Robert Walker - Bitter Instinct

Sturtevante found a seat and fell into it. Clearing her throat, her eyes glassy, she said, “Maybe it's in their nature-the poets; the real ones, I mean-to feel only resentment for this world and all the sorrow it brings down around them.”

“The ideals of beauty and spiritual wholeness subjected to ugliness and fragmentation,” said Jessica, “are the same that are expressed in Leare's poetry.”

“As well as Locke's,” added Sturtevante. “And doubtless countless others'.”

“We still need to catch George Gordonn in the act or speaking about the act, Jess,” said Parry. “We need someone to get him to open up.”

Vladoc quickly agreed. “While you have some impressive patterns emerging here, the dots have yet to be connected, and I sincerely believe, from all my time spent with Gordonn, that he is incapable of such heinous acts.”

“Perhaps you can locate some of the dots,” suggested Jessica, an edge to her voice.

“In point of fact, I have one major dot for you. I know this George Gordonn and have known him as a patient for almost a year now.”

“You've treated him?” asked Sturtevante, this news being new to her.

“That's certainly a strange coincidence, Dr. Vladoc,” Parry observed dryly. He then asked, “Why didn't you tell us about him sooner?”

“I have never known him to be violent; it never occurred to me that he could be a killer. I am still having trouble grasping the idea. He just doesn't fit the profile, despite all the business with his ruined family life.”Parry nearly shouted, “You didn't think it relevant to tell us about the man whose parents started the urban legend that began this back-writing fad among the young?”

“I had and still have patient privilege to consider. But I tell you, Gordonn never gave me the least concern. I can't see him perpetrating the very act which took his parents' lives and nearly took his.”

“He doesn't appear to have enough money to pay the normal household bills, Dr. Vladoc,” said Jessica. “How does he afford your sessions?” He pays with cash, always. I've never seen him use a check or credit card. He always insists on cash.”

“Isn't that a bit strange?” asked Parry.

“What isn't strange about this entire business?” Sturtevante put in.

“Perhaps, since Dr. Desinor is also a psychiatrist,” began Jessica, a fist balled up and held against her teeth, “sharing information on Gordonn's case would only amount to consultation with a… a consultant, a colleague. That may not be a violation of the young man's civil rights or a breaking of your code of conduct.”

“Yes, perhaps with Dr. Desinor's help, I'm sure you two can and will help this case along,” agreed Parry.

“Then, after, we can do more research in the archives at the Inquirer.”

“I'll be glad to help you in any way possible, Dr. Vladoc,” said Kim, striking a match and lighting the elderly psychiatrist's pipe.

“And you have no idea where he's getting the money to pay your bills?” pressed Sturtevante.

Jessica stood, nodding. “All right, while Dr. Vladoc and Kim make their determinations, we will pursue a line of questioning with Dr. Throckmorton at the university.”

“It appears Gordonn took some classes in the photography department at the University of Philadelphia,” Sturtevante informed the others, and Vladoc knowingly nodded.

“We'll rendezvous back here at five p.m.,” said Jessica, “if everyone is in agreement.”

“Five it is,” said Vladoc. “We must get past this wrong direction you have all taken so that we can get back to the real madman, checkmate him before his next move.”

By now, Jessica had become a familiar face on campus, but Parry and Sturtevante drew a few stares from students passing them in the hallways. They had returned to the photography department, where they spoke with Leonard Throckmorton, who informed them that Gordonn had indeed taken classes in the department with Professor Zachary Goldfarb, and that he had begun but not finished an ambitious film project on the life of Lord Byron.

“What kind of film do you mean?”

“Why, a documentary about the poet's greatest accomplishments. Do you know that it is impossible to find a bust of Lord Byron anywhere? You can get Beethoven, Mozart, but try to find Shelley, Keats, Byron, or any of the major poets-except for Shakespeare, of course. Not a large enough market, I suppose. Meanwhile, you can't throw a stone without hitting the bust of a composer.”

“What can you tell us about Gordonn?”

“Very little, I'm afraid.”

“Start by telling us how much you knew of this Byron film he was intending to make.”

“He was nearly finished with the project when he suddenly disappeared, dropped out, and as far as I know, the project went with him. But then, Dr. Goldfarb can tell you more about that than I can.”

“Where is Goldfarb now?”

“Presumably in class.”

“We need to see him. When's class out?”

'Twenty minutes. If you care to wait, I'll have him sent for.”

“That would be helpful.”

“There's a lounge just down the hallway if you care to wait there.”

“No, I'm quite sure the twenty minutes will be filled up right here, Dr. Throckmorton, because I have more questions.” Jessica sat down in a chair opposite the man's desk. “Since you know little about George Gordonn, then perhaps you can tell us about another suspect. ”Another suspect?”

“The original George Gordon-Lord Byron.”

“What do you now wish to know about Byron?” he asked, confused. “And how is a dead poet-one dead for well over a hundred and fifty years, I believe, a suspect in a murder investigation today?”

“I was hoping you could tell us that.”

Parry plopped down in the plush leather chair beside Jessica. He explained the connection they'd made between the Byron volume found at one of the victim's homes, George Gordonn, and Gordonn's “twisted, deceased” parents. Finally, after explaining about the suicide-pact death that was meant to take little George out as well, Parry told the other man about the poem on the six-year-old's back.

“And now he's been making a film homage to Byron,” said Throckmorton. “I see why you are interested in Gordonn.” The department chairman then said, “Actually, Byron has become a kind of cult hero for many of America's youth, particularly those given over to the goth lifestyle, those black-trench-coated legions whose preoccupation with romanticism, heroism, and death have catapulted the Byron type and the Byronic hero into a kind of… well, I guess you'd call it godhead.”

“Byronic hero?” asked Sturtevante, who'd remained standing. “Now I need a cup of coffee.”

“Well, the Byronic hero… he occurs in many guises, taking on different characteristics in Byron's poetry, you know, the extremes of passion, the fervent and moody antihero, solitary, doomed, the one who stands outside or above ordinary criteria and jurisdictions or notions of right and wrong, good and evil.”

“Yeah, I know what Byronism is if I search my memory banks from college lit courses,” said Sturtevante, sounding more frustrated than skeptical. “I just didn't expect this.”

“Nor I,” the professor replied. “Are you detectives sure you weren't simply influenced by the volume of Byron's work you saw placed alongside the body?”

“The Byron book was found with pages marked and lying on the nightstand,” Parry returned. “We think it's a strong, unifying element in George's twisted logic.”

“What're you saying, Dr. Throckmorton?” put in Sturtevante. “That we have a killer with a Byron complex?” She turned to the others. “By the way, is there any such thing as a Byron complex?”