Edward Lee - Incubi

But neither pattern was working here. What about victim patterns? In his mind he saw triangles, glyphs, and the scarlet word Aorista . The victims had patterns too. Unstructured moral behavior, promiscuity, erotomania, as Dr. Panzram called it — sexual patterns. All three 64s were successful, well-educated single women. And still another; they were all looking for the same thing when they died, which meant they lacked the same thing.

Passion. They had everything in their lives but passion.

Now a new pattern had alighted. Susan Lynn wrote poetry. Rebecca Black wrote poetry. Shanna Barrington was an art director. A creative pattern. A general artistic pattern of shared interest . And stranger, the evidence proved that none of them had ever worked together, gone to school together, or knew the same people. Nor at any time had they ever known each other. Yet the patterns remained.

Bizarre words occurred to him. Similitude. Homology. Parity.

Parallelism , he thought. The patterns of the perpetrators adjoined with the patterns of the victims. Karla Panzram’s graphological diagnoses indicated a general artistic pattern motivating the killers. All of a sudden Jack felt inhumed by patterns.

Gods , he thought next. Devils. He wondered what the old dock bum Carlson had really seen last night. Two things scaling down a six-story condo. Large and naked but not human. Many dock bums were alcoholics, many hallucinated. “Faceless things,” he’d told Jack and Randy. “Nothing on their faces but eyes, big yellow eyes. Stubby little horns too.” “Horns?” Jack had asked. “Yeah, son. Horns, little horns in their heads. Like I told you. Devils.” Jack thought it would’ve been too rude to ask if they’d also had pronged tails.

Give yourself a breather . Brainstorming and hangovers did not mix well. His head felt like a jammed computer. Overload. Thinking too much could often be worse than thinking too little. The perceptions fizzed out. A pink Post-It on his desk lamp flagged his eye. Farmer’s National Bank , he’d written on it. He’d stopped by during lunch to talk to the assistant branch manager, a beautiful green-eyed redhead. “All cash deposits over ten thousand dollars are serialed,” she’d told him. “It’s part of the new DEA laundering bill. We have a machine called a serial scanner. You stack the cash in the bin and the serial numbers are photographed and entered into the deposit computer automatically. Size of the bills doesn’t matter.” “Can you trace the bills to the point of withdrawal?” he’d inquired. “Sure. That’s what the system exists for. It takes five minutes if the withdrawal came from one of our branches, a couple of hours for a different bank.” “What about a foreign exchange bank?” “Couple of days.” He’d handed her Stewie’s deposit date. “Will you trace this for me?” “I’d be happy to, Captain, but first you have to either bring in a records warrant from the state magistrate, or subpoena the bank registrar with a writ of duces tecum .”

Jack had walked out, swearing under his breath.

Should he even be worrying about Veronica now? Does Veronica worry about me? He retrieved a mental picture of her from the past and tried to insert it into the present. Where was she? What was she doing, what was she thinking? When was the last time she thought about me?

“Jack,” came a morose voice. Randy appeared in the doorway. “Larrel wants us in his office.”

“What for?”

Randy only gave a shrug.

“Anyone told him that we’re a little busy today?”

“IAD’s here,” Randy said. “And someone from the comm’s office.”

I haven’t taken any pad money lately, have I? Jack tried to joke to himself. But this was no joke. IAD was the department ball-cutting crew; they didn’t fool around. Jack put on a tie and sports jacket, and groaned when he looked in the mirror.

“Too bad there’s not a barbershop on the way,” Randy commented as they went down the hall. “Comb your hair or something, man.”

“I could use a dry cleaner too,” Jack said, combing frantically, “and an electric razor.”

“I got a bad feeling, Jack. Sometimes you can smell the shit before it hits the fan, you know what I mean?”

“Tell me about it. Why do you think I’ve been wearing a clothespin on my nose for the last ten years? What could IAD want with us?”

“We’ll find out in about two seconds.”

Larrel Olsher’s office felt cramped, like a smoking room at a funeral home. Olsher, the black golem, sat stolid and huge behind his desk. To his right sat deputy Commissioner Joseph Gentzel, fiftyish, lean face, short graying hair, and a smirk like he’d just taken a swig of lemon juice. Beside him stood a meticulously dressed stuffed shirt, young, with reptile eyes and a pursed mouth, pure Type A.

Jack nodded to Olsher and the deputy comm. Then the kid stepped forward and said, “Captain Cordesman, my name is Lieutenant Noyle. I’m the field investigations supervisor for Internal Affairs.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Jack said. “What’s this all about?”

Gentzel answered. “Someone leaked details of the Triangle case to the press, Captain.”

Then Noyle: “ The Evening Sun is doing a front page today, and tomorrow the story will be in the Post and the Capital.”

Deputy commissioner Gentzel stood up. “This is inexcusable. Do you have any idea how this will make the department look?”

“Sir, I didn’t leak the story to them,” Jack said.

“Perhaps you didn’t. But the zero progress you’ve made on the case will only make us look worse.”

Jack and Randy stared at him. Randy said, “Sir, it was probably somebody in admin; every police department has a mole to the press. It’s impossible to keep a lid on any case for long.”

“That’s not the point.” Gentzel sat back down. He looked at Jack. “I’ve examined your paperwork regarding the Triangle case, Captain, and I’m not impressed. Three ritual murders in a week, and you’re no further along today than when you started.”

“That’s not true, sir—”

“We didn’t want you on this case in the first place, but your superiors assured us you were the best man for the job.” Gentzel shot Olsher a blank stare. “Your superiors, obviously, were wrong, which leaves me to wonder about the efficiency of this entire squad.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s not a fair conclusion.”

“And from what I can see, your active participation on the case is all but nonexistent. Lieutenant Eliot seems to be carrying most of the investigative load.”

“I’m very close to identifying the specific ritual,” Jack asserted. “If I can—”

“The ritual is a dead end. The perpetrators are obviously psychopaths.”

“That’s not true either, sir. We have plenty of evidence to suggest that—”

“I know all about you, Captain, you and your radical investigative avenues. I don’t want to hear about psychiatric profiles and satanic rituals. A homicide should be pursued through proven methods, not investigative quackeries.”

“Let me remind you, sir, that my past performance record—”

“And I don’t want to hear about your success rate, and your awards and decorations. In my view many of your operations were of questionable legality, and your search and seizure warrant in the Henry Longford case was barely constitutional.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but—”

“And furthermore—”

Jack, finally, exploded. “Would you at least let me talk for a minute, goddamn it, sir!” he shouted.