Red 1-2-3

26

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf discovered rapidly that there is only so much one can find out about specific crimes sitting at a desk and traveling through the Internet. She received even less electronic help unraveling the mystery of the man she loved.

Being an administrative secretary and devoted to routine and order, she made a spreadsheet to keep her inquiries organized. Four books. Four murders. Then marriage. She placed publication and homicide dates at the top of the page. She made subcategories of scenes and characters from the books and contrasted these with actual victims and homicide locations. She listed murder weapons used in real life versus what she had read on the pages of her husband’s novels. She collected every small detail she could glean from the diverse newspaper articles that came up on her computer screen and reexamined it like some sort of extremely anxious literary critic. The printer by her desk whirred as she searched doggedly for patterns, for similarities or any shared aspect between books and murders that would lead her down the route to understanding.

It was hard work.

She chewed pencil eraser ends and sucked on hard-candy mints, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one could see what she was doing, even though she knew no one else was in the office. The dean had fortunately chosen that week to go to an academic conference in New York City. He had left behind precious few tasks for her to finish, so she was able to drive herself with a feverishness that paralleled her racing emotions.

Mid-morning a sophomore boy came by seeking information about a summer language program abroad. She quickly shooed him away with a fast lie, claiming she didn’t know anything about any such program, even though there was a large brochure describing everything about it in her top drawer.

A little later, right before she would ordinarily have taken her midday break, two senior girls showed up in her doorway needing the dean’s permission for an overnight college visit. This was a standard ruse designed not so much to assess a future school as to meet with a couple of boys who had graduated the year before. Mrs. Big Bad Wolf dismissed the pair with a harsh, sarcastic snort and two simple, embarrassing questions: “Do you think you’re the first students clever enough to think up this scheme?” and “Do your parents know about this proposed adventure?”

She skipped lunch. Ordinarily she would have been famished, but this day anxiety filled her stomach.

As the workday dwindled into afternoon, she realized that whatever truth her efforts might uncover, it was mired in some sort of swamp. She could see some elements of books and crimes that seemed to match, and others that didn’t. A knife-wielding killer in one book seemed to eerily mimic behaviors described by news accounts. A young prostitute discovered in a fictional alley seemed similar to a prostitute who was abandoned street-side in one real city.

It occurred to Mrs. Big Bad Wolf that she was slipping across thin ice. Anything she uncovered just might be the same, but at the same time, it might be different. She told herself to be precise. She told herself to be concrete. She told herself to be analytical.

In two of the murders she’d inspected, men had actually been convicted of the crimes and were serving hard time. In the two others, police had filed the killings into “cold case” categories, which, as she knew from watching reality television shows, were only periodically looked at by a detective here or there. If some new piece of evidence magically arose, it might lead to an arrest amidst trumpets and fanfare, but she was smart enough to know that these infrequent made-for-Hollywood successes obscured the vast majority of real-life failures.

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf was stymied.

When she had seen that two of the killings selected by her husband had resulted in convictions, she felt her heart soar and her pulse rate diminish and she whispered to herself, “See, I told you so. It’s no big deal. Nothing to worry about.” But the fact that two murders hadn’t been resolved troubled her. And she was further disturbed because one of the men convicted of a killing had given a lengthy jailhouse interview to a reporter persuasively insisting on his innocence and claiming the case against him was totally circumstantial; and the other, according to a much smaller story in a smaller newspaper, had agreed to be represented by the New York City-based Innocence Project, which specialized in overturning false convictions by presenting newly discovered DNA evidence.

She hated the word circumstantial. Perhaps it had been good enough in a courtroom. But for her it asked more questions than it answered. What frightened her was the idea that few people in the world were better at creating circumstances than her husband. That’s what a writer does, she thought.

She argued inwardly: But he does this to make his books smart and seem authentic. No more. No less. No ulterior motive.

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf gripped her desk as if the earth were threatening to shake beneath her. She stared at the newspaper article that filled her computer screen. A particularly gory killing: knives, dismemberment, and blood.

She burst out, suddenly not caring if anyone overheard her, “Just where the hell else would he get the right details he needs for his books?” This seemed like a reasonable question to her, and she abruptly slumped back. She idly reached out and typed a new entry in her spreadsheet.

It was the date she’d met her husband-to-be.

Rocking in her chair, she began to hum to herself snatches of dated Top 40 love songs from the ’80s. At the same time Mrs. Big Bad Wolf tried to picture the four real-life murders. The music she felt buzzing on her lips contradicted the images she created in her imagination of abandoned bodies strewn about isolated country locations and blood-spattered clothing.

She could see blond, matted hair and smell decomposing flesh. She closed her eyes and, instead of delving deeper into mental murder pictures, abruptly recalled walking up the steps of her local library to hear a lecture on a warm, late spring evening. She remembered it was the first time that season cricket sounds had filled the air. She did not know why she recalled that detail, but it blended with a memory of taking a seat near the front.

I was alone up until that night.

Following the speech at the library, she’d shouldered past several other women who were trying to talk to the Big Bad Wolf. She remembered how he’d smiled. She had been a little embarrassed; she was rarely that aggressive in social situations.

“So, do you like murder mysteries?” he had asked her as he sipped lukewarm coffee and munched on stale chocolate chip cookies.

“I love murder mysteries,” she had replied. “I live for murder mysteries.” These words had surprised her. “Especially yours.”

He had smiled, laughed out loud, and made a small Asian bow of thanks. Then he steered their conversation into a discussion about pulp writers like Jim Thompson and contrasted him against the newer crop of procedural-heavy authors like Patricia Cornwell or Linda Fairstein. They’d bonded over affection for the old noir books. The Killer Inside Me, they’d agreed, was a far superior read to anything on the current market.

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf’s eyes shot open and she bolted upright in her seat. She tried hard to remember which of them had brought up that title first.

It seemed suddenly important, far more important than remembering the cricket sounds, but she couldn’t instantly recall who said what. This astonished her. She thought that entire first conversation was printed in her memory. She wondered if twenty-four hours earlier she could have recited everything they had said to each other that night, word for word, sentence for sentence, like an actor recalling some famous Shakespearean soliloquy.

She had a pencil in her hand, and she snapped it in two. For a second she stared down at the splintered twin shards of yellow wood and lead. Then she went back to her task, even though it made her unspeakably sad.

The Big Bad Wolf thought, Nothing focuses the mind like death.

This was as true for the ninety-five-year-old pensioner living out his days in a nursing home as it was for the nurses watching over tiny premature babies in a pediatric intensive care unit. A teenager who’d had too much to drink sobered suddenly in the split second he lost control of his father’s car on a wet roadway and caught a flash of the thick tree trunk he was about to hit. The same was true for the daydreaming soldier ducking against a dusty wall as automatic-weapons fire exploded in the air around him.

So he imagined that Red One, Red Two, and Red Three were entering into the same heightened state of awareness. He wrote: There is a curious symbiosis between killer and intended victim. We each take the same test, with the same answers to the same questions. The difference is that one of us emerges stronger. The other doesn’t emerge at all.

In many primitive cultures, warriors believed that they absorbed the strength and capabilities of the enemies they vanquished. This could be achieved by devouring an enemy’s heart or merely, like David conquering the clumsy Goliath, cutting the poor dumb fool’s head off.

Our military today is too “sophisticated” to believe in such mythology. Too bad. It was true in the past. It’s true today.

The modern killer is like a warrior of old. Every success makes him stronger. He may not have to eat anyone’s brains or heart or make a sandwich out of a vanquished victim’s genitals. But he achieves the same effect without dinner.

The Wolf stood up from his desk, pushed his chair back, and punched the air like a shadow boxer. He reached down and plucked the stack of printouts from the box where he kept them, and he fanned them in the air as if his thumb could accurately measure the number of pages. He was convinced that his latest chapters, describing the special way he’d terrorized each Red, would rivet readers. He knew instinctively that his fascination would be shared by anyone reading the pages. He understood that readers’ obsession with him would mirror his obsession with each Red.

They will want to know how the Reds die, just as much as I want to kill. They will want to be standing right beside me, experiencing the moment precisely the same way I do.

Murder would make him rich. In more ways than one, he thought. He could feel energy coursing through his body. If it hadn’t been miserable and wet outside, he probably would have dug out some old running shoes and sweat clothes and gone jogging. It had been many years since he’d actually exercised, but he could feel the need surging through him. Then he laughed out loud.

“That’s not what you’re feeling,” he said out loud.

It’s closeness, he told himself. He was very close to accomplishing so much. For an instant, he no longer felt old. He no longer felt ignored.

He felt unbridled strength.

The Big Bad Wolf looked at his watch. His wife would be home soon. Dinner routine followed by television routine and then bed routine. He did a quick calculation in his head. Just enough time for a quick drive-by, he thought. But whom shall I go see? Red Three was not a good choice; he didn’t want to accidentally pass his wife coming home from their school. She’d want to know why he was going the wrong direction at the end of the day. Red One was probably still in her office seeing patients. She typically worked late several weekdays, and this was one of them. She’s too damn dedicated, even when she’s about to die. He didn’t want to have to hang outside the medical building waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she went to her car.

The Wolf smiled. So it’ll be Red Two. He knew she was the one with the least ability to move about. She was tethered to her house by uncontrolled emotions. Poor gal, he thought. She’s probably going to welcome death, even more than the others.

He closed up his computer. In fact, she’ll probably thank me when we have our special get-together, he told himself.

She knew it was time for her to leave the office as the workday hastened to a close, but Mrs. Big Bad Wolf lingered. She had learned much and little. She had accumulated facts that merely created more fictions. She was filled with doubt and uncertainty, and her stomach clenched with confusion.

She thought, If only I could get one piece of clarity, I could build off that. What she wanted was just a simple and neat understanding: He’s a killer. Or perhaps, He’s not a killer. He’s just a writer who steals details from real life. Like every other writer.

She looked up at the clock on the wall as if the time might provide some sort of concrete foundation. Then she reached out her hand and picked up the telephone. She had written down a name collected from a news story and coupled it with a number easily obtained over the Internet. Her fingers shook only slightly as she dialed.

“Detective bureau,” a crisp voice answered.

“Yes. Good evening. I’m trying to reach a Detective Martin Young,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf replied swiftly.

“Is this an emergency?”

“No. It concerns an old case of his.”

“You have some information for him?”

“That’s correct.”

This affirmation was a lie. She needed information.

“Detective Young should be in within a half hour. He’s on the early night shift this week. You want me to have him call you?”

“Does he have a direct line?”

“I’ll give you that number. I’d wait at least forty-five minutes.”

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf wrote down the number and began to wait.

She continued to watch the clock. She had always thought that when someone stared at a second hand sweeping around a clock face, it made things seem longer and slower. To her surprise the opposite was true. Her imagination filled with twisted thoughts and unsettling scenes. Minutes jumped by, until she felt she could try Detective Young again. She dialed his extension.

A different gruff voice answered, “This is Detective Martin Young.”

“Good evening,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf said. “My name is Jones,” she lied. “I’m a teacher in a private New England school.” This was less of a lie.

“How can I help you?”

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf took a breath and continued with the tale she had decided to tell. It was a reasonable falsehood, she believed, and one that the cop would readily swallow. “We have a student in a senior-year current events class who has written a paper about a crime that took place in her hometown some years back. Your name is mentioned. I just want to be sure that the student has things accurately before giving her a grade.”

“What sort of paper?” the detective asked.

“Well,” Mrs. Big Bad Wolf continued, “the assignment was to write about a crime.”

“Sounds like a pretty odd assignment.”

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf faked a laugh.

“Well, you know, with kids these days, we work really hard to come up with tests and papers that they can’t plagiarize from the Internet or buy from some term-paper service. Do you have children, Detective?”

“Yeah, but they’re off in college now. And you’re right. They’re probably buying tomorrow’s assignment with one of my credit cards.”

“Well, then you know what I mean.”

The detective half-snorted and half-laughed in agreement. “So, what’s the case?” he asked.

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf shuddered as she read a name off her spreadsheet.

The detective let out a long sigh. “Ah, man, one of my most frustrating failures,” he said. “You never forget those. And you say your student wrote about that one? She can’t have been more than a baby when it happened.”

“Apparently it happened not far from where she lived and her family talked about it growing up. Made a distinct impression on her.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. Eighth-grade kid disappears on the way home from school. It happens, but usually someplace else, if you know what I mean. We’re not the big city here. Anyway, hell, all the people in that neighborhood were terrified. Neighborhood watches got formed. Parents started escorting kids to and from all the local schools. There were meetings in every community center-you know, the “What can we do?” type of gabfest. Problem was, me and all the other detectives were pretty stymied, what with no witnesses and no body. Of course, when some hunter found the bones in the woods three years later it terrified everybody all over again.”

“And suspects?” she asked, trying to control her voice.

“A name here. A name there. We took a good look at the people familiar with the girl’s route home and every registered sex offender within miles. But we never had a case.”

“And now?”

“And now it’s history.”

Mrs. Big Bad Wolf shuddered as she hung up the phone. A missing eighth-grade girl. Dead in the woods. She paused. Missing in a small city that she knew her husband had once lived in nearby. She tried to take down some notes, but it was hard, because her hand shook uncontrollably. Nearby is not the same as murder, she told herself. She wasn’t sure whether this was true.

The Big Bad Wolf drove by the house slowly, stealing glances at the windows, hoping to catch a quick glimpse of Red Two. No luck. He accelerated and went around the block.

Just one time more, he told himself. Maybe you’ll get lucky. He knew he had to be disciplined. A car rolling past a house more than twice would surely be noticed. Two times was the maximum. That way he looked like someone who had accidentally missed an address and was retracing his path. He grimaced as he steered the car down Red Two’s street for the second pass. He could feel his heart rate increase and a drop of sweat gather beneath his arms. He wanted to laugh out loud. Like a forlorn teenager in love, he told himself, moving slowly, deliberately, staring at dark windows.

Red Two sat at her kitchen table. She had a sheet of pink flowered stationery in front of her and she tightly gripped a pen. Night was creeping into the house, but she didn’t stand and turn on the lights, preferring to work in the shadows.

Sarah carefully chose each word on the page. When you’re writing for the very last time, make it all count. The page filled up slowly. Sad words about her husband. Tormented words about their child. Tortured words about her loss.

But she held back all the angry words about the man who wanted to kill her, but whom she intended to cheat.