“Any of the victims ever confide in you that they were thinking of having anything like this done?” Jessica inquired.
“No… never. It was, I believe, something done on the spur of the moment, like getting it on, getting a tattoo, a tongue, navel, or clit piercing, typically after having consumed a good deal of alcohol or having smoked mucho dinero in the form of grass.”
“ME's not seeing heavy concentrations of either in the victims,” said Parry.
“Which means these kids went into it with eyes wide open,” added Jessica. “Now, between the two of you, Mr. Tamburino, Dr. Leare, can you tell us anything about these victims in the way of character traits that might lead to such victimization?”
'Trusting souls, all of them,” said Donatella Leare. “Of course, I didn't know them all, but they're of a type.”
“Oh, and what type would that be?”
“Fragile, fragile as wounded birds, their hearts pumping far harder, far stronger than yours or mine, I can assure you, Doctor. No distrust gene. They open up to people immediately and deeply, which pleases most people but may well trigger your everyday sociopath, could it not?”
Tamburino elaborately shrugged, saying, “Victims. They were all perfect victims. I've read about the type. They lay down for anybody, man, except maybe this time it's for good.”
“Don't you find it odd so many in so small an area would so easily take on that role?” asked Jessica.
“Mr. Tamburino's crude assessment may not be to your liking, Dr. Coran,” said Leare, “but there is some truth to it. All of the ones I knew personally-that is, through my work-well… they saw life through rose-colored glasses, to say the least, and they are a product of a generation raised in the beliefs that, while beautiful in theory, can be deadly in practice.”
“Such as?”
“Such as all mankind has a purity of soul and goodness that need only be touched into life; such as there is no such thing as evil, only the absence of good-that sort of thinking.”
“Like there's no such thing as a bad kid?” asked Parry.
“Something like that, yes. No such thing as a natural-born killer, a bad seed, a killer gene,” added Donatella Leare. “We artists can portray such Utopias in our poems, books, paintings, but if you try to live such a life, you might easily be heading for disaster.”
Jessica agreed. “You mean these kids saw life like one of these paintings there done by… by…” She could not recall the artist's name.
“Samtouh Raphael, one of our local artists. It's computer graphics, really. She's become so successful that she quit her teaching job at Penn State to devote herself full-time to her painting, moved into a loft apartment here. A local success story.”
“Derivative of Maxfield Parrish,” repeated Tamburino, “only the brushstroke is that of a Macintosh PC.”
Tamburino's comment seemed to irritate Leare, who icily said, “Everything is derivative, Marc, if you scratch the surface; even Shakespeare stole plots from Plutarch. What's important is that the artist make his plunder his or her own. Obviously, Samtouh learned to create light in her paintings from Parrish, but regardless, she has found her own vision.”
“Some of the subject matter overlaps,” he argued.
'To hell with that; the woman clearly has something unique, quite her own, that has sparked a mad interest in her work, especially among the young.”
“I do real photography myself,” said Tamburino. “Been relegated to a hobby since I took on the store, but for a time, I was making good money, doing weddings and other tribal ceremonies.”
“You mean like that wake you photographed?” Leare asked pointedly.
“Hey, it was an interesting gig, and the customer paid well.”
She turned to Jessica. “I see you're delving into my work,” said Leare. “Do enjoy it.” She reached out and massaged the copy of her work entitled The Eternal Dream of Still and the Dream of Dirth.
“Interesting title,” Jessica said. “I'm given to understand many of the victims not only took your class but read and enjoyed your poetry, along with-”
“Lucian Burke Locke's, I know.” She now snatched Locke's book from Jessica, asking, “Which of his titles do you have here, his latest, ahhh, Sex-the Melancholy Distress. The man is obsessed with getting it right-sex, that is-glorifying it to a fever pitch that tries to reach a nirvana of absolute peace-in his poetry, I mean-a kind of death and birth through the penis. The perfect balm for mankind's ills and confusions, sex as the coiled snake, as in the Kundalini myths and religious beliefs of the East. That sort of thing.”
“But like the computer artist, he appeals to the young, yes?” Jessica asked.
“Why don't you talk to him about that? He's back, too. We made the trip to Houston together. Got back late due to an accident at the airport, huge delays. Only saving grace was that the conference was better this year than last.”
Jessica picked up the photos of the dead, telling Dr. Leare, “Please, you will make yourself available to us, Dr. Leare, should we have further questions.”
“Absolutely.”
The poet made her purchases and said her good-byes. At the door, she hesitated. “I dearly hope you catch this fiend and stop him before anyone else is harmed. It's terribly upsetting for all involved, the academic community and the young people who populate Second Street.”
'Trust me,” Jessica returned, “it's just as upsetting for law enforcement.”
The tall, domineering Leare, her gait that of a regal if somewhat ostentatious-looking bird, disappeared through the door. Jessica retrieved her books and photo file, and she and Parry bid Tamburino and his little shop of curiosities good-bye.
SIXTEEN
To him the book of Night was open 'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss reveal 'd A marvel and a secret.
A call from headquarters sent them next to the home of Lucian Burke Locke. The poet had telephoned in when he learned that he was being sought for questioning in the case of the Poet Killer. On their previous visit to his home, Parry had left his calling card. FBI dispatch informed Parry that Dr. Locke wished to cooperate in any way possible, and he'd left word that he would be home for the rest of the evening.
They drove back out to Locke's home, a pleasant, rambling two-story Victorian in need of some serious repairs to the exterior walls and the porch, but otherwise in good shape, well landscaped and the lawn well lit by light that spilled out of the huge, open windows. The place felt cozy and large at the same time, and the atmosphere felt welcoming. Lucian Locke met them at the door, urging them inside, into a spacious living room decorated in subdued grays and beiges, with blond Scandinavian furniture that starkly contrasted with oaken beams in the ceiling, and yet somehow it all worked.
To Jessica, the man appeared a strange mix. While his hands and feet were oversized, his body was dwarflike, reminding Jessica of Peter Flavius Vladoc, only Locke was shorter still, and a decade younger. In an otherwise handsome face, one eye fixed on the person he spoke to, while the other eye wandered, as if staring off into another realm. Jessica stared back curiously, then suddenly realized that what she was looking at was a glass eye.
Locke noticed her noticing and immediately said, “Had it put out by a mangy lover when I was only seventeen; wore a black patch to impress the ladies thereafter, until the piratical look grew tiresome. That's when I had the glass eye put in.”