Scalpers

SEVEN

The recent scalps were suspended on a thick, fire-blackened lug pole that Van had set into the old fireplace. Also dangling from it was a large black kettle in which other, older scalps were lovingly placed and stewed. Pubic hair, armpit hair, and droplets of skin and hunks of fat were tossed in. When called for, freshly clipped nails taken from scalping victims were added.

Steam rising from the brew was occasionally caught by holding a clear jar over the cauldron, condensation from off the soupy surface collected droplet by droplet. The special vapor provided a decidedly unholy water for anointment at the outset of the ritual feeding. Van used a small scepter, stolen by Ian from a church many years before, to toss the human dew.

Van and Ian lived more for this moment than for the scalpings, for it was as He had said. The potions and elixers and nourishment they took from the boiling cauldron gave them unlimited power and abilities over others. Through the union of Van's knowledge of darkness and Ian's ability to live in two worlds, to be in a position to influence adversaries who vowed to stop them, and to continue to lure such catches as the last one into the net ... these works were remarkable and good. By their deeds Ian and Van had pleased the Dark One now dwelling in their hearts and growing stronger there through each grim scalping.

Van had savage eyes. His little body was covered with hair, his features masked by the long, coarse strands, each one of which would in time become a full-blown demonic force, the legions of which were daily being released into this world through him. He had a double row of teeth, like that of a dolphin, and the extra teeth forced his jaw out, gorilla-like. His every movement, his every word held Ian in captive wonder; it was almost hypnotic. His mind kept Ian in tow.

Van's black robe, making him look like a creature somewhere between man and ape, had become a powerful symbol of the solemn occasion. It would soon be discarded and he would stand before the fire and cauldron and altar in full splendor, a mass of hair from face to foot. Only his scalp was bald, the pity being that this small portion of skin without hair kept Van in a state of incompleteness and impotence, as the Dark One could not blossom whole until Van was covered over completely with hair.

Van's lips thrust out now as he hummed the mantra he often used, a low, howling, doglike sound. The lips were huge and deformed and gaping, like the edges of a wound. The little nose was nonetheless too large for his face, with flat and flaring nostrils. His ears were strangely like cabbage leaves, and clumps of hair hung from the lobes like moss. Thick sideburns ran across his lower cheeks to merge into a heavy mustache. The brows were bushy, hiding the eyes. His large eyes were jaundiced and narrowed to pin-points of coal at the pupils. There was, Ian knew, an angry agony and hatred in their quiet centers, in the glazed, unwavering stare. Ian knew that Van hated all mankind, even Ian himself, and yet Ian understood and loved him all the same. It was a growing love, a love generated from guilt in the beginning, but now it was a love borne of admiration and respect, because little brother was doing it ... he was bringing evil into the world, he was carrying Him and a host of demons about in his thwarted body.

And they showed their growing approval in many ways.

The Dark One wanted Van's head. They wanted his entire body, including the cranium, for their plot, to grow in and out of his living cells and tissue, to penetrate the earthly plane. It was to this end that Van and Ian took scalps, fashioned the meals and soups and stews, and collected the DNA of others, for He and his legion partook of the meals too. And it was beginning to work. They both had seen signs of it, even on Ian's body, being prepared now for a second plot through which the demonic might plant seed, grow, and harvest in the physical world. Demons were just lost spirits, ghosts condemned to walk the earth without muscle or sinew, and he and Van were now providing them with what they needed.

"It's ready ... ready,” said Van, taking up the water steamed off the stew and sprinkling first himself and then Ian once more, giddy with excitement. Ian, too, was delighted in the black baptism, the reverse ritual that spat in the face of Christ. After all, the persecuted were now the persecutors, and the Anti-Christ had instructed them to rejoice in their debauchery.

"I feel them ... I feel them working through me."

"This time it will work,” Van assured Ian.

"Yes, yes ... yes."

He spooned out the soupy stew into deep bowls at the little table where Ian had to sit cross-legged to feed with the dwarf. “Wonderful,” he said, taking in great whiffs of the steam rising from the bowl.

Ian stirred the fatty chunks under the surface of the milk-gray mixture. They were like alchemists of old, searching for the formula for gold, except that their gold was everlasting life, via the power of the Dark Way. Ian could feel that power bursting at the confines of the little room where he was crouched, could feel it wanting to escape into the wider world, scratching to get out. Soon ... soon, Ian thought.

"Happy?” asked Van, who slowly disrobed, showing his hairy top first, then letting the robe slip away entirely.

Ian then stood and tore away his tie, shirt, and pants. Van examined him closely, touching, seeking for the new hairs that must be on his chest now, but looking disappointed. “You're coming along,” Van reassured his brother.

"Not fast enough,” Ian disagreed.

"Drink, eat, pray to Him who is our lord, seek Him in the flames there."

Ian did all these things, and when he finished, Van came to him with the freshly drying scalp, unable to wait any longer. “Put it on me,” he said.

Ian worked on the gooey gel that would attach the knatty, freshly taken scalp, and together they looked in the full-length mirror in the corner at their work. Ian, standing nude behind Van, had his face cut off by the mirror. Ian was tall at six-two, while his twin brother, under three-four, hardly reached the center line of the mirror. Their figures in the mirror seemed dark and smoke-like, ghostly even by the steady candle glow. They looked like Jack and the Giant, but in this case, little Jack was the creature. They looked like two people who had stepped out of time and come from the Dark Ages into the 1980s all of a sudden.

Little Van stood beneath Ian's armpit.

"It's got to work this time,” Van said.

"It will ... I just know it will."

"Come ... come to bed with me now,” he said.

They stepped to the bed in the corner and lay in one another's arms, Ian rubbing himself into the hair, trying desperately to gain strength from it. In their embrace, both began to cry.

"He is with you, Ian."

"I know ... I know...."

"And He commands we try again, forever if necessary."

"Yes, yes,” replied Ian, amazed at Van's strength. “Of course I understand, dear brother. The soft, down hair covering Van made Ian feel like a fetus.

"It'll come ... we will not always be weak."

"One day the world will be ours."

They hugged one another more closely, each exhausted, fed, and needing rest and time. They must allow the Dark One to cultivate his crop, must allow His sway over their sleeping forms, their sleeping minds. And they must allow for time, an important ingredient in the magic, time to allow the Dark Way to bear fruit, or to fail again.

As they rested, the rejuvenating powers of the elixir, combining with the strength given them by their god, would carry them onward. Ian dreamed of babies in the womb, of children with downy, peach-fuzz hair like that on the earlobes of young girls. Yes, that thrown into the cauldron might work. He must suggest it, he thought, dreaming now, asleep, wondering if babies as yet unborn had dreams.

Ian fitfully groped in the dark for his scalpel, for looming over him was a large, beautiful head of hair, a scalp so enormous it blotted him out. He gasped and raised his scalpel to slash at it. But it was no use, for He was a dream ... it was all a dream now.

He knew he was sleeping, yet his mind raced with the new idea, the new hope that could so stir him that he felt his brother, too, was dreaming the same dream. Shared dream ... shared faith. They were of one mind, and perhaps should always have been of one body. Maybe ... just maybe, a child's hair, innocent and unblemished ... maybe this was called for? Maybe even the fetal down of an unborn child in the soup? It seemed worth a try.

They had brought the black woman's scalp, filled as it was with power and energy, to their lair, and like cavemen of eons past, they cured the scalp, fascinated at every step of the process, from boiling it to placing it over the drying fire and finally stretching it on the rack made from the same rings little children used for their embroidery.

Embroidery was what they were doing, an embroidery of a very special nature, an embroidery which paid homage to the dark gods that had for all these years sustained them as brothers, and the dark powers that had allowed little Van to survive the molestation of his very soul by those who had had a hand in bringing him into this world.

Ian thought long and often on that fact, that if his mother had not had Ian, she would not have had Van, either. They were inextricably linked from the womb, but was it a womb shared by a curse or a blessing? Once that pact was made, the only source of comfort and solace left open to Van, deep in the darkness of that cellar for all those years, was to turn to the dark powers flooding his genes. It was all that nourished his soul. For within the folds of his wrinkled and hairy skin, beneath the odor and ghastly face and twisted limbs, there was a human soul. Denied by God and circumstance and parents, he had turned to another god: Satan.

Ian had never known Satan in the way Van did. Ian gave Van a name for his benefactor, but Ian could never directly speak with the Dark Lord. Ian hadn't been handfed by the dark creatures that provided Van with sinew and muscle and the blood of rats to feed on. Over the years Satan had wrapped Van in layer upon layer of disease and disfigurement and hair ... lots of hair. He had grown into an apeman.

Ian had read about other human beings down through the ages that had hair the full length of their bodies, most becoming sideshow attractions at carnivals, but he had not known until Van explained it to him that his condition was loosed on him from hell, not to plague Van, but to begin to wreak immutable power in the world of flesh.

Once each and every demon from the underworld had been given birth through the body of the hairy dwarf, the world would see a new order of being created.

Van would act as a sort of Adam for the underworld. The legions fed hungrily on the DNA of fibrous hair from all ages, sexes, races, meaning to fulfill the dream of a god, the dream of Satan, a dream told Van when he was just a boy, before he had language or complete understanding of his reason for being.

The remote house and even the fireplace had been rebuilt to accommodate Van's needs. There were no neighbors to complain of odors rising from the chimney or to snoop about, and they had a swampy marsh for a backyard, to discard anything that might go rancid. The place was so featureless, the lot so abandoned, that no one ever visited. It was perfect for the work this Christmas season.

Dean said goodbye to Peggy Carson in the homicide division of police headquarters where Park and Dyer had readied a lineup for Peggy, a lineup of dwarfs none of which remotely resembled what she said she'd seen that night in the alley. One of the little men had hairy arms, but that was as close as they came to Peggy's description of the molesting midget.

Dean found Sid in his lab, working away. He had a scowl on his face, and Dean wondered if it were meant for him. Apparently Sid had put a stop to Hodges’ plans, but it was certain he remained suspect so far as Hodges and the D.A. were concerned.

"Where the hell have you been?” Sid was angry. “I could have used your help today."

"You got the injunction, Sid, and you've managed to postpone the hanging, and you did it all on your own."

"Thank God Karen was in her chambers."

"So. Anything new?"

"We're running atomic tests on the hair strands, as you suggested, but tell me again why we should send part of our meager sample to Sybil in Chicago."

"Backup, Sid, pure and simple. And good sense, especially now, with people questioning your work."

"And what about people questioning my past, people poking into my life back in Akron?"

Dean dropped his gaze, trying to find words to explain. “Look, Sid, you haven't exactly been honest with me."

"So where are we now, Dean? Even? Well, even stinks."

Sid had undoubtedly heard from a friend in Akron that police in Chicago were running a check on his Akron past. “I had to know if there'd been any similar deaths in Ohio, Sid, when you were coroner."

"Well, your bloodhounds found squat, my friend. I've never in my life worked on a corpse missing a scalp until now."

"Good,” Dean said quietly. “Then maybe we can go on from here. No more lies between us, what do you say?"

Sid Corman's blue-gray eyes seemed solemn. Dean knew he wouldn't be forgiven soon, but he also felt justified in his background check on Sid. Even if Sid was a friend, Dean hadn't seen him in years.

"Are you staying on?” Sid asked tentatively.

"You know I will."

"Then let's get to work."

"You got it. You know, you weren't the only one I asked to have checked out."

"Who else—Hodges?"

"Park and Dyer."

"Really? Why them?"

"I don't know, but Park in particular has a disturbing way about him. He's a vet, too."

"What's this vet shit? We're both vets ourselves."

"I know, but he was in Vietnam."

"And that makes him a killer?"

"Not at all ... but it conditions some men to murder."

Sid nodded and suddenly cried out, “Oh, Lt. Park!"

Park was in the doorway and Dean had no idea how long he'd been standing there holding the door open, listening. “You could be right, Dr. Grant,” said Park, his steely eyes pinning Dean in place. “You ever hear the story of the scavengers over in Nam? Guys who scavenged the bodies of the dead—even their own—you know, for coin and cigarettes and gold teeth?"

"Can't say I have."

"A lot of true tales of horror come out of Nam, gentlemen. Anyway, a couple of guys in my outfit told a chilling tale one night we were on patrol, a tale about finding some bodies on a battlefield scalped—scalped clean of their hair, just as if some crazed Indian had done it."

Sid exchanged a look with Dean. “Could be our man,” suggested Dean.

Park took a long time answering, leaning against the doorjamb now, “Maybe ... maybe not. Maybe the guys in Nam are not the same guys here, maybe one's too short ever to have been in Nam. There are lots of maybes. And maybe the Nam story was bullshit I never saw it, the scalping. But stories went around, rumors that this guy had a sackful of Vietcong scalps he'd taken. Then rumors about dead grunts, our boys, being scalped came down the line, and the officers put out the word it was a Vietcong bunch doing the scalping, not one of our men. But by then we all knew the score."

Dean regarded Park for a long time before asking, “What can we do for you, Lieutenant?"

"We need something to go on, Dyer and me. We've spent all day dragging in dwarfs and sex offenders of every size and shape, and we've got zilch. We need more from you, Doctor."

"We're not miracle workers here, Park,” said Sid.

"So someone else has to die so you can run more tests, and then it all goes around again?"

"Trust me,” said Dean, “Dr. Corman and I are doing everything within our power—"

"Sure, sure ... so I heard.” He glared at Dean. “So let me save you some time, Dr. Grant. The answer's yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I worked a case like this one before, in Michigan, in a woodsy little community called Seneca, where a handful of people one year started showing up dead—scalped."

"Why in hell didn't you say so? Those records need reviewing in light of these recent deaths."

"They are being reviewed ... by the police."

"When was the other rash of killings? How long ago?” asked Dean.

"Two years, three months, and fourteen days."

"Isn't it a little coincidental you showing up here just when there's another outbreak?” asked Sid.

"Not in the least. It was my case then, and it's my case now. I'm on special assignment, and believe me, as soon as I catch this bastard ... or bastards ... you'll see my ass on a 747 headed for home."

"Who knows about this? Hodges?"

"He alone, yes, if he's managed to keep it to himself. That was the deal when I came on."

Something didn't ring true, but Dean wasn't sure what. “Dyer—does he know all this?"

"He's just been briefed."

"I bet he shit tacks, too,” replied Sid.

"Had you followed the killer here?” asked Dean.

"Not exactly, no ... not until the first scalping occurred. More than a year has elapsed since the Seneca deaths."

"In Michigan, was anyone brought in for questioning? Were there any arrests?"

"Nothing that could stick ... a handful of young bucks from an Indian reservation not far away, but the arrests were foolish to begin with. This killer, whoever he is, has his own reasons for scalping."

"Well, we have a lot of work to do,” Sid said, returning to his lab work. Dean saw that Park was curious about what it was they were doing. “We're running sub-atomic tests on the suspect's hair to determine the intake of arsenic, lead, silica, and such."

"That tell you what sort of diet the guy has?"

"Right. So far, it's a fairly anemic diet ... thin on natural foods. It might tell us something about occupation, and perhaps any medication. For instance, if the guy is a candidate for cancer, or is a diabetic. The chief constituents of hair are carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, and sulfur. But trace elements are as variable as fingerprints. These elements can only be determined through atomic bombardment."

"I see.” Dean knew the detective did not see at all, but he nodded anyway.

"What do you do with the soil samples you took out at the park?” the lieutenant asked.

"Sid and I are used to pursuing every small scientific clue. We've been indoctrinated in the methods of seeking microtraces, which comes down to applying adhesive tape everywhere."

"Yeah, I saw you press tape into the girl's scarf and onto her bag, and even her shoes."

"Several mosslike particles of soiled vegetation were clinging to her things."

"Not moss, Dean,” said Sid. “While you were away, Tom Warner ran tests on your ‘moss.’ It was flecks of fat."

"Fat?"

"Yeah, pure fatty tissue ... human fatty tissue, the girl's own, dropping in flecks when they cut chunks from her."

"Christ,” said Park.

"Well, as for the soil samples taken from the girl's clothing and from the surrounding terrain, I sent samples of it to my lab in Chicago for examination,” explained Dean.

Park shook his head, “Why to another lab?"

"This process will determine if she was indeed murdered at the site, and not merely dumped there after the scalping, if the two samples correspond."

"But why to Chicago? Couldn't that have been done here?"

Sid stopped in his work to listen for this answer himself.

"I have a soil specialist in Chicago. Besides, it's best that we have two such tests conducted at two separate labs whenever possible."

Park nodded, understanding. “Isn't it strange the scalp taken is always in the range of nine inches by four? When I was a boy, I don't know, I always thought of scalps as circular. Now someone's teaching me different, that they can be diamond-shaped, triangular, square. Did you know that when a U.S. cavalry trooper on the plains in the 1800's found scalped bodies, their Indian scouts knew immediately which tribe was responsible?"

"From the shape?"

"Shape, depth, additional markings of mutilation on the corpse's limbs, thighs, all that—yeah."

"You've gotten into this stuff pretty heavily, Park."

Park bit his lip, looking as if he were sorry to have gone on for so long. “Some, I guess."

"What else might you be able to tell me, Lieutenant?"

"About the armpit slashing..."

"Yes, go on."

"Well, American Indians would take any portion of unusual skin. Tattoos, for instance, were stripped from the dead in whole pieces, cured, and hung in teepees for decorations. They were highly valued. Armpit, crotch, and sometimes the entire upper half of a human skin from face to crotch was stripped away, depending on the strength of the enemy."

Dean had never heard of such things before. “Are you certain?"

"Peculiar value was set upon such things as good and powerful medicine. My grandfather was part Sioux."

Dean picked out the Indian features now, muted as they were. “You think our mad killers are making powerful medicine?"

"Could be."

"You think it's Indians?"

"Not necessarily, but if it so, the killers have reasons for what they're doing."

"The same way apemen had reasons, maybe."

"Doctor?"

"Anthropologists studying the skull of Ethiopia's Bodo Man—a predecessor of homo sapiens—removed some encrusted dirt and rock and deduced that the flesh had been stripped away from the head with stone tools. But at least the apemen had done the deed after the creature's death, that much could be determined ... but not the purpose.

"Hell, the Parthians took hair from slain enemies to decorate their weapons and clothing in the fifth century B.C. Trust me, it's a much older white tradition than it is a red tradition.

"It crosses all colors—all nations, actually,” Dean replied. “And it happened everywhere, in every time—the Mediterranean, Byzantium, Spain, the Carribean, Asia, you name it."

"And when neatly done, it may be termed a satanic accomplishment—I think that is how one white writer put it,” said Park philosophically, almost to himself. Then, to Dean, he added, “So, you've done a little reading on the subject yourself, Doctor?"

Dean nodded. “History is full of horror."

"I hope you find what it is you're looking for, Dr. Grant,” he said, indicating the lab. “See you later, perhaps."

Sid walked over to where Dean stood and said, “Wonder what that was all about."

"Don't know..."

"But I bet you're anxious to hear if his story checks out, right?"

"At this point, we can't overlook the man's past."

"Yeah, that story about Vietnam, now that was eerie."

"Eerie, yeah ... just eerie enough to be true."

Sid stared at Dean. “You don't really think there's a connection, do you?"

"A lot of killers find confession—even masked confession—a cathartic experience, Sid. It cleanses their hearts long enough to enable them to commit the next act."

"Park? One of our own cops? Come on, Dean."

"He shows up around the time of the first killing, gets himself reassigned here as a result of the first killing ... we've got to look closely at the dates and vouchers."

"But Dean, he didn't have to tell you all that stuff about Seneca, Michigan. He just did, and of his own free will. If he had anything to hide—"

"Smart move, if he is guilty, wouldn't you say? And from the start, my friend, I've had the feeling we're not dealing with a mental patient. This guy plans too well, leaves no trace, and controls an accomplice."

"You seem to thrive on this, Dean, but I'll tell you truthfully—I'd much rather get back to my lab work than to go shadow dancing with a frigging mass murderer."

"I wonder what Hamel, our resident shrink, thinks of Park. Be interesting to find out."

"You do that. I'm getting back to work right here. I don't know how long I can stave off the D.A., but I'm going to fight this damnable action all the way."

"That's the spirit,” Dean almost shouted. “I think now I'll see if I can't find Dr. Hamel."

"Sure, do that ... leave me to fight the good fight all alone,” began Sid, but he was talking to an empty room. Dean was already at the elevator and Sid frowned from his side of the glass.

The plaque on Hamel's door read Dr. Benjamin I. Hamel, Police Psychiatry. Dean hesitated at the door. As a rule he agreed with Peggy Carson: not too many police shrinks had impressed him. Stephens in Chicago was a rarity. He wished he had Stephens with him on this case the same way he wished he had Kelso by his side—people he could trust and be at complete ease with—but that wasn't to be and he must make do. These thoughts born-barded Dean when suddenly the door opened and Hamel stood before him, about to depart.

"Going to dinner?” asked Dean.

"I was planning a quiet meal at home ... but if you'd like to talk, sure, Dr. Grant."

"A quiet meal at home sounds nice. Do you wish to call your wife?"

"I have none. I'm alone."

"And you like your own cooking? That's good."

Hamel nodded. “What is it you'd like to talk about, Doctor?"

"I'd like your impression of the killers, and how you deduced the possibility of two men long before we did."

"All right."

"And I'd like to have your professional opinion on a policeman here."

"Park or Dyer, or both?"

"Park in particular."

"Interesting choice."

"Oh, why do you say so?"

"Man's a manic-depressive, with mood swings wider than a ball on a tether, the obvious choice. Dyer, on the other hand, is steady. Psychiatry is rather a simple science if one uses the God-given powers of observation we all have, don't you agree?"

"Sometimes that's the case, yes."

"But there are those who mask their perversions more ... successfully, you mean? Yes, that is also sometimes the case. But by and large, most human beings don't have the strength of will to carry it off. Most of us display our deficiencies in our relationships, either at work or at home."

"You won't mind discussing Park with me, then?"

"Chief Hodges has informed me you're on the case, and so, Dr. Grant, you have a right to know who your case partners are. Privileged information between a public servant carrying a gun and his psychiatrist is not so privileged as in the private sector. It's one reason we police “shrinks,” as we're called, are quite unpopular. However, Officer Park's been granted special concidera—"

At that moment Peggy Carson was coming toward them and Dean saw something flash in her eyes. On seeing Hamel, she immediately looked for an avenue of escape, but there was none.

"Well, the wayward Officer Carson,” said Dr. Hamel. “You, my dear girl, have been doubly negligent today—first skipping out on the hospital, and now missing our session. I see that promptness is not your strong suit, Officer. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp."

Peggy said a perfunctory hello to Dean, keeping it brief and professional, and then replied to Dr. Hamel “I don't see how wasting my time with you, Dr. Hamel, is going to serve the public or myself one bit, and if you please, read this, and no thank you, I will not see you tomorrow at nine. Good evening."

Peggy pushed an envelope into Hamel's hands, and turned abruptly, and disappeared the way she came.

"Peggy, Officer Carson, has been dodging me. We have some sessions together, the first of which has just come to an end without her,” the thin Dr. Hamel told Dean. The man's cheekbones, high to begin with, seemed enlarged now with a controlled rage toward Peggy Carson. Dean had seen it before, one part of a police department trying to do its job, at war with a second part. Often it boiled away to personality conflicts.

"Nobody relishes being cross-examined, especially by people tending to disbelieve them,” said Dean in Peggy's defense.

Dr. Hamel stared at Dean, studying him closely for the first time. “You don't seriously believe the second killer is a ... a dwarf?"

"We're onto evidence that could quite well corroborate the fact, Dr. Hamel."

Hamel gave Dean an enigmatic smile. “You do intend to live up to your reputation for the bizarre, Dr. Grant."

"It's not my reputation I'm concerned with."

"Of course, of course ... You realize, doctor, my concern for Officer Carson must include assessing the safety of people she will come into contact with daily. The department can't afford to have even the appearance of an hysterical woman on the street with a revolver in her hands, now can it?"

"Quite frankly, sir. I've never met a more level-headed police officer, male or female."

Dean and Dr. Hamel resumed their conversation over dinner at a nearby cafe-style restaurant which, while small, looked out over a busy downtown street from a second-floor perch.

"So, what sort of man goes about terrorizing people with a scalpel, taking scalps, with the help of a dwarf?” Dean inquired, interested in how Dr. Hamel would answer the question.

"A Wild West showman out of a job?” joked the tall, angular Hamel, who might himself have been a stand-in for Henry Fonda in My Darling Clementine. “Or a man who is fixing on hair, the scalp in particular, and in this fixation lies his motive. Here we probably have a man who has a nine-to-five job, either blue- or white-collar—a computer programmer, clerk, or plumber—but by night must feed an insatiable need for bloodshed of a most specific nature, bloodshed that involves the taking of another man's head."

"Head? By head you mean scalp."

"One and the same thing among barbaric peoples, you know. The scalp represents the human mind and spirit to the scalper. It embodies his spirit and all the energies of his being."

"What does he do with the scalps?"

"Who knows ... sleeps with them, stuffs mattresses with them, decorates his walls with them. It may even be assumed that he derives sexual gratification from them, and for all I know, he—or they—might very well ingest them."

"Eat hair?"

"If it brought you strength and power over others, wouldn't you?"

"These men believe that? Is that like a religion with some people, like maybe Hare Kirshna?"

"Not to my knowledge, no. But we're dealing with sick minds here. Minds that live for scalp raising."

"But this is all speculation, isn't it, Dr. Hamel?"

Hamel bit his lip, plunking down his wineglass and saying, “You've caught me, yes. I speculate a great deal on such crimes, as I know you must. It's part of my job. But like you, it is speculation based on an educated guess, educated by the killer himself."

"We're not so different then, you and I."

Hamel considered this. “No, but I don't cut up dead people, Dr. Grant, although I sometimes mentally slice open a dead man to understand the workings of his mind."

"You theorized early on that there could be two men doing the scalping. How did you arrive at that conclusion with so little evidence to go on?"

"Quite simple, really. If we look back at the multitude of such cruel serial murders, they often involve two persons or more. Your very celebrated Floater case in Chicago points at an entire family's involvement, and the killer herself was actually living out two personalities, correct? Angel Rae, the girl, and Brother Timothy, was it? Now, if you read as much as I do in the literature, it wouldn't take much to speculate that the Scalper is acting out some form of wish fulfillment and that his hand is directed by a domineering, powerful force, very likely a second killer, who has him mesmerized into doing what he's told.

"But most of all, I base it on the telephone calls we've been receiving. The murderers—one of them, at least—have called us, more or less owning up to everything."

Dean was speechless.

"And although it's hard for me to tell you this, well, we've had a tip-off. It concerns Corman and the forensic mistakes he's made."

Dean stared for a solid minute at Hamel, unbelieving. “Is this general knowledge? Do Park and Dyer know about this? Hodges?"

"Of course they do."

"Corman didn't say a word."

"Sid was never informed, Dr. Grant."

"You people don't need my help, you need an efficiency expert. One hand doesn't know what the other's doing."

"What did you expect of us once we began to suspect Corman of malfeseance?"

"You can't really suspect him of these hideous crimes!'

"Perhaps not, but he may be covering for someone else. It certainly points in his direction."

Dean bit his lower lip and shook his head thoughtfully. “Tell me all you can about this voice over the phone."

"Not much to tell. It was rather ordinary, with no accent, no inflections, rather a monotone, as if he were reading something he'd written down, or someone else had written down for him. Almost—"

"Yes?"

"Almost as if he were taunting us, enjoying it, and the business about being under the other's thumb, well, it could've been some nonsense cooked up, but if his voice rose even an iota, it was when speaking of this other one."

"So, on the basis of how many such calls did you do your diagnosis, Dr. Hamel?"

Hamel frowned. “Granted, making a prognosis of a madman over the wires is no mean feat, and I'm the first to admit its weakness, believe me, but there was something ... I don't know ... uncanny about the voice and the plea. I believe a part of him wants to walk through our doors, to give himself up."

"A lot of contenders for the part have, I understand."

"The holding cell's full of them, and I've got to interview every damned one, but until I find a man who's obviously living under the power of a second, more powerful personality, I feel safe in passing the would-be scalpers."

This made Dean think of the dual personality of Angel Rae again, and how she was dominated by her second personality, Brother Timothy. “You don't think our killer could be working out two personalities, one stronger than the other? Using two separate weapons, even, so strong is the belief he has in his other self?"

"I know this, too, is a possibility, but when the forensics errors were made, when I learned there were actually two distinct weapons used—well, common sense, you know, is a strong force, too."

"And just how did you and Hodges learn about Sid's errors ?"

"Through a casual remark by one of his technical people."

"Tom Warner?"

"Yes, I think it was Tom."

"Tell me again, Dr. Hamel, exactly how many times did the man professing to be the killer telephone you?"

"Unfortunately, only twice."

"Twice?"

"And then it stopped."

"Rather strange, isn't it?"

"Not at all."

"I mean, usually when a killer contacts a reporter, or a cop, or a man like yourself in a position of authority, it's a plea for help, to be stopped, isn't it?"

"Quite often, yes."

"And normally, despite the fact that he continues killing, he will contact again and again to pursue this need."

"The second time he called at my home,” said Hamel, taking a deep breath. “I have an apartment not far from here. I was totally unprepared to get a call there from this faceless killer ... shocked, in fact. I have an unlisted number, and the department wouldn't dare give it out. The first time, I was at my desk, it wasn't such a big deal, but the second call frightened the hell out of me, I can tell you."

"That is understandable.” Dean sipped his tea.

"The fact he could learn my number, and perhaps knew where I lived, and that he seemed to know we'd tapped my phone lines at both locations and so he never again even attempted contact—that, Dr. Grant, more than any other factor, convinced Hodges and me of the possibility that the killer was closer to us than we knew. Perhaps close enough even to have daily contact with us in the department."

"So you began looking in your own backyard."

"Interdepartmentally speaking, yes."

"And Sid's errors were blown out of proportion."

"On such a case, every error becomes a big deal, since we're all under the watchful eye of the public."

Dean had to agree, sipping more tea, watching Hamel closely.

"Anyway, there was no way to trace either call, and when we were prepared to do so, he never called back. It was as if ... I fear to say it ... someone closer to me than I wished to know had knowledge of my having had my phone tapped at home as well as the office."

"And that's why you and Hodges began investigating Sid Corman?"

"In light of the error, yes. What would you have done?"

"Has it occurred to you that it could be someone else close to you, and not Sid?"

"Like Park, you mean?"

"Like Park, yes."

"Park has a record of violence, but not recently. He seems to have gotten a handle on that, and—"

"Maybe he's taking his violence out in a different fashion. He told us of a strange story about a guy in Vietnam who reportedly took scalps. Has he ever repeated that story to you?"

Hamel's eyes lifted at this. “No ... never."

"He's a vet, you know."

"Yes, of course, but that doesn't—"

"Doesn't make him crazy, I know."

"Did I say the killer was mentally imbalanced?"

"What would you call him?"

"His actions are engineered by someone whom he is in such awe of, or fear of, that he cannot totally be held accountable."

"Doctor, the ‘other guy’ is a goddamned midget."

"Perhaps he is physically small, but you have no idea how powerful a dominant personality can be, do you, Dr. Grant? You've never known anyone who's made you feel insignificant and small and wasted, and good for doing only one thing, good for doing the bastard's bidding."

"Sounds like you have,” Dean said suddenly.

Hamel choked, realizing he had revealed more of himself in his words than he'd intended to. “My ... my father, and to some extent, my mother, yes, they were tyrants, they imprisoned me in a mental way, telling me I was ... well, you know how parents can tell you they're doing it all for your own good when it's really for theirs ... sorry, you don't want to hear my life story, I'm sure."

Hamel had come uncomfortably close to revealing what secrets he held deep inside. Dean had no idea what they might be, however. “What about Park?” Dean asked. “Do you think a man like him could be controlled by another man?"

"Frankly, if the circumstances were right, any one of us could fall under the spell of a cult leader, a powerful personality, a passionate lover—hell, no one's immune one-hundred-percent to the controlling influences of those around them. For instance, a man like you, you're married, aren't you, Dean?"

"Yes, I am.” Dean thought of Jackie.

"You love her, right? And out of love, you behave in socially acceptable ways, remembering sometimes to humble yourself before her—like when you forget a birthday card, right?"

"I don't see where that—"

"Multiply that feeling a thousandfold, Dean—do you mind if I call you Dean?"

"No, that'd be fine—"

"Benjamin, or Ben if you like."

"Ben."

"Anyway, imagine, if you can, Dean, someone coming along and sweeping you off your feet, just sweeping you right up and carrying you along, and effectively controlling you, even using you, say, for personal or sexual gain, or whatever it is they wish to get from you—money, or scalps—and hell, this control never stops, never ends, never slows down. In fact, you don't want it to, because you find comfort and love and security and all those good things in it. Maybe you find power, power you can't get anywhere else...."

Hamel continued on in this vein, and as he spoke, Dean thought of how he himself had so recently been caught up for good or bad in the power of Peggy Carson, in the thrill of being with her. Hers was a dominant personality, an aggressive personality which, in careful doses, might be invigorating and take on the look of freedom and fun, but he could not imagine allowing her much further into his life, and certainly Dean knew he must himself be in control. Dean tried to imagine the weak personality Hamel described, the person who fed on being under another's control, lived for it and withered without it. He thought of all the millions of Americans who wanted others to tell them what to do from letters to Dear Hearts columns to the How-To books they bought and read, on everything from gold to finances to making love. The only people making a gain from this nation of sheep were the merchants and advertisers, so far as Dean could see.

"Park,” continued Hamel, “most certainly. The macho front is often a giveaway to a weaker personality, a wall to hide behind which often crumbles when the person is alone with himself, or with a truly dominant personality or more powerful mind. Sometimes a latent homosexual lurks behind the façade, sometimes a secret drinker, sometimes a masturbator, but more often than not, a man who lives a double life, a man who might well enjoy being tied and beaten by a woman, say, or led into murdering others."

Dean had heard similar ideas from Stephens on occasion. It seemed Hamel knew his stuff. But it was growing late, and Dean wanted to get back to the lab before he missed Sid altogether. He also wanted to know if Carl Prather or Sybil had tried to reach him regarding Park yet. “It has been most interesting, Ben."

"Glad to spread it around,” replied Hamel, shaking Dean's hand. Do you play tennis?” he asked suddenly. “I'm getting a doubles match together for the weekend."

"I play, yes—but I'm sorry, I'm really not up to it at the moment, thanks."

"Pity. I'd like to see how you'd fare opposite me on the court."

Dean smiled at this, finally regaining his hand from Hamel, whose grasp seemed suddenly like a caress. Was the man gay? After winning the little tug-of-war over the bill, Dean left hurriedly.

Hamel watched him from the second-story perch as Dean moved with that purposeful walk of his, headed, no doubt, Hamel realized, back to his microscopes in the Municipal Building's labs.

That is a determined man, Hamel told himself. Dedicated, sharp ... razor-sharp. “But I don't believe Park's your man, Dr. Grant,” Hamel said to himself, draining his wineglass.