Unwanted Company - Barbara Seranella

Unwanted Company

Barbara Seranella
2000

For Mom and Dad,
Thanks for Having me and everything else

PROLOGUE

Christmas, 1983

Artificial green garlands wound around the lampposts
topped with aluminum silver stars. Movie-going crowds thronged the
wet sidewalks. Colored lights twinkled and Christmas carols played
from speakers mounted over the doorways of the shops. The stores were
filled with merchandise and still open even though it was almost nine
in the evening.

Only in America
, he
thought.

He'd been in Los Angeles for less than a week and was
hungry for diversion. It had been raining most of the week and
drizzling off and on all evening. He understood that this was unusual
for Los Angeles, even in December. The newscasters blamed it on an El
Ni
ñ
o weather front.

He chose an apartment building in Westwood, one of
the high-rises on Wilshire. The building had underground parking,
keyed electronic gates, and a doorman manning the lobby. Just the
sort of place where people relaxed their vigilance.

Westwood was also a college town full of brazen young
women who only had eyes, it seemed, for the sculpted torsos and
bronzed skin of their contemporaries. He found their overt sexuality
offensive. Such decadence usually signaled a civilization's downfall.
Didn't they teach history in the universities anymore?

He pushed the button to signal the elevator. He liked
to begin at the top of a building and work down, checking for open
doors as he went. He was not able to reach the penthouse, lacking the
required key for the elevator. His one foible—these crimes, though
he hesitated to use such a harsh word, were acts of opportunity.
Harmless peeks into the worlds of others. The urges had begun when he
was quite young, a boy of ten, confusing as they were irresistible.
But what does a boy that age understand of anything?

To satisfy his impulses he took things from people's
homes—worthless things: socks, belts, birth certificates—the
majority of which he later discarded. The panties, particularly the
pink and blue ones, he kept. And later, alone in his room, the feel
of the nylon or cotton or silk against his skin brought a gratifying
emission that was both terrifying and splendid. It was as if his body
were filled with some volatile churning substance which, while making
him more alive than most, also needed periodic venting. By the time
he turned sixteen, just the sight of an open window gave him an
erection. Though he was disconcerted when sometimes it took many
trips through the window before he could achieve the desired release.

As his tastes grew more refined, he discovered and
devoured books on sex and crime, reading with great interest the
works of Freud and material on subjects of masochism, fetishism,
sadism, and flagellation. Not that he needed the famous psychiatrist
to tell him that the burglaries were about sex. Or that discretion
regarding his taste in entertainment was crucial.

Nearly a decade ago, when he had left home for the
university, he had almost been caught. Quick thinking and a few words
in the right ears saved him. But from then on he resolved to be a
better person and exercise CONTROL. He recognized then the need to
change his habits. At the time he believed his activities were
probably just a passing phase. He'd even started dating girls, even
though he found women quite repulsive. His only requirement was that
the woman be quiet—and lie very still—then he was able to get
himself into a state where he could perform.

And wasn't rising above one's inhibitions the mark of
a great man? A man of consequence? In his second year of studies, he
put aside psychology and shifted his focus to history. What better
way to achieve greatness than to learn from those singular men who
dared to go beyond the boundaries? He had no intention of living his
life as a sheep, a mere follower.

The elevator came to a stop. His attention was
riveted on the opening doors. He took a deep breath and stepped out.
A woman emerged from her apartment just as the doors of his elevator
closed behind him. She was dressed in a three-piece knit suit, with
simple but expensive jewelry. The look on her face suggested that she
neither gave nor asked for any quarter. Not the sort of woman too
many men would be attracted to, he supposed. Too strong—too
willful. In a way she reminded him of his mother.

He walked over to the stairwell door. In the
reflection of the fire extinguisher's glass case, he saw she had
spotted him. At least, he thought she had. He was having difficulty
concentrating. His head hurt and he'd begun to sweat. He stepped back
until the darkness of the hallway's shadows enveloped him. He would
have willed himself invisible, but then a powerful anger came over
him. Who was this bitch to throw him into such a panic? Did she think
she was better than he? He left the dark corner she thought to have
boxed him in.

"What?" he asked her.

She acted like she didn't know what he was talking
about. He grabbed her arm and shoved her inside. Before she could
make a sound, he wrapped his arm around her throat. The pounding of
his blood, his juices, drowned out all other sounds, all other
considerations. Within a few minutes she was still. He released her.
As her body crumpled to the floor, his headache also began to abate.

When he checked his watch again, he saw that over an
hour had passed. The woman lay sprawled across the floor of her
living room. Her clothes were in shreds, and blood covered much of
her body. He ran to the kitchen and fetched a wet towel to wipe her
wounds clean.

Hi; mother's voice echoed in his mind.
Clean
up your mess, you filthy worthless monkey boy.
She called him many things: stupid, worthless, retarded. She added
monkey boy when he began sprouting pubescent hair. Often her
exasperation with him was justified. He could be clumsy and
thoughtless. Like the time he bent down next to her in the garden to
help her weed, and he'd gotten grass stains on his good pants.
Slapping his face was the quickest way to get his attention, to teach
him right from wrong, she said. But he was on to her little secret.
He'd found out for himself on the school yard how good it felt to
strike bare flesh, the compensation of release that it brought.
Instantaneous. Addicting in its own way. Which was not to say that
her other lessons were lost on him.

Cleanliness had its own rewards.

He washed the woman's cuts with soap and hot water,
but the blood continued to ooze out. He ran back to the bathroom to
look for bandages. He was reaching for the medicine cabinet above the
sink when the image of himself in the mirror stayed his hand and
nearly stopped his heart. Her blood had sprayed all over him.

Taking a roll of tape from the cabinet, he returned
to the woman. He almost hated to admit it, but he felt wonderful—like
a new man. As with the little girl-child almost a year ago, whose
little body went limp in his hands, this death was not in vain.

"Thank you," he said, bending down to kiss
each of the wounds gently before taping them shut. When he finished
his ministrations, he placed the woman's cold, bejeweled hand over
her heart, hoping to convey his sentiments. Then he returned to the
bathroom. Kicking off his shoes, he stepped into the shower and let
the water run until the liquid draining away from his black nylon
track suit ran clear. He dried himself as best he could,
understanding now the reason for the evening's rain, how it was his
friend. When he finished, he folded the towels carefully and hung
them back up. There was nothing more anyone could do for the woman.
The best he could do was save himself. The last thing his career
needed was the dark cloud of scandal.

He took the stairs down rather than the elevator. The
lobby was full of shoppers, grimly clutching their purchases. He held
the door open for an elderly woman carrying a glossy red shopping
bag. "Merry Christmas," he said.

She smiled back at him. "Thank you."

That's the spirit
, he
thought. He also discovered that the wanton appearance of the local
women no longer annoyed him. Rather, he felt a benign acceptance. To
each his own. judge not, as they say.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a deep
breath. What a city this was, still in its infancy—virginal.
Absent, but not missed, were the old-city smells of sewers, subways,
and ancient stone. All the buildings here were new—modern monoliths
of concrete and glass. So many cars, so many people, and all too busy
to notice anything but their own small lives.

The attitude was infectious. Already, he could barely
remember the face of the woman upstairs. And why should a stranger
mean anything to him after all?

"
Ah, me." He sighed contentedly. There was
nothing to do but go on; even the strongest of individuals faltered
at times. He would not waste a minute beating himself up over what he
had no power to change. What was past was past. Los Angeles was a
place of new starts. Opportunities were endless. Annals waiting to be
written.
 
 

CHAPTER 1
June,
1984

"This patient has a history, " Munch
overheard the receptionist tell the dental hygienist as she handed
over Munch's thick file. She managed a quick smirk.

That had to be the understatement of the century.
Thirty minutes later, after the woman had finished with her scraping
and picking, she told Munch to hang tight, that Dr. Moore wanted to
have a quick look. How long before that quick look would take place,
she didn't say.

Munch glanced at the schoolroom-style clock on the
wall above the door. Her appointment for cleaning had been for
eleven. It was now almost noon.

She shifted restlessly and adjusted her bib, leaving
black smudge marks on the quilted paper. She was wearing her Texaco
uniform and greasy shoes, which had also marked up the chair's
gray-and-sky-blue-leather upholstery. Even though she had washed her
hands before leaving work, black grime encased her cuticles and
outlined the numerous small cuts on her knuckles. She longed to get
back to the shop and under a hood.

The receptionist ducked her head into the room. "Dr.
Moore will be right with you, hon."

"
I'd appreciate that," Munch said, but the
woman had already gone. Her fingers grazed across one of the dental
picks laid out on the tray suspended to her left. The handle was
crosshatched for a secure grip; the thin sharp point going off at a
ninety-degree angle. It would work well for removing snap rings,
Munch thought, or slipping rubber O-rings out of their grooves.
Perfect for power-steering pump reseals or any of a dozen other
intricate operations. She briefly considered slipping the instrument
into her shirt pocket, next to the tire gauge and clip-on combination
screwdriver/magnet. The little round mirror that swiveled on the end
of its stainless-steel handle raised similar temptations—be good
for finding oil leaks in hard-to-get-to places, like the back of
intake manifolds. She let the larcenous impulses breeze through her
and felt no guilt. Even former president Jimmy Carter had admitted to
lusting in his heart.

She thought about the phone call she had received at
work just before leaving for this appointment. Speaking of history.
The call was from Ellen, newly out of jail, back in Los Angeles, and
wanting to hook up. Munch told her to come by later today She
wondered if that had been a mistake, but what else could she do?

Crazy fucking Ellen—with her penchant for country
music, Dolly Parton wigs, and the distinctive way she spoke in that
exacting Deep South drawl, enunciating each word as if it had special
meaning. Funny she should call just before Munch's visit to a
dentist. One of Ellen's more successful scams had been her ability to
land a straight job—usually in some medical-related field, where
the good drugs were. The last of which had been in a dental office.
She had lied, of course, made up an outrageous résumé, dressed up
in one of her big, curly, redheaded wigs, a tight dress, and gotten
herself hired. If she had just stuck to the pharmaceutical cocaine,
she probably would have pulled it off. Her downfall had come when her
new employer returned early l from lunch and found Ellen rolling a
tank of nitrous oxide into the parking structure.