Scalpers

THREE

Dean was dead on his feet. One more glaring ray of light hitting his eyes would knock him over. The autopsy, as it stood, had gone routinely, save for the nature of the death, that the victim had not only suffered a loss of blood at the head, but was drained in several other key locations, primarily in the breast, where a nipple had been sliced away, and in the uterus, where an ugly, almost star-shaped gash had been taken, along with a patch of pubic hair and skin, a sick sort of second scalping. Whoever the bastard was, he was definitely out of his head to mutilate the body so brutally.

When making any observation, Dean spoke into the microphone positioned just above him. Both he and Sid were now in the blue surgical gowns of the lab, but Dean had long before abandoned his constricting mask. The room was kept at a constant fifty degrees as they worked, and since the corpse had been refrigerated and an autopsy had already been performed, there was little to do in the way of incision.

Dean knew that examinations of this nature often overlooked the obvious, that doctors looking death in the face hurried through, especially in mutilation cases. It could be forgiven of young and inexperienced men, but now he realized with a start what surely must have the police upset with Sid: separate knives had been used on the woman, and two other scars, nearly hidden from view, had been washed clean and had gone unreported on the charts. Beneath each arm, deep in the pit, more chunks of flesh had been cut away, using, again, a kind of childish slash to roughly conform to shapes, a circle and a triangle. The deceased had lost a great deal of blood from these wounds as well, yet Sid had ignored these on his reports. Furthermore, he had indicated the depth of the slash wounds and the possible size of one knife, instead of all the knives. One of the cuts in particular, the head cut, which pulled away the scalp, might well have been done with a scalpel, while the others had been caused by a jagged, longer edge.

"Dean, I just rushed through it, you know,” said Sid, sensing that Dean now understood.

"I can see that."

"You see what, Dr. Grant?” asked Hodges over the P.A. system.

Dean looked up for the first time in hours, having very nearly forgotten about the men watching. Dr. Hamel was gone. So was Park. Dyer and Hodges alone were in for the kill.

"Dr. Corman did not indicate that more than one size of knife wound exists on this cadaver."

"Is that not unusual, Doctor?"

"And he failed to mention in his reports the wounds in the armpits."

"Is that, too, not unusual, Doctor?” Hodges repeated.

"It shows sloppiness, errors made.” Dean didn't wish to say any more than absolutely necessary.

"Would you keep this man on in your Chicago operation, doctor?"

"Sid Corman's record cannot be overlooked here, Chief Hodges. Efforts made in haste, when people are breathing down your back, even in forensics, are made. Part of the problem—"

"Thank you, Dr. Grant.” Hodges stood, said something to Dyer, who rushed out, and continued, looking down on Sid Corman from behind the glass, as if Sid were a bug. “Dr. Corman, I'm sorry to inform you that this matter will now be taken up with the Mayor's office."

"Mayor's office?” asked Dean, amazed. “You can't be serious!"

"I am quite serious, Dr. Grant, believe me."

Dean looked in Sid's direction to find the other man shaking his head. He gazed back overhead to see that the chief had disappeared. “Sid, you want to tell me what the hell's going on?"

Sid switched the microphone off before he began to talk.

"Not too much, Dean—just that this woman here—” he indicated the corpse “—is the Mayor's niece."

"Oh, shit,” moaned Dean. “Great going, Ace. When you choose to screw up, you do it royally."

"What can I say? I didn't know at the time."

"That's no damned excuse."

"I know, I know...."

Dyer was suddenly back, his slim face suddenly alive, agitated with tension that Dean took to mean concern for Corman. But there was more to the excitement than this. “Just came over the squawk box, Sid, they're saying we've got another scalping victim."

"When?"

"Less than fifteen minutes ago."

"Where'd it happen?"

"West End area, near Second and Cook."

"Damn, miles from the others!"

Dean interrupted the two, asking, “Are they bringing the victim here now?"

"No, she's going to Mercy."

"She's alive?"

"That's good, maybe great,” said Sid.

"It's a lady cop, name of Carson, from our Westside Division, She's lost a lot of blood, but the medics got her stable.

"Outlook's getting better, Dean, old buddy."

"Don't get your hopes up until you talk to this lady."

"I think I'll get right over there,” said Sid. “You coming?” He tore off his surgical garb as he spoke.

Dean was too tired to say yes and too curious to say no. “What do you think?” he asked.

Sid smiled wide for the first time in many hours. “I'm glad I've got you on my side, Dean."

"That's crazy, Sid."

"Crazy like a fox."

"But you knew I'd see the errors, and that I'd honestly say so."

"That I did, and I also know you'll help me put this killer behind bars. And that, Dean, means more to me than my goddamned job at the moment."

Dean wondered about the last remark. Sid had spent a lifetime amassing a reputation, and no one spoke more fondly of his position than he did, Dean wondered just how far Sid was using him to repair the damage already done to his career. He likewise wondered how much Sid truly cared about the victims and potential victims he sought to help.

Such considerations aside, Dean was as anxious to see and speak with the sole survivor of the Scalper himself. A part of him was as calculating as Sid, certainly as curious and fascinated by the bizarre goings-on, about the psyche of such a perverse creature. A part of him wanted to do what he did best, and that was to put bad men behind bars.

"So many damned errors,” Ian moaned.

The dwarf snorted and blew his nose. "Quit whining."

"She was ripe for the taking, if it hadn't been for—"

"I suppose you think it's my fault."

"Did I say that?"

"Don't have to,” he replied from down around Ian's knees.

Having driven completely across town, they'd parked a few feet away and were now combing the downtown Lake Conway Park area for any chance encounter with fresh prey. It was way too late to go cruising singles bars, and Van didn't really want to sit in the car waiting. There was not much chance of a good evening.

"I'll tell you when to worry,” Van said in his distinct, gravelly voice. “You know what they say—worry only stresses you out, big brother.” Van was the name their parents had given him. It was the only thing they'd given Van. Their parents had no idea of the importance of their son, the power he would someday wield. Only Ian saw and understood the potential of the hairy little man born to them.

Superhuman, Van spoke directly to the forces behind life and death, light and darkness. He had friends in low places, indeed.

For most of his young life, Ian had watched the cruelty heaped upon Van by their parents; yet those years had been his brother's apprenticeship, when he had learned the dark and powerful crafts which gave strength and vigor to them both now, nourishing them far more than any parent might.

Early on Van was fond of pointing to his misshapen self, laughing, and with a wicked voice, saying, “Here but for the grace of Satan go I-an!"

Strangely, Van had garnered about him such force of character and strength that it often frightened Ian. He was ugly, yes—and deformed beyond anything normal—but his mind was quick; so quick, in fact that he spoke to the powers that kept him alive and nourished his existence in that stinking hole where they'd placed him, hiding him from the world, from themselves, keeping him chained like an animal. Perhaps Ian's parents had unknowingly played a part in his development for a greater reason which none could fathom. The gods work in mysterious ways....

"What do we do now? You're so smart,” said Ian.

Van shushed him, his attention on a park bench where someone appeared to be reclining. “All things come to those who wait.” Van's whisper was raspy.

"Yes, yes,” agreed Ian.

"Yes, yes,” repeated Van. “She's sleeping."

"Soft-looking, much younger."

"Black scalp's all we need to know."

They'd been charged to locate and return with a black scalp from a female. Van had gotten the word. “This time, no mistakes,” said Van. “Wait until I'm in place in the tree."

Ian, dressed in casual knit shirt and pants, eased toward their prey. He was tall and ruggedly handsome. He worked out at the gym, ran in this very park every morning, and played racquetball with co-workers by day. He made good money, plenty to pour into clothes for them both. Little brother's clothes, in fact, were custom-made, since he preferred a Dickensian appearance. While his clothes were of the best cloth and quality, sometimes Ian thought the style raggedy and antique-looking. But it was what Van was told to wear by them, the ones who spoke only to him. The only other clothes he ever wore were his robes, when summoning the powers to his side.

Ian realized the bulky clothes little brother wore also hid his malformed limbs, arthritic and emaciated, the club foot and tightly balled hands, not to mention his hairiness. He was covered with more hair than other men grew in a lifetime. He was born with hair all over him.

A cowl hood hid the fact that one eye was drooped and perched on the misshapen cheek, and that one ear was gone, bitten and shriveled from rat attacks when he was a mere child. The hood also hid his facial hair. Ian had read of diseases that caused unusual hair growth covering the entire body. His brother was as furry as a baboon, save for his bald head, where the skin shown in folds, was layered like that of a Shar-Pei dog.

Van was in position.

Ian stepped closer to the reclining girl, a runaway, by the looks of her, her large, oversized woman's handbag stuffed to bursting with her few possessions. Ian saw that she was indeed black. He felt reassured. They would have their black scalp after all, along with other choice selections. Already the thrill of the red hair now hanging on their wall was gone, cooled like sexual excitement after a climax.

Ian thought of all the countless scalps he had taken from people to appease Van and his insatiable gods; it was not dementia driving them, but an honest-to-God demon, an army of them, in fact, a legion bent on living out their hatred of mankind through Van. Ian had been told what to do by Van so as to prove himself worthy of the respect of the gods, who one day would speak to Ian, too. Van could make it happen with enough scalps.

Scalp-taking was pleasurable, besides. Van had always been right. In fact, it was what had gotten Ian through those awful years of separation from Van during the war, for always brother Van was close at hand, telling him what to do next: what to eat, when to get up, when to go to sleep, where to go, what to study, where to hunt, why they hunted, why they took the hair sometimes, the scalps of others. He knew so much, and Ian did, after all, owe him everything and could never repay him, not after saving him from a life of unimportance and boredom.

For the first eleven years of his life, Ian was kept away from Van, Van locked in a cellar below the house, deep in the remote woods where no one but the family knew. He was described as a demon, an evil and hideous monster, by Ian's parents, and Ian was beaten whenever he dared go near the sounds coming from below the house. But Ian managed to sneak down at times, and while shaking fearfully, he smuggled into his “retarded” little brother magazines and a special treat whenever possible. Ian felt the cruelty shown his brother as if it were shown to him; he felt the pangs and torture, and sometimes he was so carried away with empathy for Van that they seemed, the two of them, of one mind.

Deep within the ugly folds of Van's face, the eyes shone back at Ian and they were his eyes, his very own.

The girl on the bench saw Ian standing over her and she suddenly sat upright, realizing her situation. “Whatcha want, Mister? A little fun? You got any money, ‘cause it'll costs you plenty."

"Sure, sweet thing,” Ian said, pulling out a wad of bills. “How much do you think you're worth?"

"Go all night with you for...” she considered the wad of money ... “a hundred dollars."

"A hundred? Come on, you're just a kid."

"Some people like kids."

Ian tried to remain calm. He knew the transaction of words and coin was necessary to get her from point A to point B. If she got skittish for any reason, things could go badly, and they'd had enough of that tonight “All right ... how about fifty."

"Sixty-five."

"Sixty."

She looked at him as if she hadn't seen him before. “You're going to bust me, ain't you? You're a cop, ain't you?"

"Hell no, honey.” He tried to soothe her suspicion, but a look of panic flitted across her brow. She was pretty, her skin smooth. Too much deep red on her lips and the layers of three pairs of earrings gave the appearance of a Zulu girl, but the scalp, that above all was a beauty.

She began to move off and he cursed aloud. “Damn it, I just want a fast fix, honey, in the bushes over there. How about it? Sixty-five then ... sixty-five.” He pushed the cash at her.

She could not resist, and Ian wondered if it hadn't all been part of her act to get her price. She secured the money in her clutch purse and tucked that deep into her larger bag. “So, you got a place nearby, Sugar, or what?"

"I like nature,” he said, pointing to a thicket and some trees nearby. When they reached the woods, he spun her around and kissed her romantically, to which she responded with a sound like, “Yum."

"Howdya like it, baby?” she asked, rubbing her body into his.

"Dead,” he said, “I like it dead."

Her hand had reached his crotch and it startled her to find he was not hard. He grabbed. Then she saw the blade come up. “Jesus, no! No! God, God, no! Please, Mister, pleeeeeease!"

Then she felt something heavy and hairy lob from the tree above onto her shoulders with a horrid thud. It was perched on her shoulders, its legs over her breasts, kicking, bucking. It gave out a piercing little laugh. Ghastly-smelling, hairy hands held her hair back with a painful tug, her mouth clamped shut by the John. She believed her throat was about to be cut when she felt the blade slice into her forehead. Somewhere among the stomach-numbing fear, the sudden loss of blood, and the loss of consciousness—drifting so mercifully off—she recalled having seen something in the newspaper about some crazed nut going about the city scalping people.

Now that she was unconscious, they could continue without hurrying and have their various ways with the whore who had turned her last trick. What they couldn't take from the other black woman they would take from the whore-child.

"A fulfilling night after all."

"And a fulfilling breakfast to look forward to."