Agnes Among the Gargoyles (28 page)

   Tommy summarized the Task Force's activities thus far, and then explained the myth of the Minotaur. The mayor himself listened intently as Tommy talked about King Minos of Crete; about Daedalus, designer of the Labyrinth, and his son Icarus; and about the Minotaur, the monster imprisoned in the Labyrinth.

   Next up to speak was the city's flamboyant chief medical examiner, Dr. Michael Prawl. A man of boundless energy, capable of dictating an analysis of one corpse while working on another, he said that, based upon his observations of the victims' bodies, he would characterize the Minotaur as certainly over six feet tall, heavyset, probably muscular, right handed, possessing no special knowledge of anatomy, and dark-complected, or at least having a heavy beard growth. Other possibilities: type O blood, long fingers, and a smaller than average volume of ejaculate.

   More presentations: ballistics analysis, powder tattooing, fragmentation, comparison of rifling angles and cannelures, neutron activation analysis—all of the bullets have probably come from the same manufacturer and been fired from the same weapon. One bullet hit Barbara's wall: recovered by Sergeant Sammy Brytell, it has the initials SB scratched lightly into its base. The bullet tweezed out of Mrs. Bloch by the imposing Dr. Prawl bears a flowery MSP, less an identifying mark than a monogram.

   A fragment of handle grip was found under Mrs. Chesser's leg. Firearms and Explosives has identified it as being peculiar to one weapon: the Hi Standard .38 Polaris revolver, known on the street as the "Big Bang Special." Specs: six shot capacity, 2 inch barrel, overall length 7 inches, walnut grips, blue finish, weight 15 ounces, suggested retail price $149.95.

   The kitchen knife used on Barbara, the one taken from her set of six, was also very likely used on Mary Chesser. That knife, an 8-inch carbon steel Sabatier, is still missing.

   Lieutenant Myra Cummings of the Sex Crimes unit spoke next. In the world of the police department, the Cummings family is the aristocracy. There has been at least one Cummings on the force continuously since 1912. Tommy describes Myra to Agnes as looking like a singer in a Holiday Inn. Lt. Cummings was joined on the platform by a police psychologist, Dr. Molly Meeter. In a joint presentation, Meeter and Cummings, having subjected the letter of the Minotaur to line-by-line scrutiny, delivered an exegesis that included the following points:

THE FIRST LETTER

A. "Surs"—intentional misspelling. "Labyrinth," "Minotaur" and "cur

riculum vitae" are all spelled correctly.

B. "wimmin"—intentional misspelling. Also, how many feminist and

lesbian groups refer to themselves this way? Misogyny?

C. "saved by the women in the business suit and Reeboks."—Note

capitalization. The Minotaur loves the historical epithet; he is writing his

own history of his crimes.

D. "Wimmin are scum. They stupid."—crude, overt misogyny.

E. "curriculum vitae"—British term for a resume. Is the Minotaur of

British origin, or has he spent time in Great Britain?

F. "Minotaur--2, NYPD--0"—cribbed from the letters sent by Zodiac to

San Francisco newspapers. The Minotaur is a student of the history of se

rial murder.

"What do you think?" Agnes asks Tommy.

   "Department psychologists have to keep busy," he says. "I could write a letter that would convince everyone I'm obsessed with Glenn Close and bitter about being tossed out of the cub scouts. So could anyone with half a brain."

THE SECOND LETTER

   A. "I am a little peeved, frankly, at not seeing my letter in print...I just

assumed that's what was automatically done."—The publicity-hungry

Minotaur yearns to have his ravings set in newsprint for posterity.

   B. "Nail the shutters shut"—the windows of the Morris-Jumel house

are shuttered.

   C. "No one nose how I chuse my viktims. I have a little plan, I have."—

The sociopathic or psychopathic personality professes to see patterns

where the rational mind doesn't.

   D. "I maled this to Tollyvetty...he can get the job done."—Is the re

porter Tollivetti a symbol, for the Minotaur, of male aggression? Is the

misspelling "maled" an unconscious slip? Does the Minotaur look up to a

man like Tollivetti, who can "get the [sexual] job done?"

   E. "How about Mrs. Rabbi's panty hose? She was wearing too sets, each with the opposite legs scissored off...It's an old Home Ec trick."— Many men would not be aware of such a fact. Perhaps the Minotaur grew up in a woman-centered household, where he would learn such things. Dominant mother and absent father? "Home Ec" is passing out of use; the Minotaur might be an older man.

   F. "Here is a piece of the kidne...It was very nice."—Direct quote from Jack the Ripper, from the "Catch Me If You Can, Mr. Lusk" letter.

   Tommy talks to Father Chris on the telephone. Tommy tells him that everything is arranged with his landlord.

   "He's serious," Tommy says to Agnes.

   "To the point of madness."

   "I told him there was never any hot water between eight and ten in the morning. He sounded overjoyed."

Sarah's film has hit a snag.

   NYU, the source of her crew, her cinematographer and sound recordist and light person, is not really in the business of turning out cinematographers and sound recordists and light people. No, everybody is a writer/director, and as their own projects loom they can devote less time to Sarah.

   When Ivan calls on the telephone, Sarah is delighted.

   "I'm asking for your help," she says. "I'm desperate."

   "Too many chiefs and not enough Indians, I gather."

   "Can you be there at seven?"

   "Of course. I'm romantically obsessed."

   They meet Wayne in front of Hippodrome Lanes. He sits in the lotus position next to an oaktag sign.

Help! I have AIDS.

   "Things are going well," says Wayne cheerfully. He takes a deep breath, as though bathing his vitals in oxygen. "I feel superb."

   Agnes points to the sign. "A bit dramatic, isn't it?"

   "Oh, I'm just watching that for a friend."

   Tonight's filming will take place in Little Italy. Ivan is already there, waiting for Sarah. He has a surprise for her.

   "I thought you could use these," he says, showing her a pair of microphones.

   Sarah folds her lips together, as though trying to swallow her smile of joy. Some of NYU's equipment is not in very good shape. Sound recording has been a problem.

   Sarah tries to sound casual. "Are they yours?"

   "I borrowed them from my friend. He's into recording and all that crap."

   She looks at him uncertainly. "Did Agnes tell you we were having trouble with the sound?"

   "I watched you outside that faggot bar."

   The Seven Hills Market is owned by Art Cunetta and his wife Sally Cunetta,
nee
Sally Piccolo,
nee
Salvatore Piccolo. "He had the operation in 1978," says Wayne. "I remember how confused he was. He said he didn't know if he was straight or gay or something there was no word for."

   "One thing about Sal," says Wayne. "He was always gorgeous." Wayne stares at Agnes, as though trying to imprint on her mind the image of the youthful, dark skinned, full-mouthed, virtually hairless figure. Wayne is never more precise than when describing someone's looks. "He looked like a Tintoretto, but not a painting, a sketch."

   Ivan, looking other-worldly in a headset, does the sound with his good arm. Agnes works the lights. Sarah does her own cinematography. A bell on the door tinkles as they enter the Seven Hills Market. The place is spotless. The smell of Romano cheese makes Agnes's mouth water. Mortadella and sopressata, braids of garlic and wheels of Parmesan hang from the ceiling; sun-dried tomatoes glisten in pans of oil; spheres of mozzarella sit stacked in pyramids; there are sides of streaky pancetta and platters of almond cookies. One whole wall is stacked with cans of olive oil the size of cinderblocks. The trademarks, Tuscan landscapes and rosy-cheeked maidens, haven't changed in a hundred years. Neither has the calligraphy of the brand names:
Tempo di Menuetto, Ascoli Piceno, Attaccabottoni,
Angio e Gramma.

   Sally's husband Art scoops cornmeal out of a barrel. He already knows about the filming. Wayne was always kind to him when he was the silent, awkward member of Sal's enormously clever circle. Art wears his gray hair in a shag cut. He hugs Wayne and points the film crew to the walk-in refrigerator, where Sally is rotating the meat.

   Camera, recorder and lights go on.

   The door to the meat cooler is ajar.

   "Sally?" says Wayne. "Yoo-hoo, Sally!"

   Sally steps out of the meat box. She shields her eyes from the glare of the lights, but only for a second, because Agnes is so shocked by the figure before her that her arms drop and the lights point to the floor.

   "Agnes!" Sarah barks.

   "Sorry."

   Agnes had envisioned a run-of-the-mill transsexual, a grotesque with a beehive hairdo and a voice that sounded like a 45 RPM record played at 33. Sally isn't like that at all. She wears a black dress to her shins and woolen stockings and, because it's chilly in the meat box, a green shawl draped over her shoulders. Her hair is in a tight bun. Her face is deeply creased.

   She cradles Wayne's face in her hands. "Wayne. Wayne.
Bambino."

   "Hi, Sally."

   Sally makes a fist and bites it. "I knew you were coming. I had a dream."

   "Sally, I have AIDS."

   "I know," says Sally. She takes Wayne's hand. "The lesion, Wayne. The lesion."

   Wayne looks carefully at the small purple blotch on the back of his hand.

   "Actually, it's a burn," he says.

   Agnes's heart breaks for him.

   "Sure it is, Wayne," says Sally. "Whatever you say."

   "It really is. A fondue fork slipped out of my hand."

   Sally crosses herself. She covers her head with the shawl. She drops to her knees and fumbles for her rosary beads.

   Ivan pulls Agnes aside.

   "Things are looking up," he tells her. "Don't you think?"

   Agnes agrees. "She's warming up to you. She doesn't want to kill you by slow torture anymore."

   "Sure she does," says Ivan. "But now she needs me for something. Isn't it wondrous? She's as shallow and ruthless as ever, and she's being civil to me. I can't contain my excitement. I have to steal a piece of her clothing or something."

   "If you want her to stay civil, that's the sort of thing you should keep in check," says Agnes. "You need a cooler approach, my boy. Try a little aloofness. It can work miracles. What you need is more self-respect."

   "I hate self-respect. All the world's troubles come from people with loads of self-respect."

   Sarah bounds over to Ivan. "How's your arm doing?"

   "That's sweet of you to ask," he says. "It's a little stiff, but I think it'll be okay."

   "Can you help us load the truck?"

   "Uh, I was just about to offer."

   A limo pulls up and out jumps Bob Syker. Wayne is discussing his lesion with Agnes when Syker bursts forth upon them. "It's gone," he says. "All of it. It's like you took a paper towel and sopped it up."

   Wayne raises his eyebrows questioningly.

   "My stomach acid! It's gone," says Syker.

   "Marvelous! Did you perform
sarvangasana?"

   "Perform it? Yes I performed it and I was brilliant. Watch!"

   He hands his Giorgio Buto topcoat to his driver and performs the yogic shoulder-stand on the sidewalk. His voice is a choked little squeak. "I could do this for hours."

   "I'm so happy for you," says Wayne.

   Syker gets back on his feet. "Don't duck the credit. You did it."

   "If you think it's as simple as that, you have a lot to learn. Guru Arjuna says, 'Don't follow leaders, read
Bhagavad Gita.
'"

   "I want to do that thing where you hear the waters of eternity ringing in your ears," says Syker. Agnes thinks he's getting a little carried away. "What's that called again?"

   "Cincin
nadam.
I'll tell you this: it took me five years of intense study before I even achieved basic
yoganidra."

   "And does
yoganidra
come before
cincin nadam?"

   "Yes."

   "Well that just sucks."

   Syker gives Wayne two folders containing stockholder's reports and legal briefs. He wants Wayne's opinion. Is there any way he can continue working in his present capacity for Ronald Wegeman and still attain spiritual fulfillment?

   Wayne looks at the folders. "But I don't understand any of this."

   Now it's Syker's turn for a crack at Eastern thought. "Good and evil—do they need to be understood? They just are. You may not understand, but you'll know. You'll know and you'll tell me."

   As they are loading the equipment into the truck, Sarah plucks a rolled-up issue of
Swamp Thing
out of Ivan's back pocket.

   "Someone planted that on me," he says.

   "I think it's time you gave up the things of childhood," she says sternly. "Get out and do something for someone else. Do some charity work."