Killer Instinct

SEVENTEEN

As Jessica Coran's plane flew over Indianapolis' lights at forty thousand feet, Teach was driving up to the parking lot at Grant Memorial Hospital on the outskirts of the city. He had seen all his regular clients, and he had seen Dr. Grubber, and now his time was his. He put on his medical supply sales badge and wandered the halls of the newly constructed hospital, breathing in the hospital smells, annoyed only by the fluorescent lights, which hurt his sensitive skin. Even though it was hot, he wore long sleeves. He also wore his dark glasses, but hospital people understood the need for dark glasses to protect the eyes from the brilliance of the lights. Everything was so white.

He liked to wander about the emergency waiting room where oftentimes young people were brought in, some in need of a place to stay the night. He knew how to approach those in need.

There was a young woman in a corner by herself looking frightened and alone. He went to her and told her he was a doctor, and he asked if she was being taken care of.

“ No, I've been waiting and waiting,” she said, “and they won't tell me how Jimmy is.”

“ Jimmy? Is Jimmy your little boy?”

She laughed at this. “No, Jimmy's my boyfriend. He ran himself off the road and I was called by the police, but I've been left to sit here all this time. I got no way of knowing if he's all right.”

“ What's Jimmy's last name?”

“ Pyles.”

“ Okay, good. I'll find out what I can for you, and I'll be right back,” he told her.

He went straight through the door separating the waiting room from the nurses' station and found chaos inside. Everyone was busy. He gave his stay a moment longer before returning to the distraught young woman in the waiting area. The girl was instantly at him for news.

“ He's stabilizing well, and it looks like he's going to be fine. Dr. Thornton said he was gotten here in time, so no serious damage was done.”

She almost collapsed. “Oh, oh… oh, thank you… thank you.”

“ Dr. Thornton suggests you go on home; that there's nothing you can do until tomorrow. Says Jimmy'll be out of it until then; doped to the ceiling.” He chuckled lightly.

“ No, I don't think I could leave him. I'll just wait and-”

“ No, no, child, nonsense. I have a good sedative I can prescribe for you, and once you've had some sleep-”

“ I can't sleep knowing Jimmy's in pain.”

“ But he's not in pain. He's out of pain, thanks to Dr. Thornton and his competent staff.”

“ I just want to see him.”

“ I'm sorry, but that's out of the question. Look.” He showed her some Quaalude tablets. You know what these are, don't you? These'll help you, I promise, and you'll get by this tragic time. You really do need to get your sleep, some peace of mind, and when you see him tomorrow, you'll be just fine, and when he sees you, you'll look so-”

A nurse pushed through the door and said, “Barbara, Jimmy's being X-rayed now for broken bones. He's been sedated, but he's in a lot of discomfort and there's some internal bleeding. We'll need to operate and we need the consent of his next of kin, so-”

“ What? What? But Dr. Thornton said-”

“ Dr. who?”

“ This man, this doctor here-” She turned and found no one there.

“ What man? Who're you talking about? Maybe we'd better get you a Valium.”

But the girl rushed to the hallway and saw the ghost trail of the man who had been so reassuring, and she shouted, “Come back, mister! Doctor! You!”

But he was gone.

The nurse tried to console her.

It had been a close encounter and he felt his nerves rubbed raw at having lost the opportunity which had been opening up to him with each moment before the nurse stepped in and destroyed his plans. He got back into his van, feeling great frustration and anger, but the night was young, and he had a great deal of patience, and the young woman would have to come out sometime. He could use the knockout injection, or chloroform or brute force, but there was a police car parked outside the emergency entrance.

Should he wait or go? Would she wait all night inside or would she come out?

He waited for fifteen minutes and this stretched into a half hour and still she did not show. He began recalling earlier blood-takings he had performed, going through each in its every detail, reliving the events one by one. He recalled the first, Toni. She'd been a scrubwoman at a small hospital in St. Louis, Missouri. She was not particularly pretty, but her blood was good.

He recalled how a year before Toni, he had gotten his idea for the spigot; how he had drawn it up with great care, sketching it in detail in pencil. He thought the design so perfect that no one could have trouble with manufacturing the device. He took it to Maurice Lowenthal, the so-called genius in the company who had designed medical instruments on demand for doctors in the past. Lowenthal's custom-made instruments sold for large sums, making money for Balue-Stork Medical Supply.

Lowenthal wanted first to know what job the spigot was supposed to perform, saying he could not create without full knowledge of the purpose of the instrument. He understood forceps, clamps, scalpels, mirrors, visors, but this was beyond him-a tracheotomy tube with a control device? Why? To punish the poor patient by shutting off his air supply when the doctor was so moved to do so? Lowenthal understood tubes and wires and cables, anything he could fashion with his hands and his mind, but he wanted to grasp the use of the instrument.

So he took it back from Lowenthal and did nothing with it for a time. Lowenthal remained curious, however, and one day asked him who was the doctor who had asked for this strange device to be designed. He'd told Lowenthal the first name that came into his head, Grubber in Indiana.

“ Ahhh, yeah, a strange bird, that Grubber.”

“ Yeah, strange,” he had agreed.

“ Did you ever find out what the thing was to be used for?”

“ Grubber thought it might be the answer to relieving the pressure of any liquid buildup in the body,” he had said with such confidence that he had surprised even himself. But he had been planning to come back to Lowenthal again with the design, and so he had practiced this answer. “Water on the knee, you name it.”

“ And water on the brain, I suppose?”

“ Why not, if it can be designed accurately.”

“ With a thing like this, it ought to be patented, my friend, and if we patent it, it becomes the property of the company, and what do we get?”

“ Yeah, I know, but those are the breaks.”

“ I'm up for retirement soon,” said Lowenthal. “Tell you what, if we can go halfies on the rights, I'll design it at my shop at home, but it can't be used until after November, when I retire, understood? If it's a success, then everyone will want it, and we will be rich men.”

He agreed with Lowenthal, and Lowenthal had created the prototype, unaware that he had also created the perfect murder weapon.

# # #

In Zion, Illinois, Jessica found what everyone feared, another Tort 9 with the markings of the Wekosha vampire. Maybe Kaseem was right. Maybe it was his man, after all. There was an all-points bulletin released on Kaseem's man, the description going out to every cop and law enforcement agent in the city and its environs. It appeared the killer did live somewhere in the greater Chicago area, and that it could be Davie Rosnich, living under an assumed name. He would be about the right age, and he was a known blood-drinker, or so the military said.

Throughout her evidence gathering the Chicago bureau guys were very helpful, very professional. The scene was nothing like Wekosha, although Kaseem and Forsythe were forever in her way. Everything had been kept exactly as it was found and no one had been allowed to wander aimlessly around the house or the body. It was a controlled situation for a change.

She didn't have to do her own photographs, nor did she have to tell the photographer how to do his job. She had all the cooperation she required. FBI's Chicago bureau chief, Joe Brewer, was an old friend of Otto's and Otto had paved the way for her.

It was almost a carbon-copy killing of the Wekosha nightmare, with a few notable exceptions. The tendons were not cut. The rope used was the same, but the knot was a bit different. The sperm was liberally smeared about the orifices and the mutilation cuts were just as horrible, but the severed limbs were thrown across the room and lay where they had fallen. The eyes were slit, as was the jugular. And again, there was a distinct absence of blood, or even the smell of blood. She determined first and quickly that the neck wound was once again superficial and the blood about the lips of this large wound had been smeared on, most likely with a brush. She knew instinctively that they were dealing with the same maniac.

She knew she would get no usable prints; that he worked with gloves, most likely surgical gloves. She guessed that any blood they might find would belong to the victim, that the killer hadn't so much as nicked himself.

“ Found something over here,” said Joe Brewer, “a capsule… some sort of medication.”

She went to have a look. It was a red and white capsule. She asked Brewer's men to search for any matching pills, or a container, to rule if it belonged to the victim or the killer. The search turned up nothing.

“ Indicating a possible connection to the killer,” Jessica said. “We'll have to analyze it at the Lab.”

“ We can do it downtown,” replied Brewer.

Jessica held her breath. She dared not hope that finally the fastidious killer had overlooked something. She would hold her prayers until the lab could tell her whether it was or was not a viable clue.

Brewer was just as anxious. He sent the capsule out immediately with strict orders that it take priority. Meanwhile, working in conjunction with Kaseem, Brewer had put together the all-points bulletin on the soldier that Kaseem sought. She was glad for this, because it kept at least one of the military guys off her back while she worked over the cadaver. Forsythe had to leave the house on two occasions, unable to hold back the meal he'd taken on the plane.

The kill was much fresher than the Copeland girl had been, and from her clothing and photos about the house, they established in a matter of minutes that the victim was a hospital nurse. Jessica felt so close to the killer now that she thought she could smell him in the room, a foul odor indeed.

She stood before the dead woman and she visualized his movements, each in turn. He first takes control of her. He must have complete control to tie her heels and her hands and to feel the rush of superiority he requires to look upon her as an object, a container housing the fluid he wants from her. He must use an injection, possibly a powerful anesthetic. Once she is incapacitated, he ties her and rips down the chandelier and uses the naked cords to tie his rope to and hoist her up over the area where her dining room table had been before the killer pushed it over to one side. He uses a chair, but he still must be rather tall and strong to support the dangling woman while he wraps the rope round and round her heels there, pulling tight against the wire supports.

She put the chair next to the body and had Forsythe stand on it. Forsythe was six two. He had to reach to the very length of his arms to make the tie. Their killer, she reasoned, was even taller than Forsythe, perhaps six four or five. She jotted this fact down beside all the others she had learned about the killer, both from her lab work and from Otto's profiling team. The list was getting long, and for the first time, she began to see discrepancies between Kaseem's killer and her own. For one, Kaseem's man was only five nine. He'd have a near impossible time of placing the body in the position it was in, using only the chair.

She informed Kaseem of this when he returned. He was instantly dubious.

“ How do you know he didn't use the table? Or a ladder?”

“ Marks in the rug, here,” she said, pointing. She had already had photos taken of the indentations. “They indicate the four-legged chair was used, and there are no others in the immediate area of the body.”

“ Just the same, my guy is very strong, a weight-lifter.”

“ It's not so much a matter of weight lifting as reaching.” She got up on the chair, saying, “I'm over six feet up, but I could never work that rope myself.”

Kaseem chose to ignore the obvious. He was convinced that the vampire they were after was the same vampire he had encountered in West Germany. She chose then to ignore his ignorance and get on with her evidence gathering. This time, with Chicago's help, she had the latest in equipment for fingerprint finding and for dampness imaging, and the light generated by the reflective ultraviolet imager brought smudges and smears into incredible focus. The bastard's chosen the wrong place this time, she thought. Somewhere in this room he had left traces of his perspiration, and from that all she need do is establish his DNA.

She worked through the night.

At 2 A.M. she began to hear the first rumblings of another victim located in Indiana, on the outskirts of Indianapolis. Word had it that it was a young male victim, and that perhaps it had nothing whatever to do with the Zion killing; yet the victim was drained of his blood. It was yet another Tort 9, and it fell within the one-hundred-mile circumference of Chicago.

She would have to go there in the morning. Joe Brewer brought her word that Otto Boutine would catch up to her in Indiana.

Jessica wanted to strike out at the unknown, unseen assassin. She wanted to rend his tidy little world apart, threaten him as he had never been threatened before. She more and more liked O'Rourke and Schultz's suggestion to taunt him through the newspapers, and be damned with caution. She wanted to do something-anything-before the bastard struck again. In the space of twenty-four hours two more bodies were found. He had stepped up his killing, increased his need for victims, for blood. Why? What had changed? Or was it that he now had, along with his killing tool, a brash new attitude that he could take it when he wanted it, whenever he dared; that in fact there was no dare to it? He was feeling so far beyond capture, beyond the law and human morality, that he was flaunting his newfound power. This is what he seemed to be saying to her. She was angry beyond words, so angry that she wanted to kill this horrible man at any cost.

Brewer drove her back toward Chicago and the Lincolnshire Inn where she was staying, fairly close to the airport. She had intended to be flying back to Virginia the following morning, but now she'd have to prevail upon Brewer's people to get her out to Indianapolis, or hire a car of her own.

She was exhausted by now and so declined Brewer's suggestion they get a bite to eat. He said he hadn't seen Otto in years, and wanted to catch up.

“ You'll have plenty of time for that with Otto when he meets us in Indianapolis,” she said.

“ I was sorry to hear about his wife.”

“ Yes, so were we all.”

They were just outside the inn now. “Did you know her, well?”

“ No, not at all, really. Except for what Otto's told me.”

“ Was a time I thought she was going to marry me, but she chose Otto instead.”

“ I didn't know.”

He managed a grimacy smile that turned to a frown. “Life deals us all body blows from time to time, but this one… could take Otto out. He… well, he really loved her.”

“ I know that.”

“ Then there's nothing to the rumors… 'bout you and Otto?”

“ Christ, Brewer, how goddamned long is the FBI grapevine?”

“ I talked to Otto. He's… he is in love with you. You know that, don't you?”

She hadn't thought of the affection they felt for each other as love. She was unsure whether or not she wanted it to be called love, not at this time, and not with such suddenness. How did Otto know how he felt, his emotions in a complete jumble? She wasn't even sure how she felt. All she knew was that she liked it when he held her, when he had kissed her briefly, and when he had stayed overnight. She had liked how it felt to have him in the apartment. But was it love?

“ Otto and I are best of friends for now… best of friends and we work together. Does that settle your curious mind?”

“ I'm sorry if I offended you. Just wanted to tell you that I know Otto. I know he… that he's the kind of man who needs commitment and a real relationship and-”

“ Dammit, Brewer, I thought Chicago had a Dear Abby. I don't need to stand here in the cold and listen to advice from you about my relationship with Otto.” She stormed off, angry at Brewer, angry at herself, angry at Otto and the situation, but mostly angry at the Wekosha vampire, who, it appeared by the headlines in the newspapers in the lobby, had become the Chicago vampire.

She picked up a copy and took it to her room. Schultz did quite a number on the killer. He had gotten a story placed that pictured all the alleged victims of the vampire killer, along with photos of their parents where this was possible. The story told primarily of the suffering of the families left in the wake of the killer's bloodletting. It was the sympathy-garnering story that Otto had approved, but as she read it, and as she thought about the vampire who slept peacefully somewhere nearby, she realized the story would gather in no sympathy from him.

Her hatred for the creature was so great that she no longer considered him human. The fact he was human-the fact he was not a freak of nature or a predatory animal-only added to the man's despicable and horrible tastes and murderous proclivities; the fact he did what he did without rage, without insanity, but with a cold, methodical and calculated process always in mind… this made her wish he was an animal or a mythical underworld beast.?