William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

She paused thoughtfully. “I never thought of myself as a tub-thumper. But how can I remain silent? This killer tortured and murdered my daughter! Most crimes are solved shortly after the crime is discovered or they aren’t solved at all. I first talked to the LVPD officers twenty-four hours after my daughter’s remains were discovered, and they knew nothing. That hasn’t changed-even now, when a third victim has been discovered. All my suggestions, all my offers to help fell on deaf ears. And they’ve made the most inexplicable, unforgivable personnel assignments.”

“You’re talking about the behavioral expert, aren’t you? Susan Pulaski.”

“Among others. God knows I hate to single out the only woman working on the case. But she’s an alcoholic. Barely out of rehab. It’s inexcusable.”

She was doing it again. Making her ad hominem attacks on Susan for her own petty reasons. Spreading Susan’s secrets to every moron with a television. Had she no sense of decency? Of propriety? How would she like it if her secrets were bared on the open airwaves?

“Now, to be fair, Dr. Spencer, my sources tell me that Lieutenant Pulaski does have some solid experience with aberrant criminal psychology. And she’s not exactly in charge of the case, is she?”

The woman squinted slightly, but there was no wrinkle. Plastic surgery, he surmised. Probably lots of it. And she was barely middle-aged. How telling. “Any contact is too much, Chet. I want my daughter’s case to have the best. I insist upon it. That’s why I’ve taken steps.”

He reached for his teacup, but his hand was shaking. Steps? What… steps?

“Please tell the audience what you’ve done, Dr. Spencer.”

“I can’t tell you everything. But I’ve hired private detectives, several of the best. They’re looking into this case, and they’ve already made several interesting discoveries. Things the police totally overlooked.”

“Can you give us an example?”

“Sorry, Chet, no. You never know who might be listening.”

“I understand.”

“I would like to say this, though.” She turned slightly, adjusting her seat so that she was looking not at her host but directly into the camera. “My first instinct was to make an appeal to the killer. But everything I’ve learned about this case, everything my detectives have discovered, suggests that it would be useless. This man is sick. A sexual deviant. Someone who likes to torture little girls. My experts tell me he probably started when he was young, maiming animals, deriving pleasure from it. Setting fires. They tell me he enjoys torturing his victims before killing them, that it makes him feel powerful, sexually gratified, taking off their clothes, doing-” Her voice choked. “Doing hideous things to them.”

His lips parted as he stared wordlessly at the television screen. No. No!

“The experts tell me it’s even likely that… that…” She turned away, wiping her eyes. “That he probably… did things to Annabel and the others… after they were gone. That he would seek sexual gratification from the dead.”

He stumbled backward, knocking over the chair. Calumny!

“We are dealing with the worst scum who ever walked the face of the earth. A human worm. So I won’t bother appealing to his better nature. But I will say this to all the other people out there, the good people, the ones who want to catch this man as badly as I do. He has struck three times. Common sense tells me someone must know something. Someone must work with him. Someone must live next door to him. Someone must’ve sold him a cup of coffee. Someone must’ve seen or heard something that made them suspicious.”

She leaned into the camera. “Please come forward. Call me at the command center I’ve set up at Las Vegas’s Transylvania Hotel. I will personally reward anyone who brings us useful information with a no-questions-asked award of a hundred thousand dollars. All you have to do is call.”

“Talk about putting your money where your mouth is.” The host gazed at her with adulatory eyes. “But Dr. Spencer, shouldn’t any potential witnesses call the police?”

She drew in her breath. “Of course, I can’t suggest that any informant should not contact the police. All I can ask is that you call me, too. Give me a fighting chance to find this monster.”

“Given that kind of incentive, Doctor, I think anyone out there with information will be calling you first.”

“That filthy murderer had better hope they don’t.” Her eyes lowered, then darkened. “Because if I get to you first, mister, it won’t be so I can read you your rights.”

He clutched the remote, punching the power button, then flinging it at the set.

He was breathing rapidly, perspiring. His entire body was shaking.

She was coming after him. That woman was coming after him. That damnable whited sepulcher-pretending to be so noble, when in fact she was as base and vile as the serpent. Destroying his reputation, tainting his good work with her relentless animadversions.

She was threatening him, threatening him with her money and her detectives and her sick sick words. She had called him a sexual deviant. A torturer of young women. She had sat there in front of thousands of people, perhaps millions, and told them he was a demented necrophiliac!

And she had sent them hunting for him, enticing them with her petty little cumshaw.

He paced around the living room, trying to calm himself, to get a grip on his thoughts. This could not be permitted. He was working at a sacred cause. He sought the truth and the light, the Golden Age. And he wasn’t just doing it for himself; he was doing it for all of them. Even Annabel. Even that hideous woman, so determined to repugn him at every step!

He had tried to maintain some degree of gentility throughout this process, but if more direct means were required, then he had no choice but to provide them. Even if it wasn’t in the plan, even if she could never be an offering. She must be stopped. And so she would be. And so would be all those who stood against him at the dawn of the Golden Age.

“Her name was Lenore Johnson,” Granger said, not bothering with any niceties such as “Good morning” or “Hello” or even “How’s tricks?”

“Lenore? The lost love in ‘The Raven’ is named Lenore.”

“Must be a different chick,” Granger brilliantly opined. “This one worked at an S &M club a few blocks off U.S. 69.”

I stared at the photo he slid onto my desk. It was her, all right. I’d recognize that head anywhere. “Lenore Johnson, huh? Not very Asian-sounding.”

“Mixed-race. The Asian is all on her mother’s side.”

“Positive ID not twelve hours after we found the decapitated body. Nice work. How’d you manage it?”

“That’s why-”

“-they call you detectives. Right, I remember. Know what, Granger? You’re full of it.”

“Least I still have a job.”

Why, why, why? Why did he have to be such an asshole? “It wasn’t my fault O’Bannon yanked my badge. He was being pressured-”

“Don’t make excuses. By all rights, you should be out on your-”

“Can’t you see that I’m trying!” I screamed at him, so loud that I attracted attention all across the office. “Can’t you see I’m trying to do better? I need this job!” My eyes began to water up. I hate that. It’s so… girlish. I felt humiliated. “Why do you have to hate me so much?”

“You know the answer to that question,” Granger said quietly.

“Do you think you’re the only one who loved him?” I cried. “You goddamn, self-righteous-”

“Hey, whoa, qué pasa, man?” It was Patrick, riding in on his white horse. “What’s going down? Big case discussion?”