Show of Evil

Six

In the lobby of the Ritz Hotel, the city's three hundred most-powerful men preened like gamecocks as they headed for the dining room. They strutted into the room, pompous, jaws set, warily eyeing their peers and enforcing their standing in the power structure by flaunting condescending demeanours The State Lawyers Association Board of Directors luncheon was the city's most prestigious assembly of the year and it was - for the most powerful - a contest of attitudes. Three hundred invitations went out; invitations harder to acquire than tickets to the final game of a World Series because they could not be bought, traded, or used by anyone else. The most exclusive - and snobbish - ex officio 'club' in town established who the most powerful men in the city were. To be on the invitation list connoted acceptance by the city's self-appointed leaders. To be dropped was construed as a devastating insult.

Yancey's invitation to be the keynote speaker was a sign that he was recognized as one of the city's most valued movers and shakers. For years, he had secretly yearned to be accepted into the supercillious boys' club and he was revelling in the attention he was getting. Vail followed him into the dining room, smiling tepidly in the wake of the pandering DA as he glad-handed his way to the head table. This was Yancey's day and Vail was happy for him, even though he regarded the proceedings with disdain.

His seat was directly in front of the lecturn at a table with three members of the state supreme court and the four most influential members of the legislature, an elderly, dour, and boring lot, impressed with their own importance and more interested in food and drink than intelligent conversation. Vail suffered through the lunch.

Yancey got a big hand when he was introduced. And why not? Speaking was his forte and he was renowned for spicing his speeches with off-colour jokes and supplicating plaudits for the biggest of the big shots. As he was being introduced, Yancey felt an annoying pain in the back of his head. He rubbed it away. But as he stood up to speak, it became a searing pain at the base of his skull. He shook his head sharply and then it hit again like a needle jabbing into his head. The room seemed to go out of focus; the applause became hollow. He reached for the lectern to steady himself.

Vail saw Yancey falter and shakily steady himself by gripping the lectern with one hand. With the other, he rubbed the base of his neck, twisting his head as if an imaginary bee was attacking him. He smiled, now grabbing the edge of the speaker's platform with both hands. From below him, Vail could see his hands shaking.

Yancey took all the applause, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

'Before I begin, I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce, uh… my… m-m-my right and left, uh, left…' His speech was slurred and he was stuttering.

Vail leaned forward in his chair. What the hell was wrong with Yancey? he wondered.

'… one of this… this, uh…'t-t-this country's great p-p-prosecutors, and the m-m-man who… uh…'

Yancey stopped, staring around the room helplessly, blinking his eyes. Vail got up and rushed towards the end of the head table, but even as he did, Yancey cried out, 'Oh!', pitched forward over the lectern, arms flailing, and dropped straight to the floor.

Vail rode in the ambulance with the stricken DA, after first calling St Claire and sending him to find Yancey's wife, Beryl. Yancey was grey and barely breathing. The paramedics worked over him feverishly, barking orders to each other while the driver called ahead to alert the trauma unit and summon Yancey's personal physician to the emergency room. When they arrived, they pushed Yancey's stretcher on the run into the operating room and Vail was left alone in the wash-up room.

Almost an hour passed before Yancey's doctor came out of the OR. Dr Gary Ziegler, was a tall, lean man with a craggy, portentous face studded with sorrowful eyes. He looked perpetually worried and was not a man who exuded hope to those waiting to get news of a stricken loved one. He wearily pulled off his latex gloves and swept off his cap and face mask, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and a forefinger and sighed.

'That bad, Gary?' Vail asked.

Ziegler looked over at him and shook his head.

'I hope you have a lot of energy, Martin.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'It means you're going to be a busy man. It's going to be a long time before Jack goes back to work - if he ever does.'

'Heart attack?'

'Massive cerebral thrombosis.'

'Which is what, exactly?'

'Blockage of a main artery to the brain by a thrombus - a blood clot. Specifically, it means the cerebellum of the brain has been deprived of blood and oxygen.'

'In other words, a stroke.'

'In other words, a massive stroke. He's suffering severe Hemiplegia - we can already determine that, his reflexes are nil. And I suspect he's suffering aphasia, although I can't tell how bad it is yet.'

'Translate that into simple English for me,' Vail said.

Ziegler walked to the sink and began scrubbing his hands. 'Paralysis down his entire left side caused by damage to the right cerebral hemisphere. A speech deficiency caused by damage to the left hemisphere. It could have been brought on by a brain tumour, atherosclerosis, hypertension, I can't be sure at this point. Right now we've got him stabilized, but his condition is poor and he's unconscious.'

'My God.'

'The fact that he survived the first two hours is encouraging,' Ziegler said. 'If he holds on for another week or ten days, the outlook will be greatly improved. But at this point there's no way of predicting the long-term effects.'

'What I hear you saying is, Jack could be a vegetable.'

'That's pretty rash,' Ziegler said, annoyed by Vail's description.

'It sounds pretty rash!'

'Well, nothing good can be said about a stroke of this magnitude, but until we can do an ECG, blood tests, CAT scans, an angiography, hell, I couldn't even guess at the prognosis.'

'Can I see him?'

Ziegler pointed to the door of the Intensive Care Unit.

'I'm going to clean up. If Beryl gets here before I come out, talk to her, will you? I won't be long.'

Vail looked through the window of the ICU. Yancey lay perfectly still with tubes and IV bottles attached to arms and legs, his face covered with an oxygen mask, machines beeping behind his bed. He was as still as a rock and his skin was the colour of oatmeal.

What irony, Vail thought. One of the biggest days of his life and his brain blows out on him.

A few moments later the lift doors opened and Beryl Yancey and her 30-year-old daughter, Joanna, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, stepped out. They looked dazed and confused and stood at the door, their hands interlocked, looking fearfully up and down the hallway. When Beryl saw Vail, she rushed to him, clutching him desperately, and chattering almost incoherently. He put his arms around her and Joanna. Beryl Yancey knew there were frequent skirmishes between her husband and Vail, but she and Jack Yancey both liked the tough prosecutor and were well aware that his stunning record had helped keep Yancey the district attorney for the past ten years.

'I was at the beauty parlour,' Beryl babbled. 'Can you imagine, the beauty parlour? Is he alive, Martin? Oh, God, don't tell me if he's gone. I can't imagine. I won't - '

'He's hanging on, Beryl.'

'Oh, thank God, thank you, Marty…'

'I didn't - '

'Is he awake? Can we see him? Oh, my God, my hair must be a mess. I was right in the middle of…' The sentence died in her mouth as she primped her incomplete hairdo.

'Gary Ziegler's just inside the emergency room. He'll be right out. He can give you all the details.'

'They came and got me in a police car. The whole beauty parlour got hysterical when that nice man… Who was that man, Martin?'

'His name's Harvey. Harvey St Claire.'

'He said he would wait for you in the car.'

'Fine.'

'You're not going to leave us, are you? Nobody would say anything, you know. Mr St Claire wouldn't tell me anything! I thought… Oh, God, I thought everything.'

'He doesn't know anything, Beryl. Harvey doesn't know any more than you do.'

'How bad does my hair look?'

'Your hair looks fine, Mom,' her daughter said, patting her on the arm.

'You know if you need anything, anything at all, just call me. At the office, at home…'

'I know that, Martin. But Jack's going to be all right. I know he'll be all right. He never gets sick. Do you know, he never even gets the flu?'

A minute or two later Ziegler came out wearing a fresh gown and the two Yancey women fled immediately to him. Vail took the lift to the first floor, but as he stepped out he saw a half-dozen reporters and a television crew clustered around the front door. He jumped back inside the lift and rode it to the basement. He took out his portable phone and punched out the car's number. It rang once and St Claire answered. 'Where are you?' he asked.

'The basement. There's press all around the front door.'

'I know. I'm looking at them as we speak.'

'I'm not ready to talk to the press.'

'Follow the arrows to the loading dock on the back side. I'll pick you up there.'

'Right,' Vail answered, following an arrow down a long, dreary tunnel. Empty dollies with bloody sheets wadded up on them lined the walls. Several of the overhead lights were burned out. The narrow, depressing shaft smelled of alcohol and dried blood. He reached the service entrance and bolted through it, raced to the loading platform, and jumped to the ground as St Claire pulled up beside him. He got in the car and St Claire pulled out into the hospital driveway, then sped off towards the courthouse.

'What was it, heart attack?' St Claire asked.

'Stroke. He can't walk, he can't talk, he's living on canned air, his brain has been deprived of oxygen and blood, and he's unconscious. When I suggested he might end up a mashed potato, Ziegler got edgy.'

'Wasn't a very professional diagnosis,' St Claire said. He spat our of the window.

'I'm not a doctor.'

'No.' St Claire chuckled. 'You're the new DA.'

'I don't have time to be DA,' Vail answered sharply. 'This is going to sound weird, but ever since this happened I keep thinking about the day Kennedy was killed, that picture of Johnson in the airplane taking the oath of office.'

'Passing of the mantle, Marty.'

'I'm not a hand squeezer and I'm too blunt in social gatherings. I don't want the mantle.'

'No, cowboy, but you sure got it.'

Chief Hiram Young sat behind his grey metal desk and drummed his fingers, staring at the phone message lying in front of him. Rose, his impressionable secretary, always responded to long-distance phone calls, especially those from big-city police departments, as if each was an omen of pending national disaster. Young even found her careful, impeccable, Palmer-method handwriting annoying, but she was the mayor's sister, so he couldn't complain. Even worse, she underlined words she felt required emphasis.

You had an urgent phone call from the District Attorney in Chicago (!!) at 1:30 PM I tried to reach you in several places. You must call Mr Ben Meyer as soon as you get in. I took Charlotte to the dentist. Back at 3. Call ASAP. I promised!!!

The phone number was written double-size across the bottom of the memo pad.

Warily, he dialled the number and asked for Meyer.

'This is Ben Meyer,' the deep voice answered.

'Chief Hiram Young returning your call, sir,' Young replied.

'Yes, sir!' Meyer responded enthusiastically. 'Thanks for getting back to me so promptly.'

'My pleasure,' Young answered. He cradled the phone between his jaw and shoulder and leafed through the mail as they spoke.

'I hate to bother you,' Meyer said, 'but we're working a case up here you may be able to assist us with.'

'Glad to help,' Young said, opening the phone bill.

'It's in regard to the Balfour murder case.'

There was a long pause. A long pause.

Finally, 'Yes…?'

'We think it may relate to a case here.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Uh, would it be possible to get some additional information from your department, Chief? We have the IBI report, but it's pretty skimpy.'

'Our information is pretty skimpy.'

'Have you had any further developments? Suspects, new information…'

'Not a thing.'

'As I understand it, you suspect Satanists may have - '

'That was speculation,' Young said tersely.

'I see. Was there anything specific…'

'You seen the pictures we sent over to the IBI?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Self-explanatory, wouldn't you say?'

'So it was the nature of the crime that led you to that conclusion?'

'I said it was speculation. Some of the city fathers and local ministers came up with that idea.'

'You don't agree then?'

'Didn't say that. What's your case about?'

'Some unidentified bodies. There are some similarities. Did Mrs Balfour have any enemies? Any - '

'Nothing like that. I knew Linda since she married George up in Carbondale and came here. Three, four years ago. Nice lady. No problems. George is the salt of the earth. Bringing up that little boy all by himself. He's had enough trouble.'

'Do you have any background on Linda Balfour - you know, from before she moved to - '

'I didn't feel it was necessary to snoop into her business. Like I said, she was a nice lady. No problems.'

Meyer was floundering, trying to strike a nerve, something that would open the chief up. Meyer said, 'And there were no suspects to speak of?'

'There was a utility man near the house that morning, but we never could locate him.'

'A utility man? What company - '

'Lady across the street saw him walking down the road. Fact is, we never ascertained who he worked for.'

'And that was your only suspect?'

'Told you, Mr Meyer, she didn't have any enemies. Nothing was stolen. Some nut comin' through town, most likely. We worked on that case for about a month.'

'Fingerprints?'

'Nothin' didn't match up with the family and their friends.'

'We're interested in the condition of the body, Chief. Can you - '

'I'm not at liberty to talk about that sir. You might talk to Dr Fields at the clinic - if he'll talk to you. He's also the coroner.'

'Thanks, Chief. Do you have that number?'

Young gave him the number and hung up. He sat and stared at the phone for several moments, started to call Fields, and then changed his mind. Doc Fields was a grown man. He could tell this Meyer fellow whatever he wanted to tell him. Young turned his attention back to the mail.

Doc Fields was staring across a tongue depressor at the most inflamed and swollen throat he had seen in recent years. He threw the wooden stick in the wastebasket and looked sternly down at the six-year-old.

'You been smoking, Mose?' he asked.

The boy's eyes bulged and his mother gasped, and then Fields laughed.

'Just jokin', young fella. Got us some bad tonsils here. Lessee, you're Baptist, aren't you, Beth?'

The mother nodded.

'Those tonsils have to come out. Sooner the better.'

The boy's eyes teared up and his lips began to tremble.

'Oh, nothin' to it, son. Besides, for a couple of days you can have all the ice cream you want to eat. How 'bout that?'

The promise of mountains of ice cream seemed to allay young Moses's fears.

'Check with Sally and see when's the best time for both of us,' Fields said. But before the woman and her son could get up to leave, Fields's secretary peeked in the door.

'You got a long-distance call, Doctor,' she said. 'It's Chicago.'

'You don't say,' said Fields. 'Probably the university school of medicine seeking my consultation.' He snatched up the phone.

'This is Dr Bert Fields. What can I do for you?' he said gruffly.

'Doctor, this is Ben Meyer. I'm a prosecutor with the DA's office. You may be able to help me.'

'You ailing?' Fields said sardonically.

Meyer laughed. 'No, sir. We have a case in progress that may relate to a homicide you had down there.'

'The Balfour murder?'

'How'd you guess?'

'Only homicide we've had hereabouts in a dozen years. In fact, the worst I ever saw and I been the town doctor since '61.'

'I understand you're the coroner.'

'Coroner, family doctor, surgeon, you name it.'

'And you performed an autopsy?'

'Of course.'

'Do you remember any of the particulars?'

'Sir, I remember every inch of that child's corpse. Not likely to forget it.'

'Would it be possible to get a copy of your report?'

Fields hesitated.

'I can assure you, we'll treat it confidentially,' Meyer hurriedly added. 'We may have a similar case up here. If this is a serial killer, it would help us greatly to stop the perp before he goes any further.'

'Perp?'

'Perpetrator.'

'Ah. Perp.' He laughed. 'I'll have to use that. It'll throw Hiram for a loop.'

'Yes, sir. I was wondering, do you have a fax machine?'

Fields got another hearty laugh out of that. 'Just got me an answer machine last year,' he said. 'Can't think of any reason why I'd need a fax machine.'

Meyer sounded depressed by the news. 'It sure would help me right now,' he said.

'Why don't I just get the report out and read it to you? Isn't that long.'

'That would be great!' Meyer answered. He reached over to the telerecorder attached to his phone and pressed the record button. 'Mind if I tape it?'

'Just like that?'

'Yes, sir, just like that. We're big-timers up here,' and they both laughed.

Fields left the phone for a minute and Meyer could hear a metal file drawer open and shut.

'This is exactly what I reported, Mr Meyer. Ready?'

'Yes.'

'The victim, Linda Balfour, is a white female, age 26. The body is 53.5 inches in length and weighs 134 pounds and has blue eyes and light brown hair. She was dead on my arrival at her home on Poplar Street, this city. The victim was stabbed, cut, and incised 56 times. There was evidence of cadaver spasm, trauma, and aero-embolism. There was significant exsanguination from stab wounds. The throat wound, which nearly decapitated Balfour, caused aero-embolism, which usually results in instantaneous death. Wounds in her hands and arms indicate a struggle before she was killed. There was also evidence of mutilation. Both of the victim's nipples and the clitoris were amputated and placed in the victim's mouth. It appears that the wounds were accomplished by a person or persons with some surgical knowledge. Also the inscription C13.489 was printed with the victim's blood on the rear of the skull, 4.6 centimetres above the base of the skull and under the hairline. The weapon was determined to be a common carving knife with an eight-inch blade found on the premises and belonging to the victim. A routine autopsy revealed no alcohol, controlled substances, or poisons in the bloodstream. The victim was nine weeks pregnant. Signed, Edward Fields, M.D. Date, 6/10/93.'

'That help any?' Fields asked.

'Yes, sir,' Meyer said, his pulse racing. 'Can you repeat the inscription on the back of the head so I'm sure I have it right?'

'C13.489. Any idea what that means?'

'Not the slightest,' Meyer said. 'But if we figure it out, I'll let you know.'

'Hope I've been some help, Mr Meyer.'

'Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. If you're ever in town give me a call. I'll buy lunch.'

'My kind of fella.'

Meyer cradled the phone and sat for a long time staring down at the scrap of paper in front of him.

C13.489. What the hell could that mean?

Maybe the old-timer would know.