Well, it’s not, my friend. All that’s changed. I’m sorry to tell you that’s not the way the game’s played today.”
Mooney sat for a time, eyes blinking, tongue sliding across his parched lips. He was unconvinced. At last he spoke. “I just don’t buy this guy in the gray suit. Your model, God-fearing, tax-paying citizen, going back and forth to a job all year. Raising kids. Then, one night a year, going bonkers on a rooftop. That just don’t wash. And like I told you—always in the same area and always the same time of the year.”
“Repetition compulsion.”
Mooney’s eyes opened and he leaned forward. Baum hastened to clarify.
“Repetition compulsion. An overwhelming urge to replicate over and over again certain actions or activities, even if you recognize they are destructive to you. Like your eating, Mooney.”
“Oh, Christ. Don’t you start on that now.”
“It’s true. Think about it. It’s not at all uncommon for people to have urges, associate certain actions and undefined emotions with a certain time of year. Why they do it, we can’t say. You say it has something to do with the motion of heavenly bodies as they affect the human psyche. That’s a kind of nice, kitschy little theory you’ve got there about the solstice and all. But it’s voodoo and I just don’t happen to buy it. Still, I grant you, your guy appears to grow active about the end of April, the beginning of May. But, more probably, the repetition of crime during that particular period is merely symbolic of some trauma that person may have suffered years ago during the same period. The person doesn’t necessarily recall the events of the trauma. Undoubtedly, they were painful and he was forced to bury them deep somewhere in his mind. The subconscious, however, doesn’t forget. Like a savings bank, it keeps all of your bad memories on deposit for you. And if you don’t draw on those memories, I mean consciously, the interest builds and builds, compounding itself, until you’ve got quite a nice little bundle there. With your fellow it’s all bottled up for twelve months. Then, on just one night a year, the whole thing is permitted to blow. That’s when he goes up to the roof, beneath the stars, to reenact this perennial ritual.”
Baum’s arm snapped upward and he checked his wristwatch. “Gotta go. I have a session with a recidivist wife-beater.” He laughed and started to gather his papers.
Mooney lumbered out of his chair. “Can we just review this thing before you go?”
Baum’s eyes rose heavenward as though he were pleading for mercy. “You asked for a silhouette, Mooney. I provided one but you’ve spurned it. For the record, however, I’ll repeat. Fortyish. Middle class. Educated. Fastidious. Compulsive. A nitpicker. Highly civilized, but underneath a sump of guilt and self-loathing. In short, my friend,” Baum shot the clasps on his battered briefcase and stuffed it beneath his arm, “look for a solid, upright, pious Christian, patriotic American. You should have no problem, Mooney. There are millions of them out there.” Baum hooted, pounded the detective’s back and bustled out.
16
“… and you say you were standing approximately here?”
“That’s right.”
“No moon?”
“No moon.”
“So the light was poor. No illumination from any other place? Like across the way?”
“No, man. Like I told you. It was dark, dark, dark.”
“You couldn’t see his face?”
“Nothing.”
“Features. Color. Build?”
“Nothing. Like I told you. The guy’s a hundred feet on the other …”
“Right. Okay. You told me. Let’s check that.” Mooney unwound a long steel tape from a spool. “Could you hold that for me just a minute?”
The young Italian construction worker, Enzo Vitali, grasped an end of the tape while the detective slowly walked the spool out over the tar roof.
It was noon, late May. Bright sunshine. Perfect kite-flying weather. A day for the park, or possibly a ride
Mooney sat for a time, eyes blinking, tongue sliding across his parched lips. He was unconvinced. At last he spoke. “I just don’t buy this guy in the gray suit. Your model, God-fearing, tax-paying citizen, going back and forth to a job all year. Raising kids. Then, one night a year, going bonkers on a rooftop. That just don’t wash. And like I told you—always in the same area and always the same time of the year.”
“Repetition compulsion.”
Mooney’s eyes opened and he leaned forward. Baum hastened to clarify.
“Repetition compulsion. An overwhelming urge to replicate over and over again certain actions or activities, even if you recognize they are destructive to you. Like your eating, Mooney.”
“Oh, Christ. Don’t you start on that now.”
“It’s true. Think about it. It’s not at all uncommon for people to have urges, associate certain actions and undefined emotions with a certain time of year. Why they do it, we can’t say. You say it has something to do with the motion of heavenly bodies as they affect the human psyche. That’s a kind of nice, kitschy little theory you’ve got there about the solstice and all. But it’s voodoo and I just don’t happen to buy it. Still, I grant you, your guy appears to grow active about the end of April, the beginning of May. But, more probably, the repetition of crime during that particular period is merely symbolic of some trauma that person may have suffered years ago during the same period. The person doesn’t necessarily recall the events of the trauma. Undoubtedly, they were painful and he was forced to bury them deep somewhere in his mind. The subconscious, however, doesn’t forget. Like a savings bank, it keeps all of your bad memories on deposit for you. And if you don’t draw on those memories, I mean consciously, the interest builds and builds, compounding itself, until you’ve got quite a nice little bundle there. With your fellow it’s all bottled up for twelve months. Then, on just one night a year, the whole thing is permitted to blow. That’s when he goes up to the roof, beneath the stars, to reenact this perennial ritual.”
Baum’s arm snapped upward and he checked his wristwatch. “Gotta go. I have a session with a recidivist wife-beater.” He laughed and started to gather his papers.
Mooney lumbered out of his chair. “Can we just review this thing before you go?”
Baum’s eyes rose heavenward as though he were pleading for mercy. “You asked for a silhouette, Mooney. I provided one but you’ve spurned it. For the record, however, I’ll repeat. Fortyish. Middle class. Educated. Fastidious. Compulsive. A nitpicker. Highly civilized, but underneath a sump of guilt and self-loathing. In short, my friend,” Baum shot the clasps on his battered briefcase and stuffed it beneath his arm, “look for a solid, upright, pious Christian, patriotic American. You should have no problem, Mooney. There are millions of them out there.” Baum hooted, pounded the detective’s back and bustled out.
16
“… and you say you were standing approximately here?”
“That’s right.”
“No moon?”
“No moon.”
“So the light was poor. No illumination from any other place? Like across the way?”
“No, man. Like I told you. It was dark, dark, dark.”
“You couldn’t see his face?”
“Nothing.”
“Features. Color. Build?”
“Nothing. Like I told you. The guy’s a hundred feet on the other …”
“Right. Okay. You told me. Let’s check that.” Mooney unwound a long steel tape from a spool. “Could you hold that for me just a minute?”
The young Italian construction worker, Enzo Vitali, grasped an end of the tape while the detective slowly walked the spool out over the tar roof.
It was noon, late May. Bright sunshine. Perfect kite-flying weather. A day for the park, or possibly a ride
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