him.

Maybe she should break
that
wide open.

No, not a good idea.

Why
not
?

She said, “So, how's Flaco Jaramillo?”

He turned white. Nearly fell off the couch.

Several moments passed. “Why do you ask?”

“You tell me, Isaac.”

“Tell you what?”

“Your connection to Flaco Jaramillo.”

He stayed calm but his face got hard. Hawkish, a little scary. His hands tightened into fists and as he rolled them, forearms bunched, veins popping like miniature pylons. Thick arms. Some serious muscles she'd never noticed. All that brain power had made her forget this was a healthy, young man in his prime.

Now she'd tapped into something that evoked his physicality. She wondered how much of himself he'd kept from her.

“So that's it,” he said.

“That's what?”

“Someone from the department's been asking about me over on campus. Some detective named Lucido.”

“Bobby Lucido. He and his partner spoke to me a few days ago.”

Isaac's eyes flashed with anger. “You didn't think to tell me.”

“I didn't even consider it, my friend. Because I didn't know what you were up to. Still don't.”

“Idiots,” he mumbled. His laughter was coarse, staccato, free of amusement. “Not you. But you work with a bunch of really stupid people.”

“We can't all be geniuses.”

“I didn't mean it that way, Jesus.” He knuckled the spot between his eyebrows, raised a rosy spot.

“They've got pictures, Isaac.”

His shoulders stiffened. “Of what?”

Now I've buried myself.
“Of you and a low-life dope dealer slash possible triggerman shmoozing it up in a low-life bar.”

She folded her arms across her chest.

He tried to force relaxation.

His body cooperated but his eyes were way too jumpy. Just like a suspect. The kid had broken the case and now she was breaking him. Did life have to be this hard?

He said, “I can see why that might lead to a mistaken impression.”

“Don't bullshit me,” she said.

He blinked hard. No more hard guy, scared kid. What was real, what wasn't?

“I'm not bullshitting you,” he insisted. “But there's nothing ominous going on. Flaco and I go back. We grew up together, I tutored him in grade school. In public school, before I got into Burton. We run into each other from time to time. I know he's been in trouble, but I've never been involved in any of that. A few days ago, he called me up and asked me to meet him. To help him out with a family matter.”

“What kind of family matter?”

“His mother's sick. Cancer. She's illegal, can't qualify for Medi-Cal. He was under the impression I was already in medical school, figured I could help her get free medical care. He's always about that, getting an angle. I went to see him because he used to stick up for me when we were kids. I explained that I wasn't in the system. He didn't want to hear that, got persistent. I told him I'd look into it. When I got back to campus, I made a few calls. Couldn't do a thing. Told him. That's it.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, dammit.”

“You're not a dope courier?”

His eyes got wide. “Are you insane?”

Petra didn't answer.

“I promise, Petra. I swear. I've never had anything to do with dope.
Never.
And growing up the way I did there was no lack of opportunity. Flaco's a psychopath and a felon but we don't hang together. This was about doing a favor, that's all, and I think it's crazy that I'm being persecuted for it. I guess you couldn't tell me earlier, but if you had, I could've cleared it up.”

“Sick mother,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That can be verified pretty easily.”

“Verify away.” His dark eyes met hers and held the gaze. His fists had uncurled. He looked tired.

Petra said, “There was some curiosity about your briefcase. Flaco going up to the bar, maybe getting something to give you under the table.”

He laughed. “The briefcase? Have you ever seen me without it? Here, want to check?” He picked up the case, offered it to her.

Praying.