Unhinged

  At that moment, he had been anxious to confess his dirty deed, even if it meant jail time, but he couldn’t utter the words. His father kept reading the paper, wearing his stained, torn wife-beater. A faded Angel of Hell tattoo beckoned Gene to spill the beans, but he couldn’t even manage an “I fucked her” over his dry breakfast toast. Maybe the beatings wouldn’t stop either way.

  And now, the fact that Spider had almost been caught two weeks earlier had not bothered him at all. Once it was over, it would truly be over. To be caught would put an end to his own torture, something he couldn’t do by his own hand. Getting caught was an inevitable byproduct of his actions, so he wouldn’t relent. He was compelled to bring himself closer to Decland Dupree in the only way he knew.

  He sat more comfortably on the sofa and unwrapped the aluminum foil holding the second set of nipples he had acquired, the same set he had been holding when Decland had busted into his makeshift home. He placed the frozen areolas on his stomach, covering a three-inch scar near his belly button, and scooted down into a more reclined position. He gently rubbed himself, not fantasizing about the woman but Decland’s face on the gay man who had given him sex. His rubbing progressed to a hard stroke until he released himself on his thawing trophies. The two worlds in which he lived were now satisfied for the moment, his homosexual reality and his father’s reality.

  Spider remained on the couch, carefully massaging the pain in his testicles. There was always discomfort after ejaculation thanks to a particular episode with his dad, the worst beating of his life. When Gene had turned twelve, in a tequila-induced flash of inspiration, his father decided to find a woman to guide Gene as he fumbled around her woman parts.

  They had set out for a certain block of Canal Street at one in the morning where prostitutes were known to gather. They crept along in the slow lane until coming across a pale-skinned hooker with a shotgun blast of makeup on her small face. His dad pulled over to the curb and propositioned her, telling her that Gene was sixteen and small for his age.

  Gene’s whole body shook as if he were naked in freezing temperatures, hoping beyond hope that she would decline. He rubbed his thumbs repeatedly across his thighs as his father tried to convince the hooker that no one would ever find out. He would park the car and take a walk for a while, leaving her and Gene to conduct their business. In his closing argument, his dad convinced her that all boys his age desperately wanted to have sex, and it wasn’t an issue of forcing herself on him. He waved a fifty in front of her ruby lips.

  His dad nudged Gene to climb into the backseat, and then the hooker got in next to him. A wave of cheap perfume and body odor almost made him gag. They drove down Canal to a closed snowball stand and parked behind it where it was nice and dark. His dad slammed the car door and told the duo to have fun before he walked away.

  The hooker asked him what he wanted to do, but Gene’s jaw muscles seemed to be clamped down from the nervous shakes. He stared at her with watery eyes. She lightened her expression a little and told him it was okay to be nervous. She told him that she would do all the work, and he nodded.

  He kept his eyes forward when she pulled down her tube top, revealing small, paper-white tits in the moonlight. He looked at them, then looked away, feeling as if he were pushing his teeth back into his gums. She began doing the things she was paid to do, but it was all for naught. She stopped when Gene started crying.

  His dad had come back to the car in twenty minutes. The fact that Gene was sobbing like a little girl and couldn’t manage to complete the transaction enraged him. Gene trembled because he knew what was coming.

  After they returned home, he pulled Gene out of the car and tossed him through the front door where he began to backhand his son around the living room.

  “I give up,” his dad had yelled. “Are you a fuckin’ queer? Are you, boy? My old man used to punish me the same way I punish you when I stepped outta line. Oh, I never had your problem, Sally, but I was a hell-raiser, and my old man used to whup me good and I learned.”

  Gene had felt like a tub of Jell-O, thinking that maybe this was just going to be a lecture while his dad reminisced about how bad his own father had treated him. His punishment was now just a waiting game.

  “You know, I remember when I was fourteen and my father got me laid with a hooker. We celebrated with a beer afterward. We can’t even do that, ya pansy.”

  Gene merely cried as blood ran down his chin.

  “I guess you don’t need your balls, do ya, boy? You ain’t gonna be fuckin’ no ladies with your dick, are ya?”

  His dad kicked Gene in the groin, and he fell to the floor, gasping for breath. The pain that emanated from his testicles was the worst he had ever felt. His dad tried to kick him in the same spot again as Gene cupped the area.

  “I’ll make sure you don’t ever use ‘em again, you faggot,” he yelled as he kicked him repeatedly.

  The last thing Gene remembered before he passed out was the sound of his mother softly crying in the back bedroom. That event had birthed the first-ever realization of how terribly alone he really was.

  “That motherfucker,” Spider mumbled as he collected his trophies from his stomach and wiped them with a rag. He let his tears run down his face and drip onto his chest. Any pain he felt was deserved. He wrapped up his moistening areolas in the same foil and placed them back in the freezer.

  For a week, Spider had been following Marcy Latner from her house in Metairie to work at the Windjammer restaurant at West End. She was extremely attractive, and he hated her for it. Her straight, blonde hair was cut to her shoulders, and her figure was shapely. She had a slight over-bite, which to him was a deformity, but he remembered Decland had adored it.

  She had the same schedule all week, and now that the week was starting over, it was time to make his move. It was 11:00 p.m. as he waited for her to return home. The trees in her front yard were thick and provided perfect cover while she took her time finding the house key.

  Spider leaned against the tree with a knapsack of supplies at his feet, feeling every groove of bark against his back. He was a stalking predator, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat. He kept his breathing steady. As soon as the door was open, he leapt from behind the oak tree and pushed her inside, knocking her down with a thud. He would be back for the knapsack within minutes.

  Tying her up and gagging her was easy, thanks to the element of surprise. He left her in the spare bedroom, straining to make noise through her taped mouth. Her hands and feet were bound with rope, balled up like a calf at a rodeo. Then instead of going out to a gay bar and taking a chance on finding his other lamb, he simply made a call to the man he had met at the airport bar last night while in disguise. Charles was in town on business, and Gene’s gaydar told him he was approachable. Finding his man early was easier than dealing with the possibility of not being able to pick up anyone.

  Charles answered quickly, as if waiting for Gene’s call, and wrote down the directions to Marcy’s house. Gene tried to imagine what Decland’s expression would be when he discovered his very first sentimental fuck was dead, another pleasant, meaningful memory violated. He wanted an unsettling, bilelike taste to form in Decland’s mouth every time he was reminded of Marcy, just like he had done with June and Angel.

  Spider’s life could have been normal, like Decland’s, if he was given half a chance. Why couldn’t his mommy have stood up for him against the beatings and mental torture? Why couldn’t he just like girls? How could his father have known he was gay at the tender age of five? The man was simply pure evil.

  He took off his shirt and rubbed at the scars and cigarette burns on his arms and chest, a scrapbook of the sick therapy that had been inflicted on him. Decland Dupree was supposed to be his friend, someone he could confide in—or was he someone to love? Did Spider desire him or just want to be him? Most of the time he knew that he loved Decland, but then an unwelcome thought would enter his head: Decland would have been the perfect heterosexual son for Gene’s
dad.

  Spider placed his bottle of absinthe on the coffee table, and his mind became lost in its emerald hue. Decland appeared before him in what had been the greatest night of his life. Marcy’s house became Abby’s Bar, and Gene was laughing along with Decland. They toasted and did shots and put their arms around each other’s shoulders, talking about life, Paulina, and love. Decland confided about things he’d sworn he never spoke of before.

  “Let’s drink some absinthe,” Decland had commanded.

  “I’ve never had that before,” Spider declared. “Let’s try it.”

  They had drunk Absinthe Original for the rest of the night, pouring chilled water over a sugar cube into the green spirit and feeling superior and adult. They took their last order home to Decland’s new apartment, and Spider sat next to him on the sofa as Decland wondered aloud if Paulina had suffered.

  Spider rubbed his shoulder and commiserated with him, telling him that she wouldn’t want him to feel guilty about her disappearance. Spider leaned in and kissed Decland. A glorious openmouthed kiss that lasted a good five seconds before Deland’s reflexes caught up with his brain.

  It was only another five seconds before Spider was knocked unconscious, only to wake the next morning on Decland’s floor with a swollen face and a busted mouth. Decland was nowhere to be found. It had been the kiss of a lifetime, and he could never return to Dixie-Mart once Decland told everyone what a queer he was. Months later he found out that Decland had done the right thing and never said a word about the kiss.

  Eventually Spider snapped out of his trance when he heard a knock on the door. Spider’s latest conquest was only five foot five but in tremendous shape. He had the lips and eyes of a woman but the nose and square jaw of a Roman.

  “Well, well, don’t you look tasty? What’s with the scars? Oh, my God. How did you get these?” Charles ran his fingers over Spider’s chest.

  “Tough life. Some of them are from candle wax.” Gene smiled. “C’mon in. I don’t think I can wait another minute.”

  Charles kissed Gene on the lips and then entered. He looked around as he made himself comfortable on the couch. “You know, this place is nice, but I wouldn’t think the decor would be your taste.”

  “It’s my sister’s house. We can’t go to my crib. Don’t ask.”

  “I don’t care. I’m just glad you called. She’s not coming home anytime soon, is she?” Charles took his shirt off.

  Gene sat down next to him and took a sip of absinthe, never taking his eyes from his prey. He felt himself becoming seductive and sensual, not wanting to be, but needing to. It was a craving much like an addiction.

  Charles put down his absinthe, stood up, and unbuttoned his jeans, letting them drop to the floor. Gene took a swig of his and Decland’s beloved absinthe and followed suit, kissing him all the while, letting Charles command the action.

  Charles had been made aware of what part each of them was going to play in this one-night stand, he the aggressor, Gene, the effeminate.

  Charles butch, Gene bitch.

  This was what was understood the two hours they spent flirting over expensive cocktails. Charles spun Gene around and guided him over the arm of the couch, giving him exactly what he needed.

  The two men sitting in the black Fusion had followed Lotz and waited while he hid in the shadows at the address listed as Marcy Latner’s. The man sitting on the driver’s side picked up his mini-binoculars and whispered, “So, that’s the Absinthe Killer. All right, let’s see how a predator operates.”

  They watched Lotz push Marcy into the house, and then he put down his binoculars. They waited. Gene came out to retrieve his knapsack. Then another man made his appearance. The figure within the Fusion handed his mini-binoculars to the other man, picked up his cell phone, and dialed a number very few people were given.

  “Lamplight.” He waited a second. “Info correct. Subject entered first, subdued target one. Target two entered next, approximately three minutes ago.” He paused for a response, and when it was received, the men sat back and waited for the Absinthe Killer to leave.

  Five more days passed, and I was finally on my way to work again, more than a little discouraged, of course. I didn’t have a partner or a case. What I did have was a certain government faction that didn’t want me in the Gene Lotz investigation. I was my own proverbial island.

  I watched for Spider to appear everywhere I went: restaurants, grocery stores, driving down the street. Spider could have been watching my every move right alongside the Feds. I repeatedly told Jennifer to memorize Lotz’s picture and to avoid men who approached her.

  Ron’s suggestion for me to transfer to another unit was odd. He most likely thought Greenwood was going to give me shit cases until I left or he retired. But crap work would be okay for the time being. I was still on a high from my engagement. Jenn was constantly calling friends and relatives to tell them the good news. I had my lady back, and everything was okay in my world again. The only thing left was to set a date.

  Once inside the station, I glanced at Ron’s battered and barren desk, which drove home the reality that I was alone. I could only hope he’d be like Obi-Wan Kenobi and guide me with the Force.

  Before I could make it to Greenwood’s office, he came out to the work area to greet me, being the caring boss that he was. “Welcome back. I heard about your attack. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  I’ll bet.

  “The Feds want you down at their field office on Leon C. Simon. The deputy director’s there to question you about the case. He seemed pretty adamant about it. It looks as though you’ll start your new cases later. They might want you to serve as an advisor. They must be desperate. Go on. Go.” Greenwood turned and started back for his office.

  I was officially puzzled. Did he come to the conclusion that I was in the right and he really fucked up the capture? It didn’t add up. I left the station and headed for the field office off Lake Pontchartrain. This was going to be interesting.

  It was my first time at the field office, although I had passed the large, brown four-story building often. An agent parked me in a room on the top floor, which was clearly used for interrogation. It wasn’t dirty with cheap furniture as seen on television. It had a nice table and chairs from IKEA. I sat down, and the agent left the room, closing the door behind him. The games were beginning again. They were going to make me wait it out.

  Forty-five minutes had passed when Dorrick and a young agent finally returned. “State your name for the record, please,” the slick, well-dressed agent said. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-seven.

  “Are you going to record all of this?” I asked, knowing they were. I looked at both Dorrick and the man with the salon haircut, the only two men in the all-white room. I wondered about the boyish agent sitting across from me. “You’re spending a lot of time on this case, Deputy Director. Who’s handling your job while you’re here?” I took a sip of coffee that had been delivered earlier.

  “It’s none of your business, but the assistant director in charge is taking over my duties in Washington. Greenwood told me about your attack.” Dorrick stared at my forehead. “It was random, correct? Gene Lotz had nothing to do with it?”

  “Do you know if it was random?”

  “You got something to say, Detective? Let’s get this on the record.”

  “Where’s Agent Wayne? He should be here. And who’s this?”

  “Agent Wayne has been reassigned. You will no longer have contact with him.”

  “Is he in early retirement, too?” I was pissed off.

  “You’re going to be here a very long time if you don’t cooperate,” Dorrick said. “It can go hard or easy. We ask the questions, and you answer them. I want details.”

  “Details on what? You know the case as well as I do.”

  “There’re certain details we don’t have,” he said lazily. It looked as if he were fighting sleep. “We want audio of all facts pertaining to this case. Agent Zachary here is the new a
gent in the investigation, and he needs to be brought up to speed. Now answer the questions, beginning with your name and address for the record.”

  “My name is Decland Dupree. I’m a detective on the New Orleans Police Force. How’s that?”

  Dorrick settled into his chair, which I noticed was cushioned, unlike mine. More FBI mind tricks, I thought. He rested his hands on the table and intertwined them, keeping an unwavering gaze on me.

  I gave solid details for an hour until I spoke of June, the first girl murdered.

  “Did you ever have a relationship with her?” Dorrick asked mechanically.

  I anxiously waited for the young agent to say something—anything. He was really creeping me out the way he sat there staring.

  “We were kids. Did we play doctor? No. We shared our first kiss, but we were buddies.”

  “Keep going.”

  I lowered my eyelids and focused on my cup of coffee. I imagined someone behind the mirror freaking out if I spilled a drop on the spotless table, running in like a tennis ball boy to wipe it up. My tale went on from one side of my brain as I daydreamed in the other, thinking about how a baseball bat would look upside those bushy eyebrows.

  “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked with my eyes closed.

  “A lawyer?” Dorrick chirped, throwing his head back. “What do you think we’re doing here? This information is for us to use as an investigative tool. Every statement is now officially on tape, and Agent Zachary and two others are witnesses.” He pointed at the mirrored window.

  “What else, then?” I asked.

  “After the first murders, did you think of Gene Lotz?”

  “No. He was somebody I knew a long time ago. I hadn’t thought about him in years. I had no reason to suspect Spider.”

  “Even with Paulina’s disappearance and presumed death so long ago and Gene Lotz’s involvement?”