“Son of Sam,” Dr. Metcalf helped out. “No doubt America has had its share. My primary interest is in understanding the reasons for these motiveless murders. We know that serial killers frequently cannot separate sex from aggression. We don’t know whether this psychological deficit is caused by genetic, chemical, or hormonal reasons.”
Thank God the director cut to a close-up of the British bitch.
Michelle caught a cue from the floor manager. “We’ll be back with Dr. Pamela Metcalf, author of The Murderer Within Us, right after this…”
The news director’s door was open, so Michelle walked in. Jerry Abrams was devouring a bacon cheeseburger. Late thirties, bushy mustache, disheveled, overweight. He chewed noisily, occasionally burping as he kept his eyes on one of three TV screens in his glass-enclosed cubicle.
“Hey, Michelle, get a load-”
“ Me-chelle.”
“Okay, Meeee-chelle, get a load of this turkey.”
On the screen a crew-cut blond man with a string tie was reciting baseball scores. The sound was turned low. Jerry Abrams always reviewed audition tapes this way. Watch the way they look, nobody listens anyway, he explained.
“Wanna play?” Jerry Abrams asked.
“I dunno, Jerry.”
“C’mon, guess.
“El Paso?”
He shook his head.
“Albuquerque?”
Jerry fished a french fry out of a paper sack. The office smelled of grease and charred meat. “The Wyatt Earp tie’s throwing you off. Smaller market, farther north.”
“North Platte, Nebraska,” she said.
“Good guess. Quad Cities, Iowa. Hayseed wants to come to Gomorrah-by-the-Sea.”
He punched a button on the remote control and grabbed another cassette. More than a hundred were stacked around his desk.
“Jerry, I’d like you to relieve me on the five o’clock. Just for a couple weeks.”
“What? During sweeps? Jesus, no!”
“But I’m working on an investigative piece…”
He stopped in mid-bite. A glob of ketchup clung to his mustache. “What investigative piece? Who assigned you?”
“No one. I’ve been working on my own. A blockbuster I can’t tell you about, yet. I’ve got a confidential source.”
Jerry loosened his tie, which was already at half-mast. He plugged another cassette into the VCR. After the color bars and the countdown, a petite Oriental woman appeared in front of a burning building. She held a microphone and showed a dazzling smile likely used for stories of quintuplet births and plane crashes alike. Michelle noticed that her orange helmet clashed with her green flak jacket. She wondered if the teeth were real.
“Meee-chelle, baby,” Jerry said, “you’re not Bob Friggin’ Woodward. You’re a face, a very good face, and your numbers are catching up with Gilligans Island reruns on Channel Four.”
She tried to give him a tough look she learned from numerous Jane Fonda films. It had the effect of crinkling her collagen-injected lips.
“Now, don’t pout at me,” Jerry said. “Hey, that was a great interview today. What’s a looker like that doing with mass murderers:
“Serial murderers.”
“Whatever,” Jerry Abrams said.
The bedroom’s jalousie windows were cranked open, and Michelle could hear nighttime traffic on Ocean Drive. The trendy club and barhopping crowd. Michelle smiled, relieved to be free of the feigned happiness of the South Beach full-time floating-disco-party team, junior varsity, second string. What with chlamydia, herpes, and gonorrhea creeping around, not to mention AIDS. Hadn’t they just done a show on the misery of venereal warts, images of rashes and itches giving her the willies right on the set.
Having one man-even a part-time married man-was better than a bunch of sweaty one-night stands. Even though her man was, more often than not, a thirty-minute slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am stand. Which is why she didn’t consider it cheating to spend an occasional night with a carefully chosen lover in a more leisurely mode.
Michelle stretched a hand across the sheets and touched a warm thigh. She heard the regular, measured breaths of peaceful sleep and smiled again. It had been wonderful for them both, better than she had dared hope for something so new, a warmth that had grown slowly, gently caressing her, building into a flame that had nearly consumed her. Better than with…
There was a stirring next to her and she watched her lover turn to one side. Great body, too. Silently, Michelle climbed out of bed. She had tossed her blue silk dress, specially chosen by her fashion consultant, across a chair. Her matching spike-heeled shoes, her panty hose, and discarded uplift bra formed a trail from living room to bedroom. Naked, Michelle entered the bathroom and closed the door. She removed the tinted contact lenses and scrubbed three layers of makeup from her face. There hadn’t been time before, it had happened so fast. She slipped into a black silk camisole, headed for the tiny kitchen, and grabbed a low-fat vanilla yogurt from the refrigerator. Then she sat down at a desk in a corner of the living room and turned on her computer.
Michelle punched up the directory labeled “INVST-1" and started typing:
When your platoon entered the village of Dak Sut on January 9, 1968, what orders did you give?
“No,” she said to herself. “Too direct.” Christ, this wasn’t like interviewing celebrity authors. She tried to imagine how Geraldo Rivera would do it.
For the next hour she kept typing and retyping questions.
Was there evidence of NVA or VC in the village?
He’s going to say yes. Then what? How do you follow up? This is harder than it looks.
The last time you saw Lieutenant Ferguson alive, was he-
Forget it. She could try again tomorrow. She punched a button and magically transported the questions to her computer’s hard memory. She exited the word-processing program, then hit the keys for the modem, which automatically dialed a local number. After a few seconds the computer tinkled a romantic ballad and the medical symbols for the male and female of the species appeared on the screen, the male’s arrow piercing the female’s circle. The symbols changed shape, becoming the figures of a nude man and woman, until they, too, electronically unwound and formed letters and then a word. “Compu-Mate.”
› DO YOU WISH TO ENTER THE MATING ROOM?
› YES.
› YOUR HANDLE, PLEASE.
› TV GAL.
She had been meaning to change her handle after several Compu-Mate correspondents asked whether she enjoyed cross dressing. She typed a numerical password, and after a moment the computer purred, and a new message scrolled down the monitor.
› HERE’S WHO’S IN THE MATING ROOM NOW:
SUPER STUD
CANDY FEELGOOD
PASSION PRINCE
BUSH WHACKER
HELEN BED
ICE GODDESS
CHARLIE HORSE
BIGGUS DICKUS
TV GAL
ORAL ROBERT
HOT BUNS
A sound came from the bedroom. A sliver of light appeared under the door. Michelle punched into the chat mode and made some connections. Oral Robert told her he’d save her ass and to hell with her soul. Bush Whacker tried to type dirty but couldn’t spell any word over four letters. Biggus Dickus, a nearly normal guy she remembered from last week, asked about her work. Bor-ing! She brushed them off.
› HELLO, TV GAL. LIGHTS, CAMERA, ACTION-PASSION PRINCE.
A little jolt went through her, as it always did. A new name, a voice in the dark. Maybe this time. She heard the bathroom shower turning on. It wouldn’t be an all-nighter after all.
› HELLO, PASSION PRINCE. WHAT ARE YOU UP TO
› NO GOOD.
Just dancing around and she didn’t have all night.
› TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF, PP
› EIGHT FEET TALL, GREEN SCALY SKIN, A LONG SNOUT, AND LARGE TEETH …
Christ, a comedian. Why not just a sincere, single, self-sup porting male, thirty-five, gainfully employed, likes dining out, movies, and romantic walks on the beach?