The Delilah Complex (22 page)

H
e had only slept for four hours, and fitfully at that, because he was anxious. The
New York Times
was always delivered to his apartment door at five-thirty. Would there be another article this morning? Another mention of the last murdered man? Another criticism of how long the police were taking to make any headway with the cases?

He padded into his kitchen in his Frette terry-cloth robe and turned on the kettle. While the water boiled, he took out a Limoges cup and saucer, a silver teaspoon and a box of loose black tea. He filled a bamboo basket with the tea leaves, pinched a sprig of mint off the plant on his windowsill, rinsed it and dropped it in the cup just as the kettle started to sing.

As he poured the water, he heard the thud of the paper on his doormat and left the tea to steep while he retrieved the
Times
.

Sitting on the couch, the cup on his coffee table, he scanned the front page. Nothing. It took about five minutes to search through the National section and the Metro section, looking for any press about the Scarlet Society murders.

Nothing.

This was going to ruin his day. Was going to make the low-level depression he never escaped escalate to midlevel.

No. He couldn’t give in.

Abandoning the paper, he returned to the kitchen, heated up the water again, toasted an English muffin, slathered it with raspberry jam from Fauchon in Paris, and took his breakfast back into the living room. He knew what to do. He’d done it before and it had helped.

Half of the muffin in hand, he stood in front of the wall of articles and, beginning with the very first, reread them. He didn’t skip a word, and paid even more attention to the sentences he’d underlined with the red marker. Some particularly pleased him; others annoyed him.

He had read each of these articles dozens of times by now, but it still never got boring. He loved seeing the black type on the newsprint, the way the serifs bled into the paper, the way the lines marched like soldiers up and down the page, in perfect formation. More than once, he lost the meaning of the words, forgetting that each connected to the next to make a phrase, which added to the next made a sentence, which added to the next made a paragraph. Instead, he saw the straight lines and curved forms, the dots and dashes and negative spaces between them. He ran his finger over the designs, seeing the patterns in the way the margins broke and how the indents made holes. And there was the abstract design of his marker—the only color amid the monochromatic type. An artist, he appreciated the way he’d slashed through the colorless information with red, marking all mentions of when the loved ones had last seen the victims alive and what the mood and manner of the men had been. He’d also highlighted direct quotes from the
police—specifically Detective Noah Jordain. No matter how well he couched what he said, it was all too clear to Paul that Jordain really had not made any inroads in identifying a suspect or discovering the whereabouts of any of the bodies.

Paul had starred—again in red marker—every instance in which the reporter had hinted at what the connection between the men was. It was very subtle. He wondered how many people had picked up on it. Had the police?

“The scarlet numbers on the bottom of his feet were…”

In each article, Betsy Young had referred to the color of the markings that way. It was always scarlet. Not red, which would have been a much more obvious choice. Or vermilion, which probably would have been the choice of anyone educated in the study of color. Not bloodred, which would have been slightly flowery for the
New York Times
, but a possibility considering the crime.

No. She had used
scarlet
as her adjective of choice.

Who was she, and what did she know?

He thought of going down to the
Times
offices and meeting her. Trying to trick her into revealing her knowledge of the Scarlet Society.

But how?

He resumed rereading.

There was one section he’d accentuated for entirely different reasons. He looked at these two paragraphs now, focusing on them, wondering yet again about this sexpert and how smart she really was.

      Dr. Morgan Snow, a sex therapist who works at the Butterfield Institute and who was instrumental in solving the recent Magdalene Murders, said that there are signals in photographs the paper has
chosen not to run that these might be crimes of a sexual nature. In one, an unseen photographer shot directly between the victim’s legs. There is black-and-blue bruising on the victims’ wrists, ankles and testicles. This, said Dr. Snow, strongly suggests a sexual component to the crimes.

               “Black-and-blue discoloration often indicates S & M. Restraints can heighten both the sense of control and submission in sex play,” said Snow.

He liked Dr. Snow’s observations. He’d heard about the Butterfield Institute but he hadn’t been there yet. In his search for the right doctor to help him, the institute had been next on his list. Maybe it was time to go there. He had reason enough with his personal problems. He could make a convincing case that the purpose of his visit was other than to discover just what Young had shown Dr. Snow, and what she really believed about the motivation of the killer. He was desperate to hear someone describe the photographs to him in person. To listen to the soft and hard sounds of the words that would detail the malevolent restraints and the defiled bodies. To actually have someone talk to him about the black-and-blue marks and what they suggested about how painful and humiliating the abuse was that these men had suffered before they had been killed.

Walking back into the kitchen, Paul heated the water once more. The next cup of tea was even weaker than the last. Too much caffeine too early wasn’t a good idea. He hadn’t taken his medication yet. He had another fifteen minutes before he would open the amber pill bottle and spill the poison into his palm. The calm would be welcome,
the dullness would not. Every day he teetered on the edge of not taking the pills. Occasionally he didn’t. Those days he was not himself. Or he was more himself than on the other days. His dick could get hard again if he didn’t take the pills. It would swell and rise up and remind him of what it felt like to be in control of his own body. But his mind would rebel. His head would explode. He would want to lie on the pavement on the sidewalk and have women walk all over him with their high heels. He would want to wipe out every other man who got in the way of him and those women. He would be on fire with wanting and hurting. And then he would crash. The depression would overwhelm him. Rob him of any desire to eat or sleep or stand or walk or go to the bathroom or make an effort to dress himself.

It was all too much. It was all enough.

Abandoning the inadequate tea, he opened a cabinet and pulled out the thick New York City phone book. Flipping through the thin pages, he found what he was looking for, and using the bright red marker that he took from his bathrobe pocket, he copied down the address and phone number of the Butterfield Institute.

D
espite the soft, late afternoon sunlight Paul Lessor had not taken off his black wraparound sunglasses.

“I have been to quite a few therapists,” he answered as he crossed his right leg over his left knee. The perfect crease in his pants broke.

I wanted to see his eyes. “Is the light too bright, Paul? Do you want me to lower the blinds?”

“Yes. That would be better.”

I got up and walked to the window. In its reflection I could see that his head did not turn to follow me, but rather he looked over at the door as if checking to see that it was closed. His movements were slightly slower than normal. I recognized the lethargy and guessed that he was on an antipsychotic drug.

We’d get to that.

After returning to my seat, I expected he’d take off his glasses and was disappointed when he didn’t. “I closed the drapes. You can take off your sunglasses,” I suggested.

He made a move to do what I asked but his arm stopped midair and hung there momentarily before he lowered it
again. “I need to leave my current therapist,” he said. “Leave him. Sooner than later.”

“Tell me about him and why you don’t want to stay. You don’t have to give me his name if you don’t want to, but I’d appreciate knowing it.”

“Why do we need to talk about him?”

“I’d like to understand why you are looking for someone new before I refer you to someone in the institute. I want to choose the right doctor.”

“You’re going to give me a referral?”

“Yes. This is a consultation.”

“I know that. But I thought it was a consultation with you. So you could be my therapist.”

“I might be, but that’s not how we work here. First we have to do an evaluation. I might not be the right doctor for you.”

He shook his head, and the well-styled sandy hair fell into his eyes. “I really came here to see you. To be with you.”

The sexual undertone was barely there, but I heard it. The way his voice had lowered to another register on the last few words. The sly way his lips formed the words and then ended in a half smile.

“I’m flattered. But may I ask why?”

“I’ve read about you in the paper. I did my homework. I think we belong together.”

He was connecting to me too quickly. We had not yet formed any kind of bond. Paul Lessor had projected a relationship prematurely.

“Are you currently on any medication?”

He hesitated before he said, “No.”

I assumed he was lying. He’d waited too long to answer me. I’d know for sure if I could see his eyes, but the dark lenses prevented me from reading him.

“Have you ever been on medication?”

“Dr. Snow, I have to ask you something. It’s very important.”

I nodded.

“Do you know the reporter who is writing about those murders? The ones where the victims have those red numbers drawn on the bottoms of their feet?”

“Can you tell me why that matters?”

“I’m concerned about the situation.”

“Yes, it’s very serious.”

“Do you know anything about those killings? Has the reporter shown you the photographs? Do you know something that isn’t in the papers? It’s why I picked you, because the reporter interviewed you specifically.”

I hoped that my face remained placid, I didn’t give anything away, but a tiny flicker of fear shot through me. I leaned forward, trying to lock eyes with the man who sat across from me, but only guessing where I was looking.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because I am very concerned. I told you that.”

Instinct warned me that he was connected in some way to the killings.

“But why are you concerned? Did you know any of those men?”

“No.”

“Why are you concerned?”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to help that reporter?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You might get hurt. It really could be dangerous for you to get involved.”

“It’s kind of you to be concerned for me, but why do you think that I might get hurt when all I did was talk to a reporter over the phone?”

I studied him while he thought about how to answer. Was he wearing a hairpiece? His sunglasses were too big, too wide. Was it to hide from me? Was he here in disguise?

He rubbed his hands together almost obsessively.

“Maybe we could talk about you and how you are feeling right now,” I said, changing the subject on purpose, stalling, trying to assess the situation and figure out what to do.

“I’m much happier than I’ve been in a while,” he said.

“That’s good. How long have you been happy?”

“For the past two weeks.”

“Can you tell me what it was like before you were happy?”

He didn’t answer. In fact, he seemed to forget where he was as his hand went up to his chest and slipped inside the blazer he was wearing. He frowned. Felt his chest for another minute.

“Maybe I should go,” he said suddenly. “I think I need to go.”

“Why?”

He shook his head back and forth several times. “I just wanted to warn you about getting any more involved with that reporter.”

“I thought you were here to find a new therapist.”

“No.”

“You just came here to warn me?”

He nodded. He was still holding his hand on his chest in a pose reminiscent of Napoléon. “You could get yourself in a lot of trouble, Dr. Snow.”

“How?”

“By trying to interfere. That’s what therapists do. You interfere. But none of you really knows what you’re doing. You just guess. I know that. I’ve been part of your
guessing game. I keep trying one of you after another and all you do is suck my strength.”

“How do we do that?”

He continued talking as if he hadn’t even heard my question. “Do you know how powerful it is to be weak? When someone wants you to obey them and you do, you become the feeder, the nurturer. You have the authority then, even though it seems exactly the opposite. But the therapist I’m going to has taken away all that and the other men don’t understand. I tried to explain it to them. They just laughed at me.”

I was having a hard time following him. “What men?”

“Don’t you understand? I thought you would.”

“I don’t. I would be happy to help you find a therapist who can work with you.”

His hand was still inside his jacket, pressed to his chest. “That is not the point. I told you, didn’t I? I came here to warn you that you are in danger. Don’t you see that?”

“How?”

“You’re meddling. This has to be done. And it has to be done in a certain way. It’s not over. There are more men who have to be punished, and you can’t interfere.”

He stood up, and as he did, something fell out of his hand, flashing as it hit the floor. Quickly, he bent over to pick it up. When he stood up, his jacket didn’t fall back correctly and his shirt was exposed. On the right-hand side, where he’d been keeping his hand, was a round wet spot.

When women are breastfeeding, their breasts can leak. I knew that; I’d breastfed Dulcie. Men rarely lactate but they can under certain conditions. Suddenly, the dots were appearing faster than I could connect them. I needed to keep him in my office for a few more minutes and call the police. Clearly, he was involved in the killings.

Nina’s admonitions didn’t apply here. Paul Lessor wasn’t yet my patient. This had been a consultation. And he had threatened me. That gave me the right to tell the police.

And he was lactating. He was probably suffering from other side effects of the drug. I took a chance that he was.

“Your mouth is probably really dry, isn’t it? We still have a half hour left. Why don’t you just sit down, let me get you some water. Then we can relax and you can tell me what you mean about my being in danger.”

He was still agitated, but something I’d said had reached him and he sat down as I’d suggested.

As I moved, I explained exactly what I was doing. “I am going to get up now and go ask my assistant to bring in a carafe of ice water. With two glasses.” I continued talking as I walked to my office door, opened it and took two steps in the direction of Allison’s desk.

“Can you bring us some ice water?” I said, loudly enough to be sure Paul could hear me. Leaning forward, I whispered in a voice I prayed he wouldn’t be able to hear, “Call 911. Then call Jordain.”

Raising my voice again, I added, “Yes, two glasses.”

I walked back into my office, leaving the door ajar. He couldn’t see that; his back was to the entrance.

As I came back around toward my desk, I saw what had fallen out of his pocket: a straight-edge razor blade. He held it in his hands, playing with it as if it were no more harmful than a feather.

“Could I see that?” I asked, hoping that he couldn’t hear any fear in my voice. My stomach cramped. I forced myself to think clearly. I did not have to be afraid. Even if he jumped up and came at me with the small blade, I was prepared, I knew how to protect myself.

He was playing with it so that it caught the lamplight and gleamed. Then he rotated it and a flicker of light moved from my wall to the floor, then flew to my face and into my right eye. I blinked. He shifted it again and the shimmer jumped to the window.

“Why do you have that?”

“I make collages—just one of the tools of the trade,” he said, as if I were a child and he were explaining to me.

“Oh? Do you work at a magazine?”

“No.”

“What kind of work do you do? Are you a photographer?” I was almost afraid to hear his answer. I held my breath. If he said yes—

“I thought you wanted to know about the danger you are in.”

“I do.”

Allison appeared at the door and knocked.

“Oh, good. The ice water,” I said. “Thank you, Allison.”

He jerked around, moving as quickly as he could, but still circling a fraction more slowly than someone who wasn’t medicated. He hid the razor blade in his hand so that she couldn’t see it. I hoped his reflexes were off just enough so that he would cut himself with it, distract himself.

“I don’t want anyone in here with us,” he said, nodding his head in her direction.

“She won’t stay. Allison is just bringing us some water. Your mouth is dry, isn’t it? You need the water. Allison, you can put the pitcher and the glasses on my desk. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said to me. Her hands shook as she put down the tray.

“That’s good,” I said.

She didn’t move, just stood in front of me, staring at me.

“Thanks, Allison,” I said again. “We can handle it from here.”

She left without looking back at the man on the couch.

After her footsteps retreated, Paul said, “She didn’t shut the door.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“I’d like it better if the door was closed. I don’t want anyone to come in.” He had taken the blade out and was examining it again. His beloved talisman. His shining toy. His power. His strength.

I got up. How much time had passed since I had asked Allison to call the police? How long would it take for Jordain to get here? What if he wasn’t at the number Allison had for him? What if she hadn’t gotten in touch with him? No. She would have said something. The number she had for him was his cell phone, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that the number I’d put in the book last summer? Yes, it had to be his cell phone. Because he’d always answer his cell phone, no matter where he was; he’d told me that when he gave me the card with the numbers written on it. Besides, I wasn’t in immediate danger—not as long as I could keep Paul Lessor talking. And I could do that, I told myself. No matter how nervous I was, that was my job, that was what I did every single day. I helped people open up. Cut through their barriers. Bled out their emotions.

I could do it with him.

And the surgery, so to speak, would keep him occupied.

I hoped.