Bitter Instinct

TWO

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 neck 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.”

“Man, try to keep a secret in this place.”

She stepped back to the ledge and stared again at the expanse of the government compound, her eyes falling on the twin towers most people here called home-the Hearth, they'd nicknamed it. She had imagined that once Richard boarded a jet and showed up in Virginia, they would share her apartment for a time and then go house hunting through the pleasant, surrounding valleys. “We won't speak of marriage,” she'd told him. “We'll cohabit, as they say. Play it by ear, one day at a time.”

It had all sounded wonderful when they'd made plans. Now she wondered what Richard would think of her working in such close proximity to her former flame, James Parry. Would he have a typical lover's response? Richard seldom did the typical thing. She had told him all about her and James's long-term, long-distance, once successful, and now failed relationship; she'd told him she feared the same would happen with them.

Richard had seemed so understanding. “I mean to love you as you are, Jess, with all that has gone into creating Jessica Coran up to this moment. My own prior experiences and experiments have been equally dismal.” He had then kissed her tenderly and warned that her only competition for his time would be his children.

Working again with James could seriously endanger her wonderful relationship with Richard. Working a case with Parry-just entertaining the possibility of it seemed dangerous. Still, a side of her felt a surge of anger at anyone who might stand in the way of her doing her job. “Well, Jess? What do you say? We'll need to give them an answer before long. Mull it over; get back to me as soon as you can.”

“I'll certainly give it serious thought, Eriq.”

“Look, I can't do a damn thing about Parry, but you've wanted to work with Kim again for a long time. You two made one hell of a team in New Orleans, and her psychic abilities might be of great use in Philadelphia. So… please consider all sides and let me know by ten p.m.”- he glanced at his watch-”eleven at the latest. Otherwise, John Thorpe can take this one. He did a line job on the Tattoo Man case; call it typecasting, if you will. In any event, the team we put together has to be in Philly by nine a.m. tomorrow.”

“Give me a little time to think this one through.”

“Sure… sure. I'll line up JT as an alternate, just in case.”

She nodded and he rushed off, a thousand and one other duties awaiting his attention. Once Eriq had gone, she stood alone again with her thoughts, but now those thoughts came in a confused scramble. “James Parry in trouble with the Hawaiian Nationalist Party and the State Department again. It figures,” she said to the wind. She clearly recalled how he had covered up an illegal search and seizure on an island reservation where the Bureau had no jurisdiction. It had taken some time, but their indiscretion and subsequent cover-up appeared to have come home to roost. She wondered when and if she, like Parry, would face serious reprimands from the Bureau. Or had James been the shining knight and gentleman to the end, taking all the heat for her as well as himself? Not so admirable to be removed from a job as the Hawaii FBI chief to Philly's chief's job, but quite admirable to defend her honor and position… 1/he had… It appeared obvious that no one in either the State Department or the Bureau suspected her yet of any wrongdoing in Hawaii. If so, there would be no teaming of her and Parry in Philadelphia. That much seemed certain. Had Parry kept her from harm's way, and had fallout from their actions cost him his position? Why had it taken the State Department so long to find the truth behind the Lopaka Kowona case and its aftermath? Breaking a State Department treaty was no small matter. Had that day and the subsequent lie that she'd shared with Parry come back to haunt her?

It had been the first and only time she had ever hidden the truth on an autopsy protocol, but it had been the only choice left her and Parry, and under the circumstances, the island politicians having trumped them, it had kept peace between the races. At the time, a race war felt as imminent as the next island storm. She and Parry stood on the front line, on the storm's edge. Now it appeared as if Parry had been engulfed by the persistent political problems in the islands, and perhaps someone who knew his darkest secret had leaked information to the State Department.

Then again, knowing Jim's penchant for rushing in where angels feared to tread, perhaps he had brought down some new shower of complaints over himself. Perhaps his transfer had nothing whatever to do with her. Only one person could tell her the specifics of Jim's problem with the Bureau's high-muck-a-mucks in Hawaii…

Either way, hardly reason to go to Philadelphia to work alongside Jim Parry, a man who found it impossible to play by Bureau rules. She had done her own share of rule breaking over the years, but in bringing down the Trade Winds Killer together, they had broken every rule in the book. The only saving grace? They had gotten results.

Yes, she concluded, she wanted nothing to do with Jim, and by extension, nothing to do with the Philly case. End of story.

Eriq Santiva could just send someone else. John Thorpe would do just fine. Philadelphia would have to survive without Jessica Coran's profiling expertise and skill with a scalpel.

Besides, she didn't like the sound of being a third-string liaison for anyone, much less James Parry. She had gotten every one of her scars the hard way. This was no time to play second banana to the likes of James Parry.

Jessica lay stretched out on her beige leather sofa, listening to Bach on her CD player, toying with the telephone, sipping at a glass of freshly uncorked Merlot, and wondering if she should call Richard Sharpe. The wine had mellowed her out, and she knew she could not dismiss a case simply on the basis of a whim. Still, before deciding to work again with James Parry, she wanted to discuss the awkward circumstances with Richard. But she hadn't told Richard about how she and Parry falsified records to put an end to the unrest in Hawaii. How much of the unsavory affair could she-should she confide in him? What would he think of her falsifying an autopsy protocol, even if it were for the best of reasons? The road to hell is paved with good intentions: she toasted to the old saying, draining her glass, then wondered aloud, “Is a lie a lie if it is told to keep… to keep what? The peace?” She had not even confided this secret to John Thorpe. She stood and paced the room, phone in hand.

If Parry had been professionally “flogged” because these facts had come to light, then she, too, might soon be facing the Bureau's wrath, which would affect not only her but also Richard Sharpe, John Thorpe, Kim Desinor, and other close friends as well.

The sounds of Bach's “Well-Tempered Clavier” wafted through the apartment, and she stepped out onto her balcony, still holding the phone. Perhaps I'm making too much of the whole damned thing, she told herself.

Still, she owed Richard the truth. After all, he had granted her the courtesy of a phone call when he decided to continue with a case in London. Sure, he had already decided before making the call, but at least he had been man enough to lay his cards on the table.

She had to call him, one part of her brain sternly admonished her. “Or I might simply refuse the case,” she said aloud to the night sky. She paced back into the living room, relief washing over her at having decided to remain in Quantico. Someone had to nail Lawrence Hampton's coffin shut for what he had done to Adinatella. Sure, Hampton was the murderer, but his guilt remained to be proven beyond a doubt. Besides, what was so damnably important about Philadelphia's problem? Screw it. She'd tell Santiva-in a nice way-where he could stick it. “That's certainly an option,” she announced to the empty room.

Jessica felt greatly relieved at having come to a decision on her own, without Richard. After all, he certainly did not call her every time he made a decision about a case in London.

She didn't know when she had fallen asleep on her plush couch rather than in bed. Still, her sleep was disturbed by a recurrent dream she'd had since childhood. In the dream, Jessica saw herself lying in a strange, garishly futuristic room; alongside her lay a little boy-or was it a girl? The child was wailing. This place felt cold and damp, and Jessica felt the depth of the child's fear. Together, they found themselves huddling within an impossible maze, a labyrinth from which no escape seemed possible, no matter the direction taken. They found every avenue blocked by a force which, while invisible and outwardly benign, was impossible to. overcome.

Then something new insinuated itself into the familiar dream of frustrated efforts. Jessica's back began to bum, as if she'd been branded. As if her back had been set afire. Part of her psyche chalked it up to the photos Santiva had shared with her. Still, the nightmare had a singular reality and urgency about it as the maze widened to reveal itself as Philadelphia. In her dream, someone was writing out her life in poetic lines across her back. This shadow figure had a gentle touch and an airy presence, as if the child she'd hoped to free from the maze had metamorphosed into a killer. The childlike being gleefully used an ancient pen that dug deep into flesh. Jessica could not make out the poetry etched into her flesh, but remorse and old regrets she thought long ago put to rest became wormlike letters that dug and burrowed into her now.