Cold Shoulder

Chapter 11

At the University of California, Lorraine paid off the cab and headed for the main entrance and reception. She went up to a janitor who was polishing the floor.

‘Excuse me, I’ve come to see a Mr Fellows.’

He switched off the noisy machine. ‘He’s not here, was he expecting you?’ Lorraine nodded. The janitor checked in the visitor’s book. ‘He’s not in the laboratory but I think he’s over on the squash courts.’

No one paid her any attention as she approached the entrance. A group of students wearing tennis whites passed her, laughing and talking loudly; young tanned limbs, healthy fresh-faced kids, gleaming teeth, shiny hair. They made her feel old, unclean and uneasy.

Professor Fellows was on court six with a partner called Brad Thorburn, according to the booking card on the gate. The sound of the squash ball was like cracking thunder and more thunder emanated from court six than any other. Lorraine slipped into a seat at the end of a row overlooking the court. As neither player looked up to acknowledge her, she was able to watch both men and wonder which was Fellows.

She leaned forward, her concentration on the man she thought must be him, red-faced and sweating profusely as he lunged and hurtled round the court. She was sure Red-face had to be Fellows, hoped it was, because his partner attracted her. She had not been attracted to any man for so long that it threw her slightly, but it was not until she had sized up Fellows that she slowly turned her attention to Thorburn. He didn’t yell but gave small grunts of satisfaction, like a man fucking somebody well, those short hard grunts. He snapped out, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ every time he did a good shot and gave a smile of recognition when he missed one. It was his smile, a half parting of his lips, that attracted her. He was much taller than Fellows, she reckoned about six two, maybe more. His body was perfectly proportioned with long, muscular legs, dark-tanned with not too much hair, though she knew he would have a thick thatch around his genitals — a man with black hair always had. Because he was sweating, his hair clung to his head, thick, short hair, and she knew he would have a chest to match — she could see it, just, through his high-sleeved, fashionable T-shirt. This man was very different from Fellows. He kept hitching up his shorts as he swung his racket back and forth, bending forward as Fellows lined up a shot, and dragging his wristband across his forehead. His hands were strong and big. Lorraine inched further forward to get a better view of his face. His dark eyebrows were fine and his eyes... He turned and looked up. They were dark greenish-blue.

Fellows looked up and waved. ‘Are you Lorraine Page?’ She nodded. ‘Won’t be long.’

The game continued for another ten minutes and then she presumed Fellows won as he yelled his head off and flung his arm around his partner, who picked up a pristine white towel and wiped his face, arms and neck before draping it round his shoulders. He didn’t acknowledge Lorraine as he walked out of the court. Fellows, however, gave a wide grin and shouted that he would meet her in reception in five minutes.

She sat for a few moments. She pressed her crotch. It shocked her just how attractive she had found Brad Thorburn. She hadn’t wanted a man since she could remember and this one had sneaked up like the hard black ball they had been thrashing around the court. It felt as if it had hit her in the groin: she ached, she was wet, and she was scared to walk out and face him. Not until she felt the old Lieutenant Page surface, the one that didn’t give a shit what any man said or made her feel, did she leave her seat.

Lorraine waited in the main reception. An even pinker-faced Fellows finally emerged with his kitbag, now wearing slacks and a shirt with a sweater tied round his neck. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting but Captain Rooney didn’t give me an exact time.’

‘That’s okay.’ She looked past him, half hoping his partner would come out, half hoping he wouldn’t. He didn’t. Fellows took her by the elbow and walked her out into the cool night. He continued to chatter in an open, friendly manner as they crossed the courtyard and returned to the main hall. He hoped she didn’t mind having their discussion at his apartment as the main laboratories and his office were closed for the evening. He picked up his car keys from the janitor and, still with a light gentlemanly touch to her elbow, guided Lorraine to the staff parking lot where an English MG sports car, like Mike’s wife’s, Lorraine remembered, headed towards them. Fellows waved and Lorraine purposely didn’t look as she knew it would be Brad Thorburn. Instead she kept her attention on Fellows, saying how kind it was of him to see her. When she was seated in the passenger seat of Fellows’s odd little Japanese car, she clenched her buttocks, angry because she was still sexually aroused. She had wanted to see Thorburn, wanted to see a man that had made her feel like a woman again.

‘It was a very interesting game,’ she said rather lamely.

‘Yes, first time I’ve beaten him this year. He’s an old friend — we were at Harvard together.’

‘Does he teach here too?’

‘Good God, no. He’s rich as Croesus. He’s a writer, but he runs a big vintage car garage out in Santa Monica. He imports the cars, has them refurbished and then sells them at immense profit. It’s just a pastime really, because he’s got a garage full of his own. He started up to keep them in good condition and now it’s a flourishing business. Anything that man touches flourishes. He’s got the Midas touch but you’d never know it. He’s a charming, unassuming man. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to introduce you but you didn’t come to meet my old college buddy, did you, Miss Page?’

Fellows chatted on about real estate and how his property had lost its value. Nothing he said was of any importance but he was trying to work out what had suddenly made her so tense and distracted. He wondered if she was uncomfortable being driven to a stranger’s home but she didn’t seem the type who couldn’t take care of herself, especially after what Rooney had told him about her. As if she had read his mind, she suddenly asked what Rooney had said to him.

‘That you used to be a lieutenant, and a good one.’

She laughed and he found it attractive, a low, soft gurgle more than a laugh.

‘Was that all?’

He paused at traffic lights. ‘Yes, well, he implied that you made a mess but he didn’t embroider.’

‘So what did he tell you?’

Fellows drove on, turning into Marmont Avenue. ‘Something about a drinking problem.’

Before they could continue, he turned into a driveway. The house was as neat as Fellows, a swimming pool taking up most of the garden. Lorraine calculated the property would be worth around one and a quarter million dollars, perhaps more.

Fellows opened Lorraine’s door for her and waited for her to get out. The front door opened and a pleasant, rather plump woman waved from the porch. ‘Dilly, this is Lorraine Page. She’s working on the case I told you about.’

Lorraine felt an immediate warmth towards Dilly, short for Dylisandra. The interior of the house mirrored her generous personality — open plan, comfortable, not ostentatious. The sitting room was filled with deep, inviting sofas and thick Moroccan-style coffee tables, big lamps, spotlights focusing on large, bright canvases. The one that hung over a stone fireplace was of a man reclining, stark naked. The painting was impressive: no matter where you sat in the room you couldn’t help but be drawn to the figure, or, more specifically, to his large penis and balls that were over-prominent.

Dilly worked in the kitchen, opening wine, talking nineteen to the dozen as she listed who had called and left messages. Fellows took himself off to his study and his answer machine, excusing himself.

The meal was simple — tossed salad, steak — but served beautifully. Lorraine was relaxing and enjoying their company, when Dilly brought the conversation round to Brad Thorburn. ‘Now there’s a man I could go for,’ she said to Lorraine. ‘That’s his portrait over the fireplace, by the way. I know it doesn’t look like him — that’s because he refused to sit still long enough for me to get his head right, but I think I got everything else okay. Well, Andy says I’ve been a little optimistic about the genital area but I’m not. I just painted what I saw and, to be perfectly honest, at times it was very difficult to hold my brushes straight.’ She laughed loudly, tossing her head back.

Fellows smiled adoringly at his wife, without a hint of jealousy. ‘I’ve tried to introduce him to more girlfriends than you could imagine. They all fall for him but he’s a real choosy guy.’

He suddenly stood up, ruffling his wife’s hair. ‘We’ve not come here to talk about Brad Thorburn. Can you bring coffee into the den?’

‘Sure. How do you take it, Lorraine?’

‘Black, honey if you’ve got it.’

Fellows said, ‘I thought you’d take it that way. It fits with how clean-cut you are, direct.’

Dilly snorted. ‘Don’t pay attention to him, he’s always saying things like that! It used to be his big pulling trick, now he just does it for effect!’

Fellows’s study was lined with books and photographs, many of them featuring Thorburn. Lorraine walked round the room, with its leather armchairs and wide stacked desk. She looked at a photograph of Fellows and Thorburn together on a fishing trip. Fellows stood behind her.

‘Where does he live?’

‘Up in the Canyon. It’s the family home, he’s got them littered all over the world but that’s his sort of base. He had quite a strange upbringing. His father left his mother when he was just a toddler and remarried God knows how many times.’

‘Is he an only child, then?’

‘No, I think there was an older brother but Brad was left the money.’

Dilly appeared with the coffee and bade them goodnight. Lorraine liked her and Fellows too. He was a man she felt she could talk to, a man she wanted to talk to, but not about the murder. She felt he would be dependable, honest, a man with no ulterior motive, a rare creature. Fellows briefly outlined his interest in the murder. She listened intently, knowing much of what he was saying because she had read the files, but she liked the reassuring sound of his voice.

‘I hear there’s been a development with Norman Hastings — cross-dresser. Well, I said Rooney would probably find something. Interesting, huh?’

He had thrown the ball neatly into her court.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘You asked to see me. For what reason?’

‘To see if you knew more.’

‘You think I do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do.’

She met his steady gaze. Lorraine was the one to break the look. ‘Why do you think he kills?’

Fellows leaned back. ‘Lorraine, nobody knows what makes a man kill, if not in the armed forces or under pressure or supreme emotional strain. I don’t believe any man simply kills. There is always a reason.’

‘What reason is behind our killer?’

‘I don’t know because there is no cohesive pattern. They are not all hard-faced prostitutes. One was a cross-dresser, one a seventeen-year-old.’

‘What if the seventeen-year-old was a mistake?’

‘What do you mean?’

Lorraine repeated what she had discussed with Nula and Didi, and Fellows leaned forward, frowning. ‘So you’re saying our killer was after one of your friends. Is she blonde?’

‘Bleached. She said the driver stopped and Holly ran across the road to him, got into the car. I think Hastings knew the killer,’ Lorraine continued, ‘and that the killer is a cross-dresser or a transvestite.’

‘Why?’ Fellows asked.

‘Because he seems to hate women, maybe women his own age. I think he hates the woman he becomes, the woman he attempts to be when he’s dressed up.’

Fellows closed his eyes. ‘Where does Hastings fit in?’

‘Hastings may have known him and been suspicious. Perhaps he was about to expose him to the police...’

Fellows tugged at his ears. ‘There is one person who must be found, the woman he attacked, the one in the parking lot. I don’t think the police realize the importance of this witness. She saw him, his face, smelt him, he attacked her and, according to the witnesses, she was covered in blood. Both they and the cab driver have described her — tough, hard-faced, tooth missing, scrawny, lank-haired...’

Lorraine’s heart was thudding.

‘I don’t think she was a whore, though, or at least not like the other women. I think this one was different. She was educated, knew enough to...’ He looked directly at Lorraine. ‘Did you read the transcripts of that phone call she made? Clear, concise description. I told Rooney it was almost like a professional description, as if she had been attached to the police in some capacity.’

Lorraine coughed. He was bloody good — did he know? ‘I agree but I don’t think they’ll find her.’

He shrugged. ‘Then they’re not looking, are they? Because she’s still in this area.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she wouldn’t give her name. She wants to remain anonymous.’

‘That doesn’t mean she didn’t pick up a trucker and is out of town. Just because she didn’t give her name doesn’t mean anything.’

‘She wanted him caught! If she was moving on, why bother calling the police? I think she’s still around.’

‘Will he kill again?’

‘Of course, when the mood takes him. He must be feeling good — he has to know that the police have nothing. Even the press has died down.’ He paused, then went on, ‘This is his sex life, his action, and it’s connected to his own sexuality. He will get no pleasure from masturbation, he’s probably impotent so his masculinity is warped. He is both male and female, and he is killing as a man. We know this because the anonymous caller gave a good description of what he was wearing. So we’re not looking for a man who dresses as a woman and then kills. We’re looking for a man who consistently wants to kill. Just as you said, I too think he wants to kill the woman inside him.’

Fellows sat on the arm of his chair, swinging one leg. ‘You killed a boy, Rooney told me. He said you were drunk on duty.’

Lorraine felt as if she’d been punched. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

‘Do you remember what it felt like?’

He had to strain to hear what she said. ‘I had to kill a number of people in the line of duty and you never forget one of them.’

‘You did not answer the question. I asked if you recalled what it felt like to kill that boy.’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘of course I remember.’

He stared at her intently, knew she was lying but he was astonished at the way she held his gaze and didn’t flinch away.

‘But you were intoxicated.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you remember.’

She broke his gaze and he knew she was in trouble. Lorraine stood up, pulling her skirt straight. ‘It’s not something I’m likely to forget.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it must be fucking obvious why. The boy was innocent and I was drunk.’

‘Even though you were intoxicated, you remember. As you said, you never forget. What exactly don’t you forget?’

Lorraine sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t see the point of this.’ She inhaled deeply, let the smoke drift, was about to take another drag when she paused and, without any emotion, described the boy’s jacket, the yellow Superman stripe, the way he fell, as if in slow motion, the way his body folded, the way his head rested against his outstretched arm, the way his soft hair fanned out, the way his body jerked a few times before he became still. Once she had begun she couldn’t stop, remembering Rooney pushing past, ordering her into the patrol car, displaying in his filthy handkerchief the boy’s Walkman, the tape still in the deck. That there had been no gun, that she had fired six times. She fell silent. Fellows had expected her to break down and weep.

‘What about afterwards?’ he asked softly. She intrigued him.

Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette, becoming annoyed that he had swung their meeting over to her life rather than the killer’s.

‘I felt fucking angry, desperate, disgusted, and all I wanted was to forget it.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘With booze, of course.’

‘And did it block it out?’

She shook her head. ‘Yes. I suppose you want me to say no, that it was always there, that it always will be. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, I don’t think about it.’

Fellows picked up a paperweight. ‘But you were drinking before this boy. What made you dependent on alcohol?’

‘I was just addicted to it, like my mother. It’s supposed to be inherited, isn’t it?’

‘Why did you drink, Lorraine?’

‘I guess I liked the way it made me feel, the confidence it gave me — not having to think or feel. Now, can we get back to the reason I asked to see you?’

‘What main thing did you not feel?’ He looked into her eyes, with an expression of concern, almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

She laughed. ‘Can’t help yourself, huh?’

He gently touched her cheek. ‘You’re a clever woman, a strong woman — possibly the strongest I’ve ever met. I’m sorry to delve into your private life but I’m trying to get you to think like him, understand him. Like you felt the compulsion to have another drink, he will feel this compulsion to kill. He will be in a kind of torment because maybe something happened to him that twisted him, hurt him, and the only way he is able to live in society and carry on in a state of apparent normality is like this. When this consuming pain takes hold of him like a rage, he will control it, contain it, and release it when he hammers a victim to death. Only then does the rage subside and calm or normality’ return.’

Fellows paced up and down his banks of books, all of which were serial killers’ histories, and slapped each in turn. ‘I have pinpointed the rage syndrome in so many of these cases. It manifests itself in an overpowering need to wound, to destroy, to hurt, to inflict pain. Time and again it is sexual: stalking, peeping, watching and knowing what they were about to commit will be exquisite, relished — and enjoyed. Many collect the newspaper cuttings to gloat over. The fact they are clever enough not to be detected adds to the overall feeling of enjoyment. And when it’s over they integrate back into their homes, their work. Their secret is like a lover, precious, nurtured, controlled until the pain starts again. It’s a horrific vicious circle that cannot be broken until the killer is caught.’

Lorraine put her cigarettes and lighter into her purse. ‘I really must go. Would you call me a cab?’

Fellows reached for the phone, and started to punch the buttons. Seemingly intent on his task, he asked calmly why, if she wanted to assist in the inquiry, she hadn’t admitted that she was the woman the killer picked up.

‘Because, Professor Fellows, I am not.’

He ordered the cab and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I know you were a prostitute, I know the address you’ve just given to me for the cab tonight was also close to the area where the witness was dropped off by a cab driver. Ex-cop, it was you who called the station, you who gave the description. I just don’t understand why you’re lying.’

‘I’m not.’ She stared at him.

‘He said you were one of the best he’d ever worked with.’

Lorraine snapped that Rooney had a big mouth, but he knew nothing about her life since she’d left the force.

Fellows became equally tetchy, opening a file and pushing it across the desk. ‘I’d say this is pretty informative.’

She pursed her lips as she saw the copy of her record. ‘The bastard,’ she said, and then she deflated, slumping into the big leather chair. ‘Does he know? Rooney?’

‘No, in fact I wasn’t sure, until I met you, talked with you. You’re in a very precarious position, my dear.’

‘How did you work it out?’

‘I just took one almighty guess.’ He snickered. ‘I threw in a wild card.’

She laughed, tilting her head back, a deep, warm laugh that made him smile.

‘The description in the files fits — tall, blonde — except the missing tooth.’

‘I had it capped.’

Fellows sat on the arm of her chair. ‘I can’t see any need to tell Rooney, unless you’re holding anything else back?’

Lorraine took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and then looked up into his face. ‘I’m not holding anything back, Prof. Just wish I had something else to get me fifty bucks a day when Rooney’s off the case. I doubt if anyone else would trust me.’

‘They’re fools. Does that mean the FBI will take over?’

‘Yes, within the next forty-eight hours. What about dates? Is there anything in the dates the killings took place?’

Fellows frowned. ‘I doubt it. He just kills when he feels the urge, no specific date code.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help but if I sift through the files again, find something, can I call you?’

She nodded.

‘Good, and will you call me if you find anything? It’s interesting to me or I wouldn’t have spent so much time on it already, and, I might add, with no fifty bucks a day.’

The doorbell rang. He walked her to the cab. ‘It’s paid for, so don’t worry. And if you need me, call me.’

She smiled her thanks and he remained watching her until the cab turned out of the drive.

Back in the den, he picked up the dirty ashtray piled high with cigarette stubs — fifteen. He tipped it into the waste basket, then straightened the leather cushions, and went upstairs to the bedroom.

Dilly was sleeping, her arms entwined round a pillow. She hardly stirred when he slipped into bed and turned off his bedside lamp. He rested his head on his arms and thought about Lorraine. There was an arrogance about her that attracted him and a directness he admired. There was also, he detected, a deep, hidden pain which, in his professional opinion, was about to erupt.