Ready. Set. Psycho.

Chapter Eighteen: Solomon

           

After Francine died, Solomon came stumbling out of The Dog and Duck. Sean was supporting him, walking him to the curb, where he hailed a cab. Solomon slurred, "What do I owe you?"

Sean waved a cabbie down and opened the door. He pushed Solomon in. "Sol, you'll never pay for a drink in my bar again, you understand? The shit you've been through, Sol. Jesus. Tell the nice cabbie where you live."

Solomon recited his address, and Sean gave the driver cash to cover the fare. "I'll come check on you tomorrow."

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of Solomon's apartment building. Solomon stumbled out but made his way through the front door and to the elevator. He waited for the elevator as he swayed uneasily on his feet. The door opened, he stepped in, and hit the top button. After more swaying and a few seconds, the door opened again. He stepped out of the elevator, turned right, and went two doors down to his front door.

He reached into his pocket for his key but could not manage to pull it out. He took off his coat, pushed the pocket up to his face, and turned it inside out. The key fell to the ground. He picked it up with his left hand and put it into the lock, turning it and putting his right hand on the doorknob. He turned the knob, and the door gave. He was inside.

He slipped off his shoes while holding himself against the wall for balance. As his shoes came off, he noticed a pink envelope on the ground. It had his name written on it. "Mrs. Leer," he said, picking up the envelope and turning it over to see that it was Mrs. Leer's personal stationary. He put it on the console table near the door in a bowl of wooden balls.

As he walked across his apartment toward his washroom, he began disrobing. He was naked by the time he crossed the threshold of the doorway into the washroom. He ran a cold shower, rinsed himself, and then turned the shower off and dried himself. He put on a pair of silk lounge pants and walked back across his apartment to his fridge, where he ate a banana. As he chewed, he went to the console table and clumsily opened the letter from Mrs. Leer.

Detective Roud,

My whole life, I did not know what I was looking for until I found you. I did not know how empty and meaningless my life was. I could not have imagined finding more fulfillment than I did last night. I look forward to getting to know you better.

When you answered your phone, I was listening. I don't know what I wanted. I suppose I wanted someone to enjoy Francine's death as much as I was. I guess that was always the plan, somewhere back there in my mind, to see if I could find another kindred spirit. Connections, human connections, matter. Failing that, I suppose I wanted someone to witness it and to be helpless — except you were not helpless. You found her. You almost found her in time, no less. So what I got was not a kindred spirit, which I suppose would have been nice, nor a helpless wreck, which may have been moderately enjoyable, but a capable foil, and that was thrilling.

I do wish that you did not immediately go out and get drunk over it. Seems it makes you an unfitting foil for me. But beggars can't be choosers, right? You do have so much else going for you. You are wealthy — perhaps more so than me. You are well connected. You live in a beautiful apartment. And you gave up what could have been an easy life to become a detective and find, well, people like me. I don't know why you're doing it. Guilt? A lust for adventure? Maybe you just need to practice your detective skills, because you're looking for something.

I was both excited and terrified as you inched closer to Francine. Naturally, I wanted her to die. In fact, I needed her to die — she had seen my face. She wouldn't have known I was her killer, but maybe she would have guessed? Her survival would have forced me to run. I am not a very good risk-taker.

I watched her die — that I think you already knew. It was not the first person I've suffocated — that you probably guessed. I have known for a while that I needed to see victims both gasping for life and knowing that they are about to die. In the few instances I didn't see it, I feel as if I hadn't really killed anyone at all. In fact, I'd feel like I had to go out that same day and kill someone else. That's not easy. This takes a lot of planning.

And then I discovered something even more thrilling than watching someone die: watching someone trying to save that life. Giving them just enough hope and then seeing them fail. Given how at-risk I am for being caught if you succeed, it is tantalizing and terrifying and gratifying in ways I did not know were possible.

It is something I need to explore. I need to push you closer and closer to catching me, give you more and more hope you'll find my next victim in time. I need to choose better victims, too; ones that you will identify with, empathize with, care for, even though you've never found them. I have a hard-on just thinking about it.

I don't know what any of this means. I only know I need to see this through. You understand.

Yours,

Psycho

The letter was not signed. It had been typed into a computer and printed on standard stock paper, then folded to fit into the stolen envelope. Solomon bagged it in a Ziploc from his kitchen. He reached above his fridge for a bottle of whisky and drank straight from the bottle, shaking his head. He picked up his phone and dialed.

"Yeah?" Greg said.

"You home?" Solomon asked.

"Yeah," Greg replied.

"You get a letter?" Solomon asked.

"Nah," Greg replied.

"I did. From the killer."

"You sure?" Greg asked.

"Knew I was listening in when the girl died."

"Fuck," Greg said. "I'm on my way."