Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

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.

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.