Lunar Park

11. detective

Everything was suddenly a mirage. I drove Robby and Sarah home while replaying the first time I met Aimee Light: a girl staring at me blankly from across a campus party, the cocaine I’d snorted in the dingy bathroom giving me a burly, reckless confidence, the ensuing conversation about her thesis during which I realized I could probably control her even though she was throwing off the opposite vibe—I located it in the yawn after she told me its title (“Destination Nowhere”), and it was in the studied indifference, the (ho-hum) calculated laughter, her “boredom”: all just defense mechanisms—but I was patient, and was so adept at pretending to be interested in women I simply wanted to sleep with that I had perfected my own performance: the devil grin, the deep and persuasive nodding, the off-the-cuff comments about other girlfriends and my famous wife. Ultimately, everything was an act. We were on a stage. The cup of beer she sipped from was a prop, and the subsequent foam cresting her upper lip caused my eyes, as if rehearsed, to hone in on her mouth, and when she realized I was gazing at her she swayed toward—and complimented—a sculpture made of wire hanging in a corner of Booth House. Male undergrads were slithering around her, merely outlines in the darkness, and her face was streaked orange by the glow of a lava lamp, and an hour later I had followed her around the entire room without realizing it and she was now smiling the whole time, even when I walked away since it was late and I was a family man who had to get home and it was wrenching and I had already lost my faith. But I regained it when I looked back and saw that her face was creased with a frown. Had she known Clayton then? Had Clayton stopped by my office knowing she’d be there? Had—

“Daddy, the light’s green again,” I heard Sarah whimper, and I shot forward.

As if guided by radar I drove to Ira’s Spirits and parked in front. I told Robby to watch his sister but he had his Discman on, tuning out the world, his future flattened by my presence, and I mumbled something to Sarah and closed the door before she could say anything and rushed into the liquor store and purchased a bottle of Ketel One. Barely a minute passed before I was back in the Range Rover—the transaction occurred with that much urgency.

At Elsinore: Jayne wouldn’t be home for an hour, Marta was conferring with Rosa about dinner, Robby ambled upstairs ostensibly to study for a test, Sarah went to the media room to play Pinobee, a video game about a flight-challenged and oddly charmless bumblebee whose expression of disgust always managed to fill me with alarm. I went to my office and locked the door, and filled a large coffee mug with vodka (I didn’t need a mixer anymore, I didn’t even need ice) and drank half of it before trying Aimee Light again on her cell. Waiting for an answer I sat at the desk and went over e-mails left unchecked from yesterday. One from Jay, one from Binky informing me that Harrison Ford’s people were delighted by my interest and had inquired when I could get out to L.A., and there was an odd one from Gary Fisketjon, my editor at Knopf, who wrote that a detective saying he was from the Midland County Sheriff’s Department had called his office asking how they could get in touch with me, and Gary hoped it was all right if he gave them my number. Before the fear began creeping in again I found another e-mail that arrived last night from the Bank of America in Sherman Oaks. Its arrival time: 2:40 a.m.

I scrolled down the blank page until Aimee’s phone stopped ringing and her message played out. I clicked off the cell after the beep when I noticed that the light on my answering machine was blinking. I reached over and pressed Play.

“Mr. Ellis, this is Detective Donald Kimball. I’m with the Midland County Sheriff’s Department and I’d like to talk to you about something that’s, well, rather urgent . . . and so we should probably talk as soon as you can.” Pause, static. “If you want we can meet here, in Midland, though considering what I want to talk to you about I think it might be best if I dropped by your place.” He left a cell phone number. “Again, please call me as soon as you can.”

I finished the mug of vodka and poured myself another.

When I called Kimball back he didn’t want to discuss whatever “this” was over the phone, and I didn’t want to discuss it in Midland, so I gave him our address. Kimball said he could be at the house in thirty minutes, but Kimball showed up fifteen minutes after we hung up, a discrepancy which forced me to realize vaguely, uneasily, that this was probably more important than I’d first thought. I was hoping for a welcome distraction from fretting about Aimee. But what Kimball presented me with was not the respite I was hoping for. I was drunk when he arrived. I was sober by the time he left.

There was nothing much to notice about Donald Kimball—my age, vaguely handsome (I’d do him, I thought drunkenly, and then: Do . . . what?), dressed casually in jeans and a Nike sweatshirt, cropped blond hair, Wayfarer sunglasses he whipped off as soon as I opened the front door—and except for the nondescript sedan parked behind him at the curb he could have passed for any one of the handsome, affluent suburban dads who resided in the neighborhood. What singled him out was that he held a copy of American Psycho. It was frayed and yellowed and ominously dotted with Post-its. We shook hands and I ushered him into the house and after offering him a drink (which he declined) led him to my office while I kept glancing at the copy of the book. When I asked if he wanted it signed, Kimball paused grimly, thanked me and said that he did not.

I sat in my swivel chair and took little sips from the coffee mug. Kimball sat across from me on a sleek, modern Italian couch that should have been on the other side of the room but now had been moved beneath the movie poster for Less Than Zero. My office had been rearranged yet again. While Kimball began talking I drank the vodka and tried to understand why I was at a standstill about the room and the placement of the furniture within it.

“If you’d like to check in with the sheriff’s department, please feel free to do so,” Kimball was saying.

I started paying attention. “About . . . what?”

Kimball paused. “About my being here, Mr. Ellis.”

“Well, I’m assuming my publishing house made sure everything was in order, no?” I asked. “I mean, my editor didn’t seem to think anything was unusual.” I stopped. “I mean, if you are who you’re saying then I’m prone to believe you.” I stopped again. “I’m a very trusting person.” Another pause. “Unless, um, you’re a deranged fan and you’re after my wife.” Pause. “You aren’t . . . are you?”

Kimball smiled tightly. “No, no, nothing like that. We knew your wife lived in town but we weren’t sure if you were here or in New York, and your publishing house simply gave us your business number and so, well, here we are.” His expression became one of casual concern. “Do you get a lot of that—crazy fans and stalkers and all that?”

At that moment I instantly trusted him. “Nothing too unusual,” I said, searching my desk for the pack of cigarettes that was never there. “Just the typical restraining order, y’know, nothing too scary. Just the average life of the . . . um, average celebrity couple.”

Yes, this came out of my mouth. Yes, Kimball smiled awkwardly.

He breathed in and leaned forward, still holding the book, studying me. I took another sip from the coffee mug and saw him open a brown notepad he was holding along with my book.

“So, a detective is in my office with a copy of American Psycho,” I rambled. “I hope you liked it, since I had something very special to say with that book.” I tried to conceal a belch and failed.

“Well, I am a fan, Mr. Ellis, but that’s not exactly why I’m here.”

“So what’s up, then?” Another small sip.

He looked down at the opened notebook resting on his lap. It seemed as if he was reluctant to proceed, as if Kimball was still making up his mind about how much he should reveal in order to gain my compliance. But his demeanor suddenly changed and he cleared his throat. “What I’m about to present you with will probably be upsetting, which is why I thought we should talk privately.”

I immediately reached into my pocket and popped a Xanax.

Kimball waited politely.

After a moment of throat clearing, I eked out: “I’m ready.”

Kimball now had his game face on. “Recently—very recently—my colleagues and I became convinced that a theory about a case Midland County has been investigating for the last four months was in fact no longer a theory and—”

I flashed on something and interrupted him. “Wait, this isn’t about the missing children, is it?”

“No,” Kimball said carefully. “It’s not about the missing boys. Both cases did begin around the same time, at or near the beginning of summer, but we don’t believe they’re connected.”

I did not feel the need to tell Kimball that the beginning of summer was when I first arrived in this town. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Kimball cleared his throat. He skimmed a page in his notebook and then turned it over to inspect the next page. “A Mr. Robert Rabin was killed on June first on Commonwealth Avenue at approximately nine-thirty in the evening. He’d taken his dog out for a walk and was attacked on the street, and stabbed randomly in his upper body area and his throat was cut—”

“Jesus Christ.”

“There was no motive for the crime. It was not a robbery. Mr. Rabin had no enemies as far as we could ascertain. It was just a random killing. He was—we thought—simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.” He paused. “But there was something strange about the crime besides the viciousness of the attack and its apparent lack of motive.” Kimball paused again. “The dog he was walking was also killed.”

Another pause filled the office. “That’s . . . also terrible,” I finally said, guessing.

The length of Kimball’s next pause was painting the room with a distinct and palatable anxiety.

“It was a Shar-Pei,” he said.

I paused, taking this in. “That’s . . . even worse?” I asked meekly, and automatically took another sip of vodka.

“Well, it’s a very rare breed of dog and even rarer in this neck of the woods.”

“I . . . see.” I suddenly realized I had not hidden the vodka bottle. It was out in the open, sitting on my desk, half-empty and with its top off. Kimball glanced at it briefly before looking down at a page in his notebook. Sitting across from him I could make out a chart, lists, numbers, a graph.

“In the Vintage edition of American Psycho,” he said, “on pages one sixty-four through one sixty-six a man is murdered in much the same way that Robert Rabin was.”

A pause in which I was supposed to locate something and make a connection.

Kimball continued. “The man in your book was also walking a dog.”

We both breathed in, knowing what was coming next.

“It was a Shar-Pei.”

“Wait a minute,” I automatically said, wanting to stop the fear that kept increasing as Kimball neared the information he wanted to impart.

“Yes?”

I stared at him blankly.

When he realized I had nothing further to say he looked back at his notes. “A transient—named Albert Lawrence—was blinded last December, six months before the Rabin murder. The case remained unsolved but there were certain elements that kept bothering me.” Pause. “There were certain similarities that I couldn’t quite put my finger on at first.”

The atmosphere in the room had flown past anxiety and was now officially entering into dread. The vodka was not going to work anymore and I tried to set the mug back on my desk without trembling. I didn’t want to hear anything else but I couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

“Mr. Lawrence had been inebriated at the time of the attack. In fact he was passed out in an alley off Sutton Street in Coleman.”

Coleman. A small town about thirty miles from Midland.

“Mr. Lawrence’s account was considered somewhat unreliable due to the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, and we had very little to go on in the way of an accurate physical description of his assailant.” Kimball turned a page. “He said the man who attacked him was wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase but he couldn’t recall any physical characteristics as to the man’s face, his height, weight, hair color, etcetera.” Kimball continued studying his notes before looking up at me. “There had been a couple of articles about the case in the local press but considering what was happening in Coleman at that time—the bomb scares and all the attention those were receiving—the attack on Mr. Lawrence didn’t really register, even though there were some murmurings that the attack had been racially motivated.”

“Racially motivated?” And bomb scares? In Coleman? Where had I been last December? Either drugged out or in rehab was all I could come up with.

“According to Mr. Lawrence, his assailant apparently used a racial epithet before leaving the scene.”

Kimball kept pausing, which I was now grateful for since it was helping me put myself back together after each new byte of information was handed out.

“So, this Mr. Lawrence . . . was black?”

After another pause, Kimball nodded. “He also had a dog. A small mutt that the assailant also attacked.” He glanced down at his notebook again. “The assailant broke the dog’s two front legs.”

I did not want it to, but the point of Kimball’s visit was becoming clearer to me.

“Mr. Lawrence also had a history of mental illness and had been institutionalized various times, and since Midland County doesn’t have a large black community, the theory that this crime was racially motivated didn’t really play out. And the case remains unsolved.” Kimball paused. “But, again, there was something about it that kept bothering me. It seemed like I had read about this case before. And”—Kimball opened the copy of my book that sat in his lap—“on pages one thirty-one and one thirty-two in American Psycho—”

“A black homeless man was blinded.” I murmured this to myself.

Kimball nodded. “And he had a dog that Patrick Bateman broke the legs of.” He glanced again at his notebook and continued. “In July, a Sandy Wu, a delivery boy for a Chinese restaurant in Brigham, was murdered. Like Mr. Rabin, his throat was slashed.”

I sat up. “Did . . . he have a dog?”

Kimball shifted uncomfortably and frowned, giving off the vibe that he did not think we were on the same track. But that wasn’t true. I just wanted to prolong the inevitable.

“Um, no, he did not have a dog, but there was a detail that again took me back to American Psycho.” Kimball pulled something from the notebook and reached forward to give it to me: a receipt from a restaurant called Ming’s, encased tightly in a plastic slip. The receipt was wrinkled and—now I swallowed—spattered lightly with brown flecks. On the other side, scrawled in ink, were the words I’m gonna get you too . . . bitch.

Kimball paused after I handed the slip back to him.

“This particular order was being delivered to the Rubinstein family.”

Kimball waited for my reaction, which wasn’t forthcoming.

“On pages one eighty and one eighty-one a delivery boy is killed in the same manner as Mr. Wu and, as in the book, the assailant wrote the identical message that Patrick Bateman does on the back of the receipt.”

I closed my eyes and then tried to open them when I heard Kimball sighing.

“We—well, actually just me at that point—backtracked to another unsolved case involving a Victoria Bell, an elderly woman who lived on Outer Circle Drive.” Kimball paused. “She was decapitated.”

I knew the name. A bolt of clarity shot through me when I realized where Kimball was going with this.

“There is a Victoria Bell in American Psycho—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute—”

“—but this one was found in a motel off Route Fifty just outside Coleman about a year ago. She’d been stripped and placed in a bathtub and covered with lime.”

“Wait—she was covered with limes?” I exclaimed, recoiling.

“No, lime. It’s a dissolvent, Mr. Ellis.”

I closed my eyes again. I did not want to go back to that book. It had been about my father (his rage, his obsession with status, his loneliness), whom I had transformed into a fictional serial killer, and I was not about to put myself through that experience again—of revisiting either Robert Ellis or Patrick Bateman. I had moved past the casual carnage that was so prevalent in the books I’d conceived in my twenties, past the severed heads and the soup made of blood and the woman vaginally penetrated with her own rib. Exploring that kind of violence had been “interesting” and “exciting” and it was all “metaphorical” anyway—at least to me at that moment in my life, when I was young and pissed off and had not yet grasped my own mortality, a time when physical pain and real suffering held no meaning for me. I was “transgressive” and the book was really about “style” and there was no point now in reliving the crimes of Patrick Bateman and the horror they’d inspired. Sitting in my office in front of Kimball, I realized that at various times I had fantasized about this exact moment. This was the moment that detractors of the book had warned me about: if anything happened to anyone as a result of the publication of this novel, Bret Easton Ellis was to blame. Gloria Steinem had reiterated this over and over to Larry King in the winter of 1991 and that’s why the National Organization for Women had boycotted the book. (In a small world filled with black ironies, Ms. Steinem eventually married David Bale, the father of the actor who played Patrick Bateman in the movie.) I thought the idea was laughable—that there was no one as insane and vicious as this fictional character out there in the real world. Besides, Patrick Bateman was a notoriously unreliable narrator, and if you actually read the book you could come away doubting that these crimes had even occurred. There were large hints that they existed only in Bateman’s mind. The murders and torture were in fact fantasies fueled by his rage and fury about how life in America was structured and how this had—no matter the size of his wealth—trapped him. The fantasies were an escape. This was the book’s thesis. It was about society and manners and mores, and not about cutting up women. How could anyone who read the book not see this? Yet because of the severity of the outcry over the novel the fear that maybe it wasn’t such a laughable idea was never far away; always lurking was the worry about what might happen if the book fell into the wrong hands. Who knew, then, what it could inspire? And after the killings in Toronto it was no longer lurking—it was real, it existed, and it tortured me. But that had been more than ten years ago and a decade had passed without anything remotely similar happening. The book had made me wealthy and famous but I never wanted to touch it again. Now it all came rushing back, and I found myself in Patrick Bateman’s shoes: I felt like an unreliable narrator, even though I knew I wasn’t. Yet then I thought: Well, had he?

Kimball had articles printed off the Internet that he was now leafing through and wanting to share with me, as I sat disconsolately in my office, staring out the window at the lawn sloping toward the street and the detective’s car parked there. Two boys raced by, teetering on skateboards. A crow landed on the lawn and picked disinterestedly at an autumn leaf. It was followed by another larger crow. The lawn instantly reminded me of the carpet in the living room.

Kimball could tell I was trying to distract myself, that I was trying to wish it all away, and gently said, “Mr. Ellis, you do understand where I’m going—”

“Am I a suspect?” I asked suddenly.

Kimball seemed surprised. “No, you’re not.”

There was a tiny moment of relief that fled in an instant.

“How do you know I’m not?”

“The night of June first you were in a rehab clinic. And on the night Sandy Wu was murdered you were giving a lecture at the college on . . .” Kimball glanced at his notes—“on the legacy of the Brat Pack in American literature.”

I swallowed hard and collected myself again. “So this is obviously not a series of coincidences.”

“We—that is, myself and the Midland Sheriff’s Office—believe that whoever’s committing these crimes is actually following the book and replicating them.”

“Let me get this straight.” I swallowed again. “You’re telling me that Patrick Bateman is alive and well and killing people in Midland County?”

“No, someone out there is copycatting the murders from the book. And in order. It’s not random. It’s actually fairly careful and very well planned, to the point where the assailant has even gone so far as to locate people—victims—with similar names or similar, if not exact, occupations.”

I was freezing. Nausea started sliding through me.

“You have got to be kidding me. This is a joke, right?”

“It’s no longer a theory, Mr. Ellis” was all Kimball would say, as if he was warning someone.

“Do you have any leads?”

Again, Kimball sighed. “The big obstacle in terms of our investigation is that the crime scenes themselves—even with the fairly formidable amount of planning and time the killer spent at each one—are, well, they’re”—and now he shrugged—“immaculate.”

“What does that mean? What does that mean when you say ‘immaculate’?”

“Well, basically forensics is baffled.” Kimball checked his notes, though I knew he didn’t need to. “No fingerprints, no hair, no fibers, nothing.”

Like a ghost. That was the first thing I thought. Like a ghost.

Kimball repositioned himself on the couch, and then looking at me directly asked, “Have you received any strange mail lately? Any kind of correspondence from a fan that would lead you to suspect that maybe something isn’t quite right?”

“Wait—why? You think this person might contact me? Do you think he’s after me?” I was unable to contain my panic and immediately felt ashamed.

“No, no. Please, Mr. Ellis, calm down. That doesn’t seem to be where this person is heading,” Kimball said, failing to reassure me. “However, if you feel someone has contacted you in a way that’s inappropriate or a violation of some kind, please tell me now.”

“You’re fairly sure whoever this is is not heading toward me?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I mean, then who is he heading for . . . next?”

Kimball looked at his notebook, even though again I was positive he didn’t need to. It was a calculated and empty gesture and I resented him for it.

“The next victim in the book is Paul Owen.”

“And?”

Kimball paused. “There’s a Paul Owen in Clear Lake.”

“Clear Lake is only fifteen miles from here,” I murmured.

“Mr. Owen is now under heavy surveillance and police protection. And what we’re hoping is that if anyone suspicious shows up, we’ll be able to apprehend him.” Pause. “This is also why these connections between the crimes haven’t been leaked to the press. At this point that would only compromise the investigation . . . And of course we hope you won’t say anything either.”

“Why do you think this person isn’t gonna come after me or my family?” I asked again. By now I was rocking back and forth in the swivel chair.

“Well, the author of the book isn’t in the book,” Kimball said, offering a pointlessly reassuring smile that failed utterly. “I mean, Bret Ellis is not a character in the book, and so far the assailant is only interested in finding people with similar identities or names of fictional characters.” Pause. “You’re not a fictional character, are you, Mr. Ellis?” Kimball knew this smile hadn’t reassured me and he did not attempt it again. “Look, I can see why you’re becoming so upset, but we really feel that at this point you’re not in any danger. Still, if you’d rest easier we could offer you police protection that would be extremely unobtrusive. If you want to talk this over with Ms. Dennis—”

“No, I don’t want my wife to know about this, yet. No. I’m not discussing this with my wife. There’s no need to freak her out. Um, but I will let you know as soon as possible about your protection services and all that”—I had gotten up, and my knees were shaking—“and I really don’t feel well so . . . um, I’m sorry, I really don’t feel well.” The room was now filled with despair, torrents of it. I knew even then, half-drunk on vodka, sobering up at a rapid pace, that Kimball would not be able to rescue anyone and that more crime scenes would be darkened with blood. Fear kept bolting me upright. I suddenly realized that I was straining not to defecate. I had to grip the desk for support. Kimball stood uneasily beside me. I was of no use at that point.

A card was handed out with various phone numbers on it. I was instructed to call if anything “suspicious” or “abnormal” (those two words uttered so soothingly that they could have existed in a nursery rhyme) came up, but I couldn’t hear anything. I blindly walked Kimball out to his car while mumbling my thanks. And at that moment Jayne pulled into the driveway in the Porsche. When she saw me with Kimball she sat in the car and watched, pretending to be on her cell phone. Once Kimball drove away she bounded out of the car, smiling, and walked over to me, still beaming from the new beginnings we had promised each other that morning. She asked me who Kimball was and when I told her he was a student she believed me and took my hand and guided me back into our house. I didn’t tell Jayne the truth about Kimball because I didn’t want to scare her, and because I thought that if I did I would be asked to leave, and so I kept silent, adding something else to the list of all the things I had already hidden from her.

The rest of the evening was a daze. During dinner, while sitting at the table, the kids conceded that they’d had a good time at the mall and regaled Jayne with various scenes from the movie we saw, and then there was a long discussion about Victor (who didn’t want to sleep in the house anymore but whose panicked barking outside at night made this demand impossible to meet). The only thing that had any impact—the one thing that broke through my fog—was when Sarah brought the Terby over to me, though I don’t remember where I was at the time. Was I slouched in the armchair in front of the plasma TV? Or had it been during dinner, sitting with my family while zoning out on a plate scattered with zucchini and mushrooms, and where I was trying to smile and stay interested in the moment, concentrating on the flow of information being passed around? (I tried to appear casual by humming to myself, but this was maddening and I stopped just as casually when I saw Robby scowl.) All I know is that I was somewhere in that house when Sarah brought the horrible Terby over and asked me why its claws were encrusted with what looked like dried crimson paint and if I could help her wash off those claws in the kitchen sink. (“They’re dirty, Daddy,” Sarah explained, while I nodded dumbly. Yes, I remember that exchange. And I also remembered how bad the thing had smelled.) There was a football game on TV that I would have watched any other night but when I shut myself in the office and dialed Aimee Light’s number again, Jayne opened the door and suddenly guided me upstairs, and she was murmuring things to me as she led me back into the master bedroom and past the flickering sconces, and I could tell by her velvet smile that she was expecting something, a promise of some kind. I felt the same tug but couldn’t follow through—it was too late. I was supposed to see my reflection in her and simply couldn’t. I had taken an Ambien and finished the rest of the Ketel One and after easing myself into bed I was soon sleeping soundly, freed from having to deal with my wife’s desires, the scratching at the side of the house, the furniture that was rearranging itself downstairs and the darkening carpet it rested on, and as the four of us slept a madman I had created roamed the county while a cloud bank settled over the town and the moon somewhere above it was causing the sky to glow. He’s back. I had whispered those two words to myself that dark night spent shivering in the guest room, replaying what I’d seen out in the desolate field behind our house. I had involuntarily been thinking of my father and not Patrick Bateman.

But I had been wrong. Because now they were both back.