Her panic, her terror, are not pleasant for him. He had not completely thought out this part of his ritual. When she ran, tried to get away from him, when he saw the panic in her eyes, he fully realized her rejection of him. He realized the horrible thing he was doing, and his contempt for himself was acted out as contempt for her. Rage. He quickly lost control of her while he was reduced to the lowest form. A killer. A destroyer. A mindless savage tearing and cutting and inflicting pain. Her screams, her blood were awful for him. And the more he razed and defaced this temple where he had worshiped for so long, the more he couldn’t bear the sight of it.”
He looked at me and there was nobody home behind his eyes. His face was drained of all emotion when he asked, “Can you relate to this, Dr. Scarpetta?”
“I’m listening” was all I said.
“He is in all of us,” he said.
“Does he feel remorse, Al?”
“He is beyond that,” he said. “I don’t think he feels good about what he did or even completely realizes what he did. He was left with confused emotions. In his mind he will not let her die. He wonders about her, relives his contacts with her, and fantasizes that his relationship with her was the deepest, most profound of all because she was thinking about him when she breathed her last and this is the ultimate closeness to another human being. In his fantasies he imagines she continues to think about him after death. But the rational part of him is unsatisfied and frustrated.
No one can completely belong to another person, and this is what he begins to discover.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “His deed could not possibly produce the desired effect,” Hunt answered. “He is unsure of the closeness– just as he was never sure of his mother’s closeness. The distrust again. And there are other people now who have a more legitimate reason to have a relationship with Beryl than he does.”
“Like who?”
‘The police.” His eyes focused on me. “And you.”
“Because we’re investigating her murder?” I asked, a chill running up my spine. “Yes.”
“Because she has become a preoccupation for us, and our relationship with her is more public than his?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Where does this lead?”
I then asked. “Gary Harper is dead.”
“He killed Harper?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I nervously lit a cigarette. “What he did to Beryl was a love thing,” Hunt responded. “What he did to Harper was a hate thing. He is into hate things now. Anybody connected to Beryl is in danger.
And this is what I wanted to tell Lieutenant Marino, the police. But I knew it wouldn’t do any good.
He– They would just think I have a loose screw.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “Who killed Beryl?”
Al Hunt moved to the edge of the couch and rubbed his face in his hands. When he looked up, his cheeks were splotched red. “Jim Jim,” he whispered. “Jim Jim?”
I asked, mystified.
“1 don’t know.”
His voice broke. “I keep hearing that name in my head, hearing it and hearing it….”
I sat very still.
“It was so long ago I was at Valhalla Hospital,” he said.
“The forensic unit?” I broke out. “Was this Jim Jim a patient while you were there?”
“I’m not sure.”
The emotions were gathering in his eyes like a storm. “I hear his name and I see that place. My thoughts drift back to its dark memories. Like I’m being sucked down a drain. It was so long ago.
So much blacked out now, Jim Jim. Jim Jim. Like a train chugging. The sound won’t stop. I have headaches because of the sound.”
“When was this?” I demanded.
“Ten years ago,” he cried.
Hunt couldn’t have been working on a master’s thesis then, I realized. He would have been only in his late teens.
“Al,” I said, “you weren’t doing research in the forensic unit. You were a patient there, weren’t you?”
He covered his face with his hands and wept. When he finally was in sufficient control, he refused to talk anymore. Obviously deeply distressed, he mumbled he was late for an appointment and practically ran out the door. My heart was racing and wouldn’t slow down. I fixed myself a cup of coffee and paced the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next. I jumped when the telephone rang.