Laughing Man (5 page)

"And that's why you're here, of course." She was still smiling. It pleased him. People who smiled too much were people who lied.

"Yes," he said, "that's why I'm here."

"You say you're with Internal Affairs, Mr. Smalley?"

"That's correct."

"And you're investigating Jack?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Then he is in trouble." She was still smiling.

Smalley shook his head. Her continuous smiling was beginning to annoy him. "He's not in trouble, Mrs. Grant."

"But he may soon
be
in trouble, isn't that right?"

He ignored the question. "Could you tell me about Jack's friends? Particularly his girlfriends."

"He doesn't have any."

"He doesn't have any friends?"

"He doesn't have any girlfriends. Not at the moment anyway. Actually, I don't think he ever did."

Smalley cracked a quick smile. Her first lie. "That's a little hard to believe, Mrs. Grant. He's a grown man, after all—"

"I meant that he's never had any lasting relationships, Mr. Smalley. He's had one-night stands, of course. He isn't a choirboy."

"Of course he isn't. Who is?" said Smalley.

The phone rang. Sylvia Grant turned her body for a moment in its direction, and Smalley looked at her breasts. She was wearing a blue satin blouse, and her breasts were large, but she was clearly wearing a bra. He was disappointed. She turned back. He looked up quickly from her breasts to her face, and saw her smile go crooked for a moment because she had obviously caught him looking at her and had thought he was merely being lecherous.

"Excuse me, please," she said, and went to answer the telephone.

E
rthmun could not remember the face of the dead woman. He could remember only the smell of the chocolate that filled her mouth. When he tried to remember her face, he saw the face of another woman instead—a face
so
exquisite it was nearly unreal, as if it were not a human face at all, but one that existed only in his imagination.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed. The day was nearly done, and he was ready for sleep. But he knew that he wouldn't sleep. He knew that he'd leave the apartment and that he would look for the woman his fantasies had shown him. Because he knew that, unlike him, her time was night.

O
ther than the hunter, that which moves at night is the prey of the hunter—the foolish and the unwary, who laugh and make noise to attract the hunter, who douse themselves with scent and powder so they can be easily discovered, who dress in clothes that reflect the light, and shoes that make them sway like worms, who drink themselves giddy, and so become defenseless.

These foolish and unwary were what the earth had given her. These prey were for her.

She shivered with excitement. She grew moist, flush, and warm, and she groaned deeply. Her voice was husky and sensual.

Around her in the cafe, people stared. Some were concerned because they thought she was in pain. Others knew well enough that she was not in pain, and they grinned.

One man said, "I didn't know there was a floor show," and his friend laughed.

But she heard no laughter, and saw no one staring, because the judgment of others had no meaning for her.

E
rthmun's night vision was unusual. If an object were moving, then he saw it well, but if it were not, then it melted into the background of artificial light or shadow and he saw little except vague shapes in ill-defined shades of gray. Consequently, as he walked, cars moved past—against the backdrop of storefronts and apartment buildings, street signs and garbage cans—as if against the backdrop of a fog. He had never questioned this way of seeing because he so seldom went out at night, and because he had always assumed that everybody saw the way he saw. It was, after all, the best way to experience the world after dark. What was more important at night than that which was moving?

He walked quickly because he was cold. It was not a particularly cold night—in a city where winter winds often moved with skin-numbing force through the corridors between buildings—but that didn't matter to Erthmun. He was cold because night, simply enough, was a time for sleep. Night was when the body shut down and sent its precious heat to the internal organs so the brain could rest.

Night was a time only for predators, and their prey.

He muttered to himself as he walked. He didn't know that he was muttering. He didn't hear himself muttering. Often, during daylight, he had seen others in this city muttering to themselves and he had thought they were pathetic.

He muttered about his childhood, which was a mystery to him. He had concocted many fantasies about his childhood, not so much to solve the mystery as to push it aside, so he wouldn't have to deal with it.

He did not mutter loudly, as some in this city did. His muttering was little more than a whisper, and because there was a good deal of traffic on the avenue, no one walking nearby could hear him.

"The pine needles make a soft bed," he muttered. "I run here, and here, so there will be no mistake," he muttered.

He had his hands deep in his coat pockets, and though he was wearing gloves, his fingers were numb, and he would have found that they were useless if he had tried to use them. But he was not aware that they were numb.

A dog barked at him from an alleyway. It was a Yorkshire terrier, lost and confused, and it barked not as a warning, but as a plea
—Take me back to my owner.
But Erthmun took no notice of the dog.

"I climb the tree, you can't catch me," he muttered. "Good night, Moon," he muttered. "Good night, chair."

A woman came out of a cafe, saw him—the fixed stare, the quick, stiff gait, hands shoved hard into his coat pockets—and, as he passed close to her, she heard him muttering ("Mother, can we go home, now?"), and so she stepped away from him. She was a visitor to this city, and Erthmun frightened her—she thought he was just another of the thousands of crazy people she had been told walked the night streets of New York.

And as she stepped away, Erthmun turned his gaze to her and stopped walking. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing," she answered, her voice high pitched from fear. "I'm sorry."

Erthmun regarded her warily for a few moments. "You've got to be careful," he said. "Don't take people by surprise," he added curtly, and walked on.

W
hen Erthmun woke the following morning, he remembered that he had gone out, but not why, or to where. He remembered
being
out, in the night. But he remembered it in the way that other people remembered dreams—like trying to hold onto a butterfly made of smoke.

And when the phone rang, he knew before answering that it would be his lieutenant and that he'd tell Erthmun there had been yet another murder, though Erthmun realized that he had no rational way of knowing all of this.

The lieutenant said, "Internal Affairs isn't suspending its investigation, Jack, but we really do need you down there," and he gave Erthmun the location of the latest murder—an apartment building on West 82nd Street. Erthmun was at the building a half hour later.

Patricia David, dressed well and wearing a trendy brown hat, was waiting for him inside the front door. She smiled unsteadily and said, "We're calling these 'The Chocolate Murders.'" She looked a little queasy. "Brief, descriptive, catchy," she added. "It'll play well at the
Post
."

"
Uh—
"
said Erthmun, who had wanted to say
Uh-huh,
but couldn't because of the smell here—once again, the overpowering smell of sweet, cheap chocolate—and the body—female, mid-twenties—awash in its own blood, except for the white and pretty face, eyes as transparently green as the leaves of an air fern.

"Again, contacts," Patricia said.

"Uhn—" said Erthmun, who was bending over the body and looking into its eyes. "This is not a coincience," he said, without turning away from the body. "The killer puts these contacts in."

"That's very odd," Patricia said.

"Odd," Erthmun echoed her. "Everything's odd."

"There's been nothing similar before," Patricia said. "We've checked." She paused, then asked, "How do you know the killer puts the contacts in?"

"Helen," said Erthmun.

Patricia looked confusedly at him, but said nothing. He turned and looked at her. "Did I say 'Helen'?"

"You did, yes."

"Yes. I don't know why. I don't believe this woman's name is Helen." He was feeling very confused and fuzzy-headed, as if he were in the first moments of an illness.

Patricia said, "No one knows what her name is, Jack. There's no ID. No clothes, anywhere. We assume she lived in the building. We're checking."

"She does," Jack said.

Patricia said, "You knew her?"

"Knew her? No. How could I?"

"Jack, you're making no sense."

"She lived here," he said. "That's why she died here. It makes perfect sense."

Patricia sighed and tried to think of some response. Erthmun said, "We are born where we all must die. What could be clearer?"

"Are you kidding, Jack?" She knew that this wasn't likely. Erthmun laughed only occasionally, and he never made jokes. She asked, anyway, "Are you making a little joke?"

Her question confused and offended Erthmun. He looked at the body again. He centered on the eyes. He reached, touched one of them.

"For God's sake, Jack," Patricia said, "we already know that she's dead."

"I'm doing nothing," Jack said. "I'm touching her eyes. I need to touch them."

"Shit," said Patricia.

"Shit," echoed Erthmun. "I'm not going to remove the contacts."

"Don't touch them, Jack. If you're right—for God's sake, if you're right, and the killer put them in, they could hold his fingerprints."

"They don't."

She came forward, bent over, took Erthmun's arm. He yanked it away, miscalculated, jabbed his finger hard into the victim's eye, felt the eyeball pop.

"Good Lord," Patricia said.

"It's nothing," Erthmun said. "It's not important."

"Jack, stand away from the body!" Patricia ordered. He stayed where he was, bent over the body, his gaze on its eyes.

"Jack, I'm telling you to stand away."

"I can't. How can I?"

"How
can
you?
By God, you
will
!"

He looked at her. She had drawn her weapon, though she wasn't pointing it at him; she was holding it at her side. He glanced at the weapon, then into Patricia's eyes, which were the eyes of a cop, then at the popped eyeball of the victim. He stood abruptly and said, "I'm sorry. You're right."

"Step away from the body, Jack!"

He did it. Patricia came forward, put herself between him and the body, and called, "O'Connell, come in here." A uniformed cop came in.

She said to him, "I'm ordering this detective to leave the crime scene. Will you see that he doesn't come back in here?"

The cop nodded once, uncomprehendingly. "Sure," he said.

"Jack," Patricia said, and nodded toward the door. Erthmun nodded, too, and left with the uniformed cop.

S
malley said, "I've got a transcript of your conversation with Patricia David at the crime scene, Detective. Do you want to read it?"

They were in the interrogation room at the precinct house. Smalley was standing several feet in front of the table where Erthmun was seated.

"Read it?" Erthmun said. "No, I remember what I said." In his mind's eye, he saw himself reach far across the table and tear Smalley's throat out. The image was very satisfying, and he found himself closing his eyes, found himself
seeing
it happen,
felt
Smalley's blood wash over him, and when he opened his eyes, he discovered that his arm had risen from the tabletop, and that his fingers were wide. He lowered his arm abruptly, saw that Smalley was looking questioningly at it, and looked away.

After an uneasy silence, Smalley told him, clearly trying for a tone of bravado, "Of course you remember what you said, Jack." He came to the table, leaned over it. "I talked with your sister. She has some very weird ideas about you."

"Does she?"

"For instance, that you've never had a long-term relationship with a woman. Is that true?"

"I've had as many relationships as you have," Erthmun said.

Smalley straightened, smiled. "I doubt that, Detective." His smile faded. "But that's not the question I asked, is it? I asked if you have ever had a long-term relationship with a woman."

Erthmun said. "Listen, am I a suspect in these killings?"