I have a theory, though perhaps it's less a theory than simple point of view. I'm not a religious man, though faith has something to do with my theory, as does the cold truth of mathematical probability. (The idea has come to me that God and mathematics are one.) But I've always believed that there is God somewhere, that certain people are closer to that God than others, that some are tied to a "purpose" that seems to come from outside of themselves, from "above." My list would include people as diverse as Solomon, Buddha, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Muhammad, Blake, and certainly Jesus Christ. Thus, statistically, one in every Xmillion people are "chosen" or "choose" or simply end up being closer to God than the rest of us, and they function much as journalists, scurrying between above and below, reporting back, keeping us informed. It is their job to carry out the high-level diplomacy that people like me would only bungle- misquoting, missing deadlines, missing the point, losing the notes, erasing the tapes. Similarly, there are those "chosen" to do the darkest work of the world, to function as God's continuing curse upon us, or-for those amused by the concept of God-to fulfill the mathematical fact that for every X million men and women who walk the earth at a given time, one of them will be little more than a merciless predator of other men and women. Solomon was chosen for his gift of poetry; the Midnight Eye for his gift of rage. One celebrates his specific blessing; the other bears his unique curse. But both do their work so that we don't have to. The Eye was a serial killer for the simple purpose of allowing me to be a writer. In a sense, I owed him. I extend this sense of gratitude to all sufferers of disease, too. Especially to Isabella, who, I am convinced, received her sickness so that I would not. None of this is to say that the best place for the Midnight Eye is not the guillotine or some modern equivalent-it probably is. And if called upon to lower the blade, I certainly would, though less with a feeling of vengeance than a sense of duty. I would lower the blade so you wouldn't have to. Cancer is a serial killer; a serial killer is a cancer. No one chooses either. Parish then briefly reviewed Ing's history of epilepsy, while I wondered whether his taped stutterings might have been influenced by seizures, or post seizure confusion. Had he taped them during the "aura" experienced by some epileptics before a fit, those seconds of ecstasy, vision? Ing had admitted to being heavy drinker from the age of eighteen, when he left his parent: home and took the job as hospital night clerk. After his four year stint there, Ing began a life of localized vagrancy that took him further and further out of contact with his mother, and oddly, further away from contact with law enforcement.
Something else I found fascinating, if pathetic: Ing had been questing for religious belief from an early age. He had tried it all. Lutheran, Methodist, and Baptist churches as a boy (his mother often moved the family's place of worship); as a young man on his own he'd tried Catholicism, the Four-square Church, Judaism, Buddhism, Islam, Confucianism, Rosicrucianism, Scientology. In his own words, Ing had been "looking for simple answers to complex questions. All religions, I discovered for myself, are based on the fraudulent assumption that there is Father who cares. There is no greater lie."
An uneasy quiet settled over the office then, broken only by the distant sound of the General Services crew still yanking away at the sheetrock. Winters sat back, crossed his arms, and contemplated the desk in front of him. "Mrs. Ing," he said finally "you have anything to add?"
She breathed deeply, squaring her burdened shoulders "Well… I think… I suppose that most of what you just read is true. When Howard died, ten years ago, Billy seemed to take on certain… courage? I can say that all through my life with Billy there seemed to be two of him-one that was there and one the was somewhere else. Truly, deep down inside, he's a good boy. I know that sounds like I'm blind, but really, he was never, I mean, he was always… I mean, I don't know what I mean."
"You mean he's your boy and you love him," I said.
"Thank you, yes."
"What were his interests, his hobbies?" asked Parish.
"He liked electric things, electronic things. He took apart our phone once and tried to put it back together."
"Did he succeed?" Wald asked.
"Yes. It took him a while, and Howard was furious. He was… is quite talented that way. He made radios and walkie-talkie devices. He was always a good listener."
"Did he like to dress up? In your clothes, or Howard's, or in any kind of costume or disguise?" Erik asked.
"Oh my, yes. All of that. Halloween was his favorite day all year."
"Who gives a shit?" asked Parish.
"I do," I said. "Wald is onto something."
"Like what?"
I thought of Chet finding the heavily sprayed hair. I then remembered-began to remember-my train of thought while I was talking to the Eye at Joe and Corrine's house: Why was he so smug about having his picture in the paper?
"Like the fact that the beard and ratty hair are fake," I said, looking at Erik. "He's wearing a costume. He sprays the hell out of the hairpiece to keep it looking… sharp."
Wald smiled. "I'll take credit for that jump. It makes perfect sense on a psychological level, too. Part of what this man is doing is performing a ritual. He's reversing the roles of childhood trauma so that he can come out the victor now, not the victim. The long hair and beard are part of the ritual. Mary, did Howard-"
"Yes! His hair was long-for the time, that is-and he was always bearded."
Wald shot a glance at Parish. "There's another reason for it. It lets him run a normal life. He's got a job. He's got an identity-undoubtedly a false one-but during the day, when he's not the Midnight Eye, he wears no beard and his hair i probably short."
"So we've got the whole county looking for the wrong face?" asked Winters.
"Exactly," said Wald. "His own opposite. If it's a face you want-get Graphics to take off the hair. It would be close enough."
I was once again impressed by Wald's understanding, if perhaps only because it aligned so closely with my own. "He right," I said. "Over the phone, he's almost always clear and lucid. If he holds a job, he doesn't wear that blanket around himself. He leaves the garbled tapes to make us think we're after a moron having a fit. He's signing with his left hand."
Again the quiet prevailed. Finally, Winters stood and offered his hand to Mrs. Ing. "Thank you."
She rose and took it. "I wish I could identify that picture for sure," she said. "I believe it is Billy, but I can't be positive. Needless to say, I hope it… it… isn't."
"We will be in touch," said Winters.
I stood myself then, checking my watch. "Dan, I think Mrs. Ing should stay."
"What for?"
"I talked to the Midnight Eye an hour ago. He said he be calling here at noon."
A wry smile passed over Winters's face. "Here?"
"It's about the 'dramatic statement,'" I said.
"Oh Damn," said Mary Ing.
"Mrs. Ing, can you wait another forty minutes and listen to his voice?"
"Of course."
Then, to Parish: "Martin, get Carfax in here for a CNI intercept. He's got forty minutes to make the installation."
Parish grunted, glaring at me, then at Wald. "Now."
"Russ," said Karen Schultz, already heading for the door, "Chet wants to see you in the lab."
Chet sat, rumpled as usual, on his stool, his heavy mouth turned down as if not only gravity but years of acquaintance with the dark side of human nature were tugging his entire face earthward. His eyes behind the thick glasses were sharp as always. He glanced at Karen, and some unspoken signal sent her from the room.
"Sit," he said.
On the table in front of Chet was a tape player and a stack of cassettes. The tape I had given him sat beside them. He eyed them forlornly as I sat beside him. "I'm unhappy with what I have discovered," he said. "It makes no sense. And when I put it within the larger picture, it still makes no sense." He turned and stared at me over the tops of his glasses.