Laughing Man (4 page)

Erthmun said, to no one in particular, "She looks like a mime." He bent over the body again and stared into its open eyes, which were bright jade green. "Beautiful," he said. "I don't think I've ever seen eyes quite this color before."

"Those are contacts," Patricia told him.

He glanced quickly at her, then at the victim's eyes again. "Are they?" he said, but it was a rhetorical question, and Patricia thought for a moment that Erthmun was toying with her, though that, she knew, would have been out of character for him. She knew him as a man to whom humor was not a necessity.

He asked, "What do you think did this?" He was still looking at the body.

"You mean the murder weapon?" Patricia said, and gave the body a quick once-over. "It wasn't an ax, or a hatchet. That's obvious. The wounds are too narrow."

"Too narrow," Erthmun said, and asked, without looking at Patricia, "Some kind of sword, then?"

She shrugged, began to answer, and Erthmun cut in, "Do you want to leave the building again?" He glanced around at her. She thought he looked genuinely concerned. She shook her head quickly.

He said, "I think you do."

"No. You're wrong." She gestured at the body. "Let's concentrate on what we're doing here, okay?"

"You're angry," Erthmun said. "Why are you angry?"

"Jack, please—"

"It wasn't a sword," he interrupted. "The wounds are all of a uniform length. See here." He pointed at a bright red gash on the woman's left arm. "That's what? Six inches?" He pointed at a similar gash on her right arm. "Six inches here, too." He pointed at her belly. "And here." He pointed first at her right thigh, then her left, both of which bore similar gashes of similar lengths. "And they're all the same depth, too." He was smiling now, and this made Patricia uncomfortable because she wasn't sure
why
he was smiling, and because he so seldom smiled.

Erthmun declared, "This is a very ritualistic thing. Someone has made this woman up with her own blood!" He straightened suddenly. His smile became a flat grin.

"Look at her! Look at her! She's been made up with her own blood! It's a religious thing! Some religious person has done this!" He stared at Patricia. His eyes were wide, his grin still flat. He looked like a madman. "A priest or a rabbi has done this!" he declared. "Or a shaman!"

Patricia said, "Jack, if this is supposed to be funny . . ."

"Supposed to be funny . . ." he said, repeating her words. He stooped over again, so his face was very close to the dead woman's. He stared into her bright jade green eyes and whispered hoarsely, "What's going on here?" He grabbed her hard by the shoulders.

"Jack ?" Patricia shouted. "For Christ's sake . . ."

Erthmun whispered at the dead woman, "Tell me something, damnit!" He shook her by the shoulders. Her head flopped backward, forward, backward. Bits of chocolate flew from her mouth.

Patricia shouted, "Jack, are you nuts?"

Erthmun stood with the dead woman. He held her erect by the shoulders. Her arms were tight against her sides, because of his strong grip on her, and her knees were bent a little because her feet were touching the floor. Her head flopped left, right, backward.

Patricia shouted, "Put her
down,
Jack!"

". . .
down,
Jack!" Erthmun echoed. He shook the dead woman. "Talk to me!" he yelled.
"
Talk
to me!" He was splattered with her coagulated blood, now, because her body had bumped against his chest. "Talk to me, talk to me, goddamnit, talk to me."

Patricia grabbed his arm. "Jack, put her down! What in the hell are you doing?"

"Talk to me!" Erthmun yelled into the dead woman's face. "Talk to me!"

Patricia pulled on his arm. It was no use. He was too strong. She glanced frantically at one of the uniformed cops, who was looking on open-mouthed. "Help me, for God's sake!" she shouted.

The uniformed cop nodded, came forward quickly, grabbed Erthmun's left wrist.

Erthmun continued shouting at the dead woman, "
Talk
to me, goddamnit! Why won't you
talk
to me?"

I
n his dream, he was a clump of earth. He was moist, and dark, and he had no memory, no consciousness, no name, and no age. He could not see, or hear, taste, touch, love, or hate. He could not become angry, or confused, he could not feel pain, or joy, loneliness, or fear, because he wasn't yet a living thing. He was a clump of earth.

Then he awoke in a strange place, and remembered nothing of his dream.

Patricia said to him, "Jack, you did a weird thing." A man stood next to her. Erthmun didn't recognize him. He was tall, strongly built; he wore a gray suit, a thin, black mustache, and his eyes were small. "Detective," he said, "your partner's right." His voice was steady and his tone probing and judgmental. "You did a very weird thing."

Erthmun said, "I don't remember, I don't remember." It was the truth.

Patricia said, "This is Mark Smalley, from Internal Affairs, Jack."

"I guessed as much," Erthmun said. He didn't like looking at the man. Something in his small, dark eyes prompted Erthmun's urge to violence and he saw himself, in his mind's eye, springing from the bed and attacking him.

Smalley said, "Do you know where you are, Detective?"

Erthmun looked around. The walls were beige, the windows narrow—wire mesh covered them—and the floor was composed of black and white linoleum squares. "I'm at Bellevue."

Smalley nodded. "That's right, Detective. You're in the psych ward at Bellevue. Do you have any idea why you're here?"

"No," Jack said. "I told you, I don't remember, I don't remember."

Patricia asked, "Do you remember the woman in the stairway?"

"No."

Smalley grinned. It was humorless, flat, and cold, and Erthmun, looking at it, wanted to rip the man's lips from his face. Smalley said, "Of course you do, Detective. A naked woman with chocolate stuffed in her mouth. Who could forget something like that?"

Jack shook his head. "For Christ's sake, why don't you stop being coy and simply tell me what it is I'm supposed to have done."

Patricia told him. When she was finished, he said, "Why in the hell would I do something like that? I've never done anything like that before."

"Yes," Patricia said, "I know."

"It's a fucking strange thing to do," Smalley said. "And that's why you're here."

Jack said. "So what does any of this have to do with Internal Affairs?"

Smalley grinned again. "We think you knew her, Jack."

I
n another part of the city, a woman awoke from dreams she too could not remember. She was a stunning woman, with hip-length brown hair, sky-blue eyes, and a face as exquisitely and preternaturally beautiful as anything that lived.

Like Erthmun, she slept naked, under a cocoon of blankets and quilts, but when she woke, she did not come back from sleep haltingly, as Erthmun did—she came back all at once, as if she had been walking, and had simply changed direction.

Blood stained her body this evening, and when she looked at herself in her mirror, and saw the blood, she grinned as if at the memory of something pleasurable. Then she got into her shower, washed the blood off, and soon had forgotten the blood, and the pleasure.

"K
new her," Erthmun said. "Knew who?"

"The woman with chocolate stuffed in her mouth," Smalley said.

Patricia asked,
"
Did
you
know her, Jack?"

Erthmun sighed. "Of course not. What in the hell makes you think I knew her?"

Smalley said, "Because you called her by name."

"By name," he echoed. "I did?"

Smalley nodded. "You called her Helen. That was her middle name. We think it's probably what her friends called her."

Erthmun shook his head in confusion. "I don't know anyone named Helen."

"We want to believe you, Detective," Smalley said. "And maybe we do, as far as it goes."

"Meaning?"

Smalley shook his head a little. "Shit, I don't know. Maybe I'm just trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I'm trying to be magnanimous. They tell me I'm nothing if not magnanimous." He grinned, glanced quickly at Patricia, who was giving him a puzzled look, then looked at Erthmun again. "How in the hell can we believe you, Detective? You called the dead woman by name, for Christ's sake. You picked her up and shook her like a rag doll, and you called her 'Helen,' which was her name. And now you tell us that you don't remember doing it, and that you don't know anyone named Helen. Give me a break, man. I don't think
you're
stupid, and I know for a fact that
I'm
not."

Erthmun gave him a steady, unblinking gaze. "I didn't know her. If you claim that I said these things, then I must have said them. I have no reason to believe that either of you is lying. But I didn't know her."

"Noreen Helen Obermier," Smalley said.

After a moment's silence, Erthmun said, "Yes? And?"

"That was her name."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Why do I get the idea that you're not cooperating with this investigation, Detective?"

"Because it's in your nature to be suspicious," Erthmun answered.

"Damn right," Smalley shot back. "And I'm proud of it. It makes me good at what I do." He grinned again. Erthmun looked away. His fists were clenched; he closed his eyes. "Listen," he said, voice tight, "I'm tired. Why don't you both get out of here."

"For now," Smalley said, and left the room.

"Rest, Jack," Patricia said.

"Rest, Jack," Erthmun echoed her. He was released later that day.

W
hen she had dressed herself, and had lingered at her mirror—because she was fascinated by what she saw reflected in it; she was a creature new to the earth, and most things fascinated her—she ate ravenously of fruit and meat and went out into the night.

She was a creature of the darkness. She loved darkness. She saw well in it; she saw, in fact, many things in darkness that were hidden to the eyes of others.

She walked with the grace, certainty, and stealth of a predator, which, to onlookers, was a sensual walk, alluring and fantastic. It was the walk of sex, which is the walk of power. Men turned to look at her, and women did, too, because she was unlike any human they had seen before.

W
hen Mark Smalley interviewed Noreen Helen Obermier's friends and relatives, he could find no one who could connect her to Erthmun. This made Smalley confused and angry, because he was certain there was a connection. A man simply doesn't call a dead woman by name if he doesn't know her—Erthmun wasn't
psychic
, for Christ's sake!

And now he—Smalley—thought it would be smart to begin interviewing Erthmun's relatives. His sister, Sylvia Grant, lived on Staten Island, and though Smalley could telephone her, he decided it would be best to talk to her in person. He decided this because he was convinced that women could not easily lie to him face-to-face. It was clear that he intimidated them because he was tall, strong, and athletic-looking, quick with a one-liner, and not easily surprised. He thought that men often saw this winning combination as a challenge, but that women, even women cops, found his rock-hard sensuality, his probing intelligence, his wit, and his charm impossible to resist. And though they might try to lie to him, they always gave themselves away—a bat of the eye, a twitch of the hand, a blush, an awkward sideways glance. Sometimes they held his gaze too long, or not long enough. Sometimes, if they were dressed right, he could tell that they were lying because their nipples erected. He found this fascinating, and had wondered if it bore some parallel to lying and male erections. Perhaps all lying was somehow tied to sex. Perhaps all
wrongdoing
was tied to sex.

He did not telephone Sylvia Grant first. He had hoped to find her home, but if he didn't, then it was all right. He'd come back another day and catch her by surprise.

But she was home. She invited him into her house—after he told her who he was, and after she made him produce his badge to prove it—and led him into her spacious, well-appointed living room. He thought she didn't look at all like Erthmun—she was blonde, thin, very tall—and he wondered if they were really brother and sister.

She said, when he was seated in a Queen Anne love seat that was too small and straight-backed for anyone's comfort, "Could I offer you a refreshment of some kind, Detective? Some tea, perhaps a glass of lemonade?"

He shook his head, said, "No, thanks, I won't be long. I only have a question or two."

"As you wish," she said, smiled graciously, and sat across from him in another Queen Anne love seat. "Is Jack in trouble?" she said, still smiling.

"No. There are merely some questions we'd like answered."