The Prettiest Feathers Page 7

  He was edging closer to me with a teasing look in his eyes.

  I put out my hand, keeping him at arm’s length. “Listen, Mr. Ego, I didn’t invite you here. You were sitting out front when I drove up, remember?”

  He backed off.

  “Besides,” I said, “I really do have a book that belonged to Maxine Harris. It was here, on this very table, ten hours ago. Now it’s gone.”

  “Maybe Maxine wanted it back.”

  “You really piss me off.”

  He left—but not without snickering so loudly, he had to know I’d hear it.

  I had some amends to make with Dr. Street. I stopped by his office after work on Friday with a peace offering, hoping to repair some of the damage I had done with that Dr. Street/Dr. Streeter mix up. It was a copy of Violent Attachments by J. Reid Meloy. Dr. Street had mentioned it to me once, asking me to watch for a used copy to turn up at the shop. I’d had it for several weeks and was saving it for a special occasion like his birthday or Christmas.

  Dr. Street was clearly pleased. “This is an excellent reference,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  “I read it, though not with the same understanding that you would,” I told him.

  He looked surprised. “You read it? It’s a bit too graphic for most readers.”

  “But that’s what I loved about it.”

  I took the book back from him and leafed through it until I found what I was looking for.

  “Look at this,” I said, pointing to a few words on page 108—in the chapter titled “The Psychopath as Love Object.” It was a description of a psychopath’s romantic partner: “One woman responded to Card I of the Rorschach with the response, ‘It’s two carnivorous wolves … I wish I could see doves mating.’”

  After he finished reading, Dr. Street asked me what I had found so appealing about that section.

  “It’s that woman. I feel like we have a lot in common. I keep wanting to see birds, but instead I see wolves. And even though they frighten me, I’m drawn to them.”

  Dr. Street looked as if he expected me to say more.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like there are two forces pulling me in opposite directions at the same time.”

  “I remember the first day you came to see me. You compared yourself to a bird.”

  “Yes. The swift. It flaps first one wing, then the other, but never the two at once. It’s a being, divided—like the woman in the book,” I said, nodding toward the volume I had just given him.

  I told him about the birthday visit with Liza, but I had trouble concentrating. I kept thinking about John, about the swallows—how they swooped in low arcs across the hill. And I kept remembering two things about that moment: how I wished that I could fly, and how my feet were sinking more deeply into the grass that covered my daughter’s grave.

  John

  The plan has been in place for years, of course, but tonight I am closer to setting it in motion than I have ever been. It is the method by which I will guarantee my freedom and ensure that I will be able to continue living my life in whatever way I choose. But I’ll have to surrender the comfort afforded by these surroundings. I must relocate, and become one of the dozen different identities at my disposal. In some respects the prospect is exciting, but, on the downside, I’ve grown attached to my space in the country, and am loath to leave it.

  It is some comfort to know that I can watch from a distance as the police and the media unearth the story of the psycho medical examiner who kept himself in business. It will be a national story, especially when they discover my land to the north, and begin their excavation—and exhumation. But, alas, I won’t be able to join Geraldo on location in Hasty Hills. I will be well on my way to my next challenge, my next adventure.

  I telephoned Bernie Lallendorf, the part-time maintenance man at the Hasty Hills municipal building, to ask him to stop by my place on Monday morning. “I have some electrical work for you,” I told him. Bernie’s always looking to make an extra buck. “When you get here, feel free to walk in. The front door will be unlocked. If I have the stereo on, I won’t be able to hear you, no matter how hard you knock.”

  Bernie thanked me and promised to show up early.

  When he arrives, the house will be a bomb, waiting for someone to trigger it. Opening the front door will break an electrical circuit. A switch will close. A priming device will operate. The explosion will leave a crater fifty feet across and ten feet deep.

  When the authorities find Bernie’s corpse, if there’s that much left of him, they’ll assume that Doc Chadwick went up in the blast; they’ll think they’re burying me.

  The next day, Saturday, was a workday for me. I drove over to the municipal building, where the county medical center is housed, and took my usual position in the autopsy room, near the array of metal instruments that I keep on a stainless steel table. Looking at the specimen before me, I spoke into a microphone that was suspended from the ceiling by a cord.

  “Beginning external examination,” I said. “The body is that of a well-developed, well-nourished white female. Her gross appearance is consistent with an approximate age of twenty-five to twenty-seven years. The body measures five feet, nine inches long, and weighs 130 pounds.”

  For the past five years I’ve been the chief medical examiner for the county. I’ve testified in a dozen homicide cases, plus an equal number of civil actions brought as the result of claims of wrongful death.

  “The head is covered with shoulder-length brown hair. The eyes are blue. The conjunctival membranes, unremarkable. There is no congestion, nor are there petechial hemorrhages. There are freckles over the face, primarily on the sides of the nose.”

  Several years ago the county prosecutor called me with questions regarding one of my reports. He wanted to know the possible length and width of the knife that had been used to kill a young woman.

  “Can you give me any idea?” he asked.

  “I can do better than that,” I responded. “The blade is four inches in length, an inch in width at its widest point. It has a short serrated section just below the handle, perhaps a half inch in length, and it has some kind of printing or design on one side of the blade. It’s single-edged, by the way. Comparing it with what I have here, I’d suggest that you look for a Buck product, possibly one of those commemorative knives. Any of the hunting and fishing shops around here would carry them.”

  He was profusely grateful. A similar knife had been found in the home of the man who was about to stand trial for the murder. My testimony would be critical, the prosecutor assured me.

  “This creep tried to hide it,” he told me. “Stuck it down in the dirt in one of the house plants.” “Not very smart,” I said.

  Unless the killer wants the cops to find it. Which, of course, I did.

  “On the back of the neck in the midline,” I said into the microphone, “centered at a point fifteen centimeters from the top of the head, there is an obliquely oriented stab wound which measures two centimeters in length. The right superior end comes to a sharp point. The left inferior end is squared. The wound probes anteriorly for a distance of five centimeters. Subsequent dissection reveals no evidence of injury to the spinal cord.”

  This one wasn’t one of my avocational pursuits. It was a hack job—the result of someone going out of control, flailing away at the young woman’s neck, upper back, chest, abdomen. There was one incised wound on her right calf. She was sexually assaulted, then buried in a shallow grave off one of the state roads.

  I continued to dictate. “Cause of death: incised and punctate wounds to neck, trunk, and extremities, with insult to jugular vein. Autopsy completed at two thirty-five P.M. Manner of death, homicide.”

  The state police detective was a flabby guy with a bulbous alcoholic’s nose. I knew he wouldn’t lose any sleep trying to solve the case at hand. He was just marking time, waiting for his eventual retirement party—complete with gag gifts and free drinks.

 
; “Bad one, Doc,” he said.

  “I’ve never seen a good one.”

  He laughed. “Guess not. What can you tell me?”

  “Probably not suicide.”

  He laughed harder.

  “Start pulling the jackets on sex offenders,” I told him. “This guy’s young, probably less than thirty. The victim put up a struggle. He never had her under control. Not totally. Notice the defensive wounds to the hands and the right forearm. This guy’s been violent before, but he’s a novice when it comes to murder. Look for priors. Sexual assault, attempted sexual assault. And either he lives or works not far from where he dumped her.”

  “You’re a regular Lucas Frank, Doc,” the cop said, referring to the East Coast’s most famous profiler.

  “I like to think I’m better.”

  I left the office, feeling lethargic. I was mulling over the pros and cons of using Wallingford Manor for Sarah’s swan song. I wasn’t yet certain if I would take her there, though I did know that it would be unoccupied on Sunday. I’d done some carving on Mr. Wallingford on Thursday—a favor to the vacationing medical examiner who serves the postmortem needs of Landgrove. I took advantage of that opportunity to explore the gentleman’s pockets, searching for items that I might find useful sometime in the future. My fishing expedition netted me several of Wallingford’s business cards, including the one I gave to Sarah. It took me less than half an hour to determine the boring cause of Wallingford’s death: myocardial infarction. Until his will makes its way through probate, his house will be available to anyone who’s able to pick a lock. I had been out there the day he was found slumped over his plate of breakfast eggs, so I knew that Wallingford Manor would provide an ideal setting for what I had planned. But why take an unnecessary risk just for the sake of ambience? Even before I was out of the parking lot, I had decided that Sarah’s own home would have to do.

  Sarah

  Today, Sunday, is one of autumn’s masterpieces—a canvas rich in burnt umber, deep gold, and vermilion. Have you ever noticed that it takes dying for flora to reach its peak of beauty?

  I awakened early, but remained in bed, thinking about the day before—and my visit to Paradise Mall. I had a precise picture in my mind of the outfit I wanted to wear on my date with John tonight. Something white and virginal, with elegant gold accessories. I found exactly what I wanted at a small shop called Zelda’s: a white, ankle-length dress with long sleeves and a high, Victorian-style collar.

  When I tried it on, I changed my mind about the gold accessories. I decided they would look too heavy; I wanted more of an ethereal look. I settled on simple pearl earrings.

  “You’re going to need color somewhere,” the sales clerk insisted.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, studying my reflection in the three-way mirror.

  “Oh,” she said, brightening.

  “I get it. It’s for your wedding.” I didn’t argue. The word “forever” had been going through my mind ever since I first met John.

  I hadn’t been home from the mall for more than an hour when I heard Robert’s knock on the front door. I was happy to see him. A mellow, almost dreamlike sense of peace had come over me, and lingered. It was so invasive, so thorough, Robert took one look at me and asked, “What are you on? Xanax?”

  “Come in,” I said, my voice sounding soft and slow. “I’m about to make some coffee.”

  At the mall, I had stopped at The Coffee Mill to pick up a Braun coffee grinder and some fresh beans so that I could prepare John’s favorite blend—Colombian supreme and French roast. I wanted everything to be perfect if, after dinner, John decided to come back to my place for coffee. Or, better yet, if he decided to stay for breakfast.

  “What’s all this about?” Robert asked, his glance taking in the array of new purchases sitting on my kitchen counter.

  “I’ve decided to start grinding my own coffee beans,” I said.

  “My, aren’t you the domestic one,” he said, his tone making it clear that he meant just the opposite. “So who’s the guy?”

  I knew what he was thinking. I had put the Mr. Coffee away in the cupboard after Robert had complained one too many times about the quality of my brew. From that day forward, we’d had nothing but instant. And now the Mr. Coffee was back on my kitchen counter. A man like Robert could make a lot out of that—and, for a change, he’d be right.

  “Let’s try something new,” I suggested. “Let’s be friends today.”

  My manner was disarming. Robert was used to our encounters turning into World War III. Although he was suspicious of the change in me, his long-standing desire for a truce between us made him take a chance. He followed my lead.

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I could use a friend today.”

  He leaned back against the counter and reached out for me. With his hands on my hips, he urged me toward him. I offered no resistance, moving willingly into a passionless embrace. We could have been brother and sister, father and daughter.

  I felt him take a deep breath; his arms tightened around me.

  “What is it?” I asked. It was one of those rare moments when I truly cared.

  “Maxine Harris.”

  I leaned away from him, to look at his face, his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve spent most of the day getting to know her—going through her diary, some poetry she wrote, love letters from three or four guys. We have cardboard boxes filled with all that’s left of her … her high school diploma, a college paper she got an A on, photographs. It feels so wrong to be pawing through someone’s most personal stuff that way.”

  He asked if I had found Maxine’s book.

  I shook my head. I knew that it wasn’t just lost; it had been stolen—but I had no way of proving that. There was no sign of breaking and entering, but then why should there be? The locks on my house are the kind you can flip open with a credit card. I had wanted dead bolts, but Robert always said no.

  “Let the sons of bitches come on in,” he used to say. “Shoot somebody inside your house, and no jury anywhere will convict you. But hit him while he’s outside, prying off the door frame, and they’ll fry you. The bastard can even sue you. And he’ll collect.”

  “I think the guy who killed her had been stalking her,” Robert said.

  He was talking about Maxine.

  “A couple of days before they found her propped up against the tombstone, she had written in her diary about a break-in at her apartment,” he continued. “I think the burglar and the killer are the same guy.”

  “You mean he knew her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But it wasn’t a heat of passion type thing. She was all cut up, but it was nice and neat, like a surgeon had done it. Surgery by Buck knife.”

  The coffee was ready, I filled our mugs and set them on the table.

  When Robert sat down in the chair opposite the window, I noticed an unhealthy yellow tint to his skin.

  “How have you been sleeping?” I asked.

  I know how he is when he’s obsessing about a case. He’ll go entire nights without a minute’s rest.

  “How the hell do you think I’ve been sleeping? I just read this guy’s love letter to his fiancé—telling her how great their life together was gonna be. The last letter she got from him, he told her how much he hoped they’d have a baby daughter—someone who would grow up to be as much like her as possible. I doubt if I’ll get much sleep tonight.”

  “Tell me about the break-in.”

  “That was weird shit. I’m not even positive there was a break-in,” Robert said. “She wrote about it being mostly just a feeling that someone had been in the apartment, screwing around with her stuff. Panties out of place in the dresser drawer, her jewelry box open when she was sure that she had closed it. That kind of thing. But the lock on her apartment door hadn’t been broken, no windows were open.”

  I felt my stomach tilt.

  Robert stopped watching the steam rise from his coffee mug, and looked at me. “He
y,” he said, “what’s wrong? You look funny.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean pale,” he said, leaning toward me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like I might be coming down with something. It started this morning.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been running off at the mouth and haven’t paid any attention to you. It’s one of those headaches, isn’t it?” he asked, meaning my migraines.

  “I think so.”

  He stood and came around behind me—to massage the back of my neck. I thought how easily he could have wrapped his fingers around my throat; how effortlessly he could have spared me from whatever it was that awaited me. All the while he was talking, I could feel seeds of anxiety bursting into bloom in my gut. But the sense of dread that I felt—the terrible foreboding—was balanced by an undercurrent of anticipation.

  Sarah and John

  John had wanted to pick me up at seven o’clock, but when he called to verify our date, I postponed it until eight I wanted it to be long after sundown, dark, and the house perfect when he stepped inside—the flicker of candlelight dancing on the handblown glass vases, the stemware, the sterling silver tea set.

  Bathed, powdered, and perfumed, I would be the focal point in my new white dress; the room would be my frame.

  I knew that he would be punctual. At one minute before eight I heard his car in the drive, then the sound of his footfalls on the front steps. I opened the door before he rang the bell.

  It plays out like a series of dreams, one after another, projected onto a giant screen in the theater of the mind—with the final scene beginning in silence, in black and white.

  He hands me a small, gift-wrapped package.

  “A special order,” he says. “I was afraid it wouldn’t arrive in time, but the fellow at the record store insisted it would. I guess this proves I should have more faith in UPS.”