What a waste, she thought. This young man could become a scientist, a surgeon, an engineer, a software designer. Instead he's in here, vegetating.
The big difference between Dennis and Steven was in their socialization. Steven was a mature man with above average social skills--comfortable meeting strangers, prepared to accept legitimate authority, at ease with his friends, happy to be part of a team. Dennis had the interpersonal skills of a three-year-old. He grabbed anything he wanted, he had trouble sharing, he was frightened of strangers, and if he could not get his way he lost his temper and became violent.
Jeannie could remember being three years old. It was her earliest memory. She saw herself leaning over the cot in which her new baby sister lay sleeping. Patty had been wearing a pretty pink sleepsuit with pale blue flowers embroidered on the collar. Jeannie could still feel the hatred that had possessed her as she stared at the tiny face. Patty had stolen her mommy and daddy. Jeannie wanted with all her being to kill this intruder who had taken so much of the love and attention previously reserved for Jeannie alone. Aunt Rosa had said: "You love your little sister, don't you?" and Jeannie had replied: "I hate her, I wish she would die." Aunt Rosa had slapped her, and Jeannie had felt doubly mistreated.
Jeannie had grown up, and so had Steven, but Dennis never had. Why was Steven different from Dennis? Had he been saved by his upbringing? Or did he just seem different? Were his social skills no more than a mask for the psychopath beneath?
As she watched and listened, Jeannie realized there was another difference. She was afraid of Dennis. She could not put her finger on the exact cause, but there was menace in the air all around him. She had the sense he would do anything that came into his head, regardless of the consequences. Steven had not given her that feeling for one moment.
Jeannie photographed Dennis and took close-ups of both ears. In identical twins the ears were normally highly similar, especially the attachment of the earlobes.
When they were almost done, Lisa took a blood sample from Dennis, something she had been trained to do. Jeannie could hardly wait to see the DNA comparison. She was certain Steven and Dennis had the same genes. That would prove beyond doubt that they were identical twins.
Lisa routinely sealed the vial and signed the seal, then she went to put it in the cooler in the trunk of the car, leaving Jeannie to finish the interview on her own.
As Jeannie completed the last set of questions, she wished she could get Steven and Dennis in the laboratory together for a week. But that was not going to be possible for many of her twin pairs. In studying criminals, she would constantly face the problem that some of her subjects were in jail. The more sophisticated tests, involving laboratory machinery, would not be done on Dennis until he got out of jail, if ever. She just had to live with that. She would have plenty of other data to work with.
She finished the last questionnaire. "Thank you for your patience, Mr. Pinker," she said.
"You didn't give me your panties yet," he said coolly.
Robinson said: "Now, Pinker, you been good all afternoon, don't spoil it."
Dennis threw the guard a look of sheer contempt. Then he said to Jeannie: "Robinson's scared of rats, did you know that, lady psychologist?"
Suddenly Jeannie felt anxious. There was something going on that she did not understand. She began hurriedly to tidy up her papers.
Robinson looked embarrassed. "I hate rats, it's true, but I ain't scared of them."
"Not even of that big gray one in the corner?" Dennis said, pointing.
Robinson whirled around. There was no rat in the corner, but when Robinson's back was turned Dennis reached into his pocket and whipped out a tightly wrapped package. He moved so quickly that Jeannie did not guess what he was doing until it was too late. He unfolded a blue spotted handkerchief to reveal a fat gray rat with a long pink tail. Jeannie shuddered. She was not squeamish, but there was something profoundly creepy about seeing the rat cupped lovingly in the hands that had strangled a woman.
Before Robinson could turn around again, Dennis had released the rat.
It ran across the room. "There, Robinson, there!" Dennis cried.
Robinson turned around, saw the rat, and paled. "Shit," he growled, and he drew his nightstick.
The rat ran along the floor molding, looking for somewhere to hide. Robinson went after it, lashing out with his nightstick. He made a series of black marks on the wall but missed the rat.
Jeannie watched Robinson with a warning alarm ringing in her mind. There was something wrong here, something that did not make sense. This was a humorous jape. Dennis was not a practical joker, he was a sexual pervert and a murderer. What he had done was uncharacteristic. Unless, she realized with a tremor of dread, this was a diversion, and Dennis had some other purpose--
She felt something touch her hair. She turned around in her chair, and her heart stopped.
Dennis had moved and was standing up close to her. In front of her face he held what looked like a homemade knife: it was a tin spoon with the bowl flattened and sharpened to a point.
She wanted to scream but she felt strangled. A second ago she had thought herself perfectly safe; now she was being threatened by a murderer with a knife. How could it have happened so quickly? The blood seemed to drain out of her head, and she could hardly think.
Dennis grabbed her hair with his left hand and moved the point of the knife so close to her eye that she could not focus on it. He bent over and spoke in her ear. His breath was warm on her cheek and he smelled sweaty. His voice was so low that she could hardly hear him over the noise Robinson was making. "Do as I say or I'll slice your eyeballs."
She melted with terror. "Oh, God, no, don't make me blind," she pleaded.
Hearing her own voice speak in such an alien tone of groveling surrender brought her to her senses somewhat. She tried desperately to pull herself together and think. Robinson was still chasing the rat: he had no idea what Dennis was up to. Jeannie could hardly believe this was happening. They were in the heart of a state prison and she had an armed guard, yet she was at Dennis's mercy. How glibly she had thought, a few short hours ago, that she would give him a hard time if he attacked her! She began to tremble with fear.
Dennis jerked painfully on her hair, pulling up, and she shot to her feet.
"Please!" she said. Even as she spoke, she hated herself for begging in this humiliating way, but she was too terrified to stop. "I'll do anything!"
She felt his lips on her ear. "Take off your panties," he murmured.
She froze. She was ready to do whatever he wanted, no matter how shaming, in order to escape; but to take off her panties might be as dangerous as to defy him. She did not know what to do. She tried to see Robinson. He was out of her field of view, behind her, and she did not dare turn her head because of the knife next to her eye. However, she could hear him cursing the rat and swiping at it with his club, and it was evident he still had not seen what Dennis was doing.
"I don't have much time," Dennis murmured in a voice like an icy wind. "If I don't get what I want, you'll never see the sun shine again."
She believed him. She had just finished three hours of psychological interviews with him and she knew what he was like. He had no conscience: he was not capable of guilt or remorse. If she frustrated his wishes, he would maim her without hesitation.
But what would he do after she had taken off her panties? she thought desperately. Would he be satisfied and take the blade away from her face? Would he slash her anyway? Or would he want something more?
Why couldn't Robinson kill the damned rat?
"Quickly!" Dennis hissed.
What could be worse than blindness? "All right," she groaned.
She bent awkwardly, with Dennis still holding her hair and pointing the knife at her. Fumbling, she pulled up the skirt of her linen dress and pushed down her Kmart white cotton briefs. Dennis grunted, deep in his throat like a bear, as they dropped to her ankles. She felt ashamed, even though reason t
old her this was not her fault. Hurriedly she worked her dress back down, covering her nakedness. Then she stepped out of her panties and kicked them away across the gray plastic-tiled floor.
She felt dreadfully vulnerable.
Dennis released her, snatched up the panties, and pressed them to his face, breathing in, his eyes closed in ecstasy.
Jeannie stared at him, aghast at this forced intimacy. Even though he was not touching her, she shuddered in disgust.
What would he do next?
Robinson's nightstick made a revolting, squashing sound. Jeannie turned and saw that at last he had struck the rat. His stick had smashed the rear half of its fat body, and there was a red smear across the gray plastic tiles. It could no longer run, but it was still alive, its eyes open and its body moving as it breathed. Robinson hit it again, smashing its head. It stopped moving and a gray slime seeped out of the crushed skull.
Jeannie looked back at Dennis. To her surprise he was sitting at the table, as he had all afternoon, looking as if he had never moved. He wore an innocent air. The knife and her panties had disappeared.
Was she out of danger? Was it all over?
Robinson was panting with exertion. He directed a suspicious glare at Dennis and said: "You didn't bring that vermin in here, Pinker, did you?"
"No, sir," Dennis said glibly.
Jeannie formed in her mind the words "Yes, he did!" But for some reason she did not say them.
Robinson went on: " 'Cause if I thought you done a thing like that, I would ..." The guard shot a sideways look at Jeannie and decided not to say exactly what he would do to Dennis. "I believe you know I'd make you regret it."
"Yes, sir."
Jeannie realized she was safe. But relief was followed immediately by anger. She stared at Dennis, outraged. Was he going to pretend that nothing had happened?
Robinson said: "Well, you can get a bucket of water and clean this place up, anyway."
"Right away, sir."
"That is, if Dr. Ferrami is finished with you."
Jeannie tried to say, "While you were killing the rat, Dennis stole my panties," but the words would not come out. They seemed so foolish. And she could imagine the consequences of saying them. She would be stuck here for an hour while the allegation was investigated. Dennis would be searched and her underwear found. It would have to be shown to Warden Temoigne. She imagined him examining the evidence, handling her panties and turning them inside out, with a strange look on his face....
No. She would say nothing.
She suffered a pang of guilt. She had always scorned women who suffered assault and then kept quiet about it, letting the offender get away with it. Now she was doing the same thing.
She realized that Dennis was counting on that. He had foreseen how she would feel and gambled that he could get away with it. The thought made her so indignant that for a moment she contemplated putting up with the hassle just to thwart him. Then she envisioned Temoigne and Robinson and all the other men in this jail looking at her and thinking, She doesn't have any panties on, and she realized it would be too humiliating to be borne.
How clever Dennis was: as clever as the man who had set fire to the gymnasium and raped Lisa, as clever as Steve....
"You seem a little shook," Robinson said to her. "I guess you don't like rats any more than I do."
She pulled herself together. It was over. She had survived with her life and even her eyesight. What happened that was so bad? she asked herself. I might have been mutilated or raped. Instead I just lost my underwear. Be grateful. "I'm fine, thank you," she said.
"In that case, I'll take you out."
The three of them left the room together.
Outside the door Robinson said: "Go get a mop, Pinker."
Dennis smiled at Jeannie, a long, intimate smile, as if they were lovers who had spent the afternoon in bed together. Then he disappeared into the interior of the jail. Jeannie watched him go with immense relief, but it was tinged with continuing revulsion, for he had her underwear in his pocket. Would he sleep with her panties pressed to his cheek, like a child with a teddy bear? Or would he wrap them around his penis as he masturbated, pretending that he was fucking her? Whatever he chose to do she felt she was an unwilling participant, her privacy violated and her freedom compromised.
Robinson walked her to the main gate and shook her hand. She crossed the hot parking lot to the Ford, thinking, I'll be glad to drive out of this place. She had a sample of Dennis's DNA, that was the most important thing.
Lisa was at the wheel, running the air-conditioning to cool the car. Jeannie slumped into the passenger seat.
"You look beat," Lisa said as she pulled away.
"Stop at the first shopping strip," Jeannie said.
"Sure. What do you need?"
"I'll tell you," Jeannie replied. "But you're not going to believe it."
19
AFTER LUNCH BERRINGTON WENT TO A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD bar and ordered a martini.
Jim Proust's casual suggestion of murder had shaken him. Berrington knew he had made a fool of himself by grabbing Jim's lapel and yelling. But he did not regret the fuss. At least he could be sure Jim knew exactly how he felt.
It was nothing new for them to fight. He remembered their first great crisis, in the early seventies, when the Watergate scandal broke. It had been a terrible time: conservatism was discredited, the law-and-order politicians turned out to be crooked, and any clandestine activity, no matter how well intentioned, was suddenly viewed as an unconstitutional conspiracy. Preston Barck had been terrified and wanted to give up the whole mission. Jim Proust had called him a coward, argued angrily that there was no danger, and proposed to carry it on as a joint CIA-army project, perhaps with tighter security. No doubt he would have been ready to assassinate any investigative journalist who pried into what they were doing. It had been Berrington who suggested setting up a private company and distancing themselves from the government. Now once again it was up to him to find a way out of their difficulties.
The place was gloomy and cool. A TV set over the bar showed a soap opera, but the sound was turned down. The cold gin calmed Berrington. His anger at Jim gradually evaporated, and he focused his mind on Jeannie Ferrami.
Fear had caused him to make a rash promise. He had recklessly told Jim and Preston that he would deal with Jeannie. Now he had to fulfill that imprudent undertaking. He had to stop her asking questions about Steve Logan and Dennis Pinker.
It was maddeningly difficult. Although he had hired her and arranged her grant, he could not simply give her orders; as he had told Jim, the university was not the army. She was employed by JFU, and Genetico had already handed over a year's funding. In the long term, of course, he could easily pull the plug on her; but that was not good enough. She had to be stopped immediately, today or tomorrow, before she learned enough to ruin them all.
Calm down, he thought, calm down.
Her weak point was her use of medical databases without the permission of the patients. It was the kind of thing the newspapers could make into a scandal, regardless of whether anyone's privacy was genuinely invaded. And universities were terrified of scandal; it played havoc with their fundraising.
It was tragic to wreck such a promising scientific project. It went against everything Berrington stood for. He had encouraged Jeannie, and now he had to undermine her. She would be heartbroken, and with reason. He told himself that she had bad genes and would have got into trouble sooner or later; but all the same he wished he did not have to be the cause of her downfall.
He tried not to think about her body. Women had always been his weakness. No other vice tempted him: he drank in moderation, never gambled, and could not understand why people took drugs. He had loved his wife, Vivvie, but even then he had not been able to resist the temptation of other women, and Vivvie had eventually left him because of his fooling around. Now when he thought of Jeannie he imagined her running her fingers through his hair and saying, "You've been so g
ood to me, I owe you so much, how can I ever thank you?"
Such thoughts made him feel ashamed. He was supposed to be her patron and mentor, not her seducer.
As well as desire he felt burning resentment. She was just a girl, for God's sake; how could she be such a threat? How could a kid with a ring in her nose possibly jeopardize him and Preston and Jim when they were on the brink of achieving their lifetime ambitions? It was unthinkable they should be thwarted now; the idea made him dizzy with panic. When he was not imagining himself making love to Jeannie, he had fantasies of strangling her.
All the same he was reluctant to start a public outcry against her. It was hard to control the press. There was a chance they would begin by investigating Jeannie and finish up investigating him. This would be a dangerous strategy. But he could think of no other, short of Jim's wild talk of murder.
He drained his glass. The bartender offered him another martini, but he declined. He looked around the bar and spotted a pay phone next to the men's room. He swiped his American Express card through the card reader and called Jim's office. One of Jim's brash young men answered: "Senator Proust's office."
"This is Berrington Jones--"
"I'm afraid the senator is in a meeting right now."
He really should train his acolytes to be a little more charming, Berrington thought. "Then let's see if we can avoid interrupting him," he said. "Does he have any media appointments this afternoon?"
"I'm not sure. May I ask why you need to know, sir?"
"No, young man, you may not," Berrington said with exasperation. Self-important assistants were the curse of Capitol Hill. "You may answer my question, or you may put Jim Proust on the phone, or you may lose your goddamn job, now which is it to be?"
"Please hold."
There was a long pause. Berrington reflected that wishing Jim would teach his aides to be charming was like hoping a chimpanzee would teach its young table manners. The boss's style spread to the staff: an ill-mannered person always had rude employees.
A new voice came on the phone. "Professor Jones, in fifteen minutes the senator is due to attend a press conference to launch Congressman Dinkey's book New Hope for America."