I'm frustrated—unable to make progress in hunting down a serial killer and unable to resolve my conflict between Robyn, my partner and Faith, my dead wife.
The main problem isn't grief as such but the fact I hold seances with my wife every night, so to me, she isn't really dead.
And to add to my distress I think it's a distraction keeping me from solving this murder case. I wonder sometimes if my mind is really here or trapped in a time warp where Faith still lives.
Robyn seems to read my mind, “It’s hard isn’t it, trying to put yourself inside someone’s head, when that person’s so alien you can’t possibly figure out what they intend?”
If only she knew how hard it is trying to escape from my own head.
“Oh, but you can figure a killer's motive—eventually. You just have to discern their locus of need.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Last time I heard the term, ‘locus’, I was in Geometry class, going through teenage angst.”
It brings to mind a yearbook picture she showed me one day—back in her Punk days—cool and tough, with black eyeliner, and black leather.
Baby, Baby, I crooned.
She balled up a wad of paper and tossed it at me, but her pink flush, told me she was pleased.
I lean back in my swivel chair, hands behind head, fingers laced—and suddenly, it hits me—a glimmer of an idea.
“Hey, Robyn—what do I usually say when we’re stuck in a case like this?”
“Oh brother,” she smirks, “what you always say—once is a coincidence, but twice is a pattern.”
“Exactly! I fairly shout, “But when is a pattern not a pattern?”
She shrugs, “ I give up, Sherlock—when?”
“When you have series of coincidences that resemble a pattern. Do you get it? Sometimes, when the sample is small, you can infer a relationship that isn’t there at all.”
She furrows her brow. “So what did we wrongly infer about the Dorm Murders?”
“The Dorm,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “But all the murders took place in dorms."
“Right, but the sample is small—three university girls living in residence—so we assume the killer is a student and his hunting ground is the university.”
“Seems logical,” she deadpans sarcastically.
I ignore her defensiveness. “It is logical to assume that, but violent murder is not logical and there’s no reason to presume the university is the hunting field.”
“Where else could it be?”
“What if the connection is not the university per se?”
Her eyes brighten. “Okay, I’m following you—but how could we possibly know where the killer finds his victims?”
I shrug. “Follow his need. What’s he obsessed with?”
“Busty coeds?” she smirks.
“Is a campus the only place you find young, well-endowed female students?”
She begins to follow my drift. “No. You might see them on Internet pornography sites that specialize in that particular obsession.”
“Or bars?” I suggest.
Her eyes widen.
“There is a restaurant bar near the university—I went there one night with a girlfriend and she was disgusted with the sexual exploitation. It was like Hooters, except all the waitresses wore school girl uniforms—you know, kilts, knee socks and plunging, unbuttoned blouses.”
“I’ll bet they hire a lot of university girls as waitresses,” I add.
Her face falls. “Damn it! You asked me to look into the connections among the victims and I just saw the obvious.”
“We all did, Robyn—don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She sits there sullenly, and I know she’s going to brood about it—but, all of a sudden an idea hits her and she brightens
“Why not let me pose as a waitress at the restaurant, and maybe we can lure the killer.”
Again, the image of an Avril/ Britney schoolgirl floods my mind, along with a deep sense of foreboding.
“No way I’m going to dangle you as bait,” I hiss.
“Don’t worry, Martin—I’ll wear a wire, and you can track me. If he follows me home, we’ll have an apartment set up with officers hidden inside. This isn’t my first trip to the Prom, you know.”
Remembering her in that uniform with her red-spiked hair, I doubt very much she was ever the Prom Queen type—just as I doubt she’s my type—just as I doubt these protective feelings I have toward her.
In the end though, I cave—she’s far more persuasive than Breton—after all, what competition could there be between his toothy grin, and her tarnished goddess?
For two weeks, I’m on tenterhooks—dangling Robyn like some flashy lure, and having to endure catcalls and whistles at the station when she shows up in her schoolgirl uniform.
I think she likes it—not the attention, but watching me squirm. I feign nonchalance, but that pose soon wears thin, and two weeks of my grumpiness begins getting on everyone’s nerves.
At the beginning of the third week, we catch him—surprisingly, an older man—a teacher with filial fantasies who follows Robyn home. Certainly not the profile everyone expected, but I was on the right track by following the killer’s needs.
I guess that’s the same as Breton telling me to follow my heart, which when I think about it, amounts to my deepest need.
My deepest need?
I assume that to be continuing a nightly séance with Faith, but maybe my future lies in pursuing a relationship with Robyn in the here and now.
It takes a while after the excitement of closing the case for things to settle down, but over time they do, and things return to normal—well, my new normal.
You see, I’m trying to apply my newfound wisdom to my daily life, and believe me, it’s not as easy as solving a case.
Some days it’s one step forward, and two back. Some days I’m mired in the past with Faith—some days I see a future in Robyn’s unmade-up eyes.
An old proverb says, to live your life is not as easy as to cross a field. It’s a difficult patch I’m crossing now, but I’m on this journey and am going to see it through.
There are times when I don’t know which way to turn, which way to go, but then I picture Father Breton, my mentor, gently chiding me.
I can almost hear his raspy voice, with a trace of Brooklyn accent reminding me, follow your heart.
That's the best way out of a dark mist, to go toward the light.
