“I was able to impersonate the character of a sound, conventional, stupidly amiable man with laughable ease. All the time, even as I smiled and nattered and sketched the wheezing piglets, the fire burned in my brain. I contemplated luring one of them away from the trough, dashing its little brains upon hard ground, then watching the gelatin seep into the sand. It had been some months since I’d indulged myself in my favorite game, for there were periods when I did try to abstain. During those arid days, memories of my exploits served to amuse me. But of late, I had grown weary of mere nostalgia and knew that something new and fresh- a fine challenge- was called for. I’d learned what I could about brain-jelly and decided that nothing short of a complete medical exploration, from cranium down to the toes would suffice. A composite of humours, a veritable flood of release would elevate me to new heights of devilry. Not piglet humours, something mature.
“It was then that my eyes settled upon the smiley, chanting starchy-white nurses who attended to the little gaspers. My favorite was one sow, in particular, a Dago-looking type, of fine form and dark eyes. Of apparent cold nature, she had not joined the others in inspecting my sketchwork. Quite the opposite, she maintained a careful distance, gazed at me with impudence, seemed to harbor a disdain for Fine Art.
“Such rudeness could not be countenanced. I was determined to teach her a hard lesson.”
Klara stretched. “It’s dreadful stuff, no?”
“When was the book donated?” said Isaac.
“Thirty years ago. Dr. Graham was a forensic psychiatrist. He died in 1971. His sons were wealthy bankers and they gave us his books as a tax deduction.”
“I need to know everyone who checked this out.”
“That would be a violation of constitutional rights.”
“Unless the F.B.I.’s looking for terrorists.”
She didn’t answer.
“Please,” said Isaac. “It’s essential.”
“Finish reading.”
When he did, she made him a copy of the booklet, then led him out of the reading room. He followed her down to her desk at the reference counter. One middle-aged woman spooled microfilm, her back to the desk. No sign of Mary or any other librarians.
Klara said, “Walk away. Over there.” Pointing to a stack of periodicals.
Isaac obeyed, pulled out a copy of The New Republic, and pretended to read as Klara sat down at her computer, put on half glasses. Typed. Brought something to the screen.
Pursing her lips, she touched her right temple. Looked around. Returned to Isaac.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’ve just gotten the worst headache. Time to find myself an aspirin before it gets out of hand.”
She left, wiggling prettily.
Isaac stepped forward.
CHAPTER 46
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, PETRA’S APARTMENT, DETROIT STREET NEAR SIXTH
A nurse,” she said.
“Maria Giacometti,” said Isaac. “Her murder was different from the others. A lot more violent. More intrusive.” Instinctively, he closed his eyes, remembering the butchery. Opened them quickly, not wanting to come across squeamish.
“Escalation is typical,” said Petra. “What turns them on in the beginning stops working so they get nastier.”
Isaac knew that intellectually; he’d learned a term for it- sensory saturation- but saw no reason to mention that. He sat at Petra’s dinette table as she leafed through the photocopy of the booklet.
Such a neat, clean, compact apartment, a faint feminine smell. Exactly what he’d imagined.
She turned a page, said, “Oh my.”
At seven, she’d gone out for dinner with Eric. Then he drove up to Camarillo to visit his parents, said he’d be back in the morning. When she returned home just before nine a message from Barney Fleischer was on her machine. Isaac Gomez had been by the station, had seemed anxious to talk to her, kind of nervous. Also, Barney added, some clown from Central Gang Control was asking around about the kid.
She called the Gomez home, more out of some sort of hazy maternal obligation than expectation.
As the phone rang, she wondered if she’d wake the poor brother again. But Isaac picked up and when he learned it was her, he began talking, shouting, at warp speed. “Thank God! I’ve been trying to get you all day!”
“Detective Fleischer told me you- ”
“I’ve got the answer, Petra. To June 28, the pattern, the motivation. Who and why, everything. Who his next victim will be.”
“Who’s he?”
Silence. “Doebbler!”
Breathing hard, almost panting.
She said, “Start at the beginning.”
She picked him up in front of his building at nine-forty. He was pacing the curb, swinging his briefcase, jumped into the car before her tires stopped rolling. His eyes shot back reflected streetlight. Bright. Jumpy. She had to remind him to fasten his seat belt.
As he chattered, she drove back to her place. Initially, she’d figured on a restaurant meeting, then decided they needed total privacy. Bringing Isaac home was something she’d have considered out of the question an hour ago. Now things were different. Forget all the personal stuff; this was the job.
She finished the booklet. “Where’s the list?”
Isaac pulled a folded slip of paper from the case. Computer printout from Klara’s workstation.
Teller, T.W.J.
The Sins of the Mad Artist
Subjs: crime, U.S. history, Retzak, O.
Graham Coll. Catal. # 4211-3
Below that, a list of everyone who’d requested a peek at the booklet.
Short list.
September 4, 1978: Professor A. R. Ritchey, Pitzer College
May 15, 1997. K. Doebbler, using an alumnus library card
Kurt Doebbler had imbibed these horrors one month and thirteen days before murdering his wife.
Seeking inspiration? Or had the bastard come across the booklet by chance and decided to emulate Otto Retzak?
She asked Isaac what he thought.
He said, “My guess would be he already knew about Retzak. He could even have read the book somewhere else and wanted to refresh his memory.”
“Where else could Doebbler have gotten hold of something this obscure?”
“It’s esoteric but not really that obscure. Once I had Retzak’s name as a keyword, I went back on the Internet. He’s been discussed in a few true-crime chat rooms and the booklet’s in the holdings of at least twenty campus libraries. Also, soon after it was published initially, it was translated into French, Italian, and German. Doebbler lived in Germany as an adolescent.”
“Makes sense,” she said. “He could’ve stumbled across it, gotten stimulated, decided to take a second look.” She got up and paced her small living room. Isaac watched her, then stopped abruptly and stared at the carpet.
She noticed, became aware of his maleness. Her clothing. Baggy chocolate sweater over black leggings. Skintight leggings. Revealing more thigh than she would’ve liked, but no one could accuse her of being seductive.
She caught Isaac’s eye. He just sat there, looking like an abashed schoolboy.
She said, “Okay, let’s lay it out: Marta cheated on Kurt, he found out, built up some serious anger. He’d always been a cold, controlled man, but now his control was slipping. He stewed, started to obsess, remembered the Retzak book from his impressionable teen years. Or, he was a true-crime buff, lots of serials are- any clues from those chat rooms?”
“I skimmed them searching for some indication Doebbler was chatting. If he was, I didn’t catch it.”
“Let’s pull them up, see if there’s something traceable.”
He shook his head. “Chats can’t be traced because they occur in real time, aren’t stored on the hard drive. I double-checked with a guy I know who’s a real computer wizard and he confirmed it.”