Articoli correlati a Eyes: A Susan Shader Novel
A distinguished psychiatrist and psychic, Dr. Susan Shader is called in by the Chicago police to use her ESP talents to track a serial killer who stalks and mutilates his seemingly unrelated victims, only to discover that the case could cost the lives of her family. 50,000 first printing.
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L'autore:
Joseph Glass is a pseudonym for a New York Times bestselling author. This is his first Susan Shader novel.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Five months later it was six a.m. Dr. Susan Shader lay in the heavy silence of her last moments of sleep. Her eyelids fluttered as dreams bore her toward awakening.
In her dream she was small again. A little boy was in the window making faces at her. He had his hands over his eyes, peeping mischievously through the gaps in his fingers. Behind him a bird flew suddenly up into the sky. The colors around him were unnaturally bright, as though sky and trees and soaring bird were created for the first time. Too bright, Susan thought. The sun was exploding; this was the end of the world. She tried to call out a warning to him, but her lips wouldn't move. She made a signal with her hands, but he didn't see it because he was hiding his eyes. The house was already trembling; wisps of smoke were coming from cushions and curtains and even the pillow under her head.
Now a haze was outside the window, darkening the sky. There was no time left.
Susan awoke with her hand already reaching for the alarm clock. The dream flew from her mind as she saw the time. She turned off the alarm and sat up. The distant gurgle of the coffeemaker in the kitchen comforted her. She took one look at the empty bed, sighed, and got up to take a shower.
She was a morning person. The habit had begun when she was in medical school and never left her. Nowadays she found herself getting heavy-eyed by ten, and she was almost never able to sleep past six. She remembered with some nostalgia her college years as a night owl, but she enjoyed the silence of the early morning, the peace of the world poised to spring into its routines of action.
She turned the water very hot as she washed herself, then very cold for a bracing moment before she turned it off. She shivered as she brought the towel to her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as the steam cleared. Fair skin, slim shoulders, breasts still pink from the hot shower. A woman's body that had not known the caress of a man in a long time. Sighing again, she put on her terry-cloth robe and headed for the kitchen. She was dressed for work and finishing her third cup of coffee when the phone rang.
"Hello?" She balanced the receiver against her shoulder as she turned another page of the Chicago Tribune.
"Susan? This is Gold. We need you this morning. Are you booked?"
"Not really. I can reschedule. What's up?"
"A girl murdered in her apartment near the Circle Campus. A coed. An athlete. I haven't been over there yet, but Garner tells me the MO matches the two girls this winter."
"I'm sorry to hear that, David."
"You want me to pick you up?"
"No. I'll meet you."
He gave her the address.
"Okay,"she said. "Give me half an hour?"
"I may need more than that. Thanks."
Susan hung up the phone and sat for a moment looking out her window at the gathering winter light. If what Gold had said was true, she would not be wanting any breakfast this morning. A frozen rain was falling when she arrived. Chicago PD black-and-whites vied with unmarked cars for space in front of the apartment building. Gold was talking to a uniformed officer and the other detectives. He turned to greet her. Then they both went upstairs. Sirk, of the State's Attorney's Office, was stalking around with a clipboard, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
"Where is Able Weathers?" Gold asked.
"He'll be here."Weathers was the state's attorney.
"Tell the press to stand by," Gold said wryly.
"They already know."
Abel Weathers-- the "Able" spelling was not a compliment, liked publicity even under the worst of conditions. He was up for reelection next year and would not fail to make the most of this crime scene. Sirk nodded toward the interior of the apartment. "In the bathroom."
The corpse was in the tub. One look at it left no doubt that it had been the same killer. The eyeless sockets gaped emptily at the bare walls. The hands were outside the tub, giving the body an uncanny, reclining look.
"Is everything the same?"Susan asked Sirk.
"Eyes gouged out."
"Postmortem?" Susan asked.
"Sure. She was strangled in the bed, to judge by the appearance of the sheets.
Everything else was done in here."
Gold had taken a step toward the bathroom sink. There was a smear of blood on the medicine cabinet mirror. Blood was also on the sink and fixtures.
"Okay," Gold said. "It's our man."
Sirk nodded. "He waited two months this time." The previous two homicides had taken place within a month of each other. Until this morning the authorities had been hoping the crime spree was over. Perhaps, they thought, the killer had died, or moved away. No such luck.
Gold gestured to Susan. "Want a closer look?"
"Thanks." She stood before the mirror looking at the blood. The sameness of the MO was almost scientific, as though staged for the benefit of those who would find the body. This in itself was not unusual. Most serial killers stage part or all of their scenes. But there was a simplicity about this-the eyes missing, the blood on the sink in front of the bathroom mirror-that sent a chill down her spine.
"Was she raped?" she asked almost hopefully.
Sirk shook his head.
This was another significant point. Few serial killers can resist tampering sexually with their victims in one way or another. Susan was convinced that these killings were sexual in their motivation. But the three victims were unmolested. Except for their eyes, which were gouged out, snipped off with some sort of blade or scissors, and taken away by the killer.
"Her name is Patsy Morgenstern," Gold was saying. "She's a varsity volleyball player at the university. Athletic scholarship."
Susan was looking more closely at the body.
"She's had surgery," she said.
"Anterior cruciate ligament," Gold said. "The parents have already been notified. The father told us about the operation over the phone. It almost ended her athletic career, but she came back this year." He pursed his lips. "She must have worked very hard. A twenty-year-old girl. . ."
He gestured around the small apartment, which bore posters equally divided between rock groups and European mountain scenes. "Her roommate was away for the weekend."
"Another athlete?" Susan asked the question a bit too quickly. If the roommate was an athlete, her absence may have saved her life. This killer would hardly have shrunk from a double homicide.
Gold shook his head. "No. She's a French major. Her name is Stephanie Mertz." He glanced at the walls. "I guess she's the one who put up the European posters. She spent the weekend with her parents down in Bloomington. I have a man talking to them now. She'll talk to us this afternoon. I don't want her coming back here until we get all this cleaned up."
Susan nodded. "Does she have a boyfriend?"
"Which one? The victim?"
"Yes." Susan had meant the roommate, but the question had to be asked about the victim.
"No boyfriend."
Somehow this question made Susan look again at the corpse. The upraised knees extended well above the top of the tub.
"How tall is she?" she asked.
"Six-two in her stocking feet," Gold said, looking at his notes. "You can't tell that very well from this posture." He glanced at Susan. "Why do you ask?"
"No boyfriend," Susan said. "Tall girls sometimes have a problem attracting the opposite sex."
Again Susan's nerves tingled with sadness and outrage. A young, strong girl, strong enough to fight her way back from serious knee surgery. Strong enough to fight her way through a world where tall girls were not the first to be called for dates. But not strong enough to defend herself against a murderer. Susan searched her memory. The first two victims had been athletes as well. Both were basketball players. But neither was anywhere near this tall.
"So it isn't tall girls he seeks out," she said.
"Nope." Gold was looking at his notes. "Cheryl Glaser, the first victim, was only five-six. Jennifer Haas, the second, was five-ten."
"Athletes," Susan murmured.
"God damn it," Gold said. "How did he get in here, anyway?"
Susan almost smiled. Every time Gold went to a crime scene, he expressed surprise and dismay. He behaved as though he believed in a sane world, a world where violence was a senseless exception rather than the rule. The daily routine of mayhem that made up his job never changed his attitude. It might have been an act, but he would never admit to that. This was one reason Susan liked him. Sirk had heard Gold's question.
"Through the door. She let him in." Susan nodded. This had been the case with the first two victims.
"Either she knew him," Gold said, 'or he's a smooth talker."
This had been a point discussed after the first two killings, and now it was obviously central to the investigation. All three girls had let the killer into their apartments. It was impossible to avoid the speculation that they knew their killer.
"At least it was quick," Gold remarked.
"Hardly a struggle," Sirk said. "Fractured hyoid. The boy has strong hands. She probably lasted twenty or thirty seconds before she blacked out."
But there must have been an interval of terror as the girl realized she was in danger. And rising panic when he told her to go into the bedroom. Susan felt her heart beat faster as she thought of the girl's last moments of life. The police photog...
In her dream she was small again. A little boy was in the window making faces at her. He had his hands over his eyes, peeping mischievously through the gaps in his fingers. Behind him a bird flew suddenly up into the sky. The colors around him were unnaturally bright, as though sky and trees and soaring bird were created for the first time. Too bright, Susan thought. The sun was exploding; this was the end of the world. She tried to call out a warning to him, but her lips wouldn't move. She made a signal with her hands, but he didn't see it because he was hiding his eyes. The house was already trembling; wisps of smoke were coming from cushions and curtains and even the pillow under her head.
Now a haze was outside the window, darkening the sky. There was no time left.
Susan awoke with her hand already reaching for the alarm clock. The dream flew from her mind as she saw the time. She turned off the alarm and sat up. The distant gurgle of the coffeemaker in the kitchen comforted her. She took one look at the empty bed, sighed, and got up to take a shower.
She was a morning person. The habit had begun when she was in medical school and never left her. Nowadays she found herself getting heavy-eyed by ten, and she was almost never able to sleep past six. She remembered with some nostalgia her college years as a night owl, but she enjoyed the silence of the early morning, the peace of the world poised to spring into its routines of action.
She turned the water very hot as she washed herself, then very cold for a bracing moment before she turned it off. She shivered as she brought the towel to her face. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as the steam cleared. Fair skin, slim shoulders, breasts still pink from the hot shower. A woman's body that had not known the caress of a man in a long time. Sighing again, she put on her terry-cloth robe and headed for the kitchen. She was dressed for work and finishing her third cup of coffee when the phone rang.
"Hello?" She balanced the receiver against her shoulder as she turned another page of the Chicago Tribune.
"Susan? This is Gold. We need you this morning. Are you booked?"
"Not really. I can reschedule. What's up?"
"A girl murdered in her apartment near the Circle Campus. A coed. An athlete. I haven't been over there yet, but Garner tells me the MO matches the two girls this winter."
"I'm sorry to hear that, David."
"You want me to pick you up?"
"No. I'll meet you."
He gave her the address.
"Okay,"she said. "Give me half an hour?"
"I may need more than that. Thanks."
Susan hung up the phone and sat for a moment looking out her window at the gathering winter light. If what Gold had said was true, she would not be wanting any breakfast this morning. A frozen rain was falling when she arrived. Chicago PD black-and-whites vied with unmarked cars for space in front of the apartment building. Gold was talking to a uniformed officer and the other detectives. He turned to greet her. Then they both went upstairs. Sirk, of the State's Attorney's Office, was stalking around with a clipboard, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
"Where is Able Weathers?" Gold asked.
"He'll be here."Weathers was the state's attorney.
"Tell the press to stand by," Gold said wryly.
"They already know."
Abel Weathers-- the "Able" spelling was not a compliment, liked publicity even under the worst of conditions. He was up for reelection next year and would not fail to make the most of this crime scene. Sirk nodded toward the interior of the apartment. "In the bathroom."
The corpse was in the tub. One look at it left no doubt that it had been the same killer. The eyeless sockets gaped emptily at the bare walls. The hands were outside the tub, giving the body an uncanny, reclining look.
"Is everything the same?"Susan asked Sirk.
"Eyes gouged out."
"Postmortem?" Susan asked.
"Sure. She was strangled in the bed, to judge by the appearance of the sheets.
Everything else was done in here."
Gold had taken a step toward the bathroom sink. There was a smear of blood on the medicine cabinet mirror. Blood was also on the sink and fixtures.
"Okay," Gold said. "It's our man."
Sirk nodded. "He waited two months this time." The previous two homicides had taken place within a month of each other. Until this morning the authorities had been hoping the crime spree was over. Perhaps, they thought, the killer had died, or moved away. No such luck.
Gold gestured to Susan. "Want a closer look?"
"Thanks." She stood before the mirror looking at the blood. The sameness of the MO was almost scientific, as though staged for the benefit of those who would find the body. This in itself was not unusual. Most serial killers stage part or all of their scenes. But there was a simplicity about this-the eyes missing, the blood on the sink in front of the bathroom mirror-that sent a chill down her spine.
"Was she raped?" she asked almost hopefully.
Sirk shook his head.
This was another significant point. Few serial killers can resist tampering sexually with their victims in one way or another. Susan was convinced that these killings were sexual in their motivation. But the three victims were unmolested. Except for their eyes, which were gouged out, snipped off with some sort of blade or scissors, and taken away by the killer.
"Her name is Patsy Morgenstern," Gold was saying. "She's a varsity volleyball player at the university. Athletic scholarship."
Susan was looking more closely at the body.
"She's had surgery," she said.
"Anterior cruciate ligament," Gold said. "The parents have already been notified. The father told us about the operation over the phone. It almost ended her athletic career, but she came back this year." He pursed his lips. "She must have worked very hard. A twenty-year-old girl. . ."
He gestured around the small apartment, which bore posters equally divided between rock groups and European mountain scenes. "Her roommate was away for the weekend."
"Another athlete?" Susan asked the question a bit too quickly. If the roommate was an athlete, her absence may have saved her life. This killer would hardly have shrunk from a double homicide.
Gold shook his head. "No. She's a French major. Her name is Stephanie Mertz." He glanced at the walls. "I guess she's the one who put up the European posters. She spent the weekend with her parents down in Bloomington. I have a man talking to them now. She'll talk to us this afternoon. I don't want her coming back here until we get all this cleaned up."
Susan nodded. "Does she have a boyfriend?"
"Which one? The victim?"
"Yes." Susan had meant the roommate, but the question had to be asked about the victim.
"No boyfriend."
Somehow this question made Susan look again at the corpse. The upraised knees extended well above the top of the tub.
"How tall is she?" she asked.
"Six-two in her stocking feet," Gold said, looking at his notes. "You can't tell that very well from this posture." He glanced at Susan. "Why do you ask?"
"No boyfriend," Susan said. "Tall girls sometimes have a problem attracting the opposite sex."
Again Susan's nerves tingled with sadness and outrage. A young, strong girl, strong enough to fight her way back from serious knee surgery. Strong enough to fight her way through a world where tall girls were not the first to be called for dates. But not strong enough to defend herself against a murderer. Susan searched her memory. The first two victims had been athletes as well. Both were basketball players. But neither was anywhere near this tall.
"So it isn't tall girls he seeks out," she said.
"Nope." Gold was looking at his notes. "Cheryl Glaser, the first victim, was only five-six. Jennifer Haas, the second, was five-ten."
"Athletes," Susan murmured.
"God damn it," Gold said. "How did he get in here, anyway?"
Susan almost smiled. Every time Gold went to a crime scene, he expressed surprise and dismay. He behaved as though he believed in a sane world, a world where violence was a senseless exception rather than the rule. The daily routine of mayhem that made up his job never changed his attitude. It might have been an act, but he would never admit to that. This was one reason Susan liked him. Sirk had heard Gold's question.
"Through the door. She let him in." Susan nodded. This had been the case with the first two victims.
"Either she knew him," Gold said, 'or he's a smooth talker."
This had been a point discussed after the first two killings, and now it was obviously central to the investigation. All three girls had let the killer into their apartments. It was impossible to avoid the speculation that they knew their killer.
"At least it was quick," Gold remarked.
"Hardly a struggle," Sirk said. "Fractured hyoid. The boy has strong hands. She probably lasted twenty or thirty seconds before she blacked out."
But there must have been an interval of terror as the girl realized she was in danger. And rising panic when he told her to go into the bedroom. Susan felt her heart beat faster as she thought of the girl's last moments of life. The police photog...
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- EditoreVillard Books
- Data di pubblicazione1998
- ISBN 10 0375500162
- ISBN 13 9780375500169
- RilegaturaCopertina rigida
- Numero edizione1
- Numero di pagine144
- Valutazione libreria
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