The Venus Complex Read online

  ENTRY 20:

  I can’t seem to stop watching the boob tube, so aptly named. It is becoming a compulsion, even though I can’t stand anything on it.

  I caught a program called The FBI Files on the Discovery Channel the other night. It told the true story of a homicidal maniac who ran around Wisconsin or some other godforsaken part of the country back in 1986. He murdered kids, adults, black and white, male and female, whatever. He wasn’t fussy. This guy became enraged because he had to make an appearance in court, so he killed a little girl, then grabbed his girlfriend and hightailed it out of town. For some reason, perhaps because his girlfriend was in on it, the killer easily approached people on the street. He would then inveigle his way into their homes, kill them, and then motorvate on over to his next crime scene. He was stupid, sloppy and didn’t even bother to use gloves. Yet the FBI and the police were always fumbling away a few steps behind him, can you believe it? They even broadcast his face on TV, probably nationwide, but people still invited the killer into their houses. The only reason the cops caught him was that he and his bimbo were dumb enough to return to his hometown. The couple just sat there in a public park eating peanut butter sandwiches until the police moseyed on in and slapped the cuffs on them.

  Jesus, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Now, where do I begin? Let’s take the serial killer first. My advice to him would have been: don’t take up a new profession unless you decide that you’re going to do it properly. Read up on the subject and inform yourself about the risks. Fingerprint detection has been around for over a hundred years now, so why not wear gloves? Also, keep away from kids. Nothing sickens me more than child killers. What is the possible challenge in murdering a little kid? None whatsoever. What a jerk.

  Next, the police. Why did it take them so long to bring the bastard down? Honestly, with the trail that guy was leaving, my blind grandmother could have caught him sooner. It just goes to show how untouchable serial killers are. Since they have no connection with their victims, they are almost impossible to trace.

  Finally, the victims. Could someone please tell me what would possess people to let TOTAL STRANGERS into their homes, and even give them dinner, for goodness’ sake? OK, he had a woman with him and, for some bizarre reason, most of the general public have a hard time getting their heads around the idea that women kill, but they can and do. (Remember Aileen Wuornos?) Folks need to get more paranoid. As far as I am concerned, I am coming to the conclusion that it might be sensible to regard every stranger as a potential serial killer. Even some of my friends are suspect. I just imagine that everyone has the same sick fantasies that I do. Then I’m not surprised when horrible things happen.

  ENTRY 21:

  After months of procrastination, I finally went through some of Angie’s stuff today, sorting it all out for a major run to the Salvation Army. Her mother had offered to do it when I was in hospital, but, for some perverse reason, I wanted to do the job myself. After all, I was responsible for her untimely demise and I wanted the satisfaction of throwing away all her precious designer clothes and knickknacks. Boy, I’m glad that it was her cash that she was spending. If I thought that she used my hard-earned money to buy that crap, I would have driven my car into that tree years earlier.

  Of course, some items brought back memories, good and bad.

  I was on the way to becoming a major weirdo when we encountered each other at University. Lord knows what she saw in me: a quiet, manageable guy, I guess, and unbelievably grateful for the small sexual favors that she granted me. I was also unimpressed with her wealth, which she appreciated. It must be difficult if you are a woman with means. You never know if a man is there for you or your cash. I was also penniless, which she loved. I think Angie married me simply to irritate her parents, who were rooting for some major player from Yale or Harvard with a bankroll of his own. Ironically, I always liked her folks and they ended up liking me. They had worked hard for their money and knew its value. Angie just wanted to shop ’til she dropped.

  In Angie, I saw a good-looking girl, confident in some ways, totally insecure in others. I was obsessed with art; she attended the classes because she thought it was an easy way to get a degree. She was smart and sassy, but this couldn’t make up for her lack of intellectual substance.

  How such a fun-loving couple ended up being the Syracuse equivalent of Edward Albee’s George and Martha is something that I don’t want to even begin to record in detail here. In short, it all came down to her ambition to be married to a man who was a Somebody and me not giving a damn. She wound up being profoundly disappointed by me and I suppose a divorce was inevitable in the long run. I guess the thing that made it difficult for her was that she might have to give me a chunk of her considerable fortune. That must have really galled her—like a pebble in her expensive Manilo Blahnick shoe.

  Sex was great in the beginning. We were both enthusiastic and she was quite adventurous in allowing me to live out some of my milder bondage fantasies, but that soon stopped when she got bored. But the thing that really soured our marriage was the whole baby thing. We spent thousands on In Vitro Fertilization, but it just didn’t take. She even wanted us to adopt at one point, but I put my foot down. Deep inside my soul, I knew that I was unsuitable father material and I didn’t want to take the chance of screwing up some poor bastard who wasn’t even mine.

  So things got more and more bitter, until our existence was just excruciating. She started seeing old Charlie and even though I suppose I was relieved in some odd way, it infuriated me all the same. Why do people put each other through such endurance tests? Why tolerate all those years of irritation and loathing? Was the money so important to her? To me? I should have bailed out years ago. I might have ended up happily ensconced with some unchallenging little grad student and she might have finally found her Wall Street magnate.

  No use in thinking about what might have been. We suffered each other to the breaking point and then something snapped. She ended up dead and I ended up a basket case.

  Great.

  ENTRY 22:

  The fall semester is about to begin and I have made my decision. I am not going back to teach at the University. Professor Mandelson understood and he said any time that I wanted to come back, even part-time, he would be happy to have me.

  I just can’t face it. I don’t feel confident enough to look in the mirror, let alone confront a classroom full of demanding students. It’s not as if I need to work anymore. Angie’s money has taken care of that.

  I have to find something to do, though, or I will probably go crazy. Just working out and watching television isn’t enough. I need a project, or a job, something that can fulfill me. But what?

  ENTRY 23:

  Something happened today.

  I decided to go to the campus this morning to check things out, even though I wasn’t ready to start teaching again. I just had an urge to see the University, to get a whiff of the place and to ascertain if I could work up the enthusiasm to eventually go back to my job. I went to my office, but, of course, they had given it to someone else. Jeff is a nice guy and wanted to talk, but I immediately felt claustrophobic. He told me where my stuff was, but I couldn’t be bothered to go over to ADMIN and field more questions. I wandered around, feeling utterly detached. Everything looked odd and out of place. The students that knew me said “Hello” and were pleased to see me, but I felt like I was playing a bit part in my own life.

  I went outside and sat on a bench in the Quad and watched the world go by. It was a pleasant September day, not raining for once. I looked at the kids bustling past: so full of energy and love and excitement about the lives they had stretching out in front of them; so confident that nothing bad was ever going to happen to them; so immortal. The fools.

  Then I saw her. She was obviously a teacher, maybe from the School of Medicine or Chemistry. (She was wearing a white lab coat.) She was walking across the campus with a gaggle of students in tow, but to my eyes, she and I were the only pe
ople in the universe. It was as if some clever movie director had created a special lighting effect just for her. She seemed illuminated from within. Funnily enough, she wasn’t my usual type at all. I normally go for medium-to-tall brunettes, but she was petite and blonde, with a hidden sensuality. It was her face that arrested me. Her face made time stop for me. I could barely breathe. She was smiling, laughing … she seemed full of brightness and promise.

  An idea like a thunderbolt struck my brain. This would be the woman to save me, to bring me back to the world. This woman was my soul mate, I knew it.

  I fell in love with her right then and there. Hit smack dab in the heart with Cupid’s poisoned arrow. Crazy, I know, but let’s face it, I am not exactly Mr. Stability at the moment.

  For the first time in months, I felt a stirring in my inner being. Something was coming alive again. It felt good. It felt exciting. However, underneath it all, there was a dark shadow. I wanted this woman and I wanted her right now, but I knew that I could never possess her. I could never approach her in the state I was in. My self-confidence was at rock bottom. But instead of experiencing despair, as I would have felt before the Accident, my world rage boiled up again. Not towards her, but towards everyone else. Towards every living creature on the whole goddamned planet. My self-loathing at this point was only matched by my utter animosity towards everything else.

  If I had the power, I would have blasted the entire Earth to smithereens. It was as if a helmet of anger had clamped down on my head, the visor coloring my world a deep, blood red.

  However, I controlled myself. I forced the rage back inside. I decided that there is always hope. Hope springs eternal. Hope, that last will o’ the wisp that Pandora trapped in her famous box.

  I followed my soul mate the best I could and do you know where we ended up? Oh, irony of ironies: The Psychology Department! Trust me to become instantly smitten by a woman whose profession I loathed. I went inside and limped around, trying not to draw too much attention to myself, but I needn’t have worried. I was the Invisible Man. No one took any notice of me. Then I bumbled right past her office. I saw her in there, deep in conversation with a student.

  Her name was on the door. It is Elene … sorry, Doctor Elene Sheppard. I wonder how she pronounces her first name. Is it Elaine, or Ellen, or Aileen, or Elena? I have decided that it is pronounced like Elaine (with the emphasis on the last syllable) until further notice.

  Now I have a face for the women in my dreams. No, hold on. Is that a good idea? The women in my dreams are always dead or dying. I don’t want anything to happen to Elene.

  Tomorrow I will find out where she lives.

  Now, I have a Project! Something to get me going in the mornings; something to think about; to take me out of myself. I am going to find out everything about Elene. I will know where she likes to go out for dinner; who are her friends; where she shops; who she is dating …

  Ah, yes. A girl like that would have a boyfriend, wouldn’t she? On the other hand, professional woman, early thirties … perhaps not. So many women want their independence these days and she looked the type. A strong-minded girl who walks her own path.

  She had a lovely voice. Very melodious. Not the typical Upstate nasal whine, thank God. Great legs, too. Well-defined calf muscles. Of course, all the girls of Syracuse have amazing calf muscles because of the abundance of hills in this damn town.

  I am going to enjoy this.

  ENTRY 24:

  It has taken me nearly a week, but now I’m an expert on Elene. It was easy obtaining the info from the Administration Building. I was discreet as well, telling Mrs. Johannson that I needed to get some information from my own files. I went just before lunchtime, so she left me in the Records Room on my own. I had no idea that I had such a knack for devious behavior.

  Elene is thirty-two years old and she was born in Spokane, Washington. (That’s an interesting coincidence. Isn’t that where the serial killer came from on the news a little while ago?) She went to the University of Washington for her Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology. Elene then went on to the California School of Professional Psychology in Fresno for her Masters and subsequently her Doctorate in Forensic Psychology. She shares an office downtown with some other shrinks, but she spends most of her time teaching at Syracuse University. (Why didn’t I ever spot her when I was working there?) Occasionally, she helps out the police if they have a case involving some psycho. She also counsels prisoners at the Correctional Facility in Jamesville.

  Elene lives in a modest, turn-of-the-century house on Euclid Avenue, five minutes from the campus. She drives a metallic gray, 2006 Ford Taurus with black interiors. She likes to go to Phoebe’s on Genesee Street for lunch on Tuesdays and Fridays.

  Elene doesn’t seem to have that many friends. She works all the time.

  The only man that I saw her with all week was a tall guy with well-defined features. A real lady-killer type, he looked like Tommy Lee Jones meets Sam Shepard on a dark night. I decided to follow him after they had dinner together at Kahunaville in the Carousel Center, of all places. He must be on a peanut salary. If you’re going to take a girl like Elene out to dinner, take her to Pascal’s or at a pinch, Salario’s.

  So I tailed Tommy Lee Shepherd to the Public Safety Building on State Street. I am hazarding the opinion that he might be an officer of the law. He certainly looked like a cop—bad suit, tired shoes and all.

  Anyway, they only saw each other once and they spent most of the time arguing. He dropped her home and didn’t come in, so maybe they are just working on a case together.

  That’s all the news that’s fit to print. Not bad for an amateur detective. I was amazed at how unobservant people are when they are whirling around in their own little worlds. They never look around when they are walking down the street or strolling through a mall. I always look behind me. Constantly. Hell, I’m not paranoid, I KNOW everyone is against me.

  Now, a strategy must be worked out. How to meet Elene?

  I need to make contact soon. My dreams are now becoming so bizarre that I am afraid to write them down. I need a dose of human contact or something terrible might happen. I am so sexually frustrated that I am masturbating all the time.

  I came across this web site the other day called The Serial Killer Hit List and I read the biography of Albert De Salvo, the Boston Strangler. He claimed that he raped at least two thousand women. TWO THOUSAND. He had three or four orgasms a day, sometimes one right after the other. He was unbelievably over-sexed, to the point of it interfering with his everyday existence. (That’s obvious, otherwise why go out raping and murdering? “His compulsions made him do it, your Honor.”)

  Before the Accident, I wasn’t particularly sexed up, as the dire state of my marriage had placed me in a state of sexual lethargy. Since the Accident, as the days go by, I seem to be more and more obsessed by sex. I fantasize about girls all the time. The other day, I even fantasized about the late Angie. I imagined dragging her lifeless body out of the wreckage of our car and giving her the fuck of the century. I ripped off her ridiculously expensive clothes and I fucked her in her mouth, her cunt and her ass. Fantasizing about fucking my dead wife up the ass (something she would never had stood for in life, by the way) was enormously satisfying. It’s giving me a hard-on just remembering it.

  I can’t meet Elene in this state. I have to do something about this. If I met her now, I would either disintegrate into a drooling wreck, or tear her clothes off and screw her right then and there on the floor of the staff canteen. Hey, that’s a good one. I might work on that one later.

  Maybe I should go to a prostitute.

  ENTRY 25:

  I went to see Dr. Clueless again. I told him that I wasn’t getting any benefit from our sessions and that I wanted to quit. Boy, did he look worried. So would I, if I got his fees. He said that I should continue treatment; that he had only just scratched the surface. He said that he didn’t have a full picture of my background yet. He wanted to know more about my
childhood, about dear old mom and pop.

  As if I would tell him.

  I said that I found it difficult to relate to him and that I probably would communicate better with a woman doctor. I asked him if he could recommend anyone. Dr. Clueless came up with a few names, none I recognized. I said that since I was considering going back to my job at the University, it might be more convenient if my counselor was teaching there. Bingo! He eventually mentioned Elene’s name. I said that I had heard of her. He said her expertise was more on the forensic end of Psychology, but she was also an experienced counselor. He would give her a call, see if she was willing to take on my case, and arrange a meeting.

  All of a sudden, I had very warm feelings for Doctor Cordess, especially since I was never going to have to see him again. I was suitably grateful, wrote a big check and left.

  I am going to meet Elene! Of course, this is a rather awkward way of choreographing a love affair. I know shrinks have rules about messing around with patients, but I figure I could make contact—and then decide not to consult her. I could ask her out to dinner later.

  Would I be able to deal with that? Would I be able to have a decent conversation with Elene? I don’t know. I guess that I will have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

  ENTRY 26:

  Still no word from Dr. Clueless about the possible appointment with Elene.

  I had nothing better to do today, so I spent the morning hanging around the campus. I stopped off at ADMIN and picked up a schedule of psychology courses, so I would know where Elene was located at all times.

  I walked back towards my car. I’d parked it on Marshall Street, not coincidentally around the corner from Huntington Hall, where Elene worked. I spotted her coming out of the building and I thought, “Hell, why not?” So I followed her. It was so easy. I felt like sending her a note advising her to be more aware. It was Tuesday, so I knew that she was heading to Phoebe’s for lunch.