Grave Doubts by John Moss

women were relaxed with each other. Conversation no longer needed to proceed through a logical sequence with appropriate segues. Each could say what was on her mind and connections were made through personality, not content.
    “I mean, was it all for a diabolical show? Were the murders collateral damage? It was a thrilling display of pathological depravity — horror with an edge.”
    “An edge?”
    “Of irony, I guess. It’s very contemporary, isn’t it? To make death a joke and a puzzle.”
    “Horror films are funny,” said Miranda.
    “They used to be scary. Think of Nosferatu , compared to Interview with the Vampire or the Scream movies, or Freddie the 13th. ”
    “You’ve made a study of horror?” said Miranda. “Have you ever actually seen Nosferatu ?”
    “Only in clips, but whatever, the old films evoked our deepest fears. The new ones play to our vanity.”
    “Vanity? Like, you’re frightened, but you understand why. We’re back to irony.”
    “Death is the ultimate irony.” Rachel said this as if she were quoting someone. “There was a directness in old-fashioned horror; it was the real thing. Dracula . Edgar Allan Poe, The Mysteries of Udolpho , The Castle of Otranto , even Jane Eyre .”
    “The real thing!”
    “Where horror and terror converge.” She paused. “When we are terrified to be alive.”
    “Wow, Rachel. That’s scary. I’ll take irony — with an edge.”
    Rachel seemed preternaturally composed as she discussed the Hogg’s Hollow crime scene and related it to films and novels, showing an affinity for the ominous that Miranda found mystifying and strangely exciting.
    “You’re lucky, Miranda. You get to think on the job.”
    “All cops think. A traffic cop thinks. When I worked on Parliament Hill, striking in scarlet, I had to think.”
    “About what?”
    “About security, about whether my hat was on straight,about why I ever wanted to be a Mountie.”
    “Why?”
    “Dunno. I wanted to be a cop. Morgan says it was for empowerment. He figures I was reacting to a subconscious sense of violation.”
    “Is he right?”
    “Maybe.”
    Rachel sank back against the sofa cushions, waiting.
    “There was a man; he was in one of my senior courses at university, much older than me. He may have…” Miranda sat forward, took in a deep breath. “I was raped when I was eighteen. I never saw his face. I didn’t know his name…. Maybe I did, I don’t know. I made myself forget.
    “I didn’t connect the guy in my class with my assailant. Not consciously, not until last summer.
    “At the end of the academic year, when friends were taking off for Europe or Thailand or preparing for graduate school — I had a scholarship to go on in semiotics, believe it or not — to everyone’s surprise, including my own, I joined the Mounties.”
    “Morgan thinks you were trying to get away from this guy who was haunting your life?”
    “Shadowing, not haunting. I didn’t know he was there. Morgan thinks subconsciously I did. He thinks I was trying to take charge of my life. I don’t even know if I believe in the subconscious. It’s just a bunch of neurons in there and an infinite maze of electrical impulses.”
    “Tell me about your daughter.”
    “Who?”
    “You’ve mentioned a girl. I thought maybe it was a custody thing.”
    “Jill? She’s my ward. I’ve never had kids. You?”
    “Not even an abortion.”
    Miranda was thrown for a moment, but saw nothing in Rachel’s expression either to indicate morbid wit or incipient confession.
    “Jill’s fifteen, going on forty. And sometimes she’s four. She’s sweet and tough and smart. She’s gone through a lot.”
    “And you?”
    “I’m the administrator of her father’s charitable bequests. I was his executor.”
    “Not the girl from the fish-pond murders?”
    Miranda glared.
    “I’m sorry,” said Rachel. “That was thoughtless.”
    Miranda shrugged. Usually, she did not connect with versions of herself in the media,