Scalpers

TWELVE

A shower, a shave, and a phone call from Jackie changed Dean's outlook decidedly, and helped him to decide his next course of action. Jackie was in much better spirits, due in large part to her learning that the shadow she felt following her for some time now was only a policeman assigned by Ken Kelso to watch her. The fact meant a lot, and she was grateful to Dean for passing it along. Like Dean, she was angry with Ken for having done such a thing without either her or Dean's knowledge.

"I don't know when I'll speak to him again,” she had said.

Like Dean, Jackie was feeling terribly lonely and lost without her partner, but they reaffirmed their love for one another over the telephone, and she reaffirmed her faith in him by telling him to remain in Florida to complete his work, to do what he had gone to Orlando to do.

"There's more to do than you know,” he protested.

"Any less, and I'd say you were sluffing off."

"It could go another month, things are in such disarray here."

"Sid's work is that bad?"

"It's not just Sid ... it's the whole homicide division. One of the cops we were working closely with has ... well, he's dead."

"Dead?" Her one-word reply had a definite tremor to it. "How?"

"The killers got to him. He was working alone, a real maverick, and they got to him first."

She was silent for a moment. Dean pictured her in his mind's eye, tall and lovely, energetic, filled with opinion and dedication, and committed to her work as head nurse in pediatrics at Rush-Presbyterian Hospital. “You will be careful, won't you?"

"Absolutely. I'm no hero."

"I couldn't stand to lose you."

"I love you, darling."

"I love you too, very much."

"And as soon as I can—"

"Hurry home, yes...."

Now Dean was alone with his thoughts, the fatigue held at bay by the shower and a short nap. He paced about his room, mentally going over the evidence gathered to date. It created a pattern in miniature of the killers. It implicated someone, if they could only link it all to the individuals responsible for this horror.

The phone rang, shattering his concentration. It was Frank Dyer.

"Dyer, where are you?"

"Mercy Hospital, glad I caught you. I got a doctor here who says he saw Mrs. Jimenez, the dead woman, talking to a guy who was driving a Mercedes just before she died."

"Mercedes? You get plate numbers?"

"Dream on. But this guy says he's seen the car at the hospital before."

"Does he know whose car it is?"

"He's not sure. Lot of doctors here drive expensive cars. Our boy's an intern, drives a Honda cycle."

"Still, there are only a limited number of Mercedes that can be in that staff lot at any given time."

"Exactly, and I'm on it. What about you, doctor? You still on the case?"

"Yeah, for now I am."

"Great ... great. I'll let you know what I find out. Once I get a list of names to work with and possibles, I'll get back to you."

It might pan out to nothing, or Dyer's rundown of the Mercedes could lead to a break in the case. They were due for some luck. A number of clues already pointed to at least one of the killers being a medical man, or at least in close proximity to medical supplies, capable of moving in and out of medical settings without unduly disturbing anyone.

Dean went downstairs to the lobby of the Hilton to the Hertz rental booth. He was soon pocketing a key, and with his medical bag in hand he started for the car, which was somewhere in the depths of an underground lot, a section numbered C-17. The lot was empty and silent. Dean was unable to find the car or anything like a marker for a moment, until he saw, far off, the yellow Hertz banner. Suddenly he heard the sound of a motor behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was a Mercedes. He stared hard to see the driver, but like many Florida cars, the glass was so darkly tinted it was impossible to see within. Dean's heart skipped a beat as he mentally took down the plate number, a New York license. The car had eerily crept up on his heels, as if following Dean, like some obedient dog. Dean thought of the many ways he could die, thought of how Park had had the killers suddenly turn on him as he was about to close in on them, and the thoughts caused beads of perspiration to turn into watery rivlets dripping down his face. Finally, having had enough, he felt for the .38 he had strapped on at the last moment before leaving his room, the gun which Ken Kelso had advised he carry with him at all times.

The wheels of the Mercedes suddenly squealed. Dean whipped around, gun in hand, to face down the driver of the car.

The car had come to an abrupt halt Dean heard the snap of locks on all four doors, a commotion inside the car. Then a back window slid down halfway. “Is this a stickup?” asked a man who must be near ninety, delighted with the prospect.

"Grandpa! Close that window!” someone shouted at the man.

Grandpa said in his best cursing voice, “Shit, if he wants to, he can shoot the damn window out! I say we negotiate for our release!"

"Police!” said Dean, identifying himself, showing his badge. “I would like—"

"Oh, the police, Fred! Tammy! The police!” said Grandpa, his white head showing as he exited the car and came out with his hands up. “Just like TV, ain't it?"

The younger man, perhaps fifty-five, and his wife got out of the car, and Dean saw that they were all wearing bright, loud clothes, the old man in Hawaiian shorts. Dean realized immediately that he'd overreacted to the slow-moving Mercedes that had come up on him the way it had ... they'd simply been searching for a parking space.

Dean apologized, saying he was on the lookout for a stolen Mercedes, and he thought for a moment that—

"Police harassment, that's what this is,” complained Tammy, a white-haired forty-eight-year-old, long on makeup, short on weight control.

"Please accept my apologies,” Dean said as he rushed for his rental car. Behind him he could hear the cackle of the old man.

"He weren't no Don Johnson, was he?"

Pitching his bag into the medium-sized Chrysler, Dean drove for downtown. His return to the lab would, he hoped, be welcomed by Sid, and maybe the friction between him and Hodges would by now have dissipated. As Dean drove out of the garage into the street, he saw the Mercedes leave as well. Funny, he'd thought they were searching for a parking place. He imagined for a moment the bizarre scene of a scalping murder in which a woman was not only brutally scalped, but her unborn child was ripped from her as well, and standing tall over the body were Tammy, Fred, and Grandpa in Hawaiian shorts. There were so many bizarre twists to this case that the thought wasn't funny.

A second look in his rearview mirror told Dean that the sleek, gray Mercedes he now saw had an altogether different license plate than Fred and Tammy's. This car had no plate on the front. As the driver suddenly veered off, Dean saw that it had a Florida plate, but it was too far away for him to make out the numbers.

Dean gunned the gas pedal and the car sped back to the cream-colored Municipal complex downtown. Inside was the booze hound who had slept and cowered within sight of the murder of the Jimenez woman and her unborn child.

* * * *

"I told you all I know,” grumbled the broken-down old drunk with the tattered gray coat, baggy pants, and grease-spotted tie. He fumbled with a hat that looked older than he did. His white hair was a wild mass of explosive strands waving above him with the wind stirred up by a ceiling fan. His jowls and gums had long since caved in, his teeth gone. Dean imagined his liver was also in sad shape. From the way Dyer kept his handkerchief close by his nose, Dean imagined the old guy smelled pretty bad, too.

"Just give us some idea what this man looked like,” pleaded Frank Dyer, exasperated with the old-timer. Dean imagined Dyer had been at it for some time.

"And I ain't lying, son, got to have a drink bad—real bad, you understand, son?” said Frank Dyer's stellar witness, brought in for questioning.

Dean watched through a one-way glass, and suddenly Chief Jake Hodges, taking a personal interest in the case, blotted out Dean's view of the old man, coming at him like a bull, asking, “What year is this, Mr. Silbey?"

"Year? What year?"

"Do you know what year it is? What day?"

"Course I do. Nineteen and—and eighty..."

"Eighty what, Mr. Silbey?"

"Keep civil now, son ... it's eighty, eighty-seven, no, eight."

"Who's the President of the United States?” asked Hodges."

"I tell ya', I gotta’ have a drink bad ... real bad,” said Silbey. Dean entered the room where he and Silbey were to confer.

"Who's the goddamned President of the—"

"Randolph Fuckin’ Scott!” Silbey glared at Hodges, then laughed at his own joke, saying in Red Skelton silliness, “Fooled ya', didn't I ... course it's Ronnie Reagan ... or did that rag get taken off the Bush! Ha! Say, can't a murder witness get a drink around here?"

Dean saw they were getting nowhere with the old man, and he thought how differently Ken Kelso in Chicago would handle the derelict. Dean exited and returned fifteen minutes later with what he hoped to be a remedy for the old man's memory. By now, Hodges had disappeared, and Dyer, too, had given up. Dean was sorry to have missed Dyer; he wanted to tell him about his decision to stay and see the case to its conclusion. Dean almost missed old Silbey, too, who was being escorted kindly to the nearest exit, and told thank you and good-bye by a female officer that he doffed his hat at.

Dean caught up with the old man on the street, frightening him at first, but calming him down with what he displayed, a pint of Jack Daniels.

"Huh, hmm, not bad stuff,” said the old critic. “All right, Don—” He shaded his eyes from the bright sun.

"Dean."

"All right, I'll sit and talk a spell with you."

Dean found a park bench outside the municipal building.

"Mr. Silbey, you want to help the police, don't you?"

"Well yeees, but ... I was left here alone by Mr. Fat, and I got awful dry and they started in angry at me, the big ‘un."

Dean stared away at a tree to catch his breath. The old man smelled like the scummy bottom of a trash can.

"Well, now, you're all set, old-timer, and welcome to it."

"You're sent from the heavens, a real godsend,” said Silbey.

"No, Mr. Silbey, I'm with the coroner's office. I'm Dean Grant—call me Dean."

"Thank you, Dean,” Silbey said after another swill, smiling an almost lovable, toothless grin, his wrinkly, leathered face covered in white stubble. The drink had its desired effect for them both. Silbey the Third, as he began to call himself, quickly improved in his communication skills, speaking out loudly against police brutality of a mental nature. Two large swallows on the pint bottle effectively emptied it to a remaining quarter. It was like a balm for the man. Dean took the container and tucked it away, making the old man grimace.

"What'd you do that for?"

"You'll get it back if you'll tell me what you know."

"That'd take ... well, a lifetime!"

"About the killing the other night."

"You ... you believe me? That I saw it? Swear I did,” he told Dean, and then with great detail, Silbey went into the horrid act, standing and displaying with his own hands and arms how the little man chopped and cut away the woman's head to get at the prize he wanted. He moved off some distance, pacing off the space between the killers and himself. Then, finishing, he said, “What in God's name do you suppose they did with that blood-soaked thing, Don? What? Going to have nightmares over this, I know, lessen I can stay bombed. Can I have it back?"

"Sorry, sir—not just yet. Can you tell me anything at all about the man ... the big man, I mean."

Silbey begged off. “Not much to tell. Was dark ... and he looked like just any other guy."

"His clothes, what about them?"

"Good clothes, nice, well dressed, yeah."

"Sweater, shirt sleeves?"

"Sport coat, I think."

"Color?"

"Green, no, light blue."

"Color of his hair?"

"Hair ... hair?"

"Yes, his mop,” said Dean, tugging at his own hair.

"Too dark to tell. Regular ... nothing special. But the midget guy, he was covered with black hair, real black. Thought it was a coat at first. Looked almost like a monkey, I tell you."

"Height, weight?"

"Like I told the cop, I was flat on my back. Even the dwarf guy looked thirty feet tall to me."

Dean nodded, relenting. “Will you give me a call if you can remember anything else, Mr. Silbey? Anything at all?” Dean jotted down two numbers on a card he handed the old man, who kept his eye on Dean's pocket, where the bottle had disappeared. Dean gave in, handing it to the man.

"You mean I'm free to go now?"

"Yes."

"Listen, I ... I work at Chung Fat's..."

"The little joint on the alley where the body was found?"

"Yes, sir, and ... anyway ... had to take a whole day off, you know, to be here ... think maybe I ... I could get, you know, something for my trouble?"

Dean smiled at the old cuss, knowing he was beyond help or even pity.

Dean reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Think this'll cover your loss of wages, Mr. Silbey?"

The man's rheumy eyes lit up and he grinned wide. “Yeah, thank you kindly, Don.” He snatched up the bill and his bottle and rushed away. Dean watched the old man's departure for his known haunts, watched him shake all over half a block off, filled with a mix of joy and palsy and booze.

How much was his testimony worth? Perhaps a dime and a nickel in a court of law.

Dean took the elevator for Sid's pathology lab, which occupied most of the fifth floor and a few rooms in the basement, as near as possible to the municipal morgue. As Dean made his way to the labs on the upper floor, he mulled over all that had happened, concentrating hard on the certain connection between a pair of murdering scalpers who'd attacked Peggy Carson, and the killers of the Jimenez woman, as well as her unborn child, a part of which they'd also taken, according to Dyer.

Assuming that Silbey actually saw what he claimed to have seen through the haze of his alcohol, it simply was not likely that two separate man-and-dwarf murder teams could be at work, committing such acts in the same city. Such a notion was more farfetched than believing the old drunk had in fact seen what he claimed.

And if this were so, then what had motivated the killers to turn from scalping lone, helpless victims to attempted abduction, as Silbey had indicated. They'd chased the child down the alley. Would they have scalped the child, too, for a double murder? As it was, they'd snuffed out the life of the child Mrs. Jimenez was carrying. At any rate, it was a sure break with previous acts, their usual M.O. Had their deadly fetish with hair taken a new and even more horrible twist? Had they some new bizarre ritual which required a child's scalp? Dean shuddered at the thought.

For now, and perhaps always, little Nola Jimenez could tell them nothing. Her mind had buried the terror, wiped it out as if it had never happened. She was asking for her mother, the doctors said.

Through the glass partitions of Sid's inner office and the pathology lab, Sid saw Dean coming. Sid was on the phone, but his arm shot up and he waved Dean in, his face telling Dean of his delight at seeing him back.

"Dean!” he said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece when Dean came in. “I thought you were outa here! What's up? Forget something? Good to see you!"

"Why didn't you tell me about the Jimenez woman?” Dean replied sternly.

"Not now,” said Sid, pointing to an extension phone in the lab opposite Sid's glassed partition. “Pick up on three, Dean, this could be important"

"Who're you talking to?"

"M.E. up in Billings, Montana."

Dean pursed his lips and nodded, taking up the other phone. But it was silent at the other end. Growing impatient, Dean began talking with Sid over the extension. “Who is this guy, and where is he?"

"Checking records, Dean ... takes time."

"Why the hell did you keep the Jimenez business from me?"

"Look, Dean ... you were dead on your feet, and ... and you were on your way—"

"That's no—"

"Got somethin’ here,” said a gruff voice from Billings, and then the man cleared his throat. “Whole thing was handled by Stimson years ago, Dr. Corman. What's this all about?"

Sid capsulized the situation in Orlando better than Dean thought possible, finishing with the fact that he'd read stories and clippings collected from the dead officer, Dave Park, which led him to contact Billings’ authorities.

"I see ... I see,” replied the man at the other end, who Sid now introduced to Dean and Dean to him. They were speaking to Stimson's replacement Dr. Trenton P. Neubauer, whose more lucrative medical practice usually superseded his work as parttime M.E. Neubauer took a moment to confess he knew a great deal less about forensics than he'd like, but that time and pressures didn't allow for him to work at it fulltime. “We do what we can, when we can up this way,” he finished.

"But you have records on this unsolved double murder in 1958, Doctor?” asked Sid.

Dean made a face through the glass at Sid and raised his shoulders, wondering what he was talking about.

Neubauer cleared his throat again and began to speak matter-of-factly of a grisly double murder which, according to record, was the first reported case of death by scalping in the States since the turn of the century, since the end of the Indian Wars in the West.

"George Stimson used to talk about it a lot, specially as he got older, always said it was the very worst thing he'd ever seen; said the man and the woman had suffered terribly, you know, not having died right off, just thrown into trauma and left so long.... It was bad, real bad, and Stimson always felt pretty poor, being as how he and the police up here couldn't prove a strong enough case against the Injun that done it to see him get the chair. They got him off light, really, for manslaughter, as he was boozed up out of his mind at the time and didn't know what he was doing. Found him that way in his pappy's old place on the reservation."

"What can you tell us about the two victims, Dr. Trent?” asked Dean, warming to the old man's voice, which had a kind of Mark Twain singsong to it.

"They were a married couple, far out on Sioux Creek Road. Had bought an old house, a large house, and fixed her up, not too awfully far from the site of an old Indian massacre.... Lot of Indian and cowboy and soldier history out these parts. Anyway, the Bennimins had a son, I believe a ward of the court until he was eighteen, which was maybe three years after his parents were killed. Boy come home from school one day and found the parents dead. It was big news here, back in ‘58. An old Indian testified against his son that it was him that done it, a boy name of Parker. Some say he was last of the Quanna Parker line, but there ain't no way of telling that."

"Parker ... Park...” muttered Sid.

"Say what?” asked Neubauer, who sounded at least sixty.

"You were not the physician of record, Dr. Neubauer?” asked Dean.

"Oh, hell no, that'd be Stimson. Stimson got me out here when I was a much younger man.” He chuckled with some fond memory.

"This Dr. Stimson, did he do an autopsy on these people—what were their names?"

"No, no autopsy needed was the feeling in most cases back then. You ought to know that ... and Stimson was a friend of the family. Appears he did what was required of him. Anyway ... no, no autopsy was done, ‘cause the cause of death was quite apparent!"

Dean sighed, “Yeah. What was the name, the victims, this married couple?"

"Bennimin, Helen and Hamilton Bennimin."

"What about the boy?"

"Ian, I think Ian Bennimin."

"And you say he was twelve at the time, in 1958?"

"Yes sir, that'd be about right."

Sid asked, “Whataya’ think, Dean?"

Dean was silent a moment before he began thinking aloud. “Scalping starts in Montana; Park's sent up for a double murder as an Indian on a drunk, learns the law behind bars, follows the killers from Montana to Michigan and then here. Only other name we've got is this kid, Ian..."

"What's that?” asked Trent.

"Dean, you think the kid might've—"

"What's that?” repeated Trent.

"Dr. Trent, this young man, Ian, do you know if he ever returned to his family home?"

"As a matter of fact, yes ... he did."

"Does he still live there?"

"No ... place was pretty rundown, and after a few years he moved out. But house and property's still his. Pay's the assessor every year."

"Maybe we ought to talk to the assessor's office,” suggested Dean.

"Did this fellow ever marry?” asked Sid.

"Ever marry?” Trent repeated the question before mulling it over. “Naw, I think not. Don't know ... think not."

"Ever join in any local community groups, clubs, Elks, V.A.?” Sid was driving at the loner aspect of the young man traumatized after finding his parents dead.

"No, nothing—but he was a veteran."

"Vietnam?” asked Dean.

"Yes."

"Dean?” interrupted Sid, “You thinking the kid did a Lizzy Borden number on his parents? That first double murder?"

"Lizzy Borden?” asked Neubauer.

"Was this kid disturbed, emotionally or—"

"Not in the least, so far as records indicate."

"Do you have any information on the boy? Where he relocated to?"

"Sorry, not a thing.” Trent didn't sound sorry. He sounded suddenly defensive, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"What precisely do you have on this Bennimin boy?” asked Dean.

Neubauer was silent for a moment. “Got the usual county forms, ward-of-the-court forms, birth certificate, and some other nonsense."

"Birth certificate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Read it, please."

Neubauer made an impatient noise with his teeth, but said, “Whole damned thing?"

"Just what's filled in the blanks, please, it could be important.

"It's your dime."

He then began reading each line and suddenly stopped. “What is it, sir?” asked Dean.

"Strange..."

"Sir?"

"Says here there was two boys ... twins born to the Bennimins."

Dean looked across at Sid through the glass partition separating them. “Same age, two boys, lose parents—"

"And only one is taken into custody by the courts?” finished Sid. “What happened to the other boy?"

"Oh, that explains it,” said Neubauer suddenly.

"What?"

"Other boy was a stillbirth. Explains a lot ... no name on the second certificate. Twins or not, we do separate birth certificates."

Dean and Sid thanked Dr. Neubauer for his time and hung up. “How did Park become a cop, with his record?” Sid asked Dean.

"Changed his name, relocated, took the tests, passed with flying colors, settled down in a small town in Michigan where he traced the killers?"

"He must've read every newspaper in the country for information."

"Or paid a clipping service to do it for him."

"I can't believe the police computers haven't matched any of these crimes,” said Sid. “Park was right on this guy's behind. Look at these news stories."

Dean looked over the clippings. Other than the ‘58 occurrence outside Billings, there was a one-inch story on an old woman who'd lost her scalp in Iowa and a second about a female victim, characterized as a hooker, in a suburb of St. Louis. A third story was from a small-town paper in Ohio, the victim a young street tough. The final Stories covered a serial killer in northern Michigan in and around Park's town of Seneca. The dates on the stories spanned the years 1958 to 1989, ending with the recent spate of scalping deaths in Orlando. Maybe Park had done better work than all the police computers in the country, but Dean knew that computers only know what people tell them.

"Damned Park,” muttered Dean. “Why wouldn't he confide in us, Sid? Why?"

"Conditioned against it, I suspect, and don't forget, he didn't particularly like me. Nor did he look clean. The wrong guy going into that room of his the other night would have put him down as the killer and gone home to his wife, kids, and VCR."

"Just wish the man had trusted us."

"I think he was working up to it, Dean, when he opened up the other day."

Dean frowned and took in a deep breath of air which he expelled in exasperation.

"Hey, let's eat,” said Sid. “You like Chinese, don't you?"

Dean saw that it was past two, and neither of them had eaten. He was hungry, and he did love Chinese. “You ever hear of a place called Chung Fat's?"

"Chung Fat's, yeah, down near Mercy Hospital, but Dean, trust me, you don't want to eat there."

"All right, lead on, Sid. I assume you saw the crime scene where the Jimenez woman died."

"That's not a good enough reason, Dean, to eat at Chung Fat's."

"Why didn't you tell me about the Jimmenez ripple, Sid? Why'd I have to hear about it from Dyer?"

"Hell, Dean, Dyer's got nothing, a big zip, he's.... “Sid lowered his voice, looking about the restaurant, a place called China Basket, traditional Oriental decor, with a large garden of bonsai vegetation and waterfall at the center, paper lanterns strung everywhere, the walls lined with pen-and-ink artwork, delicate and beautiful and mostly canvas, with the simplest of lines. It reminded Dean of a place he often took Jackie to back home. But Dean saw that it was a place where a lot of cops and city workers from the nearby municipal center came for lunch, and he understood Sid's cautioning himself.

"The man's gotten not a whit further investigating the case. And that so-called witness of his, what a joke! Dyer's desperate, what with Hodges on his back and this thing with Park coming down around him. You know that ol’ Frank's pissed with himself because he actually blames himself for Park's getting killed? That's how screwed up Dyer is just now."

"That's crazy."

"Agreed, but he said something about Park asking him to have a meeting with him for dinner, and Dyer was too busy with some family business. Now the man's down on himself."

"I guess we all internalize our mistakes, huh?"

Sid hefted his glass of beer and made as if to toast the statement. “So right."

"But regardless of Dyer or anyone else, you should have had the decency to bring me up to date after this latest—"

"Hey, Dean, you were walking, on a plane, remember? Homeward bound. Jesus, Dean!"

"I wasn't on the plane when you got word, Sid."

Sid frowned, his manner and voice taking on an apologetic air. “Dean, I just felt you'd done more'n enough of bailing my ass out here. I ... I just didn't want to complicate a decision you were already having trouble with. Hell, I know you've been fretting over Jackie, and getting home, and well, there simply was nothing even you could do for this Jimenez woman."

They'd ordered, and now their food came. For a time they ate in silence, Dean watching Sid struggle with his chopsticks. “Never did get that down."

"And never will,” replied Sid, switching to a fork.

Dean's dexterity with the chopsticks made Sid wince.

"Show-off."

"One thing's apparent, Sid."

"What, that the killers aren't very bright? First setting up Park, staging everything down to Peggy's having stabbed him in self-defense? And then going out the same damned night and offing another victim for her scalp? I thought of that, believe me."

"An urge to kill, had to scratch it, driven to it?"

Sid smiled wryly, “Logic of a maniac? Or just nature at her most twisted?"

"Or the two heads of this monster at odds with one another."

Sid pursed his lips, pushed his dishware aside, and nodded. “One calculating, the other driven ... maybe you've got something there."

"From the killers’ point of view, Sid, we know one thing for certain."

"Which is?"

"All scalps are for the taking, even a child's. It's their right, their religion, maybe."

"What do we do next, Dean? Any ideas how to set fire to their church?"

Dean drained his tea and took a deep breath before replying. “I talked to the old man who claims to have seen the dwarf. The description matches Peggy's."

Sid shook his head. “You know just as well as I do that the old man was likely given cues and suggestions by Dyer to come up with that damned dwarf. Frank Dyer's like any other cop, Dean; half the time, during interrogation, they provide the answers to questions posed to a witness, one way or another!"

Sid seemed bent on disproving the supposed connection.

"Dyer's learned also that the killer drives a Mercedes,” said Dean.

Sid looked stricken. “Hell, we're not back to me, are we, Dean? God, I was with you at Park's, and I backed you one hundred percent on the facts, didn't I? Didn't I?"

"Sid, you've got a Ford LTD!"

"And a Mercedes which is mine, not the city's!"

"I didn't know.” Dean said hesitantly, “Are you..."

"What? What, Dean?"

"Are you on staff at Mercy Hospital?"

"On call at the trauma unit, sure, but—"

"Christ, Sid, someone put Jimenez and a Mercedes together, and damned if Dyer's not finding your name on a list right this moment as a suspect!"

Sid spilled his beer all over the white linen tablecloth. He was shaken, his face ashen, and an animal look of fear flitted across his features before he verbally fought back.

"This nightmare's got no end. Dean, a lot of us doctors drive that make of car. The “doctor killer,” it's called. Jesus ... could begin to think me guilty,” said Sid. “Next thing you'll want to know is if my parents were brutally murdered in an old house in Montana in 1958!"

"Sid, Sid!” Dean objected. But Sid stormed out, knocking over Dean's teacup as he did so. Dean jumped up, shouting for him to stop, then paid the bill and quickly rushed out. In a far corner of the restaurant, Tom Warner watched the two pathologists, his face set in anger.

Sid was walking briskly away when Dean caught up to him, saying, “Slow down, will you, Sid! We've got to work together, pool our knowledge and experience. I don't think for one minute you're guilty of these horrid acts!"

"Thank you, Dr. Grant, and can I count on you at my trial to stand by me?"

"Listen, Sid, please—answer one question straight."

Sid cooled, finding an ice cream vendor and buying them each a cone. “What question?” he finally asked.

"Tom Warner, Sid, where was Tom Warner last night? Does he have access to your keys? Could he have taken your Mercedes last night?"

Sid stopped walking and looked into Dean's eyes with agitation distorting his strong features. “You know, you could be right. I did get him to admit to spying on me. He begged to keep his job ... said some rubbish about his own being threatened if he didn't cooperate with Hodges. Old Jake Hodges has been after my ass for a long time."

Dean considered for a moment Hodges’ part in all this. He didn't seem to fit in neatly as a killer trying to frame Sid, yet there was no way to know in the end. A mass murderer could be lurking in the most innocent-looking man, or woman; Dean knew this from experience.

"Don't go falling apart on me, Sid, damn it,” Dean said. “I need you. We've got to stop these crazy bastards before they strike again, before anyone else is mutilated. They butchered that woman, and they damn sure would've done the same to the girl if she hadn't escaped."

"God ... I can't see mild-mannered, mousy Tom Warner as ... as capable of that kind of ghastly behavior."

"How well do you know Tom?"

Sid considered this. “Not too well. Went to medical school in your neck of the woods, University of Illinois."

"Childhood?"

"Never talks much about it, but I recall something about Saginaw—"

"Michigan?"

"Illinois."

"Ever see his records?"

"Not recently, but they're down in Personnel."

"Did you fire him?"

"Damned straight I did."

"They know that in Personnel?"

"Not yet."

"Come on, let's have a check."

They had arrived back at the municipal building on foot, the walk a calming one on the mild Florida winter day, refreshing, clearing Dean's mind. As they climbed the steps, Sid said, “Oh, by the way, Sybil Shanley called. Said it was urgent. Wouldn't say what about. She was kinda cool to me, actually."

"I'll call her later. Let's look Warner over."

"I'll just let the switchboard know where we are,” said Sid, going to the lobby's information desk and speaking briefly with the young woman there. He seemed to take more time than necessary, leaving Dean waiting. When Sid rejoined Dean, he had calmed considerably, and he said, “You know, Tom's too damned young-looking to have been the boy in Montana in ‘58 who may have axed his parents at the age of, what—fifteen?"

"True, but what happened in Montana may not have a damned thing to do with what's going on here, anyway. According to Neubauer, the fifteen-year-old had nothing to do with the deaths of his parents, right?"

Still, what Sid said made Dean wonder. He calculated the age of the young man who'd lost his parents in the brutal double murder back in Montana. The man would today be forty-five, Dean's and Sid's age. Every shred of information dishearteningly led back to Sid Gorman like a boomerang. Was all of it coincidence?

Dean tried to imagine a secret Sid Corman, a man who, after so many years of dealing with the dead, cutting into corpses to find solutions, had gone off the deep end to begin to use his scalpel on the living. He tried to imagine Sid with an accomplice who was a dwarf. He tried to imagine Sid cutting on a living person, leading a double life as a scalper. Impossible, even in his wildest thoughts. It was just too farfetched, too at odds with the Sidney Corman Dean had known since Korea.

Sid seemed to sense Dean's thoughts, staring across at him on the elevator ride down to Personnel.

Thomas Lloyd Warner, aged twenty-eight, born in Saginaw, Illinois, attended Saginaw High School and graduated from Northern Illinois University, and went on to the University of Illinois Medical Center in Chicago to become a doctor. Failing this, he became a laboratory technician and assistant with a police crime lab in Nebraska, and from Nebraska he went to Florida. There was nothing in his well-documented history to link him with Montana or any lies other than those he'd recently perpetrated against Sid Corman.

"I suppose you'd like to look over my file now,” said Sid, handing it to Dean.

"No, no way, Sid. I believe you're innocent. Warner may have believed differently, who knows, and then tried to help things along for Hodges, at the Chiefs urging. Being a weak man, Warner was only too willing to go behind your back."

"But to plant evidence against me?"

"Tom Warner was nowhere near the murder site that morning in the park. Do you recall who was?"

"Dyer found the bloody scissors, but you don't think...?"

"I had thought it was Park, but not anymore. And that first day I entered your lab and was faced by the welcoming committee—"

"Dr. Grant, there is a call for you, long distance,” said the well-dressed personnel manager who had allowed the doctors access to the records they sought without argument.

"Sybil,” said Sid.

But it was Ken Kelso, with an edge to his voice. “Dean, I got you, finally. For awhile I thought you were on a slab somewhere down there. Christ, I got news for you."

"What is it?"

"All circumstantial, but a bit too coincidental for my liking. One of the names on the list you sent up for checks—"

"Yes?"

"I think we struck pay dirt."

"Hold on, I want Sid Corman in on this ... Sid, pick up on line 3."

Sid did so as Kelso held off his information. “Seems, Dino, that there was a guy by the name of Ian Benjamin, a shrink. Anyway, this Dr. Benjamin was practicing psychiatry in Saugatuk, Michigan during the years when a number of scalping deaths occurred up that way, in and around Park's town of Seneca."

Dean swallowed hard, “Benjamin? You're sure?"

"You think it could be our Montana boy?” Sid asked Dean.

"What's that?” asked Ken.

"Go on, Ken,” said Dean. “What about this guy Benjamin?"

"Well, Seneca's a little town, so they called in Benjamin, and he worked on the cases on an ad hoc basis. And I was looking at this list you sent Carl Prather through Sybil, and it hits me that the name Benjamin Hamel and Benjamin, well, they're not so far apart, you know. And then I see he's not just another doctor, but a shrink, and I figure if Park is chasing somebody as far across the country as he has, then maybe he's onto someone in particular, someone like this guy Benjamin."

"If that were the case, why didn't he tell someone? What was he waiting for?"

"Who knows, blackmail, maybe. Didn't have the goods quite together yet? Building a solid case?"

"Or maybe he wanted both the killers, since we proved there were two men working in tandem."

"Christ,” moaned Sid, “you don't suppose Park was trying his level best to finger me as the second killer, do you?” asked Sid.

"Could be ... a lot of red herrings leading to your doorstep, Sid, some planted in the minds of quite a few people hereabouts by Hamel."

"Hamel ... Jesus ... I can't believe it ... he acts so, so queasy about the stiffs, and coming in here."

"Guilty conscience, maybe."

"Any way to identify this guy Benjamin so we know we're accurate—that it is Hamel, Ken?"

"Damned force in Seneca's kinda short on protocol."

"Meaning?"

"Usually you call in someone to help out on a case, like a shrink, or even a psychic. Well, you get their prints on record, at least. Seneca doesn't have an ink pad, it appears, much less a photo of the guy, and even if they did, they'd have to take the U.S. mail route to get the picture to us—no FAX machines or anything."

"Then all we've got is the similarity between the two names,” said Sid.

"We're in personnel records now,” explained Dean, “and we'll see what we can find out about Dr. Hamel."

"Good procedure, happy hunting.” Kelso said his goodbyes and rang off.

"I don't get it, Dean, about Park and Benjamin. I mean, he must've known the shrink had changed his name and that it couldn't have been just coincidence that where he goes the Scalpers follow, right? What was Park's game?"

"Ken may've been right, since Park had to carefully build his case against his killer. He had to because he himself had served time for just such a killing."

"Right."

"And the second killer entering the picture, Seneca authorities never knew it! It came as a total surprise to Park, and he may've thought he couldn't fully avenge himself on Hamel until he got the other man, too, the guy we know only as a dwarf."

"It's all too bizarre, Dean...."

"Truth is stranger than fiction."

"But if Park, I mean ... wouldn't Park have confided in Dyer, at least?

"My guess is that Park tried to convince Hamel that he was no threat to him, that he was called in by Hodges as a result of a chance remark made by Hamel himself, perhaps."

"As a matter of fact, that's how the Chief put it to me once,” said Sid, trying to follow Dean's meanderings.

"Hamel tells the Chief that he worked with police in Michigan on a similar case, which boosts Hamel into high-profile status with Hodges. Hamel draws up his profile of the killers, refuting your original findings in the process—or rather, drawing attention to the oversights which he knew to be there in the first place. Meanwhile, Hodges makes contact with Michigan and enters Park. Hamel gives Park a phony reason for the name change, creditors, or an old girl friend he's trying to lose, something.... Meanwhile, Park sees evidence pointing in other directions, and for the first time he learns there are, indeed, two killers instead of one. He then reassesses his original theory and it's all the time Hamel needs to get to him and frame Park himself as the Scalper."

"It almost makes sense ... Park done in by Hamel, if—and it's a big if—Ben Hamel and Benjamin are one and the same man."

"Take it a step further, Sid."

"What?"

"If Hamel and Benjamin and Benjamin—the boy—are one and the same...."

Sid's eyes widened at the prospect. “It's just too pat, Dean. Can't be that lucky, can we?"

"Let's find out."

Sid asked the personnel manager for the file on Ben Hamel. Dean half-expected the file to have been lifted, but in a moment it was delivered to them, no questions asked, the lady merely saying, “All information is to be held in strictest confidence, Sid, do you understand?"

"Terry, we're after a murderer here, we're not concerned about credit references or wife beatings."

The woman turned a bit crimson as Dean rifled through the papers. They looked very official and were quite clean of any connection with either Michigan or Montana. Dean cursed under his breath. It seemed that everywhere they turned there was a dead end, another useless waste of time.

Sid took the file from Dean, repeating the gesture of going through the transcript which told him Hamel was a graduate of the University of California at Los Angeles, that he practiced for a time in that city, and that he relocated to Florida, where he began a practice in connection with Mercy Hospital. His work there brought him to the attention of Chief Hodges, who was in the market for a man of his expertise. Sid, too, thought it a dead-end nothing.

"Sid, is it at all possible that Tom Warner could have snatched your keys at any time, made duplicates, and returned them?"

"I think not, but I couldn't swear to it."

"The other night he let Peggy Carson into the slab room to view the Jane Doe. I didn't tell you at the time because—

"Christ, Dean, he did have a duplicate set of keys made. He had no clearance from me to come and go at will. He punches a clock, for Chrissake!"

"I think we need to find and corner Mr. Warner. If he was working for Hamel..."

"Creeps ... we're surrounded by creeps."

"But first, I have a call to make. Can I use your phone to call L.A.?” Dean asked the personnel lady.

Sid flashed his eyes at her, and pleaded, “Terry? We're talking important, here, we're talking police business."

"Guess we're all on the same team, but when time comes for me to send in my phone requisition, you, Dr. Corman, are going to be billed."

Dean allowed the sparring to go on around him until he got through to his connection with the University of California at Los Angeles. He then asked for the Registrar's Office. “Going to verify or deny the transcript of one Dr. Benjamin Hamel,” he told Sid.

Dean got through to a parrot-voiced woman in charge of transcripts. If she looked as she sounded, Dean was sure he was in for an argument. He identified himself and said his interest was in hiring a man named Benjamin Hamel for the Chicago Police Crime Division as a psychiatrist. He wished to verify his having graduated at the university. “Benjamin I. Hamel,” Dean finished.

"But sir, I can't give you information over the phone anyway, and since there is no—"

"I simply wish to verify if he did or did not graduate. You can tell me that. He may be a fraud, and I do not wish to hire a fraud."

Annoyed, the woman said, “Please hold.” And Dean did hold until he became annoyed.

When she finally came on again, she said flatly, “No, no Benjamin, but I do have a Catherine, Dave, Earl, Mark, Mike, Trisha, but no Ben—"

"You're absolutely sure?"

"There's no question of it."

"Would you please try under I. Hamel?"

"Dear man, I have looked at all the Hamels we have and there's no I."

"Ian,” said Sid into Dean's ear. “It's Ian."

"Ian,” Dean repeated it to the woman long-distance.

She tsked into the phone, “Sir, there's no Ian."

"Please, one more check."

The exasperated woman gasped. “All right, what is it?"

"Benjamin, last name, please look for an Ian Benjamin."

"Do you have any idea how many records we have?"

"I might venture a guess, but time's important here, madame, very important."

"I'll have to go back to the microfiche again. Hold on."

Dean waited while Sid looked up Tom Warner's address and jotted it down. The waiting became intolerable. Dean knew the clerk was intentionally prolonging the moment so she might come back on and say no and then hang up. He wondered if she'd gone to lunch after four more minutes of agonizing.

"Dr. Grant?” she came on.

"Yes?"

"Yes..."

"Yes, meaning what?"

"Yes, that's all I can tell you, Dr. Grant. This information is privileged by law, and I cannot indiscriminately—"

"Please, answer yes or no to this: have you in front of you a copy of a transcript for an Ian Benjamin?"

"Yes."

"Born in 1943?"

"'44."

"And hails from Montana?"

"Yes, now I can say no more, except to point out there are two other Ian Benjamins who have also graduated from here."

"Thank you ... thank you."

She hung up. Dean immediately scanned Hamel's record again and saw the telltale signs now, signs of tampering with the name. Hamel must be Bennimin. He pointed this out to Sid.

"That bastard ... it's been him all along."

"Dont’ jump to conclusions before—"

"Conclusions—hell, Dean!"

"—before we have all the facts. All we know for certain is that Hamel, or Bennimin, lied about himself in order to secure a position on the police force here."

"A careful check with the Michigan authorities and I bet they'd find other false recs on the prick ... oh, sorry, Terry."

"Not on my account, please,” she said, “I think Hamel's a prick also."

"You've had difficulties with him?” asked Dean.

"Pushy ... after a girl says no, he doesn't know enough to let it go. Buys you a drink and thinks you owe him an all-nighter. Well, not in my book, and not the way I was raised."

"Terry—Miss Cross,” said Dean, reading her nameplate, “please keep everything said here this afternoon between us."

"I understand. Not to worry."

"Thank you again. Come on, Sid."

"Where to?"

"Outside."

"Where we going, Dean?"

"I hope this judge friend of yours likes you an awful lot, Sid."

"Come on, Dean, I can't hit her up for another—"

"Just a warrant this time, Sid."

"A search warrant for Hamel's place?"

Dean had scribbled two addresses on a piece of paper and tucked it into his pocket. He now snatched it out and asked Sid if he knew where both were. One address was close by, an apartment complex, the one Hamel jogged from. The other puzzled Sid, It was a P.O. box number, not an address at all, in rural Wekiva, at least an hour away, longer if you ran into traffic.

"Copy these down for yourself,” said Dean. “Dyer and me, we'll be going ahead with a move-in, so get the warrant to cover all known addresses for the man, understood?"

"It could take some time, Dean."

"I thought this case had top priority around here. Get Hodges after the judge, if you have to. We've got to stop Hamel before nightfall."

It's almost five now. We'll never make it."

"Go!"

"Maybe a stakeout at the hospital's in order."

"Done. Now go!"

Dean rushed next door to the police precinct, seeking out Frank Dyer for help. Peggy Carson shouted a hello, but he put her off, going for Hodges’ office, intending to get the Chief behind them, but learning that Hodges was in Tampa and wouldn't be back for hours. Dean put out a call for Frank Dyer. Peggy began to follow him around, sensing something was up, but he tried to avoid making eye contact with her.

Who's the dwarf? Dean kept rummaging about in the back of his mind for an answer. Some poor slob Hamel had roped into his sickness, a former patient under his control? If it came time for a name to be forthcoming from Hamel's patient records at Mercy, a dwarf in therapy shouldn't be too hard to locate. But with time running out, they must concentrate on Hamel. Dean had the distinct impression the guy had a mysterious rural address for a damned good reason. He guessed the bulk, if not all, of the horrid evidence they might gather against the Scalpers could be found at the receiving end of P. O. Box 939 in Wekiva.

"What's happened, Dr. Grant?” asked Peggy at his side. “Dean, I've got a right to know."

"Not now, Peggy,” he put her off. “Dyer, Lt. Frank Dyer,” he told the woman at dispatch, “urgent from Dr. Dean Grant, Scalper case."