Act of Love (11 page)

"Well. When he's the murderer, he might think of himself as white. He might have rubbed grease paint on a black face and not even be aware that he's already black. Even if he looked in a mirror he would see a white face if that is the identity he was living at the moment. It may even be some deep dark racial conflict that sent him over the edge."

"Jesus."

"I said he could be a split personality. Not that he was. Most likely, considering the few true cases, he's not. He's calculating, intelligent and resourceful. He could have been carrying this around with him for years. One day he just couldn't hold it back anymore, and presto, The Houston Hacker is born."

"I think maybe it's a cop."

Warren nodded his head. "Possible. Or maybe someone connected with the cops indirectly."

"I think he's right out of the department. He seems to know our every move."

"It's a thought," Warren said.

"This necrophilia stuff," Hanson asked, "is it common?"

"More common than you think. All abnormalities spring out of normalities."

"Come again. That's a little heavy
for
me."

"I mean we all have tendencies for such things . . . even necrophilia. You and I are excellent examples. We're in jobs that deal with death, and I, of course, work bodies over in the same way The Hacker does, but for other reasons. You see death constantly. Perhaps you and I have a bit stronger necrophiliac tendencies than most, or otherwise we'd be in a different business. People that gather around car wrecks, that's a mild example. Basically, an attraction to dead things or items dealing with death: coffins, graveyards, that sort of thing. Perhaps even sexual excitment induced by a dead body."

"But ..."
Warren didn't hear him. He was wrapped up in his thoughts, his presentation.

"... common enough. Take the example from this book," Warren picked up
On the Nightmare
by Ernest Jones. "It mentions the case of Periander, the Corinthian tyrant who murdered his wife, Melissa, and had sexual intercourse with the corpse." Warren put the book down. The cigar between his fingers was dead. "And then there's the Biblical Herod who was said to have slept with his wife's body for quite some time after she died. This is more than bereavement, this is necrophiliac character. Take Faulkner's short story, 'A Rose For Emily,' more of the same."

"Then these crimes, though not necessarily performed for the intent of murder, are sexual."

"These crimes, unlike most necrophilous intentions that result in the death of the victim, are performed for the satisfaction of both sadistic lust and necrophilous desire. They are definitely sexual in nature, born out of some sort of sexual frustration. And not just the old classic school of can't get any, or can't get it up. It's more than that. Deeper. Much deeper. The problem with this man may well date back to childhood, if I may indulge in a bit of backyard Freud. It has finally boiled to the surface."

"And he'll kill and kill and kill."

"Unless it satiates itself. Dies within."

"You mean he could just quit?"

"It's not an accepted thought, and not likely, I admit, but possible. Or so I think."

"He could just stop all of this? Blend back in?"

"I'm saying it's possible. Jack the Ripper may well have done just that. There are a number of theories concerning the Whitechapel murders, none any better than another. Some think that a man found drowned with stones in his pocket, Druitt," Warren picked from the books on the table
The Complete Jack the Ripper
and shook it, "I believe was his name, might have been the ripper, and that with his death, suicide, or perhaps execution performed by his family who were aware of his nocturnal prowlings, the murders came to an end. Of course there are other suspects. Some say he may have migrated to America. I think he just stopped. This necrophilous appetite manifested itself, he satisfied it and it died, at least temporarily. Perhaps he surfaced again later, performed more crimes. But what I'm saying is that perhaps this oddball character, to put it mildly, comes in waves. Maybe it only washes to shore once, fills the already frustrated necrophiliac with overwhelming urges, which he performs, and away it goes, low tide, never to roll in again."

"That's rather contrary to what's thought by most, isn't it?"

"It is. I told you I wasn't a psychologist or a psychiatrist, just an interested party. Very interested."

"Thank you. You've been a great help. Now for the last and most important question. How can I find this man? What would he be like?"

"Like you or me. He could have a
family ..."

"A family?"

"Think of the infamous Boston Strangler, if they have the right person. He was a good family man. Wife and children . . . Part-time murderer. I'd say chances are, however, that our man doesn't have a family. Maybe he once did. Perhaps this part of his grief, or that little something that has given his compulsion fuel. He's probably a lonely man. Perfectly normal man on the outside, but inside . . . turmoil. Good chance that he lives in a section of town that's rundown. This would be in keeping with his necrophilous character. It would help to control his impulses. He might even have a job with garbage, sewer . . . the morgue. Anything that contains putrid odors, as this is often an attraction. Maybe the place where he lives is near something like a graveyard, a funeral
home ...
Or if he's a split personality, perhaps he goes home to his family, and then, by means of some excuse, perhaps not conscious, he leaves them and goes to another home, the one more in character with his
other
personality."

"He could be living a secret life?"

"Correct. And not even be aware of it. When he's with his family he's John Doe, good husband and father. When he's the other, and in the abode of the other . . . Well, he wouldn't even be aware of his normal existence. If he's a split personality."

"The ghetto might be a place to look."

"Uh huh. But what are you going to do. Knock on doors, say, pardon me is this the residence of The Hacker?"

"I don't know. I'm still holding to that idea about a cop. Matter of fact, something you said tonight worries me a bit. Reminds me of something."

"What's that?"

"You'll excuse me for not saying just now, I hope. I mean it is just a thought and I don't want to go off halfcocked. As a matter of fact it bothers me that I'm even thinking it."

"I understand."

Hanson put the remaining portion of his cigar out in the ashtray with a smash and a twist, stood up and held out his hand. Warren took it. They shook. "Thank you," Hanson said.

"By all means. And do come back. I'm pretty lonely sometimes. The wife gone and all, nothing but my work. But I'm not squawking. I like my job . . . Still."

"I understand. And I will come back. See you at work."

"Over another body I presume."

Hanson smiled thinly. "Most likely."

"Come, let me show you out."

*

On the way out Warren said, "Marvin, remember. The man is sick."

"I'll try to remember that."

"It's in all of us, each and every one of us."

"But only the weak ones become the crazies, The Hacker."

"It has nothing to do with weakness," Warren said.

"My theory. I think it does. Like always, the weak, at least in a case like this where the beast is a detriment to society, should be weeded out."

"It could be anybody, Marvin. If he's a split, it could be you."

Hanson didn't say anything.

"We all have that character of necrophilia deep within us. One of those books I had in there, A
History of Torture and Death,
shows the atrocities that we did in the name of justice and vengeance. They were more often worse than the original crimes. Man is a bloody animal."

"Was. We have laws now."

"Man is the same as always, Marvin."

"I'm sorry. I can't accept that. If there's no order then there's no purpose. I'd as soon not get up in the morning."

"Very well," Warren said leaning his hand against the door sill. "But remember, if you catch
him ..."

"When," Hanson interrupted, "when."

Warren smiled. "When . . . Try to remember that he is a human being."

"It'll be hard," Hanson admitted.

'Try. Promise me you'll try."

"All right, then," Hanson said slowly. "I promise to try." Hanson thought, didn't I make this promise to someone else recently?

"Thank you," Warren said.

"And thank you again for your time."

"I don't think I've been much help."

"Maybe you have. Maybe a lot more than you think. It's got me thinking. That's something. It's made me move a few trees so I can see the forest."

"I hope so."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Marvin."

When Hanson was almost to his car Warren called after him. "And be careful, Marvin. Be careful."

Hanson turned. "I will."

Warren thought, but didn't say, "You better."

Hanson climbed in his car, started it up, turned on the lights and drove away.

Warren watched until Hanson's car was out of sight.

THURSDAY . . . SAME TIME 7:05
p.m.

Herman Park was bathed in comfortable darkness. Milo enjoyed the dark as much as the babe enjoys the womb. It was soothing and gave him time to think. In the background a late night symphony was entertaining an open air audience, and closer to him came the nocturnal prowlings of the zoo animals, roaring and moaning out for a lost world and a freedom most of them had never known. Milo thought if they were free they wouldn't even know what to do with it. He felt equally caged, not by bars but by his inability to live up to the code he had so cherished early in life. Honesty had flown out the window. He rationalized now. Always a good reason for this, a good reason for that. And he couldn't even stand by his word. He had told Barlowe no more, but when that long green danced beneath his nose his word had been weaker than an Egyptian mummy's shroud. Characterless, that's what I am. Characterless.

Out of the shadows at the end of the trail that terminated at his park bench, Milo saw a human form move his way. The roll to the walk was enough to give the man away had he been trying to hide himself. Which he wasn't. Milo looked at his watch. They had planned on 7:15; Barlowe, as usual, was on time.

Barlowe had his hands in his jean pockets, and the tee-shirt he was wearing, an army- green affair, surprised Milo by revealing Barlowe as stoutly built. Somehow, he had always assumed that the man was a wimp.

"Anything for me," Barlowe said taking a seat next to Milo on the bench.

"They caught me, or rather Joe Clark did."

"The nigger's partner?"

"Come on, will you?"

"It's not like they're your buddies."

"They're cops, just like me. Only difference," Milo snarled, "is that I'm dirty and they're not."

"For all you know."

"No. They're not. I know."

"You in hot water?"

"Maybe. Clark let me go. He said he wouldn't tell."

"Then you didn't get a thing for me?"

Milo turned to look at Barlowe full in the face. "I was caught, fuckhead. I told you that. I was lucky to get out with my head. I hate myself enough for going back on my word before. I said no more last time."

"All right. You were caught. He didn't turn you in. You're home free. You lay low for awhile, and then when they figure you've quit, well, you start back. The money will keep coming."

"No it won't."

"My editor—"

"That's not what I mean. I don't want your money. Go wipe your ass on it. I'm through."

"I just might send the cops a little note expressing my appreciation for all you've done."

Milo grabbed Barlowe's tee-shirt. "Go ahead."

"I'm going to let you let go of that shirt all by yourself. 'Cause if you don't I'm going to help you."

"You don't scare me, Barlowe. Here take your shirt." Milo released him and stood up.

"You write your little note, fuckhead. See if I care. I'm through. Nothing more from me."

"You're safe, Milo. I was trying to get that extra inch."

Milo shook his head. "Push just as far as you can don't you?"

"That's right," Barlowe said draping his arms over the back of the park bench. "Just as far as I can. That's part of being a reporter. I'm good at it."

"You certainly are."

"I wouldn't report you because it might dry up the rest of my sources if I got to be known as a louse."

"I don't think you have to advertise about being a louse, Barlowe. Folks recognize it right off."