Scalpers

EIGHT

It was getting late.

Where in God's name was Hamel?

Chief Hodges had seen him go out of the building with Grant, and he wondered what they had to talk about. But he knew ... he knew. It was the Scalper case, it was all anyone was talking about, and all anyone gave a shit about anymore.

He was a lifer, his whole career given over to this job, his entire personal life as well. He'd built up an impressive record, a long and worthwhile record, a record any man would be proud of. He was honored at banquets and he had a room at home where the walls were literally lined with plaques.

He was a success at his chosen profession, and he meant to go right on up the ladder, next stop—the commissioner's office.

But did anyone trot out his successes, his record? Did anyone care to talk about it? No, all the press or anyone else wanted to talk about was the goddamned Scalper.

Hodges had to get ahold of himself. He heard Hamel coming. He didn't want to give away the fact that he was on the edge, now, did he? Christ, he told himself, get on the couch. He did so and stretched out, feigning peace and indifference as Hamel entered his office, saying “Ready for your session, Chief?"

Hodges lazily looked over his shoulder up at Dr. Hamel. “Oh, it's you, Doc ... must've dozed off. Long day, a rough one."

"Then it should be easy to relax, Chief,” replied Hamel, pouring the Chief a glass of ice water and taking up his position across from him in his easy chair. “I'm sorry to be late, but I was held up by—"

"Grant, I know ... I saw you two together."

"He's an inquisitive man."

"So I've noticed."

"At the moment his questions seem to be centering on Lt. Park."

"Park, huh? Did he...?"

"No, he got nothing from me of a personal nature on Park, no more than he would from the elevator operator or a doorman. You mustn't worry, Jake, that anything between you and me goes outside this room. Trust me."

"I do ... I just ... sometimes..."

"Worry, yes, I know, and that's bad for you, Jake, very bad for those ulcers."

Chief Jacob “Big Jake” Hodges had been an Orlando policeman since 1967. He had built a reputation on the backs of others, and getting near the top of the heap had cost him dearly. It had cost him his first wife and the kids of that marriage, a boy and a girl he never saw and seldom heard from, now that Doris had removed them to California. His career had cost him friendships, strong ties, meaningful ties that had nothing whatever to do with politics and back-scratching and ass-kissing, and finally, after all the sacrifices and losses, Jake Hodges was going to at last enjoy some of the benefits of the many and terrible sacrifices to his job. But that notion had been short-circuited by this crazed killer going about his city and making a mockery of his police force to the tune of several stories a day appearing in the papers. He wanted an end to it, and only one man seemed to understand that need.

Hodges leaned back into the couch and continued to explain his problems to Dr. Hamel, who like any good psychiatrist, listened well and interrupted not at all, asking just the occasional leading question at the moment the Chief most needed it. Hamel was the only man, woman, or child Jake could truly confide in. He understood ... he really and truly felt and empathized with his superior, and he wanted absolutely nothing in return. Jake had tried talking to Hamel about more money, more prestige within the department. Anything he wanted, Jake wanted to provide, because Dr. Hamel had, after all, provided Jake so much in the way of peace of mind.

At first Jake resisted the sessions when Dr. Hamel asked for his participation in the new program. Hamel wanted Jake to bare his soul in a group setting with other cops. He told Jake that if he were to act as an example to his men, a powerful man with hair on his chest, iron in his spine, and grit in his voice, the others would follow.

"The men look to you for guidance and direction, Chief,” Hamel reassured him with comforting words again. “Hell, a man like you, a man who's come up through the ranks the hard way? That means the world to them, and the compromise we worked out is having its effect on them, believe me."

The compromise they had worked out was a simple exchange, Jake's wants for Dr. Hamel's needs. Jake would undergo therapy, but only like this, one-on-one; Hamel readily agreed, knowing such information was soon to be common knowledge in the department. Each man knew that Jake Hodges would then be setting the example Dr. Hamel wanted, at least close enough.

A former beat cop in New Orleans thirty years ago, Hodges was, for all his faults, looked up to by the younger men, or so Hamel assured him again.

Jake knew he came to Dr. Hamel to hear such assurances. He knew his ego needed to be bolstered, his position reaffirmed in endless repetition if he were to survive another day, another night of his present life.

Married again, he saw no future for him and Sally. They could have no children. They were both too old, and Sally had drifted away, burying herself in her avocation, painting ... endlessly painting, fleeing into the seascapes she did, as bad as they were, losing herself in that other world of the canvas. Hodges told Hamel all about it, and Hamel understood, understood far more than Hodges had believed any other man could. Not that Hamel had admitted it in so many words, but somehow Jake knew, and he had made, for the first time in so many years, a new friend. Ben Hamel was closer in age to Jake than most of the people in the department, and Ben, too, must have had to make enormous sacrifices to get ahead. Not that he ever articulated those sacrifices in any specific terms, but speaking broadly, Ben knew exactly what Jake felt and why ... yes, why.

No cabby, busboy, or bartender could do that—know why a man felt depressed enough to suck on the end of a loaded gun.

"I know this Scalper case has your insides turned out, Chief,” Ben said to him now, “that your every nerve is feeling exposed now ... but you have to ride it out. A man like you, you can do it."

"The more I think of it, the more I'd like to take Corman's neck in my hands and break it, snap him like a twig! He's making me look bad in front of my city, my department, and the Mayor."

"But you don't know that he's guilty of anything more than excesses, the time away from the lab, a bit of fun with his judge, and it adds up to sloppy work."

"I won't tolerate it, not in my department. Never have, never will."

"The injunction hasn't helped your disposition."

"I'm working on getting my own injunction that'll overrule his, and when I impound all that evidence, I'll call a press conference, let the people of Orlando decide what to do with Dr. Sydney Corman."

"That's a big step, Chief."

"Bold ... bold's the word ... like my old self."

"Yes, you do like a fight."

"Been a scrapper all my life."

"Yes, I know."

Jake laughed heartily at this, his thoughts on a childhood incident. Another thing he liked about Hamel. Somehow Hamel unlocked the memories of his rough upbringing, which his mind had trundled off to a secret place in his brain like a sad treasure chest to be buried forever within him. Somehow Hamel had found the ephemeral key that unlocked the amorphorous gate which held back both the horrors and the pathos of that childhood which, till now, was blanketed in darkness, kept even from the keeper.

"What are you remembering?” asked Ben Hamel.

Jake laughed lightly again. “A fight ... a fight with my father. He broke my rib."

"Want to tell me about it?"

Jake did. He wanted to tell Ben every detail.

"Might be better than getting an ulcer over Sid Corman."

Jake knew it was the truth. Telling Ben about the nightmare of lost childhood was somehow like a soothing balm these days. A few weeks ago, Jake Hodges would have denied the possibility. He had always hated dredging up the past before, but with Ben, it was a calm and cathartic journey, and he could remain at a safe distance and yet see, really see for the first time, that the terror of those days was not his fault, that the guilt he carried within himself for all these years could be vanquished.

"Go on, Jake...” Hamel's voice was motherly and fatherly at once.

Tearfully, Jacob Hodges began the horror story of his thirteenth birthday.

Hamel sat back, breathed deeply, listening quietly. He was a good listener.

But while listening, Ben Hamel allowed part of his mind to slip away, to the image of Dean Grant. He wondered what Grant's questions over dinner had been hiding, wondered what made Grant tick, and if soon Grant would not return to him with more questions: questions pertaining to Hamel's police patients, or patients he saw in his private practice.

Grant might insist on Hamel's actually revealing privileged information, which Hamel would, of necessity, decline to do. Hamel might declare his confidentiality with his patients, the old but very real doctor-patient relationship. Then Grant would press him, asking him if he knew of any individual with a fetish that might turn him into a hatchet-wielding killer after skin and hair.

Hodges here, for instance, spoke of his nasty father, whose back and chest were matted with ugly hair....

Hamel could think of at least two other patients who had morbid fears and hangups which, in a pinch, might place them into the category of suspect. But Hamel's job was not to second-guess, judge, or condemn his own patients, and Grant would likely respect him a great deal more if he maintained the scruples he had come into the profession with. Besides, Hamel honestly did not think Hodges nor any of his patients was the killer, any more than he believed that Lt. Park was the killer.

Van didn't know about Ian's idea. Ian wasn't supposed to get ideas; Van was—Van had told him so. They argued over whether Ian's dream about children with long-flowing hair had anything to do with the purposes of the Dark One, who had for all these years spoken only through Van. All day in the Florida heat, among the palmettos and moss-covered trees of the reserve bordering on the hidden little place Ian had rented for them, Van had wandered and sat and talked to himself and mulled over the questions.

Van had been given a task to perform, and whether Ian helped or not, he must perform his work for the Dark One.

Bugs and mites and ticks climbed over him as if he were a dog, nestling deep into his hair. Food for the demons, he thought, and moved on. Mosquitoes plagued him, but he had to work out his problems. Ian was beginning to think he could just do as he pleased, coming to him with this notion that the Dark One had gone to him—him—with a sign, telling Van that his plan of gaining a scalp from every nationality, every race, creed, and color was failing! How dare he suggest it? They were far from finished, and his pretty brother knew this, didn't he?

Once again Ian had gone for the daylight hours to his job down in the city. Once again, as always, Van was left alone to wait and ponder, “Alone again, naturally,” as the song said.

He'd have to put Ian in his place.

He'd have to remind him how it used to be.

He'd have to take down the long whip made of the coarsest hair and beat Ian again, beat Ian as their parents once beat Van, to put him in his place. It was what the Dark One ordered. There was no other way, and this was no time to be soft.

Just then a lizard suctioned itself against the tree branch overhead. Van, feeling a pang of hunger and not knowing when he'd get back to the house, or even which direction he'd take to get there, eyed the lizard. Nice skin, he thought as his hand shot out in strike speed, trained to do so from infancy as a survival technique. He had the lizard in his grasp and wrenched it apart.

Moving on through the marsh that turned quickly into swamp, trying to find his way but without especial concern, Van nibbled on the food find, careful to save the skin for tanning.

One art he knew well, that—the art of tanning and curing a skin. He'd learned it from dusty books in the filthy cellar he'd called home for eleven years. He'd also learned taxidermy. Maybe he'd stuff the lizard. One day, if Ian wasn't good, he promised to stuff him. Pretty brothers could be a bothersome thing. Still Ian had provided for him, helped him all these years, and he had returned from the war with all those scalps. Ian was the perfect balance, the lure, and Van was the trap. Like well-matched spiders, they worked together and all went smoothly until Ian started trying to run the show, lying about whispered messages direct from the Dark One, pretending to be clever, more clever than Van.

After all, it had been Van who'd thought of just the right and fitting punishment for their parents, and it was Van who'd brought the Dark One from the lower levels below the cellar all those nights. He knew what his Lord wanted, not Ian.

When Ian returned, he'd tell him so.

There'd be an argument. Lately Ian argued everything. Lately Ian was beginning to sound like a broken record. How smart he was, he'd told Van, to shift the suspicion to the police themselves, and would soon believe the police were irresponsible and stupid and how he laughed at his own so-called achievement. Then, when he told Van about having telephoned the police not once, but twice, Van beat him unmercifully, making of his back a patchwork of blood and flesh.

To this day Ian felt he'd done nothing wrong, that in fact, he had done a sensible thing. Telephoning the police twice!

Regardless, Van knew that Ian was growing in self-importance with each kill. Ian wanted to take more credit. He wanted more ritual time, and to talk directly with the Dark One. So, having been barred this, he was now fantasizing it.

Damn him, couldn't he understand that this was the one important thing in Van's entire, miserable existence? That his work with the overlord gave meaning to his wretched life? How often, how many ways did Van have to explain it to Ian? In the end, Van would become the Dark One, and through Van he would walk the earth as he had not done since the time of Christ.

Another day and Dean got the distinct impression that Dr. Hamel was avoiding him, paying no heed to his repeated messages. Dean finally located Hamel at midday, but the psychiatrist begged off, saying he was between sessions and late. By the time Dean found him again, it was getting late, nearly five. Hamel was packing his valise, preparing to leave the small room adjoining the squad room where he held his group sessions.

"Oh, Dr. Grant, I'm sorry—it's been hectic today."

"No need to apologize."

Dean saw that Hamel had filled a chalkboard with words which on the surface appeared random, as if he'd been giving a speech and had jotted down key remarks and phrases. He'd most likely been responding to questions posed by apprehensive cops, always ill-at-ease in a classroom setting, wondering why they had to know the difference between a manic-depressive and a schizophrenic, how to spot suicidal tendencies and homicidal tendencies. It was as simple as predicting the direction a bird will take when it flies, Dean thought.

"So, Dr. Grant, how goes the chase?"

"Slowly, steady as she goes."

"What can I do for you?"

"I've got a couple of questions."

"Coffee?"

"Sounds good.” They went to a nearby lounge and coffee machine, Dean opting for a Coke this time around. Seated now, Dean got right to the point. “Dr. Hamel, is it conceivable that a man with a disfigurement, something truly gruesome, might not then nurture a kind of reactionary mental disorder to compensate that disfigurement?"

Hamel thought for some time, not rushing in. Dean studied him as he pondered the question. He seemed intrigued by it, as most people in his profession would be. Dean had noticed that while Hamel packed his valise, a copy of the most recent Psychology Today had been tucked in the folds of his files and papers. To prompt him, Dean said, “Ever see anything to indicate such a possibility in the literature?"

"Yes, yes, of course ... often, actually."

"Any examples?"

"A man born with the facial characteristics of a rodent once went about New York City disfiguring his victims and robbing them of their clothes, locking them to bannisters and rails in public places. It was a show of defiance in his mind, a hitting back at the world."

"I see."

"Sometimes it's of a different twist. One man whose mother lost her arms in a tragic industrial accident went about picking up hitchhikers and promptly slashing off their arms at the elbow."

"Then it's quite prevalent?"

"Nothing like everyday, but yes, people manifest hatred and anger in a myriad of ways.” Hamel regarded Dean curiously now. “You have a theory along these lines regarding the Scalper? If so, I would love to hear it, but time draws me away."

Dean acted as if he didn't hear this. He'd spent all day trying to get to the man. “Peggy Carson's account of the dwarf who assisted in attacking her depicted him as a hairy man, with hair all over, except for the scalp. Now just suppose—"

"Yes, I see what you're driving at, like the forearm taker, like the disfigured face-slasher, the Scalpers are working out of some condition that is as much physical as mental, an intermingling of the two. Sharp, Dr. Grant."

"Do you know if Park has any relatives with any such disfigurements?"

"Park again, huh?” Hamel sighed as if disappointed in Dean.

"Why so defensive, doctor?"

"Anything Park has confided in me about his personal life—"

Dean opened his hands to the man in a gesture of pleading. “We're all on the same team, Doctor, after all, and despite your feelings toward Sid—"

"My feelings toward Sid have nothing to do with my decision to keep Lt. Park's profile confidential."

Dean could only stare at the man.

"Look, Grants, I've had a session or two with every cop here, it's part of the plan for the eighties, to upgrade. But you must know I cannot reveal the content of any such session. Hell, if I did, do you have any idea of the consequences?"

"Who has access to the information you gather, then?"

"The Chief, the Commissioner, if he wants to see it. And without Hodges’ okay—"

"Hamel, I understand about doctor-patient privilege, but we're talking about a deranged madman, on the loose and likely to strike again soon."

"And I'm trying to tell you that I have carefully created a program of trust between myself and the men of this department. I'm running sessions daily for groups of cops and doing some individual counseling. Now, how am I to maintain the trust of so many if ... if I turn over a file to you or anyone else?"

"No one would know."

"Not right away, and not from you, perhaps, but I would know, and they—” he waved a hand toward the squad room, “they are not fools."

"One file, in strictest—"

"No, sir. You must see, Dr. Grant, what a delicate position I am in here. Teetering on a seesaw, always, with these men. They look to me for help only if they know they can trust me completely, without any reservation whatsoever. I am expected to deal with their nightmares, help them overcome phobias and phantoms. Please, you must see why I simply cannot give you access, either verbally or in writing, to the privileged information between myself and these men. Here in the squad room, it's imperative that they trust me with the fragile, real selves they display so very seldom. Do you understand? Do you?"

Dean nodded, “You must understand, I had to ask."

He smiled again, engagingly, “I did ... I did expect it of you, sir, and you did not fail my expectations. Sid has done quite well to ask you in on the case. If anyone can locate and put an end to the career of this killer, it must be you."

Dean relented. “All right, Doctor, would you answer a general question for me?"

"If I can, of course.” Hamel looked like he wanted to be elsewhere, hugging his briefcase as they talked. He was, as always, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit and tie. According to Sid, the man jogged to work from a nearby apartment, and was something of an insomniac and a real workaholic. He typically shaved and showered at headquarters, and he kept a week's wardrobe in his office. He looked fit, except for the pale complexion. He was somewhat bloodless, Dean thought. Obviously he had fair skin and he stayed out of the Florida sun as much as possible.

"You yourself said we should be concentrating on a man in house, somewhere on the force?"

Hamel arched his brows, frowned, and thought of the suggestion. “I said, and I repeat, it might be someone who comes into contact with the department daily, and that could just as well be the guy who empties the trash cans, or the guy who fills the vending machines. Look, I've got to go."

"Sure. Another session with Chief Hodges, huh?"

Hamel turned and gave Dean a half-smile. “Really, now, you don't believe that Jake is—"

"More to the point, Dr. Hamel, do you?"

"Careful, Dr. Grant, or you will find yourself being forceably removed from this case and carried to a plane by some of the Chief's men."

"You think he'd react that strongly to—"

"Slander? Yes."

"I don't work that way, Hamel."

Hamel half-smiled. “No, that's right. You deal in facts. But since working with Sid, you've lost some of your objectivity. Tell me, how long's it been since you last knew Corman?” He looked at his watch. “I must go. Please, if there is anything ethical I can do, anything not violating my own standards, let me know ... I'm your man."

Frustrated, Dean didn't bid him good-bye. Dr. Hamel might have the smallest bit of information, some word or phrase uttered between him and one of the men he counseled, if only he weren't governed by rules the killer failed to acknowledge. Perhaps the killer would not willingly reveal himself, but under the right conditions, men—even perverted men—spoke about their perversions.

He'd have to petition Chief Hodges to loosen Hamel's sense of morals regarding Park's file if he were to pursue the matter further, either this or take action on his own, cut through the red tape, and simply break into Hamel's office for the information he sought With Hamel being so stubborn, the file would be held inadmissible in a court of law, anyway. What did he have to lose by stealing it? And if it just so happened to lead to a second David Park and his guilty associate in murder, it'd be a moot point and Dean might be home in time for Christmas after all.

There'd been undercover cops alerted and on the case all over the city, and the public, in a panic, expected to awaken to grim news of another ugly offense, but it hadn't come. Dean sensed the lull before the awful storm, knowing they'd not seen the last of the Scalpers. Dean had spent a restless night puzzling over the questions he'd finally formulated and put to the reluctant Dr. Hamel. He'd gotten back to the lab at nine that morning and had worked steadily, except for a lunch with Sid and Tom Warner, the lab tech. An assistant coronor had only recently left Sid for a position elsewhere, and Tom was doing overtime until Sid could fill the vacancy.

According to Sid, this sudden loss of manpower had contributed to the recent poor showing of his office. Dean knew this could well be a part of it, but still, Sid was ultimately responsible, and he told him so.

As Dean found his way back toward the lab now, it was past six P.M., a grueling day for them all. Then he stopped cold at the stairs. At the bottom was David Park, holding an animated conversation with Tom Warner. Dean had surmised Warner was leaking information from the lab, but he'd thought it was to Hodges. Now this. It only heightened Dean's suspicions regarding both these men. They suddenly broke off, each going in the opposite direction. Dean cursed Hamel's stubborn reluctance once again. So much time had been wasted.

With or without Hamel's help, Dean was determined to learn more about the suspicious Lt. Park. Now might not be the most opportune moment, however, to attempt a break-in of Hamel's office, not without help. Sid had also gone for the evening, giving Dean his apologies—there was some emergency at home—telling Dean that he and his wife expected him for dinner at seven.

Dean knew he was going to be late, that Sid would miss him at the hotel, because Dean wanted very much to return to the lab and make an urgent call. What if it were Park, and what if he struck again tonight, Dean wondered. Maybe Hamel didn't give a damn about the rights of victims, about the suffering and terror these two maniacs were wreaking on an entire city, but Dean certainly did. Park wouldn't be the first or last policeman to go over the edge. While most chose to direct their sad turmoil against themselves by swallowing the barrel of a gun, Dean knew from his many years in this business that aberrations took all forms. Suppose this time the cop's rage was directed outward, at others, and suppose it was to do with a psychological disorder brought on by ... by God knows what, perhaps hirsutism for all he knew! Hirsutism was the medical term for excessive body hair in a male pattern, usually hereditary. Hormonal imbalance could cause excessive hair growth, or a lack of hair, and it needn't be Park's problem, but a problem for someone who, as Hamel had said, he was in awe of, the second, hairy little man-ape Peggy had described. Dean had wanted to discuss real physical aberrations and compare these ailments with mental ailments Hamel had come across in his time here, but Hamel wasn't about to consent.

So Dean must follow through on a course of action that would circumvent Hamel.

His first step must be to confirm his suspicion of Park, and bolster it well, for it was not at all well-founded. Had Sid's instruments not been tampered with, had Hamel not been contacted on two occasions by the killer who had some inside track on his phone and knowledge of his movements, Dean may never have considered the possibility.

He now unlocked the door to the darkened pathology lab, still and silent. Just as well, Dean told himself. He needed time to think this thing through clearly, and he needed privacy in order to get some much-needed answers.

He crossed the room to Sid's office, sat in a plush chair, and dialed Chicago, eager to hear from Sybil or Carl Prather. He prayed they would have some information on Park. But it was late in Chicago, too, and Dean was unable to get through to either one. No doubt the two lovers were together at Carl's or Sybil's, and Dean began to dig in his wallet for Sybil's home number, when he decided instead to ask the police operator in Chicago to patch him through to Chief Ken Kelso.

Dean waited a long time in the dark, in silence, half-certain Kelso would be as unavailable as Sybil at this point, perhaps off again in his pursuit of Angel Rae's sister, perhaps home in bed with his wife. The dark lab was peaceful, and Dean's eyelids grew heavy. He knew that if he half-concentrated on rest, he could fall asleep right here and now, and he semi-dozed to the sound of being on hold. That's how his mind felt at the moment, on hold, prepared to locate Hamel's office on the seventh floor of the building, to somehow break in and snatch Park's file, and perhaps one or two others. He dreamed of the detective work he must do.

"Yes, Kelso here."

Kelso's booming voice shook Dean up.

"Kenny! It's me, Dean."

"Dino, damn you! Where'n hell you calling from? The airport? You back in Chicago?"

"No, no! I'm calling from Florida."

"Ducky ... you're still there, huh?"

"In the thick of it, yeah, and great to hear your voice, too."

"Dean, you got shit for brains."

"At least I have brains of some sort."

"Do you have any—any—idea just what the hell you're doing, man?"

Dean was unsure what Ken was referring to. “I think so. I'm doing my best, at any rate, to—"

Ken cut him short, shouting, “To Jackie, goddamn you. She's not doing well alone, Dean. She needs you."

"Ken, despite our friendship—yours and Jackie's as well as ours—it's really none of your blasted business."

"The hell it isn't, Dean! Just tell me when you plan to get back home so I can give her that much."

"I can't rightly say, Ken."

Ken groaned at the other end.

"But you could speed up the process if you'd check on some information regarding a cop down here, name of Park."

Ken was listening. Dean told him what he suspected, and the fact Carl Prather was supposedly looking into his background.

"I'll see if I can run down Sybil and see what they've got, but whether it pans out or not, I think you'd better get back home, if you're interested in your marriage, that is."

"Thanks for the advice, Uncle Ken. You know I'll be home the minute I can."

"You better, if you want a home to come home to. Hell, Dean, Jackie and I know you. You'll be there until someone's put away. Are you and this old pal of yours any closer to a mark than before?"

"All depends on what you find on Park, Kenny."

Kelso took his number at the hotel as well as the lab. “Get back to you soon as I can. Meantime, take care of yourself."

"Oh, Ken, anything in New York on Angel Rae's sister?"

"Yeah, I got a lead."

This was exciting news but Ken sounded depressed about it. “So give,” said Dean.

"Could be a false trail, but if it's legit, Dean, the woman is here."

"In Chicago?"

"Unless it was just a stopover."

"Jesus..."

"Yeah, double-Jesus."

"Any ... you know ... floaters coming into the morgue?"

"Not any more than usual, but I've got Sybil alerted. She's managing very well without you, pal."

It was a dig and Dean knew it, but he let it go. News of the very real possibility of another epidemic of floating bodies didn't sit well. Suppose Angel Rae had sent word to her sister about Dean, about Jackie? Suppose another deadly and depraved mind was at this moment stalking Jackie? Suppose Jackie's paranoia of the past few months was not paranoia at all, suppose she really had been seeing someone following her to and from work?

"Ken,” Dean's voice took on an urgency, “you've got to do me another favor."

"Name it."

"Put a man on Jackie, just in case...."

"Already have, Dino ... already have."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"No, no—how long have you had a man watching her?” Dean wondered if this could be Jackie's problem. A cop had been shadowing her. “For how long?"

"On and off, I'd say one, one-and-a-half months, since we learned of the existence of the sister, and then I stepped it up when I learned she might be in Chicago."

"Christ, Ken, why didn't you tell me all this time?"

"Didn't want to alarm—"

"Alarm, you damned fool, that's just what you've done. I want you to call Jackie and tell her you've got a man watching over her, and inform her that he's been doing so for some time. Hell, Ken, she's been seeing shadows everywhere, and now I know why."

"My guy says he's never been spotted. Has she seen my guy? Have you?"

"She's felt him, damn it, and that's enough. Either tell her of his presence, or pull him off."

"Will do."

"Thank you.” They were about to hang up when Dean cried out, “Ken!"

"Yeah."

"Tell ... say to Jackie ... tell her I love her, will you, partner?"

Ken coughed and answered slowly. “I'm sure she'll like that, coming second-hand from me. Christ, Dean, call her up and tell her yourself."

They hung up, Dean wondering if he shouldn't do exactly as Ken suggested, and he started to, dialing the number of the hospital where Jackie was a nurse. But a noise far in the back of the lab disturbed Dean. He'd thought he was alone. In fact, he'd had to use the key Sid had given him to let himself into the lab. There had been some lights on in the lab, but the feeling had been one of aloneness, and now this odd sound, as if someone were lurking there.

The hair at the nape of his neck bristled. Was it Sid? Was it the Mr. Hyde side of the mild Dr. Jekyl lying in wait for Dean's return? Or might it be Park? Park and Dyer had been in and out of the pathology lab from the day of Dean's arrival. Park could have lifted Sid's scalpel from its resting place. Park could have placed it at the scene of the crime to throw suspicion onto Sid. The noise came again, louder this time.

Dean inched closer, wondering if he dare speak out to ask whoever was in the next room, where the slab and refrigerator compartments were, to come forward. But he didn't relish the idea of a tussel with a scalpel-wielding madman. Instead, he inched toward the light switch.

As he did so, he heard shuffling feet and a grunt. He heard someone tear open one of the refrigerated slabs, yank it out on its casters, then become silent.

Dean remembered now there was another entrance to the corpses on the other side. Whoever it was must have come from that direction. The slab room was in semi-darkness, but Dean could see the thin, tall form in dark clothes bending over the body of what Dean surmised to be the Jane Doe in the park. Had the damnable vulture returned for another section of skin, hair, or scalp?

With a sudden movement Dean snapped on the lights, causing a scream to come out of the police officer at the body, and when she turned, Dean saw it was Peggy Carson.

"Jesus, Peggy?” Dean held a hand over his heart, which was pounding so hard he was momentarily dazed.

Peggy, too, had been frightened, and she gasped for air, her hands at her breast and mouth, tears coming from her eyes. She'd been shedding tears for the dead girl, and now they came as a result of shock.

"You scared the hell out of me, Dean!"

"Hey, I heard someone come in, and it ... well, I'm sorry."

"I ... I wanted to see her,” Peggy indicated the dead girl. “It's ... so awful, what they did to her."

Then Dean saw Tom Warner, Sid's young, baby-faced assistant, in the corner, in shadow at the door. He'd been peering out, and he now looked stricken. It was obvious that Peggy had talked him into this against his better Judgment. Tom was one of those people no one took much notice of, and indeed, even now Dean saw little in him that might be lifted out to describe the man, say, for the benefit of a police sketch. He was of average height, with mousy brown hair, small of face, except for large glasses that bobbed up and down his nose in agitation. He had colorless, gray eyes, stood perhaps five-six, and weighed one-forty or -fifty, Dean guessed. In all the time Dean had spent in the lab, he'd been like a good butler, a gofer who did his job so superbly that Dean had forgotten of his existence until now.

"It's not what you think, Dr. Grant. Officer Carson has the permission of her superior to view the remains. She is ... on the case."

"On the case?” asked Dean.

"Let's say I've got a personal stake in it, Dean."

"Anyway,” said Mr. Thomas Warner, “if you will lock up, Dr. Grant.” He started to leave, “And I would very much appreciate this ... our being here ... to remain confidential."

"I hope I can keep that confidence, Mr. Warner."

It was all Warner wished to hear. “Thank ... thank you, doctor."

Dean gave Peggy a reproachful look, knowing she had no such clearance. Given the hour and the state of Tom Warner's nerves, Dean knew better. Now he glanced down at the ugly scar that remained of the dead girl's head. The patch of scalp taken was in a rough hexagram now, the skin around the wound having sunken in, as if to protect the naked area as best it could. Dean gave the shroud a tug, covering the dead, and with a quick push sent the drawer closing into the wall. Peggy stepped away from the pulled-to vault door.

"Why, Peggy? Why're you doing this to yourself?"

Peggy pointed to the vault. “That could just as well be me in there!"

"But it isn't."

"And that's supposed to make it all right? Supposed to make me feel better?"

For the first time Dean realized her inner vulnerability; why she had come on so strong with him earlier. It had been a successful attempt to hide that part of herself. She had braced herself by hiding in his arms, and Dean, consciously or unconsciously, had taken advantage of her a great deal more than she'd taken advantage of him. It was apparent now that she was in emotional turmoil, like a soldier in the field asking why she was allowed to live when beside her, not a few feet away, another just like her had been blown away. Maybe Hamel was right all along. Maybe Dean had played the fool, helping her to escape bedrest. Maybe Peggy needed those sessions with Hamel, and her resistance to the notion only compounded her need to talk out this horror. Maybe, like Jackie in Chicago, Peggy Carson could not function professionally without coming to terms with her newly found ghosts, ghosts hoisted upon her by an evil of incredible intensity, an evil still roaming the trashy backways and lurking in parks, just beyond the safety of this building.

"What are you going to do? Return to where you were attacked and sit around the street corner until you're attacked again—"

"That, Dr. Grant, is my job."

He shook his head. “No, no—your job is not to go out and knowingly commit suicide. Now, we've theorized, Sid and me, about the possibility that the killer's last two choices of victim were not coincidental—"

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the bastards were looking specifically for a black female scalp."

"So the thrill of the white redhead's gone, huh? Who came up with this shit?"

"Yours truly."

"Are you covering again for Corman?"

"No, I don't have to cover for Sid. He's a good man, a good M.E."

"And I'm a good cop."

"And you don't need to prove it to anyone, certainly not by getting yourself a room at this inn!” Dean indicated the slabs.

"Don't worry, I'm not looking to check in here."

"Good. Now. You need that time off you've pushed aside, kid, and you need to talk about it ... not to stare into the face of a dead girl you feel guilty over."

"Bullshit. I just—"

"And maybe you really shouldn't be dodging Dr. Hamel.

Her face was steadily growing angrier and she exploded. “Just who the hell do you think you are, Dr. High-and-Mighty, know-it-all sleuth and poor hybrid imitation of Sherlock Holmes, Christ! Comin’ in here where you ain't wanted, tellin’ me I got to beware of—of—"

"Of yourself, Peggy—yeah, like my Jackie."

"I'm not your Jackie. I grew up in a way you couldn't begin to dream possible! Raped by my own father, into drugs in junior high, forty-two when I was fourteen!"

The phone rang. Dean let it ring, but stared back at it. It could be Ken with important information. It could be Sybil. It could be Jackie....

"Take it,” she said.

"Don't go anywhere,” he told her.

She wiped her eyes as he went into the other room for the phone. The ringing machine shattered the quiet lab. When Dean lifted the receiver he had an odd sensation of fear: the last time he answered a telephone call in the dark of a pathology lab, Angel Rae was on the other end taunting him, telling him the horrible truth of how she had Jackie.

"Grant,” he said cautiously, into the phone.

He was instantly relieved to hear Kelso's near-bellowing voice. “Kelso, anything?” he asked, anxious.

"Seems Park was with the Seneca, Wisconsin police, a town of some 32,456 people. According to Prather, who says he left a message for you to return his call, this guy Park was the highest ranking officer on the force there when a series of scalpings took place. He was under a lot of heat, and when the killings stopped and he could not solve the case, he lost his job and moved out. Some of that could be smoke created for guys like us who are snooping, you know. He might be legit, and in Orlando on special assignment attached to Hodges. Certainly would want a man with his experience with me if I were facing a case as weird as this."

Dean thought he heard a click, someone listening in. He looked up to see Peggy's whereabouts, but all he could confirm was the fact that she was gone. He cursed under his breath, causing Kelso to ask him what he was grumbling about now.

"Can't say how much I'd like you down here with me on this case, Ken. Sure is hard to know who a guy can trust when even the people who don't have a reason to lie to you do."

"Sid?"

"Among others. As for Sid, ah, I think we've got it resolved."

"Sybil mentioned the fact that you did a little digging in his dirt, too."

"Probably shouldn't have."

"Why? You'd do it to me, wouldn't you? I mean, if I were behaving irrationally? Which, by the way, brings me around to your behavior."

"I know, call Jackie. I promise I will."

"Tell her you'll be back by the end of the week. Tell her anything."

"Again, thanks for the advice."

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Careful down there, huh? I mean, if this guy Park is a psycho cop ... well, he's carrying a weapon at all times. You got a gun?"

"I packed one, but it's at the hotel."

"Asshole. Strap it on."

Dean thanked his friend again for the advice. “Any chance you might join me?"

"Would if I could, but I've already shot my travel allowance for the year."

"Ken, suppose Park were fired for cause up in Michigan—you know, suspicious behavior, maybe something more. Suppose the smoke isn't smoke at all, but real fire?"

"Yeah, I thought of that."

"Isn't there any way to find out about his true status?"

"Not if it's been masked by computers, to be corrected at some future date. The only one who might have the straight dope on him is the man in charge there in Orlando."

"Hodges?"

"Right."

"Know anything about Hodges?"

"A career man, like me."

"Okay, thanks again, buddy."

"No problem, Dino, and tomorrow I'll see if I can't get Hodges on the line, get the facts."

"He's more likely to cooperate if you use the telex so he can confirm who you are."

"Will do."

They hung up. Hearing Ken's voice, being reminded of Jackie's distress, made Dean again want to chuck Florida for home and leave this bizarre battle for other men to fight. But the screeching of car tires from a few stories below took him to the window, where he saw a squad car tearing out of the parking lot. The top carried the number 24 on it. Dean wondered if it could possibly be Peggy Carson. His mind flashed back to Peggy at the side of the corpse, and he wondered if, given her state of mind, she had not lifted an extension to deliberately eavesdrop on his and Ken's discussion. If so, she now knew of Dean's suspicions regarding Park. Could she possibly be acting on those suspicions in haste at this moment?

Dean quickly dialed dispatch downstairs, identified himself, and asked if he could be put in touch with Officer Peggy Carson at that moment.

"Officer Carson is off duty, sir,” replied the female voice.

"Can you tell me what her squad car number is?"

It took a moment for the response, Dean listening to the keyboard of a computer being punched repeatedly. “Twenty-four, sir."

Peggy had just taken her squad car without authorization, and that was enough for Dean to know where she was going.

"I need a car and the address of Lt. David Park,” he told the dispatch officer.

"The motor pool can oblige you with a car, Dr. Grant, but I cannot give out the address of an officer without form A-213 in triplicate, or a warrant from a—"

"Damn it, this is an emergency!"

"Would you like 911?"

"No, no!” Dean wanted to stop Peggy, not get her busted.

"I can beep for Lt. Park, sir. Have him get in contact with you."

"No, no—get me Dyer, Frank Dyer."

Dean would try another way for the address.

"I'll be happy to start the paperwork for the unit, sir, and when you come on down, Dr. Grant, and sign the form, then I could fill it out for you and run it through channels. I'm sorry, but it's policy now. I'll let them know in the motor pool you're on your way. And I have Detective Sargeant Dyer on the line for you now."

"Great."

Dyer came on. “Dr. Grant, what's up?"

"I need help, Frank."

"Anything I can do, you've got it."

"Is Park with you?"

"No, he's knocked off for tonight"

"I need transportation, a siren, fast."

"All right, meet me in the lot."

"Frank?"

"Yeah, doc?"

"Don't bring Park in on this one."

"Sure ... sure..."

Dean rushed out, unaware that someone stood at the end of the hallway in deep shadow watching his movements as he locked the final door and raced for the lot, bumping into strangers as he went.