Kim nodded. “Hanging around here isn't getting us anywhere, and you're entirely right about Leare. She's not our killer.”
“The others would like to believe that it's a woman killer; given the condition of the scenes, it's comforting for them to think the perp belongs to the so-called gentler sex.”
Jessica and Kim commandeered a car from the pool in the underground lot and were soon on their way to Darkest Expectations in search of more and better answers.
Bookstore owner and sometime photographer Marc Tamburino, somewhat beguiled by Jessica's return to his store, and thrilled by her interest in his photography, was proudly displaying his work. Jessica at once saw the hopelessness of thinking Tamburino their killer; his wedding photos displayed little talent. She could tell that Kim agreed.
“Do you have any special ones, photos I mean?” asked Kim.
“Ones you show only to your closest friends?” Jessica coaxed.
“I keep my best work in my apartment over the store. You're welcome to come up and have a look. About to close up; the three of us could call it a manage h trois,” he joked, but his attempt at flirtatious banter fell flat. Jessica realized only now what a geek Tamburino was.
“Just show us your photographs, Mr. Tamburino,” she said, “and tell me what you know about the use of selenium in photography.”
“Selenium?” he asked as he led them up to his apartment. Jessica immediately noticed that the place needed a thorough cleaning. His private collection revealed him to be a competent, avid amateur with aspirations to becoming a professional who had sold a few of his photos for advertising purposes. The portfolio he showed them contained much better work than the wedding photos. He sensed that the two FBI agents were reconsidering their earlier assessment of his craftsmanship, and said, “It's easier to do good work if you're interested in the subject.”
As they perused his framed photos, Jessica saw a door marked by a red bulb and a sign proclaiming it as a darkroom.
“Do all of my own processing. A hell of a lot cheaper that way,” he said in her ear, noticing what she had been staring at.
Jessica asked him about processing, and he walked her back to the rear and the darkroom. “Have a look. Showin's better'n tellin', as they say.”
Jessica stepped through the door he held open. She saw no evidence of anything amiss here, no photos of the victims lying about or hung up and drying. For that much, she felt grateful, when her glance fell on a tall, cylindrical container marked selenium. Three skulls-and-crossbones indicated the level of toxicity in the liquid they contained.
Jessica again casually asked about the selenium.
“Oh, it's a staple in every darkroom.”
“How do you use it?”
“With every precaution. It's highly toxic, and deadly if absorbed through the skin. Highly toxic stuff.” She felt for a moment that she was in the lair of the killer, but then realized that she had not seen a single photo of any of the victims anywhere in the establishment. Perhaps Marc Tamburino kept such shots hidden, only taking them out when driven to do so by his other, more deadly persona. All sheer speculation, she silently reminded herself. Still, mightn't he have a secret collection? Perhaps a thorough search of his home was in order, but she found nothing to justify such a search. She had no probable cause, save the selenium drum in the darkroom, and to request a search warrant on this basis alone would be a waste of time. As she asked her questions rapid-fire now, Jessica saw that the young man's eyes were averted; suddenly he looked crestfallen. She realized that she'd burst his bubble, whatever that bubble might have been, and now he was on the defensive.
“I know what's going on here,” he said.
“Oh, really?” she asked. 'Tell us about it, Marc.”
“I know that you… that the authorities are 'desperate' for a whachamacallit, an escape goat-”
“It's scapegoat, and don't be foolish. We already have a scapegoat in custody, Marc.”
“I could remark on the official stupidity that has caused Donatella Leare to be arrested for all those killings. Leare's not capable of this kind of crap.”
“What makes you so sure?” she pressed.
“It'd take a calculating bastard with a strong stomach to talk those kids into suicide.”
“You discussed this very scenario with Dr. Leare, didn't you?”
“Do you mean did she know your kind would arrest her and charge her with… with all this?”
“She did, didn't she?”
“Yeah, but that's because she'd been sleeping with a Philly cop.”
This information came as no revelation to Jessica, but she faked surprise, wondering just how many people knew of Leare's involvement with Leanne Sturtevante.
Tamburino winked conspiratorially, as if he and the agents shared some dirty little secret. He looks like a malicious snowman, Jessica suddenly thought as she watched him walk back to the main room. Myself, I could never, ever take a life, despite my own grim outlook and dark poetry.”
“Oh, you write poetry?” She practically had to run in order to keep pace with him as he rushed about the room, picking up dirty clothing, discarded magazines and books, replacing them on shelves and tabletops. In a comer stood an opened box marked Ingram. Realizing the word was not an anagram of rampage, Jessica decided she was a little desperate for evidence herself.
“Matter of fact, I do.”
“Will you turn some of your poetry over to me?”
“What, for analysis? Against the killer's handwriting?”
“Exactly.”
“Not exactly like asking for a fingerprint or DNA. And who knows, word leaks out, and maybe-”
“Maybe your poetry is printed on 'page one'?” she asked, smiling. “Couldn't hurt your career as a poet, now could it? You think that's what the Poet Killer is after, page-one publicity?”
“Amazingly enough, that's what I thought all along, that the killer wanted to publicize himself. I've thought that from the beginning, but the papers haven't printed his poetry. Why?”
She shrugged. “Just another mystery, I guess.”
“News guys are cooperating with the cops, right? Cops cut a deal with the press, right, to keep it out?”
“Can't say. So you really think that's what the killer has wanted all along? Publicity for his work?”
“That's really sick, man, I know, but it's got to be the reason. What other reason could he have?”
“You'll let me take a look then at your poems, to compare?”
“They don't come anywhere near Locke or Leare. You'll be disappointed, Dr. Coran.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” All right.” He walked them back downstairs, and there he produced a volume from behind the counter.
“You've sold some of your work? Who's the publisher?” she asked.
“No publisher. Just had the one copy bound. Gave up on publication years ago, but figured, what the hey, I'll make a single copy, call it my rare first edition, and put it on my shelf. So, you see, I'm over that black depression time when you first realize no one's ever going to buy a single word from you. So I wouldn't make a good rejected Poet Killer, so forget about it.”
“I see you managed to get hold of a computer,” she said, tapping his monitor. “What about the Internet? You put anything out on the 'Net these days?” she asked.
“Some, just in the chats. No big deal.”
“Can I get a copy of your more… recent work?”
He breathed deeply, then sighed and shrugged. “Sure, I'll run you a disk copy.”
The moment she delved into the book of poetry, entitled Brain Lizards, Jessica knew that Marc Tamburino could not be the Poet Killer. His work, compared with the killer's, was immature and maudlin, filled with awkward constructions and forced, often ridiculous rhymes.
She asked if he knew any other people who hung about his store, liked Locke and Leare, and were also into photography.