Denial (24 page)

"Jesus," I muttered.

"Shhh," Levitsky said.

"Most of the efferents follow femoral vessels to deep inguinal nodes," the voice went on.  I hit
STOP
, then
EJECT
.  "Easy listening?"

"It was for me."  He nodded toward the glove compartment.  "There's a neuroanatomy tape in there, if you like."

I needed a reprieve from thinking about body parts.  "Ever listen to music?"

"The flip side of the tape on facial bone structure is Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto."

I found the tape and slipped it into the deck.

Levitsky kept one foot perched on the brake, never topping twenty miles per hour.  Each time the orchestra surged, his thumbs tapped against the steering wheel.  I stared at them.  "Getting a little carried away there?"

He glanced at me, then at his thumbs.  "It's a stirring composition," he said.  "Jane Dimitry, the violinist, has perfect pitch.  I've charted it with an oscilloscope."

"An
oscilloscope?
"

"It's a device that measures—"

"I know what it is."  I shook my head.  "See, that's your problem, Paulson.  Sound waves don't say a thing about why that violin moves you.  Its beauty is immeasurable."

"Its beauty is 40.72 hertz."

"Really?  That's it?  Then why can't you create the same sounds she does?  Just pick up a violin and join the orchestra."

"Don't bother me with silly questions."

"You call it silly because you don't have an answer."

He glanced at me again.  "The answer is that I don't have Dimitry's eyes or ears or fingers.  The cells in my retina and cochlea and the receptors in my dermis were slightly different from birth and haven't been trained by the same stimuli.  Her cerebellum, which gives her the sense of balance she feels while seated with a piece of wood pressed to her shoulder and neck, probably works better than mine does.  Her neuronal ganglia, linking sensory stimuli and motor output, have lower electrical resistance."  He finally took a breath.  "Her music is the product of countless smaller ingredients."

"Wrong," I said.  "Her music is greater than the sum of its parts.  That's the reason people pay good money to hear her play.  They want to witness beauty that can't be explained.  That's why people flock to exhibits of van Gogh's work.  It's the same reason thousands of people would jam a football stadium and wait for a pass from one man to be caught by another man sixty yards away, running full tilt, with several other men trying to get in the way."

"How did we jump from Mendelssohn to van Gogh to football?  What motivation are you referring to."

"The motivation in each of us to prove the existence of a higher power.  Nothing about our brains or bodies can explain how that football lands in that receiver's hands at precisely the right place and time.  The event is bigger than any of its ingredients.  It’s a kind of miracle."

Levitsky's thumbs danced on the steering wheel.  "I guess that makes Sullivan Stadium a house of worship."

"In a way, yes, it does.  That's why we call sports heroes ‘idols.’  They help us feel God's presence."

"Now I've heard everything."

As we passed the Schooner Pub on the Lynnway, I noticed Emma Hancock's police-issue red Jeep Cherokee out front.  "Pull in," I told Levitsky.

"Not a chance," he said.  "You drink on your own time."

"Paulson, that's Hancock's cruiser there."

He looked over.  "So it is."  He made a U-turn at the next break in the median strip, crept back to the pub and took a space at least ten yards from the nearest car.  "No sense getting scratched up," he said.

"A dent might set you free."

He turned off the engine.  "Don't slam the door," he cautioned.

Hancock was seated at the far end of the bar with Timothy Bennett, a top political strategist who had once run for mayor of Lynn himself.  When she noticed us, she motioned him to stay put, signaled the bartender and then walked to a table at the back of the room.  A waitress followed her with her open bottle of champagne and extra glasses.

We all sat down.

"Shall we make this the victory party?" she grinned.  She filled her glass, then another.

"None for me," Levitsky said.

"I guessed that," Hancock said.

"You have to guess right once," Levitsky said.

Hancock straightened up in her chair.  "I know what Dr. Levitsky is here for, Frank.  He wants me to release a murderer.  What's bothering you?"

"Paulson showed me the documentation from the Revere case."

"And what do you think?"

I grabbed a glass and drank it partway down.  "The same type of blade was used."

She nodded.  "Same
type
.  The
Item
keeps carrying articles that read like a how-to manual.  I don't know what happened to journalistic responsibility.  The morning edition had a sidebar about the murder weapon being a scalpel.  Any crazy could have picked up on the idea."

"And the man was shaved," I said.

"The
man
.  That’s a big difference."

"True."

"He lost eyelids, not breasts."

I nodded.

"There's also the watch.  That could be the Revere killer's signature.  Lucas never left us a message."

I hadn't thought of that.  "What about the watch, Paulson?  You're the one who believes in rigid behavior patterns."

He seemed troubled by the question, but only for a few seconds.  "Maybe he'll leave us a message every three murders, or only with male victims, or only in Lexus automobiles," he said.  "Those would be rigid patterns.  Shall we wait and see which one develops?"

Hancock grabbed the box of Marlboros out of my shirt pocket and lit one.  She took a drag and squinted at me as she blew the smoke out the side of her mouth.  "If the coroner in Revere is wrong, Lucas could have done this one, too.  Time of death is a tricky call.  I've seen mistakes hours either way."

Levitsky chuckled to himself.  "That's when the police take weeks to find the body."

Hancock ignored him.  "What does your gut tell you, Frank?"

I didn't want to go on my gut.  I told her what I knew:  Sarah had been Lucas’ patient and lover, just like Monique.

"Johnston, too."  She shook her head.  "That's enough for me."  She tilted her glass toward me.

"Did he come close to confessing?" I asked.

"He said he was sorry about my niece.  He said he'd
miss
her."  She gulped her champagne.  "That got me very angry and... well, he didn't say anything after that."

"Perfect," Levitsky said.  "Add brutality to wrongful imprisonment."

Hancock glared at him.

"Does the D.A. have enough to indict?" I asked.

"More than enough.  The grand jury meets tomorrow morning."

"Who's he got for a lawyer?"

"He's an egomaniac.  He says he's representing himself."

"Maybe he'll run for mayor," Levitsky said.

I saw Hancock's nails start working against one another and worried Levitsky might get hurt.  I laid a hand on her shoulder.  "Let me see Lucas."

"Tonight?"

"Sure."

"Just you?  Or you and Dr. Death here?"

"I have work back at the lab," Levitsky said.

"He's rough around the edges," Hancock told me.  "I was very upset with him."

"Too rough to talk?"

She shrugged.  "He can talk."

"OK, then."

Hancock glanced over at Bennett.  "I pay him more than I pay you.  And I won't be getting any refund."  She stood up.  "Give me a few minutes."  She walked back to the bar.

"You didn't answer Mayor Hancock's question," Levitsky said.

"What question was that?"

"Your gut feeling."

"I didn’t think gut feelings counted with you."

"Yours do," he smiled.

I finished off my champagne.  "I don't know why they would.  I've been wrong more times than I've been right."

*            *            *

Hancock waited in her office while Zangota took me to see Lucas.  "How's the kid doing?" I asked as we walked together.

"Registered him for midget football," he said.  "My wife thinks he's the next Drew Bledsoe."

"Nice.  But I didn't mean
your
kid.  I meant the boy from the Highlands — the one who lived under Mercury and Monique's place."

"Right," he grinned.  "Enrique.  My other two kids are girls."

I stopped walking.

Zangota continued the last few feet to the door of the lockup and shook his ring of keys to find the right one.  "I couldn't get what you said off my mind, about foster families being mostly garbage."  He looked back at me.  "Because it's true.  Most of them are in it for the monthly stipend.  So I figured, seeing as I lucked out, and good people helped me, it was payback time."

The hair on my arms stood on end.  "You took the kid in?"

"Somebody had to."  He slid the key into the lock and turned it.  "I phoned DSS and told them I was available."

A sense of wonderment filled me.

"It felt good, you know?  Full circle."  He opened the iron door.  "Fourth cell on the left.  Need me in there?"

I cleared my throat.  "Thanks.  I'll be OK."  I started down the corridor, then turned around and watched Zangota as he stepped out.  Even after he had closed the iron door, I stared after him.  Had he given me hints before that he was a hero?

The sound of Lucas’ voice snapped me back into the moment.  I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he was saying it again and again, in a kind of chant.  I hugged the wall as I walked toward him, imagining him pressed against the bars, waiting to grab me.  But when I got to his cell, he was seated on the floor, legs crossed, clutching a sheet wrapped around him.  His bald head hung near his lap.  I still couldn’t make out what he was saying — or singing.

"Praying?" I said.

He kept chanting.

"
Lucas
."

He stopped, took a deep breath and looked up.  One of his eyes was swollen shut.  The eyebrow was in two pieces, separated by a gash.  The white of the other eye was mostly red.  A blue-black hematoma distorted the boundary between his nose and upper lip.

I would have made a lousy gladiator.  With everything Lucas had done, my hatred for him retreated just enough for me to worry that his internal injuries might be as severe as those on the surface.  "You're not vomiting blood, are you?" I asked.

"I'm just fine," he said.  "I was dreaming about Kathy."

"Maybe she'll visit you at MCI Concord some time over the next couple decades."

"No doubt she would," he nodded.  "She's committed to the men in her life.  Too powerfully, I fear."  He looked me in the eyes.  "You, perhaps, even more than me."

I hadn't expected an olive branch.  I stayed silent.

"But I'm not going to prison."

"No?  Dropping a dime to Johnnie Cochran?"

"The truth will speak for itself."

"If you have an alibi, now's the time to let the rest of us in on it."

"I have my own sense of timing."

I wondered if Lucas was referring to some ploy that had allowed him to manipulate Wembley's apparent time of death.  "I heard.  How did you pull it off?"

"What is it you heard?"

I didn't want to contaminate the investigation by feeding Lucas too much information.  It still seemed possible he hadn't killed Wembley.  "About the Rolex on the dashboard."  I studied him for his reaction.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.  When he looked back at me, he was smiling.  "Michael Wembley," he said flatly.

"Your third victim?"

"How was he killed?"

I hoped Lucas wasn't trying to concoct an amnesia.  And I hoped even more that he didn't really have one.  "You hacked off his eyelids and slashed his penis.  You left him dead in his Lexus coupé before you turned yourself in.  Does that refresh your memory?"

He squinted at me.  "He was shaved?"

"You tell me."

"I would think so."

I wanted Lucas to actively claim responsibility for the murders.  "Why not tell the truth about what you did?"

"But I haven't done anything."

"Save it for the jury."  I started to go.

"Hold on.  Think for a moment."

I turned back to him.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head up and to the side, as if he were smelling something he liked.  "Why would I kill things that were bringing me joy?"  He looked back at me and shrugged.  "Take Captain Hancock's niece, for example.  I really am going to miss her."

"She never wanted you.  She wanted her surgery."

"No," he said.  "She
needed
it.  She was a wounded person.  She believed the surgery would make her whole."  He shook his head.  "It never does.  Underneath, she was more unsure of herself than ever."

"She was sport for you."

"The best kind.  Already hobbled."

"Not exactly a worthy opponent."

"I have no interest in a struggle.  Immediate surrender suits me."

"Maybe she wanted to back out of the deal, not give you the sex she promised."

"Monique?  She was very honorable.  I still had twenty-three sessions left.  And she would have paid.  Her roommate was the same way.  Very up front, for a transsexual.  I'm sure you met Mercury."

"I didn't know you swung both ways."

"Don't be offended.  You have a nice build, but I hate ponytails.  Pure arrogance."

"What about Sarah?"

"Couldn't get enough of her.  She was a very vulnerable soul, yet she had a profound tolerance for pain.  That's a very rare combination."

I just stood there, looking down at him.  How does a man, I wondered, lose all capacity for empathy?

"A true sadist like me never kills something he can keep tormenting," Lucas smiled.  "Sarah and Monique had plenty of misery left in them."

*            *            *

Kevin Malloy was with Hancock when I walked into her office.  They were looking at a green file folder open on the desk.  Two other files lay next to it.  "How did it go in there?" Hancock asked me.

"I thought he was about to hand me a confession, then he delivered a lecture on why he wouldn't kill anybody."  I started to pace.  "I still have a lousy feeling about this."