Bitter Instinct Read online

  “Otto was different from all the rest. You can't com­pare—”

  “Then that guy Alan Rhychman in New York who stands you up in Hawaii just so he can run for police commis­sioner. What a hoot.”

  “Alan saw a chance to make a difference in New York, and he has, from what I've heard.”

  “Still, out of reach. And then came Jim Parry, not only Mr. FBI but Mr. Hawaii as well.”

  “James and I had a fulfilling, long-lasting relationship that beat the odds for a long time. You've got to admit that.”

  “Still, out of reach, Jess.”

  “It isn't like I've had a lot of choice, given my commit­ments and lifestyle.”

  Rubbing stiffness from his neck, JT continued: “Love makes fools of fools.”

  “All of us, I know.”

  “Nay, nay! Not an ounce of truth to it, my dear friend,” he facetiously added. “And so now we are moving on, a healthy thing. Now it's Inspector Richard Sharpe, Scotland Yard. Nay! Pay no heed. Love must remain blind and stumbling. If Cupid should see too clearly, can it be called love at all? If love is measured and controlled, Jessica, it's no fun. So relax, enjoy, and stop worrying about controlling your every step and your every relationship. Remember the centipede who was asked, 'How in God's name do you walk with all those feet at once?' The moment he considered the question, he stumbled over himself. So, does that answer your question, just a bit?”

  “Donna Lemonte always says that I put up barriers around me.”

  “Just because you've switched from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic? At least Scotland Yard's closer to Virginia than Hawaii—”

  “New Scotland Yard,” she corrected him. “And it's not the Atlantic to us; to us, it's the Pond.”

  “Whatever you call it, your shrink friend is going to see it as a big barrier. You must always consider the source.”

  “Thanks for being your usual candid but sensitive self, JT. It's what I love most about you.”

  “A friend should be candid and sensitive, however much the truth hurts.”

  “So, when are you going to hang out your shingle and start charging for all this psychoanalysis, Dr. Thorpe?”

  “Honestly, I'm only an amateur at love, psychology, and relationships myself, a novice. So any advice I may have for the lovelorn you may want to drop in the hamper along with the dirty linen.”

  “I'll take that advice, John,” she replied dully, dropping her shoulders and turning to the door marked ladies' locker room.

  “G'night,” he said, and suddenly feeling the weight of the day and the long autopsy, JT trundled off through the door marked gentlemen's locker room.

  As the door was closing on JT's tired form, she shouted, “I ought to arrange to have your brain dissected, JT. No one would believe it! It'd make The New England Journal of Medicine]”

  “I can see the screaming title: 'Thorpe's Brain Found Befuddled over Relationship Issues!' “ He had turned and now held the door open with his right foot.

  “Likely a defect in the DNA strand, the relationship gene,” she added.

  “Not every problem has a genetic excuse, Dr. Coran, or are you now grasping at self-justifying straws?” He al­lowed the door to close on his half grin.

  “Touched,” she said to the door, turned, and went to her locker. She desperately wanted to shower and change out of the uniform of the death investigator.

  TWO

  All things are poisons, for there is nothing with­out poisonous qualities. It is only the dose which makes a thing poison.

  —Paracelsus (1493-1541)

  After a shower, Jessica emerged in a powder-blue business suit, and feeling an urge to be alone, she found the elevator and rode it to the building's roof. She often went there after an autopsy, to fill her lungs with fresh air and to clear her head. In the back of her mind, the tune “Up on the Roof' softly played.

  The roof remained her secret hideaway, and she stood now looking down over the edge to the very spot where, years before, she'd taken a shot at a man escaping her lab after attempting to kill her. She'd been injured, but her FBI weapons training stood her in good stead. Jessica had sent a bullet down the length of the building. Some saw it as a lucky shot, but she knew better. In either case, the cannibal who'd been known as the Claw died as he de­served—slowly, made a vegetable by her single “lucky” shot.

  She looked out over the Quantico, Virginia, compound of the FBI, a collection of Jefferson-style Colonial build­ings nestled into the back side of the Virginia hills. Springtime filled the trees with blossoms, and the hills around sported dogwood in bloom, while the grass had turned from brownish ochre to pale green, which would soon become an opulent black green in the shadow of the dense forest surrounding the hills. Birds chased each other amid the trees, their songs reaching up to where Jessica stood, a breeze playing about her hair and cheeks.

  One thing appeared certain. She felt a fierce, dry, des­ert like void in her life; she missed Richard Sharpe, and she could hardly wait for his retirement from Scotland Yard. He'd promised to join her here in Quantico; they had spoken of making a life together. She daydreamed about their coming reunion, and how they would mold their future. Perhaps this time would be the charm; per­haps this time she had gathered in the golden prize, that of complete and whole companionship of the sort she had sought all her adult life.

  She dared not think it true. She feared to hope.

  Too many rugs—hell, whole carpets—had been pulled out from under her before; she had had to endure too many disappointments with men. And Sharpe, for all his gallantry, his compassion and goodwill, his promises and kisses, remained a man. She had never be­fore known a man who had not in one way or another disappointed or left her. Why should Richard be any dif­ferent?

  “Ah, there you are, Dr. Coran! Jessica!” shouted her im­mediate supervisor, Eriq Santiva, a dark-skinned Cuban-American with the lively step of a tango dancer and the infectious smile of a boy. The wind tore at his long-flowing black hair, and it whipped his expensive suit jacket like a cape; had he a sword, she might imagine him a swash­buckler. She could barely hear him over the piercing spring wind and her thoughts.

  Closer now, he shouted, “So this is your hideaway?”

  Jessica loved Eriq's Cuban accent. “How did you find me?”

  “You forget. I'm not just the director of the Behavioral Science Unit, I'm a detective. BesidesJohn Thorpe does not stand up well under interrogation.”

  “So... what brings you to my secret office?”

  “I know you have your hands full with this date rape/murder case you're on, but we have another and more mysterious case in Friendship City.”

  “Friendship City? Where the hell's that? Iowa?”

  “No, no. The City of Brotherly Love.”

  “Philadelphia?”

  “Bingo, go to the head of the class.”

  “What've I missed?”

  “Nothing. It hasn't been our case, and for good reason, until now.” He leaned out over the parapet, his dark eyes taking in the grounds below. “Philly authorities thought they could handle it on their own, but finally they want FBI input, and they requested our best. I told them that would be you.”

  “Thanks for the buttering-up, Chief, but what sort of case are we talking about?”

  “Seems we have a multiple murderer, a guy who leaves no trace, except for some writing, which I've had a chance to examine. Weird kind of poetry, actually.”

  “Given your expertise with graphology, I have no doubt you've come to some conclusions about the killer. Did you bring the poems with you?” She looked at a manila folder in his hand, which the wind threatened to rip away.

  “No, not exactly. This poet doesn't use paper.”

  “Then what does he use? He writes on the wall over the vic's bed, the mirror in the bathroom, what?”

  'Try the body.”

  She looked squarely at him. “The body? What part of the body? Chest? Abdomen?”

  “Back—from ne
ck to buttocks—is how I'm getting it.” He lifted the photo from the file, showing her some of the killer's handiwork. “Deep grooves. Victim shows no sign of ligature marks, no evidence whatsoever of being tied down for this. They seem to be... well, conned into it.”

  “What's the method of murder?” she asked, trying to read the writing from the photo of the victim's back at the same time, but finding it impossible to concentrate as the wind continued to tear the photo from her grasp.

  “Poison.”

  “Really? Interesting.”

  “Poisoners are like terrorists, as far as I'm concerned,” he told her firmly. “Less interesting than cowardly.”

  “Yeah, point taken.”

  “This case is a regular Agatha Christie whodunit, actu­ally.”

  “Exactly how is the poison ingested, and what kind of poison are we talking about here, Chief?”

  “Something in the ink, the coroner in Philly suggests, since the throat and larynx are clear of any heavy concen­trations. Goes directly to the bloodstream via the cuts carved into the back.”

  “Needle marks?”

  “Philly coroner couldn't find a single puncture mark anywhere on the bodies, nothing but the scratches—words cut precisely into the flesh with what appears to be a quill pen.”

  “Cuts carved into flesh introduce the poison...” Jes­sica tried to imagine the preliminaries of such a murder. She knew that Eriq wanted her to become so fascinated over the particulars that she'd accept the assignment. “In­triguing case. Why don't you take it, since you're the hand­writing expert?”

  'Too much going on here right now for me to step off the plate. Wish I could, and I intend to write up all my thoughts on this guy and forward them to you in Philly, if you'll take the case.”

  “Literally a poisoned-pen death. Does sound like an old British kind of whodunit. What a quaint and old-fashioned yet weird way to dispatch someone.”

  “A strange poem left across the victims' backs,” he added, agreeing. “Likely without their suspecting a thing.” Santiva's dark Cuban eyes studied her for a fleeting mo­ment, seeming to measure her interest in the case.

  “But what kind of fool lets you write a poem across his—or is the victim a her?—back? Can't tell from this view, man or woman?”

  “We have victims of both sexes, all young and some­what frail of build, and as for back writing, it appears to have become a fad of epidemic proportions among the young.”

  “A fad—really?”

  “Bored with the usual tattoo thing, rings and piercings, the coffeehouse rock-club set, especially around Philadel­phia, have moved on to this as a new adventure. Some say it's based on one of those urban legends.”

  “Really? I've not heard that one.”

  “About a family that committed mass suicide using poi­son via a pen into the flesh.”

  “So the local authorities think somebody is acting out this urban legend?”

  “Local poets are hiring kids to display their poems, which are scrawled across their bodies, calling it Living Poetry and sometimes Live Art; then these kids disrobe during an open-mike night at a local pub or coffeehouse and their poems are read by the patrons. It has, of course, graduated to frontal view and full frontal nudity in some places, but I'm given to understand from detectives working the case that it began as strictly a rearview thing.”

  “An excuse to moon the crowd?” she asked.

  “In the best tradition of the comedian Jimmy Carrey, yeah. Nowadays, boobs and genitalia have been introduced so as to... to...”

  “Spice up the poetry? Raise or lower the bar?”

  “Depends on the bar you're talking about,” he countered.

  “And the prevailing tastes?”

  “Eye of the beholder, precisely.”

  “A meeting of pure art and body art. Interesting. What will they think of next? But why haven't I heard about this fad before?”

  “Philly PD task-force people say it's relatively new, and if you haven't seen someone with body poetry on his or her back... Well, Jess, you have to admit that if it isn't in your lab, you don't always know what's trendy, what's hot, what's not.”

  “Are you suggesting I'm not with it?”

  Smiling, he apologetically raised his hands in classic submitting-to-arrest posture. Then Eriq retrieved the photo and slid it into the file. “A copy is being blown up as we speak, and I'll get it to you. As to your being with it, don't blame yourself for not being able to keep up with the youth of this ever-changing U.S. of A. This thing appears to have originated in certain areas of Philadelphia, spread from there.”

  “I see, and now it's all balled up with some psychotic murder spree there.”

  “Some nude club dancers have been 'written up' and they're using it in their acts these days.” Santiva pursed his lips and seemed to reflect on some image in his head. “Saw one myself in Miami last time I visited family there.”

  Jessica feigned shock, her eyes growing wide. “Realllly?”

  “Really, yes.”

  “So, are you telling me you're sending me out on a case that does not involve hacking and mutilation?” she chided. “Lead investigator in Philly is Detective Lieutenant Leanne Sturtevante.”

  “Ah, a woman. Good. Maybe I won't have so much trou­ble fitting in. You want me to link up with this Sturtevante person?”

  “You can arm yourself with your usual objectivity and scientific method, Jess, but this case is going to require your skill and hard-won knowledge. No one in history— much less in Philly—has seen anything like this before.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Philly PD have set up a task force.”

  “All right, task force. Worked with 'em before.”

  Santiva turned and looked her in the eye. “Glance over what they've accumulated. See if they're on the right track.”

  “The right track being... ?”

  “All right, see if they are on any track.”

  She nodded. “Sure, meet with them, act as a liaison.”

  “Well, a kind of medico-legal, third-string liaison on the case, yes.”

  “Third-string?”

  “First there's Philly PD; second our local field office, which is heavily involved. Then there's you, and Dr. Desinor.”

  “Kim's assigned to the case, too?” Jessica smiled at the thought of working with her friend and the FBI's resident psychic expert, Kim Faith Desinor.

  “That's a go.”

  “We haven't worked a case directly together since—”

  “New Orleans, I know.”

  “Sounds interesting. Tell me, who's our ASAC in Philly these days? Obviously, we'll be working closely together.”

  “You may not like this, Jess.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Santiva now stepped away from the ledge and stared off at the setting sun. From below, a late-evening regiment marched drills as dusk descended and the lights went up. Finally, he spat it out. “It's Parry... James Parry.”

  Jessica looked like she'd been struck in the face. “Jim? Jim's now ASAC-ing in Philadelphia?” She quickly regained her calm. “Wow... A stone's throw away compared to Hawaii, and I'm the last to know,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Wouldn't you know, that bas—”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Jess.”

  “Christ, why didn't you tell me sooner?”

  “When sooner?”

  “Before now sooner.”

  “I just got the news.”

  “When the... when did this happen?”

  “Few weeks ago, Jess. Didn't know myself until yester­day. You know how slow certain information flows in the Bureau. It was all done hush-hush, really.”

  She stared hard into Eriq's Latin eyes, which gave nothing away. Still, she believed he shared her pain. “Did he... did he request the transfer?” She had pleaded with James Parry for over three years to make just such a transfer so that they might be closer. They had broken up just before her trip to London, but given
the distance between them, even the most crucial moments, even their breakup, had occurred over the phone. This had left a wide hole in her soul, a feeling that some needful thing was forever gone.

  “You know how the Bureau works. He got into serious trouble with the Hawaiian Nationalist Party—something he said about native rights on the islands, and the State De­partment got involved because it might lead to an embar­rassment or some such bullshit. Politics is what got Jim, pure and simple. Chances of there being an international incident over the issue of homeboy rule in Hawaii, which is as likely as turning over L.A. to the Native American population there, are nonexistent.”

  “The State Department?”

  “And your friend Parry likes stepping on toes, I think. You know how he loves to piss off Lauren Fennelly at the State Department.”

  “Yeah, he's complained about Fennelly for years—to no avail.”

  “Anyhow it all caught up with him. Everybody wanted him out, and so he's... well, suffice it to say that leaving a post in Hawaii for Philly wasn't his choice.”

  “Son of a Bristol whore,” she muttered, mimicking what Richard Sharpe might say.

  “What's that, Jess?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Well, does this color things too gray and grim for you, having to work alongside Parry?”

  “No... it's hardly reason enough by itself to turn down an assignment.”

  “Are you being honest with me, Jess?”

  “I'm trying to be, yes.”

  “And with yourself?”

  “Don't you start psychoanalyzing me, Eriq.”

  “Sorry. You see now why Bureau policy says don't get emotionally involved with fellow agents, Jess?”

  “Practice what you preach, Chief. I hear via the grapevine you're seeing someone in the secretarial pool.”