I turned into the first door on the left, sat down at Monica’s desk, and put the file next to her printer. I picked up the photographs. They were larger than the ones the patrolmen had taken. I propped them up side by side in front of the computer screen. I flipped up Ermentraut’s notebook and read his notes.
Joleen Pennybacker: four bloodstains on floor; furs not part of house decor; potpourri?: lab says it’s dried thyme leaves; perfumes: Escada and Opium, from the house; wooden stick: solid maple — look at local cabinetmakers, furniture repair shops.
I looked at Joleen Pennybacker: young, slim, ghostly pale in the harsh flash light. The pool of blood under her head black, not red. Lying on her back, eyes wide, hands up, fingers spread as if startled by someone standing in front of her. Had she been sitting? Why no chair? The two furs draped over her shoulder and around her neck. Trying them on before she got dressed? A gift? The sensuous feel of fur on skin? The potpourri and perfume spilled on the floor. As if she’d pulled them over in a struggle or standing up to flee. Someone she’d seen in the mirror. The bloody stick that stopped her.
I picked up Martha Dombrowski’s picture. I tilted it under the light then reached over and turned on Monica’s desk lamp. In the corners, four dark stains. Just like the first scene. Repetition becomes ritual. Another indicator that these tableaux had symbolic meaning to the killer. He was putting order on his chaos. Shaping it to give him release from his hungers. For the moment.
Martha was older, softer. Again on her back. Nude except for the T-shirt. A college. I brought the photo closer: University of California. She, too, had her hands up as if startled and a pool of black blood under her head. There was food strewn around her and the refrigerator door was open. The dropped gun. She hears someone, has food in her hands, a midnight snack perhaps, turns, sees the killer. Only he is not a killer yet. She sees him watching her. She’s going to report him, like the first one did. He can’t let that happen. He shoots her. He drops the gun and runs. Ritual reenactments of his trauma, his shame, only he’s rewritten the end. They don’t tell, they die. He escapes to watch them again. Better yet, he does what he only dreamed of the first time. But he can’t. Even with them subdued, restrained, he can’t get it up, can’t put it in. A level of inhibition even this degree of control and power can’t conquer. Twisted religious upbringing? What did Munsey’s parents do to him?
Thank God they caught this guy. He’d have kept doing this until he was able to penetrate his victims. And then he’d have kept on anyway, just hyphenating his career: serial killer-rapist.
I looked at the notes. Food: can of baked beans, open with lid; package of ground meat; box of donuts. The food belonged to the owners of the house. T-shirt: University of California. Neither the victim nor the residents attended the school. Boyfriend? Killer? Blood not the victim’s. Match for #1. The gun was a .32-caliber H & R. No serial number. A later note said ballistics couldn’t match it with any other killings and they hadn’t been able to trace its owner.
The last picture was Eleanor Gelman. Again the four bloodstains. Again the body nude except for a college T-shirt. This time it’s the University of Richmond. Was Munsey’s first victim, the one who reported him, a college student? She’s on her back in the foyer. This time her hands have money in them. Coins all around the left one, dropped when she’s startled, a twenty in her right. For whom? Where’s her purse? I scanned the corners of the photo to see if it was on the floor or hanging from a doorknob. Why get it out to give to someone? She’s only half dressed. So many questions but the answer is always the same — silence. Her head sits in a pool of blood. Satan’s halo, viscous, sickly sweet, the light shining off bits of bone and brain. I looked at the dumbbell. There was a difference with this one. Her ankles were tied. With what?
I looked at Ermentraut’s notes. Bloodstains not the victim’s. Same as victim #2. T-shirt — victim did not go to University of Richmond. Her son? Money: 7 cents — all pennies. Ankles: rubber tubing. Chemistry supplies? M.E. says consistent with ligatures on all three victims.
I stared at all three pictures. A triptych from Earl Munsey’s unconscious. The same scene over and over again, unchanging forever. That’s one definition of hell.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
I looked down. Justin stood there just as somber as before. Dark eyes peering up from under his bowl-cut black hair.
“I was going to. Your mom offered since I’m helping her with her work. Is that okay with you?”
Justin put his hand on my arm. “Do you know my dad?”
“No, I don’t,” I said gently.
“Oh.” He turned away, then back. “Can you play with me? Just until Mom calls me to eat?”
I looked at the photos. Nothing there. I might as well play with the little guy. His dad would if he were here.
“Sure. Just until your mom calls.”
I pushed away from the console and followed him into the living room. A sliding-glass door and surrounding windows let plenty of light into the room and it bounced off the dark parquet floor. A large-screen TV sat in the center of the far wall surrounded by a built-in bookcase. I scanned the books: cookbooks, exercise books, books on divorce and child-rearing, romances, mysteries, arts and crafts, everything but law books. A low, cream-colored leather sofa and chair set encircled a wood and glass coffee table. A free-form cypress base with bronze claws gripping a palette-shaped glass top.
Justin sat down in between the table and the sofa and picked up a plastic frame. I thought about squeezing in next to him but chose an adjoining side of the table. His mother poked her head around the corner.
“We’ll eat in just a couple of minutes.” Then she lifted her head up towards me.
“Anything?”
“Where do you stand on feeding the messenger?”
“We feed them in these parts. Good news or bad.”
“I still don’t see anything.”
“Okay.”
Justin scooted over towards me and handed me the frame. It was covered with numbered plastic shingles.
“How do you play, Justin?”
“It’s a memory game. You have to remember where the matching pictures are. When they match you take them off the board.”
“Show me. We’ll do this one for practice. It won’t count, okay?”
“Okay. See, here is a pony, and this one is a pony. So I take them off.” He lifted two numbered shingles, revealing the ponies. Off they came, revealing another layer underneath.
“What’s this, Justin?” I asked, noticing that he was sitting right up next to my leg and starting to list to starboard. I hoped that he wouldn’t climb into my lap, so I called out for help.
“How’s dinner coming?”
“Couple more minutes, that’s all.” And so the Titanic was lost.
“This is the next part,” he said, now looking up at me from the space between the board and my chest.
“Once you uncover the board, you have to guess the puzzle. That’s hard. I have a good memory, but my mom gets the puzzles right. That’s how she wins. She’s really smart. She’s a lawyer.”
“I’m sure she is, Justin. Since this is just practice, I’m going to look at the puzzle. Maybe I can show you some tricks. Help you beat your mom.”
“Cool,” he said and clapped his hands.
I pulled the backing up and looked at it. “You know, Justin, if your memory is good, you might try to uncover the corners first. That puts a frame on the puzzle. It’s a lot easier to figure out from the edges in instead of the middle out.”
A chill went down my back and out my arms as the picture in my head disappeared and a great white shape rushed to breach into recognition on the vast empty sea of my mind.