Mind to Mind: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (4 page)

I was not too inclined to
discuss the matter and still had not done so when the word came
that resuscitation efforts had been terminated and Jane officially
declared dead. Some L.A. homicide cops were on the scene by that
time, and the small lounge was becoming crowded as the
investigative routine began encroaching on the ordered processes of
the institution. My friend Cochran arrived at some point during the
early going, so I was spared some of the indignity that would
naturally adhere to the situation. He smoothed the way for Alison
and me to give our statements and get the hell out of
there.

I am not ashamed to admit
that I would not do well as a hospital professional. I do not
possess the toughness of spirit, or whatever, required to regard
the drama as mere process. Death affects me, involves me. Like John
Donne, I suppose, I feel diminished by every death, and I cannot
simply shrug it away when it confronts me. Even the very old and
the very ill take away a piece of me when they go and I know it,
and yet I do not regard death as a finality beyond which there is
nothing. It is not a singularity but a natural and necessary change
of state; by some accounts it is even a pleasant and ennobling
transmutation, the means by which life renews and reinvigorates
itself into an ever-broadening avenue of expression. That is my
belief, too, so I do not really understand why I always feel so
deprived by another's death. And I feel particularly resentful of a
death of violence, even that violence produced by virulence and
disease within a body, but especially that arrogant violence
exercised by a conscious entity who would deliberately deny the
full exercise of life to another.

I give you this here, only as an insight
into my state of mind on that beautiful Los Angeles afternoon as I
left the hospital with Alison Saunders—or, perhaps, to dimension my
reaction to the death of a young woman, who, after all, I had only
just met and who, at best, had something less than half a life left
to live at the time I met her. Maybe also I hope to lend
perspective to the reaction of an amateur, like me, versus that of
a professional like Alison. She lived only a short distance from
the hospital so was in the habit of traveling back and forth "the
healthy way"—by foot. I was not in total agreement that the feet
were the healthiest mode of transport for a woman on any Los
Angeles street. I mentioned that, the statement producing soft
laughter and the observation that, at any rate, the circumstances
provided a good excuse for us to share the ride in my car. She had
decided to leave work a couple of hours early and had changed from
the hospital whites to a very becoming outfit, simple skirt and
blouse, which made her look even younger and definitely more
appealing.

I asked her, point-blank, "How old are you,
kiddo?"

And she replied, point-blank, "Old enough
for a Ph.D. and two years in the trenches. Old enough, also, to
pick my own man, my own time, and my own place."

I decided that was old enough—she was on her
own—and so was I.

As we walked to the car I told her, "Don't
know how you handle the daily tragedy."

She said, "It's not
exactly daily. And we don't lose them all, you know. Actually the
mortality rate here is very low. We cure a lot more than we
kill."

I observed glumly, "Well,
that's a comfort. I guess. But how do you handle a Jane Doe—the
loss of a highly personal patient?"

She told me, almost
lightly, "It hurts, if that's what you mean. Just have to learn to
take it in stride. And, after all, we did not kill her."

I had no response to that. We walked the
rest of the way in silence. My car was in the visitor's lot, which
meant a pretty good walk and therefore a long period of silence. I
suppose she sensed my mood and was trying to respect it. But I was
wondering about her and the anesthesia of feeling that was evident
in the reaction to her patient's death.

I steered her to the car and opened the door
for her. She started to enter but then checked herself, pulled back
for an exterior view, exclaimed, "Wow! What is this? Porsche?"

I hoped the car had not heard. "Maserati," I
corrected her, probably in a very offended tone. The Maserati is my
chief indulgence. I do not take kindly to slights against her.

"Oh. I always wanted a Porsche." She slid in
and buckled up while I went around, muttering under my breath and
reminding myself that there is no accounting for tastes.

But already this lady,
this clinical psychologist with a Ph.D. and a teenager's face and
tastes, was becoming less attractive to me. I did not like the
anesthesia and I did not like the valley-girl mentality that could
not discern a diamond among rhinestones.

I buckled in and asked
her, almost belligerently, “Where to?”

"Why don't you show me your place?" she
replied with a teasing smile.

"That's at Malibu," I informed her, hoping
she would think it too far removed.

"Perfect," she purred. "I always wanted a
place at Malibu."

"With a Porsche in the garage, eh?" I
growled under my breath.

But she heard it. "I suppose I would settle
for a Maserati," she said playfully.

I supposed she would, at that.

But I was not so sure that the Maserati
would settle for an Alison Saunders. That, of course, was before I
displaced her anesthesia.

Chapter Five: States of
Mind

It was the wildest, the loudest, the longest,
and the most violent orgasm I'd ever encountered. She ended up
crying as though her heart would break, and that brought a bit of
dismay until I tumbled to what was happening with her. The stiff
professionalism—the anesthesia—was melting, that was all, and
sometimes that can be a painful process. So I held her and
comforted her with gentle caresses and soft words while she worked
her way through it.

Presently she moved onto her side and began
stroking me back. For quite a while, then, we just stroked and
talked.

"Slimebags."

"Is that for me—or just us guys in
general?"

"No—I was thinking about—he slashed her
throat, too, Ash."

"Jane? Jane's throat?"

"Yes. When the nurse—guess
he was afraid he hadn't finished her. He knocked the nurse down and
slashed Jane's throat before he ran away. But I was just thinking
... I see an awful lot of this stuff. Why do men do this to women?
Why do they feel the need to totally degrade us in every
way?"

"You're the clinical psychologist. You tell
me. But make it a bit less general, please. I know lots of guys who
have never felt that kind of need."

"Not that way, maybe. But
you all do it to one degree or another. If we fuck, we're wicked.
If we don't, we're cold. If we're pretty, we pay too much attention
to our looks. If we're not pretty, we're pigs or dogs. If we want a
career, we're trying to compete with men. If we don't, we're lazy.
If we make it in a career, we got there on our looks. If we don't
make it, nobody really expected us to, anyway. If we love a man so
much we hurt inside, he walks all over us. If we don't and he
can't, then we're incapable of love."

"That's all nonclinical. But I'll bet you
have an answer for it."

"Maybe. I think it's our reward for
motherhood. Little boys grow up adoring their mothers, yet
resenting their domination."

"Love-hate relationship."

'You could say that."

"How 'bout little
girls?"

"Why do you think women are so catty toward
one another?"

"So maybe you've got a point. But what does
all this have to do with Jane?"

"It has everything to do with Jane. How many
battered men have you seen? Battered by a woman, I mean?"

"Not many, I guess. Not any, I suppose."

"But men batter women all
the time. I mean, we get one or two cases every week.
Vicious
stuff.
Savage!
Not that I put
Jane in that category. But I've seen some almost as bad. Some have
also been raped, but most of these women are battered by husbands
or lovers."

"Jane had not been raped."

"No evidence of it, no. That being the case,
the odds are that she was attacked by a husband or lover. He
thought he killed her. So he dumped her on the freeway, tried to
make it look like a sex crime."

"You think it was not a sex crime."

"She showed none of
the—Look, Ashton, a woman who has been violently raped has wounds
other than those that show on the body. Wounds of the mind. No, I
do not think—he killed her over something else, or thought he did.
Came back today to finish the job."

"I need to call Cochran."

"Why?"

"Because he purposely told me nothing about
this case. Wanted me coming in untainted, cold."

"But ... it's over now.
Why do you—"

"You said the killer tried to make it look
like a sex crime."

"Yes."

"Yet there was no evidence of rape."

"Well ... a sadistic sex
crime."

"A sadist does not merely bash the brains
out."

"Neither did this one. He decorated her
body."

"How so?"

"Crudely so. Brutally so. With the glowing
end of cigarette, it seems. Breasts and torso. Sick little design
on her tummy."

"Design of what?"

"A satanic symbol."

"Shit."

"I've seen a lot worse."

I sighed, reached for a bedside pad,
quick-sketched a design I had in mind, showed it to Alison.
"Anything like this?"

She recoiled, sucked in her breath, said,
"That makes me want to throw up."

"Seen it before?"

"Yes. Put it down, please."

I returned the pad to the bedside table. "Is
that the symbol you saw on Jane's body?"

"Close enough, yes."

I sighed again. "I need to call Cochran." I
was reaching for the telephone.

She caught my hand, held it, said, "Not
right now. Please. Keep talking to me."

I settled back, resumed
the soft caresses—not at all an unpleasant task—thinking, too,
about the disordered male minds that enjoy desecrating such a body.
I have never directly encountered a female body that did not awe
me by its sensual softness and smooth warmth. I make no bones about
it; I adore the feminine sexual mystique and everything connected
with it. Maybe I never felt dominated by my mother. Certainly I can
remember rubbing her smooth cheeks with my little-boy hands, and I
have at least a phantasmal memory of snuggling happily to her soft
bosom. Alison's suggestion of a love-hate tilt to the son-mother
relationship was certainly not new in psychiatric annals; if the
reasoning was valid, then I supposed that the reverse could also be
true. If so, the mother-son relationships could set the tone for
future man-woman relationships. But I voiced none of that to
Alison.

She asked me in a whispery voice, "Do you
think oral sex is a perversion?"

I thought about it for a couple of
microseconds, then replied, "For some, maybe."

"How 'bout for you?"

"Couldn't have proper sex without it," I
said casually. "The mouth is a primary organ, isn't it? How much
could any of it mean without a kiss?"

"I meant ..."

I chuckled and traced an invisible line from
an up-flung hip to her knee. "I know what you meant. And what I
said still goes."

She took a deep breath, said, "Well I've
always wanted to try it."

"So why haven't you?"

"Guess I never found a man with the—I mean,
that I feel comfortable enough with."

"Do you feel comfortable with me?"

She did not directly reply
to that but immediately twisted about and began a timid exploration
of my torso with her lips.

We both became quite
"comfortable" very soon after that. And, to tell the truth, I did
not have another lucid thought for quite a long time. It was
totally a right-brain experience, enacted beyond space and outside
of time. So much so that I was a bit disoriented as to time and
space when I came down from that, had difficulty extracting myself
from the soft tangle of limbs, not sure as to exactly who I was or
where I had been.

But I came out of that
right-brain domination with a much better handle on who Jane Doe
was and where she had been.

And I came out, I believed, with an "image"
of her killer—an image formed of symbols, nightmarish shapes, and
shadows.

I mentioned none of that to Alison. I let
her sleep while I prepared a light dinner.

The ocean breezes were a
bit cool, but she wanted to eat on the deck overlooking the surf in
the moonlight, so we did. And without a lot of conversation. She
was pensive, almost withdrawn. I was sort of in the same shape. I
guess we each gladly respected the mood of the other.

She helped me clean up the
mess in the kitchen, then quietly told me, "I have to work
tomorrow. Guess I should get going."

So I took her home. We talked a bit on the
way, but it was all small talk. I walked her to the security door
of her apartment complex, and she told me good night there.

"I hope this is not good-bye," she said
wistfully.

I smiled and told her, "We've hardly said
hello."

Then I returned to the Maserati and sent her
on a beeline for Cochran's place, in Hollywood.

I'd hardly said hello to Jane Doe,
either.

Chapter Six: Pick of the
Litter