JL02 - Night Vision by Paul Levine Page B

delivered to my office by Bobbie Blinderman the day before.
     
    ***
     
    She had stopped traffic along the law-office corridors. Ushering the tall, sleek one into my office, Cindy had raised her eyebrows and said, “Love your shoes, honey.”
    It’s hard to notice shoes when the red leather skirt stops a foot above the knees, but once you do, it’s just as hard not to stare. The plastic see-through heels were filled with water and a goldfish swam in each one. The SPCA know about this?” I asked.
    “It’s a performing art,” Bobbie Blinderman said. The fish only last a little while. Then they go limp and die.” She paused long enough to smirk. “Just like most men.”
    “So you keep casting for bigger fish.”
    “Maybe I found one,” she said, laughing, and running a hand through her dark, layered hair. She tossed an envelope onto my desk. “Here’s the printout of callers to Miss Diamond.” Then she flipped a second one at me. “And here’s one for Miss Rosedahl.”
    I must have looked like a mule kicked me. “I read about it in the paper,” she said quickly. “Some fucking maniac, huh?”
    There was no mention of either one belonging to Compu-Mate. That’s under wraps.”
    “I recognized Rosedahl’s name. One of our regulars. Went by the handle ‘Flying Bird.’”
    “You’re under no obligation to produce her calls,” I said, sounding very much like the uptight lawyer who lurked deep inside.
    She laughed again. “I know, but I was afraid you’d hit me with your big, bad subpoena.”
     
    ***
     
    Now I spread the lists on the wooden dock between the old man and the canal. On the night she was killed, Marsha Diamond computer-talked with four men.
     
    BIGGUS DICKUS
    BUSH WHACKER
    ORAL ROBERT
    PASSION PRINCE
     
    Nine names turned up on Mary Rosedahl’s list.
     
    BIGGUS DICKUS
    HARRY HARDWICK
    HORNY TOAD
    MUFF DIVER
    PASSION PRINCE
    ROCK HARD
    SLAVE BOY
    STUDLY DO-RIGHT
    TOM CAT
     
    Charlie tsk-tsked, as was his habit when witnessing the decline of civilization. “Those names. So…
    “Sophomoric,” I suggested.
    “Crude,” he said. “What on earth do the men say to the women after introductions like that?”
    “Apparently, everything they wouldn’t say in person. The impression I get is that your Caspar Milquetoast who wouldn’t dream of speaking to a strange woman in a bar loses all inhibitions when he’s tapping out messages in the night.”
    “Did Mrs. Blinderman tell you that?”
    “Sort of. She’s a little warped herself.”
    “You’ve got two matches there, you know.”
    “Yeah. Biggus Dickus and Passion Prince. They’re first on Rodriguez’s invitation list for a little chat.”
    “Good. I’ve been doing some research for you, too. Lord Tennyson was acutely aware of madness. His father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson, was clearly manic-depressive.”
    I gave Charlie my how-do-you-know-that look.
    “Relax,” he said. “I’ve been to the library. You should try it sometime. Now, the poet himself was subject to great depression. He would check himself into the 1840s equivalent of a health spa. Unfortunately, these were establishments of intense quackery. He’d subject himself to hydropathy, which is a fancy word for ice-water baths and massages. All day long, freezing baths and rub-downs with wet, cold sheets, followed by meals of bread and cold water.”
    “Not exactly a weekend at the Fontainebleau.”
    “The idea was to flush out the poisons, the demons of the mind.”
    “Okay, what’s that have to do with us?”
    “Maybe nothing, but best to remember we don’t have messages written by the killer. We’re dealing with words written by someone who apparently influenced the killer.”
    “So we should learn as much as we can about that someone.”
    “Exactly. For what it’s worth, Tennyson wrote ‘Locksley Hall’ after being jilted by a lover.”
    “Hell hath no fury like the poet scorned. What about the first message—Jack the Ripper?”
    “Here, I