Twisted

Pursing her lips, she touched her right temple. Looked around. Returned to Isaac.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I’ve just gotten the worst headache. Time to find myself an aspirin before it gets out of hand.”

She left, wiggling prettily.

Isaac stepped forward.

CHAPTER 46

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, PETRA’S APARTMENT, DETROIT STREET NEAR SIXTH

A nurse,” she said.

“Maria Giacometti,” said Isaac. “Her murder was different from the others. A lot more violent. More intrusive.” Instinctively, he closed his eyes, remembering the butchery. Opened them quickly, not wanting to come across squeamish.

“Escalation is typical,” said Petra. “What turns them on in the begi

Isaac knew that intellectually; he’d learned a term for it- sensory saturation- but saw no reason to mention that. He sat at Petra’s dinette table as she leafed through the photocopy of the booklet.

Such a neat, clean, compact apartment, a faint feminine smell. Exactly what he’d imagined.

She turned a page, said, “Oh my.”

At seven, she’d gone out for di

She called the Gomez home, more out of some sort of hazy maternal obligation than expectation.

As the phone rang, she wondered if she’d wake the poor brother again. But Isaac picked up and when he learned it was her, he began talking, shouting, at warp speed. “Thank God! I’ve been trying to get you all day!”

“Detective Fleischer told me you- ”

“I’ve got the answer, Petra. To June 28, the pattern, the motivation. Who and why, everything. Who his next victim will be.”

“Who’s he?”

Silence. “Doebbler!”

Breathing hard, almost panting.

She said, “Start at the begi

She picked him up in front of his building at nine-forty. He was pacing the curb, swinging his briefcase, jumped into the car before her tires stopped rolling. His eyes shot back reflected streetlight. Bright. Jumpy. She had to remind him to fasten his seat belt.

As he chattered, she drove back to her place. Initially, she’d figured on a restaurant meeting, then decided they needed total privacy. Bringing Isaac home was something she’d have considered out of the question an hour ago. Now things were different. Forget all the personal stuff; this was the job.

She finished the booklet. “Where’s the list?”

Isaac pulled a folded slip of paper from the case. Computer printout from Klara’s workstation.

Teller, T.W.J.

The Sins of the Mad Artist

Subjs: crime, U.S. history, Retzak, O.

Graham Coll. Catal. # 4211-3

Below that, a list of everyone who’d requested a peek at the booklet.

Short list.

September 4, 1978: Professor A. R. Ritchey, Pitzer College

May 15, 1997. K. Doebbler, using an alumnus library card

Kurt Doebbler had imbibed these horrors one month and thirteen days before murdering his wife.

Seeking inspiration? Or had the bastard come across the booklet by chance and decided to emulate Otto Retzak?

She asked Isaac what he thought.

He said, “My guess would be he already knew about Retzak. He could even have read the book somewhere else and wanted to refresh his memory.”

“Where else could Doebbler have gotten hold of something this obscure?”

“It’s esoteric but not really that obscure. Once I had Retzak’s name as a keyword, I went back on the Internet. He’s been discussed in a few true-crime chat rooms and the booklet’s in the holdings of at least twenty campus libraries. Also, soon after it was published initially, it was translated into French, Italian, and German. Doebbler lived in Germany as an adolescent.”

“Makes sense,” she said. “He could’ve stumbled across it, gotten stimulated, decided to take a second look.” She got up and paced her small living room. Isaac watched her, then stopped abruptly and stared at the carpet.

She noticed, became aware of his maleness. Her clothing. Baggy chocolate sweater over black leggings. Skintight leggings. Revealing more thigh than she would’ve liked, but no one could accuse her of being seductive.

She caught Isaac’s eye. He just sat there, looking like an abashed schoolboy.

She said, “Okay, let’s lay it out: Marta cheated on Kurt, he found out, built up some serious anger. He’d always been a cold, controlled man, but now his control was slipping. He stewed, started to obsess, remembered the Retzak book from his impressionable teen years. Or, he was a true-crime buff, lots of serials are- any clues from those chat rooms?”

“I skimmed them searching for some indication Doebbler was chatting. If he was, I didn’t catch it.”

“Let’s pull them up, see if there’s something traceable.”

He shook his head. “Chats can’t be traced because they occur in real time, aren’t stored on the hard drive. I double-checked with a guy I know who’s a real computer wizard and he confirmed it.”

“Damn,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Okay, back on track… one way or the other Doebbler read about Retzak and Retzak’s first murder stuck in his head: a common-law wife who ticked the guy off. Suddenly, Doebbler finds himself to be a ticked-off husband and Retzak’s adventures take on a whole new meaning. That turned killing Marta into more than revenge. He was reliving history, assuming the persona of a big-time monster…” She shook her head. “Doebbler wanted to be Otto the Second, so seven i

“Victims with no apparent link gave him confidence,” said Isaac. “Why would he even imagine getting caught?”

Petra smiled. “He wasn’t figuring on you.”

“I was lucky.” Eyes back to the floor. Blushing. Cute, when he did that. She wished she could find him a genius girlfriend.

Seven i

She sat back down and reread the booklet. Despite Superintendent Teller’s delicacy in dancing around the details, Maria Giacometti’s murder was stomach-churning.

Retzak had been found sitting under a California oak, not far from the Elysian Park sanitarium, with the young woman’s entrails around his neck. Peaceful expression on his face, knees crossed, like some homicidal yogi. Humming softly, seemingly entranced.

A hobo crossing the park spotted the horror and ran terrified to the nearest police officer. No big detective work necessary; Retzak had left a blood trail snaking from the playground kill-spot to his tree.

“Sounds like he lost it,” said Petra.

“Thank God,” said Isaac. “Can you imagine the next one?”

She put the booklet aside. Her head felt swollen and her heart raced.

“Seven for Mr. Retzak. Six, so far, for Mr. Doebbler,” she said. “And we’re going to make sure it stays that way.”

She fixed coffee for both of them, gave the booklet’s final chapter yet another scan. Otto Retzak’s final days; his arrest, trial, and execution had taken all of three weeks. The good old days.

Retzak had gone defiantly to the gallows. Proclaiming his hatred for God, humanity, and “all that you brainless sheep deem sacred. Give me a chance to leave this room and I’ll brain every one of you, chew on your guts, have myself a blood and gelatin party.”

Petra said, “I wonder how many Italian-American pediatric nurses are out there.”

“If Doebbler’s really a stickler,” said Isaac, “we should be looking at an Italian-American pediatric nurse who takes care of respiratory patients.”

“That would narrow it down. Not that it matters. Prevention’s worth a whole lot of cure. We’re going to be surveilling Doebbler starting tomorrow morning. He’s not going to get close to number seven.”