A small voice, rational and firm, deep within her kept denying that either of these poets could be the killer she and the task force sought. Whereas the work of both tore at the reader with a raging anger, the words of the Killer Poet joined a gentleness to the dark themes. That's what the poisoning poet had left as an indelible signature to his crimes, a most gentle touch, that lethal gentleness of hand and word, a quiet horror played out on the backs of the victims.
She awoke with a start of recognition at this notion, accepting it as a gift of the unconscious, and asked herself what specifically had so bothered her about Leare and Locke? Was it that these two and many another dark poet since Poe had caught the fevered imagination of whole generations of children and young people? Or was it the nature of the cult that followed their work? Was the killer a part of this cult, and did he choose his victims from its ranks? Or was he himself one of the lionized poets, or another poet of similar stature, who decided to exploit the adoration of his or her fans? What young, impressionable kid could say no to an accomplished, well-respected poet like Leare, or for that matter Locke?
With these thoughts swirling about her brain, Jessica again sought sleep.
The following day
With the core members of the task force assembled, Jessica discussed her suspicions that all the victims read Locke, Leare, and other poets of this strange dark school, and while Kim and Parry considered the idea important, Sturtevante was quite vocal in her opinion of the opposite.
During her reading of Leare's volume, a few poems had struck Jessica as especially relevant to the case. “ 'Archetypes of Desire and Hatred: A Verse Dialogue at the End of the Millennium,' “ she read aloud, and paused, adding, “and that's just the title. Listen to this one entitled 'The End of Thought.' “
You 're the evil that flogs my welted back and I'm the one who must overcome.
So nature made her judgment on our vows- when you touch my hand, all I feel is your blood running down my fingers, dripping onto the ruined street where we were wed.
“Let's kill each other.
Here's my knife; please,
I want to feel you twist inside me. And as for you-
I'll break your neck; quick-kiss your swollen lips.
You wont feel death,
I promise.”
Amniotic decadence twists their faces; an anguish life of rage crawls from the womb.
A final sweet embrace, surrendering to temptation to die in the guarded of rusty buildings.
This is the final excretion, and you can see it coming to the surface, a caduceus canker, the scepter of maleness- suspended in the alchemy of the prima materia.
This is the beginning of Time.
They never left, and neither did we.
There is only one person here.”
“Okay, so what the hell does it mean?” asked Parry, garnering a laugh from Jessica.
“The poem is equating making love with death,” Kim replied. “At least, that's what I'm hearing.”
“So it's not about someone murdering the sex partner?” asked Sturtevante, her eyes wide at Kim's words.
“Not exactly,” Kim answered.
“It's still damned grim,” said Parry, plopping into a chair.
“It may be just this kind of so-called art that is motivating the Killer Poet to murder,” Jessica suggested.
“What are you saying?” asked Sturtevante, standing and pacing. “That the killer is motivated by these poets at the university? Or… or that he reads into their poems a motive for killing?”
Jessica calmly answered, “Either theory is a possibility.”
“So take my pick?” Sturtevante shouted, losing her temper now. “What a defense for the accused. 'I read a book of poems, Your Honor, and it sent me over the edge,'“ the detective mocked, her voice rising shrilly, “and if you believe that fairy tale…”
“Fiction, novels, short stories, and movies have been known to influence people,” Jessica countered. “Whether we want to face it or not, an open society such as ours breeds killers and insanity, and often our literature and other cultural artifacts reflect this truth, and then the person raised on violence begins to act with violence.”
“Criminals who decide to mimic what they see or read about,” said Kim, her steepled fingers twitching at her chin. “Over the years, we've seen many instances of young people doing just that. ”Jessica added, “We've all seen such cases in the news, after the fact, when it's too late. I'm merely suggesting-”
“Suggestions, more suggestions and guesswork,” muttered Sturtevante, pacing now like a nervous cat. “Well, frankly, Dr. Coran, we in the PPD expected FBI involvement to bring great and swift results. Not a lot of speculation, and thus far all I've heard is bullshit spec-”
“Leanne's just a little on edge today,” Parry began to apologize when Sturtevante glared at him and suddenly the doors burst open and in came Chief Aaron Roth with two men wearing three-piece, expensive-looking suits. It became immediately apparent to Jessica and the others why Sturtevante was on edge, as Parry had put it. Her superiors were on edge.
No one in the complex chain of command, from detective room to governor's mansion, was happy with the slow progress of the Poet Killer case.
“Deputy Mayor Alsop,” Chief Roth began, introducing the man on his left. “And this is Senator Patrick Harmon, father of the late Anton Pierre.”
Immediately upon being introduced, Senator Harmon placed a hand against Chief Roth's chest and said, “I'll take it from here, Aaron.” The tall, imposing senator, his gray-to-white hair long and striking, making him look like a nineteenth-century patriarch, almost shouted, “I want some fucking answers, and I want some fucking results. You people have been sitting on your asses longer than Snuffy Smith has been sitting in his rocker. Now, what in God's name do you have for me on the death-murder- of my child?”
Beneath his bluster, Harmon was like any other father caught up in so horrific a circumstance. He had had to bury his own child; the natural order of his universe had been shaken to the core. He felt a rage and had nowhere to express it. I demand to know what's being done!”
Parry immediately took charge, standing, offering his hand and introducing first himself and the task-force leadership. Finishing with Kim, he added, “We've even put a psychic on the case. It's only a matter of time before we nail this bastard, sir. If you'd like to come with me, I can show you the mounting evidence we are assembling. Trust me, no one's resting on their rears or leaning on any walls here.”
The senator looked around the room, gritted his teeth, and finally nodded. “Yes, I expect you are doing all you can.”
“All that is humanly possible,” added Parry.
The senator's entire body told them that he had relented. “Doing all that is humanly possible, yes, and I will take you up on your invitation-Agent Parry, is it?”
Parry's strong suit, Jessica recalled, had always been dealing with the bereaved family members, never an easy task. Now, much to everyone's comfort, the FBI agent led the distraught father away. Parry, who had handled both situation and man with great sensitivity and care, had earned back some points with Jessica.
When they were gone, Chief Roth stood aside, rather agitatedly, to hear a brief “pep talk” from the deputy mayor, whose final clich6-”I hope you all good hunting”-fell flat.
Then Chief Roth, his bulldog face turning stony, said, “Senator Harmon is not the only one ready to throw you people to the dogs. I had another father in my office late yesterday. It was Maurice Deneau's father, a local alderman and minister, who collapsed under the strain right there in my office. Paramedics rushed him to St. Stephen's; he's expected to recover, but the man's a basket case; so depressed that he's under a suicide watch. His family's going through a double hell now.” We're getting closer every hour, every day.” Kim told them what they wanted to hear. “I am seeing more details; each vision I have of the killer brings me more words and symbols to puzzle out and piece together.”