April Smith - Good Morning, Killer

So the face of “Harry” was with me in the photo studio, where the studs had been drywalled and painted over, and on the drywall was pinned Ray Brennan’s collection of photographs, some from magazines, some glossy and fresh, some downloaded from the Internet, of female suffering inflicted by the mutilation of female anatomy or, in close-up, of Brennan himself in the act of anal or vaginal penetration, or demonstrating his famous strangulation techniques. There were rows of chains and belts neatly hung on the same portable rack I had seen in the Bureau darkroom that Hugh Akron used for strips of negatives.

If your hands were tied and you had run out of tactic options, “Be a good witness,” Harry had said.

Two cameras were set on tripods trained on the chair from which Bridget had fallen.

I could not look closely at the pictures because if I had seen what he had done to Juliana (it was documented, on the south wall), I would have gone into my own mindless homicidal rage. I had noticed — and narrated into my purse — that the back entrance to the cottage was barricaded on the inside by a security gate. He had foreseen the possibility of escape. The mission, I repeated to myself, was to keep him calm until SWAT could make the shot.

So I asked endless questions about photography, digging around in the brainpan for scraps of photographic factoids. The name Walker Evans bubbled up. Which did Brennan prefer, digital or film? Film, we agreed, was for the serious professional. Did he know crime scene examiners still went for the old four-by-five-inch cameras? You got the best detail. Brennan’s work, I observed without looking at it, was “Impressive.” “You mean I’m a sick fuck.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

He scoffed and shook his head. “What would any normal person think?”

“They’d think you care about your collection.”

“You know how much money these shots are worth?”

“You tell me.”

He whistled, as if the sum were too shocking to say. “A lot of sick fucks out there.”

“But this is your stuff. It’s special to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“The next time they call, maybe you should answer the phone.”

“What for?”

“So they don’t bust in here and torch it.”

He considered this, as I considered whipping the remaining rack of hot explosive lights into his smug, clean-shaven face.

“When you shot your boyfriend, Ana, was it a turn-on? Did you get aroused?”

“No.”

“Sure you did. Let’s face it, you’re a little girl. You brought down a buck. Don’t tell me it wasn’t a thrill.”

“It wasn’t a thrill.”

“Can I share something?” Brennan was sitting against the wall again, with the lug soles in my face. “Big hair is out.”

“You think this is big hair? I don’t have big hair, it’s just wavy.”

“I prefer a ponytail, with the ears showing, and tiny studs. What did your boyfriend like?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know! That’s the problem, right there! And you say you two were in looove ?” he crooned mockingly, flipping the knife between his legs.

“I cared about him.”

“Of course you did, you’re a good person, you have exuberance for life, I can tell that.”

“Can you?”

Talking about Andrew made me sweat; a couple of dozen cops and FBI people listening.

“Did you like it when he made love to you?”

I didn’t answer.

“Did you tell him that you liked it?”

A voice jumped out of my throat. “Shut up!” I screamed. “It’s none of your business!”

He startled, on his feet and going to the pistol in his belt.

“Shut up? You’re telling me to shut up, lowly bitch?”

“You know what I would like?” I said fiercely. “I would like my boyfriend to come in here and beat the crap out of you.”

Wrong, all wrong, you are totally off the track —

“That’s not about to happen, is it?” Brennan replied, and now he was pissed.

Wrong, to get him all worked up with a male challenge. What are you doing? That is exactly wrong —

The phone rang.

As if they knew! As if they were listening on 911 and heard it escalate and tried to cut it off.

“Answer it,” I whispered. “Your collection.”

He ticked the barrel of the gun back and forth at my face and went into the living room and picked up the phone.

“How are you?” the negotiator said on the tape.

“Leave me alone.”

“I’m just curious to know, how is everybody in the house?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“How is Ana Grey?”

“Ana?” he smirked. “Ana is not in a position to talk right now.”

“Besides you and Ana, how is everybody else in the house?”

“I’ve got two!”

“You’ve got two ladies?”

“Yeah, that’s right!”

“Why don’t you let one of them go?”

“No way!” said Brennan. “No way ever. You’re going to have to come in and get me.”

It was night by then, and the grinding roar of helicopters vibrated the bones in my head. Outside, beyond the perimeter, the media waited with turned-off lights; they’d flood the place when there was action. SWAT could see Brennan now with night vision, and I was tormented at why they did not take the shot while he was in the living room, edging the metal chair closer to where my bag lay on the floor, trying to poke it open with my feet. Brennan was back before I could see if there was glow on the blue faceplate, if it still held charge, or if I were talking to the dark.

“Did you tell them what you want?” I asked tiredly. From the booming headache that had begun even before the helicopters, I was certain that I had a concussion.

He did not answer. He was crouched between the painted-over windows, sunk into some inner negative space, features gone flaccid and eyes dull.

“I want everyone to go away.”

When a suspect wants something he will say it over and over. Brennan had wanted nothing, over and over. They would have noted on the situation board, NO DEMANDS, and worried because that was not good. Keeping us here — Bridget still knocked out on the floor — was not good, either. It meant he was going to finish.

“Sir, I’m curious to know what’s going on with you, and if there’s some way I can help.”

He held up a hand. “Ana,” as if we were old pals, “stop. I know exactly what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Trying to create a psychological profile of me.”

“Give me a break,” I said, “I can’t even spell it.”

He smiled. “I know I’m a freak.”

Then, for some reason, he took off his shirt.

I did not like that, at all.

I did not like seeing the thin, hard physique and the pinched nipples. I didn’t know what that message was supposed to be.

“So you and your friends in the FBI have been looking for me?”

Did he need more strokes?

“You’re a priority, sir.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t think it would go down like this.”

I acknowledged my situation: “Fantasies are perfect. Life is not.”

He smiled at that, too.

“There’s my baby. Now she’s getting up.”

Bridget’s eyes had opened to a dull stare. The blood on her face had flaked dry.

When the phone rang again, he went to answer quickly.

“Bridget!” I hissed. “Are you okay? The police are here. We’re going to get you out.”

Then Brennan came back, pouting.

“They said no.”

“No to what?”

“All I wanted was to see my sister.”