Pure Instinct

12

Alex Sincebaugh felt the wave of burdensome humidity leisurely insinuate itself into his pores as it wafted across the pier where the body, pulled from the water by men and machines moments before, was still dripping and not likely to dry out anytime soon. As early as it was, the heat had settled in like God's angry breath on their faces, necks and any exposed skin, sending a perspiring reminder to one and all that mortality was ever present, while promising up a scorching day for the radio announcers to bitch about, a day of blown-out tires and blistering metal fatigue for automobiles, all in the wake of a record-breaking Louisiana heat wave; in other words, misery and a wall of super-heated air to exist in and to move through.

Louisiana's summer heat killed things: potted plants on win-dowsills-all but St. Augustine grass-and the small hearts of rabbits, raccoons, and overwrought birds that didn't stand a chance, couldn't cope. Dead opossums floated downriver in the Big Muddy, their teeth, gums and bone exposed, water turning their hardened, furry forms into tar like slicks. Only time and the water might clean up such debris; the fish didn't seem to want it.

It was nearing mid-morning at the Toulouse Street Wharf, where the first rays of the sun glinted and winked between the paddle wheels of the steamboat Natchez. From where Alex stood, the angle of the paddle wheel lifted over the bridge, making passing cars disappear on the Jefferson Highway on the east side of the river and U.S. 18 on the west. Here was a Mississippi River stopover with restaurants, a Texaco station for boat traffic and another excursion cruise ship called the Bayou Jean Lafitte, which departed every two hours for the Bayou Barataria, once home to the famous pirate.

Across the river from where she stood, Kim Desinor, her sundrenched hair glistening in the New Orleans morning, could see a levee and a canal, which in the old days might well have connected up to others and, if followed carefully, might take one to Lake Ponchartrain-but that was before economic progress had covered over many of the canals.

Still, there remained literally hundreds of canals that crisscrossed the city, meeting the perpetual downriver flow of the Mississippi at the city's northernmost tier. New Orleans was a city of canals and intermittent pumping stations. Below sea level, half the city's land mass was perpetually under siege by water, and when it rained hard, as it often did, water had to be pumped from canals which fed into Lake Ponchartrain, else the entire city would flood.

Sincebaugh and Ben deYampert, along with Kim-who was feeling like the psychic interloper or psychic saint, however the myriad perceptions might mold her-now joined the crowd of authorities on the wharf where Jessica Coran had already started to work. It appeared the aftermath of yet another seemingly mindless, unreasonable and bestial desecration of a person, the body belonging to a young man, his exact age and identity yet to be determined.

All too obviously to Kim, as it must be to Jessica's FBI-trained eye, the brutalization of the body had filled a raging need in the monster who'd inflicted such wounds in his at-tempt to get at the heart, ripping wide the chest and viscera from the hapless victim. Kim, also trained to some degree in criminal-profile procedures, could read all that in the stark evidence on the wharf. No great or mysterious or powerful trick in that observation, she told herself now; certainly no sixth sense required, she continued to mentally remind herself, wondering again why Jessica Coran should be acting so bitchy toward her. Perhaps it had all to do with the fact that Jessica's mind, as well as her entire life, had always been predicated on the search for scientifically proven fact, indisputable, hard, tangible evidence. It was what a medical examiner staked her life on; it was her worldview. Yet here Jessica was on bended knee, and not bending too gracefully at that, groveling in her mind's eye, no doubt, to a woman whose worldview was in direct contradiction to her own, having to ask Kim Desinor for help. She had been so far reduced by her continuing fear of the phantom stalking her that she'd arranged a secret moment alone with a psychic for answers, and then what did she get? The sky is falling…shit…

Kim was angry with herself that her reading had gone so badly. It might color their relationship from here on out, should Dr. Coran make assumptions based on what had occurred in that Lear jet.

Kim watched the other woman now in the shadow of the big riverboat Natchez; Jessica's sable-like, auburn hair and alluring features were startlingly set off by the white lab coat she now wore, a pair of silver-rimmed magnifying glasses framing her enchanting hazel eyes. Besides appearing lovely, Jessica looked adept, competent, knowledgeable, experienced and in charge all at once-all those good things which Kim at the moment was wishing she felt. Jessica and the NOPD principals on the case, Sincebaugh and deYampert, did their work while tourists looked on from the deck, preparing for an excursion upriver and down.

A light fog veiled the scene, but not enough to offer cover from prying eyes and the high-tech photo lenses of curious journalists and people with home cameras. Officials were rightly concerned that they might wind up on I-Witness Video in coming weeks, and from Stephens's behavior, he'd welcome it. Word had already gone out about the heinous nature of the crimes to both the locals and nationwide. Facts in evidence: There'd been a string of male prostitute deaths in the French Quarter; these deaths were caused by massive lacerations to the upper body; each victim had later had his genitals excised; each victim had had his heart removed, some people speculating that it had happened before death set in; the killer had struck five, possibly six times and had escalated his attacks; the killer had attacked both indoors and out. And now he was escalating the frequency of his attacks, according to police; only the day before there'd been another discovery of a body floating in a Mississippi backwash, the headless ca-daver that Sincebaugh had only hinted at. Everything known about the killer culminated in one frightening truth-the phantom remained unapprehended and he would kill again and again until he was stopped.

Sergeant Detective Ben deYampert ambled over to where Jessica worked, almost stepping on her black valise, he was that clumsy. He started talking as if they'd known each other since childhood.

“ You know, I've lived all my life in New Orleans, and I've spent the last six years on the NOPD, working my way up to sergeant detective, Homicide Squad. Guess it takes a case like this to make you wonder why a man'd subject himself to this line of work, huh?”

When he got no answer from Jessica, whose attention now was riveted on the body, deYampert merely continued on. “I got a wife and kids at home; they don't hardly know me anymore. I'm telling you, if something doesn't bust loose soon, well… I ain't so sure I want to keep on as a detective.”

She finally looked up at the doughy-eyed, large man and offered a half smile of reassurance. “Hang in there, Sergeant. We're going to get this bastard and soon.” Even as she spoke the words, she realized how cold and routine they must sound, but she only made things worse when she went on. “But if you're looking for psychoanalysis, see Kim Desinor over there. I understand she's a shrink as well as a psychic.”

“ Is that your idea of a consoling word, or do you have something concrete or useful to share with us?” asked an acerbic man now beside deYampert who quickly introduced himself as the principle detective on the case, Alex Sincebaugh.

She looked over her shoulder from the kneeling position she'd taken alongside the horrid corpse. The fire in Alex Sincebaugh's eyes was a sharp contrast to the cold, watery yet barren gaze of the corpse.

“ Why'd he leave this one's head intact?” asked deYampert of her, as if she had some magical dust to spread which would reveal the answers to all his questions.

“ I don't think he's really interested in heads as trophies,” she coolly replied.

“ We figured with yesterday's vie,” deYampert continued, as if still hoping for the pixie dust, “that he was increasing his attacks, but we never figured on finding another body within twenty-four hours.”

Jessica had no reply for such a statement, certainly not here and now. She'd need considerable time in the lab to look over the evidence of both recent kills. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Dr. Kim Desinor was pacing the wharf, seeking out an area where she might receive some psychic emanations, Jessica supposed, but the doctor of head and haunt seemed at the moment only to be frustrated. Continuing to gather what trace elements she could from the waterlogged victim, scraping out the nails, knowing that the water had likely already gotten her real trace evidence, Jessica made short work of the preliminaries. At the same time, she kept an eye on Kim, who had now reached into her purse and pulled forth the rosary beads but seemed hesitant to clutch them, dropping them back into her purse instead.“So, do you have anything of substance for us? Dr. Coran?” Sincebaugh pressed. “Wardlaw, your M.E.,” she began to Sincebaugh's audible groan, having to forge ahead over the man's pained expression. “Anyway, he tells me yesterday long-distance that he was able to get some semen from the previous victim's mouth which he's running DNA scans on now. He theorizes that it could be from the killer, and if so… who knows, maybe we can leam something about this guy's physical makeup-racial identity, probable height, weight, color of hair, eyes…”

“ Wardlaw's just as likely to botch a DNA test as any other test he runs.”

She looked up again at the rankled cop. “Well, I see there's no love lost between you, but amazingly enough, there were some hairs and fibers found inside the corpse which didn't belong to the victim.”

“ Semen? None of the others had any semen in their mouths.” DeYampert was working on this puzzle.

“ Exactly… and none of them had had their heads severed either, and nor does this morning's package. Everything intact except the missing heart and genitals.”

Sincebaugh was nodding appreciatively. “I'd had similar un answered questions about yesterday's 'package' as you call it, Doctor. So, Frank's on top of that one, huh? Going at it through DNA testing. Just where is officer Frank Wardlaw this morning, Dr. Coran?” Sincebaugh asked while struggling with some inner turmoil that Jessica couldn't quite put her finger on.

“ I assume he's at his crime lab. I really couldn't say.”

“ I would've assumed he'd be here. How're you two getting on, then?”

“ We actually haven't as yet met-face-to-face, that is, Lieutenant.”

Damn thorough of Frank to catch the semen, thought Sincebaugh. Wonder what's up. Now that the famous Jessica Coran had hit town, was Frank going to finally do his job? “Just the same, Frank ought to be out here, don't you agree?”

“ He… he wasn't called out, so I'm told.” She blinked in the morning glare in P.C. Stephens's direction, her long lashes like butterfly wings.

“ Wasn't called? Really?”

“ Yes, really. He's…well, guess you'll hear soon enough, but it's not my place to tell you.”

“ Tell me what?”

“ He's currently under some, I don't know, attack…”

“ What the hell's that? FBI euphemism for investigation of misconduct and impropriety?”

“ Both in and out of the lab, I'm afraid.”

“ Damn, so you're taking charge altogether on the forensics end? So we trade off Frank's alcoholic problems for your…press-magnetism?” He pointed to the array of cameras on the bridge, the reporters held back by uniformed cops. “I didn't invite the press, but for the time being, yes to your question, and in particular on this case. Wardlaw's staff will see to the routine calls.” Ben and Alex exchanged a glance. Things were happening fast.

“ So Frank let the Hearts case blow him out of the water,” Alex mumbled to deYampert.

“ Maybe his bleeding heart did him in,” said Ben, and both men laughed at the inside joke.

She knew how callous and jaded cops were, that it came with the territory, but she empathized strongly with the unknown Dr. Wardlaw, who'd fallen prey to the case he was working. She imagined it could happen to any M.E. or pa-thologist who got too emotionally involved in a case, and without thinking, she blurted out, “The man's hurting badly both emotionally and professionally, gentlemen. I don't suppose you two have ever been there?”

“ It's hard to muster any sympathy for Frank, Doctor, so don't even try,” replied Alex curtly.

“ Is he, you know, psychologically impaired over the case, or did the booze do him in?” asked Ben.

“ That's the common belief, yes,” she replied, leaving her response purposefully vague because she didn't herself know all the particulars. The M.E.'s predicament made her wonder if someone would one day be speaking the same epitaph over her when she finally flipped out over a case.

Sincebaugh was now also thinking about Wardlaw's emotional response to the Hearts case, the ramifications of it all. Not only had the case had a powerful emotional effect on Alex, but on others as well. He had given little consideration to its impact on Wardlaw or Landry or even Benjamin deYampert, who'd been beside him the whole time, so wrapped up was he in his own reproach and turmoil and the damnable nightmares plaguing him thanks to the most bizarre case of his tenure as detective in the NOPD.

Something in Jessica's steely, glinting eye made Alex now look over his shoulder at the psychic, Kim Desinor, whom he'd been ordered to fetch and bring here before he and deYampert had even had a chance to view the body. It stuck in his craw that he and Ben were sent like a couple of welcome-wagon ladies to greet the psychic whom Landry had notified them about.

Landry had said that it was out of his hands, that the Department's top people had requested it of the mayor, for Christ's sake, and that the mayor, a superstitious SOB, had readily gone along with the idea of hiring the psychic to come in to do her touchy-feely thing over the case evidence. But nobody had warned him that the psychic would be allowed here at the crime scene, to rummage about as she liked. What the fuck had happened to proper protocol? And what was the famous FBI forensics guru, Jessica Coran, going to think of the Department, or how a backward police precinct in New Orleans conducted a murder investigation? He momentarily thought of all the evidence-gathering he and Ben had done, his thick notebook filled with detailed drawings of the crime scenes, notes and sketches which he'd pored over and stared at at all hours of the night, none of it giving up anything remotely helpful to determining the killer's identity.

Alex was involved in the same process now, drawing a thumbnail sketch of the body where it lay on the pier, noting its condition down to the smallest detail. But as he worked, he continued to think about Kim Desinor and the psychic connection the city had made with her. Word was that Kim Desinor was a doctor, a psychologist, as well as a psychic, which for some made her legitimate, but proved not a thing with Alex. Word also had it that she hailed from the Miami-Dade area, where she'd done some “incredible” work with police agencies. Word had it that she was a psychometrist, that she took readings from the evidence in a case and imaged out possibilities and scenarios, which ordinary cops like Ben and Alex couldn't possibly be expected to do. Word had it that the woman was strikingly good-looking as well as “gifted” with a “sight and vision” beyond normal. Part of the word according to the cop-vine was certainly true: She was a strikingly beautiful woman with an olive tinge to her skin, full red lips and penetrating eyes, her smooth complexion and shoulder-length hair enticing.

Yes, the word was right about her features; she was a good-looking woman, as was Dr. Coran, who continued to kneel over the body, her gloved hands busily working, her black case beside her. Coran certainly looked to be a lot more in control than Wardlaw had ever been on any of the Hearts cases. Coran was taking little pieces of the victim and putting them in tubes and vials and below glass on slides; she was cutting nails and hair samples, taking scraps of flesh from here and there.

Alex watched her work over the corpse. The pier had long since come to life. Fishing boats went by in convoys, the deckhands curiously staring as each boat headed for open sea. In the distance, birds sent up a screeching racket as they followed the shrimpers. All around the death scene were signs of humming, buzzing life as cars sped across the big bridge overhead, and squealing children-like birds at play-scrambled after one another between their parents' legs amid an anxious, restless crowd waiting to board the ferryboats, some of the families now leaving for a less dubious adventure, thus causing consternation among the boat personnel, who'd pleaded with officials earlier to hasten their cleanup before the crowds arrived. But all had remained intact for Jessica Coran and for Kim Desinor's plane to touch down clear across the city.

But there was also around the crime scene an aura of ancient bloodletting, the people on the bridge and at the yellow tape line ever the Roman spectators, crying for more intensity and shock and gut-wrenching horror so they could investigate death in all its guises from the safe distance of the armchair enthusiast. Add to this the sickening sight of the mutilated corpse and the pungent aroma of the wharf itself, a place which saw the slaughter of fish and blood with every incoming fishing vessel-a demonstration which the crowd also appreciated on a daily basis here-and what did Alex expect. An aroma of decay and death forever sniffed at by people and roaming cats, like the one now representing its wild brethren as it slinked silently and unseen to the body for a curious sniff and inhale, making Jessica Coran shout, “Will somebody get this freakin' contaminating cat out of the crime scene area?”Ben deYampert reacted immediately, chasing the cat off with a kick, which gained a wave of sympathy from the onlookers, a few elderly women hissing at Ben something about cruelty.