"From the shape?"
"Shape, depth, additional markings of mutilation on the corpse's limbs, thighs, all that—yeah."
"You've gotten into this stuff pretty heavily, Park."
Park bit his lip, looking as if he were sorry to have gone on for so long. “Some, I guess."
"What else might you be able to tell me, Lieutenant?"
"About the armpit slashing..."
"Yes, go on."
"Well, American Indians would take any portion of unusual skin. Tattoos, for instance, were stripped from the dead in whole pieces, cured, and hung in teepees for decorations. They were highly valued. Armpit, crotch, and sometimes the entire upper half of a human skin from face to crotch was stripped away, depending on the strength of the enemy."
Dean had never heard of such things before. “Are you certain?"
"Peculiar value was set upon such things as good and powerful medicine. My grandfather was part Sioux."
Dean picked out the Indian features now, muted as they were. “You think our mad killers are making powerful medicine?"
"Could be."
"You think it's Indians?"
"Not necessarily, but if it so, the killers have reasons for what they're doing."
"The same way apemen had reasons, maybe."
"Doctor?"
"Anthropologists studying the skull of Ethiopia's Bodo Man—a predecessor of homo sapiens—removed some encrusted dirt and rock and deduced that the flesh had been stripped away from the head with stone tools. But at least the apemen had done the deed after the creature's death, that much could be determined ... but not the purpose.
"Hell, the Parthians took hair from slain enemies to decorate their weapons and clothing in the fifth century B.C. Trust me, it's a much older white tradition than it is a red tradition.
"It crosses all colors—all nations, actually,” Dean replied. “And it happened everywhere, in every time—the Mediterranean, Byzantium, Spain, the Carribean, Asia, you name it."
"And when neatly done, it may be termed a satanic accomplishment—I think that is how one white writer put it,” said Park philosophically, almost to himself. Then, to Dean, he added, “So, you've done a little reading on the subject yourself, Doctor?"
Dean nodded. “History is full of horror."
"I hope you find what it is you're looking for, Dr. Grant,” he said, indicating the lab. “See you later, perhaps."
Sid walked over to where Dean stood and said, “Wonder what that was all about."
"Don't know..."
"But I bet you're anxious to hear if his story checks out, right?"
"At this point, we can't overlook the man's past."
"Yeah, that story about Vietnam, now that was eerie."
"Eerie, yeah ... just eerie enough to be true."
Sid stared at Dean. “You don't really think there's a connection, do you?"
"A lot of killers find confession—even masked confession—a cathartic experience, Sid. It cleanses their hearts long enough to enable them to commit the next act."
"Park? One of our own cops? Come on, Dean."
"He shows up around the time of the first killing, gets himself reassigned here as a result of the first killing ... we've got to look closely at the dates and vouchers."
"But Dean, he didn't have to tell you all that stuff about Seneca, Michigan. He just did, and of his own free will. If he had anything to hide—"
"Smart move, if he is guilty, wouldn't you say? And from the start, my friend, I've had the feeling we're not dealing with a mental patient. This guy plans too well, leaves no trace, and controls an accomplice."
"You seem to thrive on this, Dean, but I'll tell you truthfully—I'd much rather get back to my lab work than to go shadow dancing with a frigging mass murderer."
"I wonder what Hamel, our resident shrink, thinks of Park. Be interesting to find out."
"You do that. I'm getting back to work right here. I don't know how long I can stave off the D.A., but I'm going to fight this damnable action all the way."
"That's the spirit,” Dean almost shouted. “I think now I'll see if I can't find Dr. Hamel."
"Sure, do that ... leave me to fight the good fight all alone,” began Sid, but he was talking to an empty room. Dean was already at the elevator and Sid frowned from his side of the glass.
The plaque on Hamel's door read Dr. Benjamin I. Hamel, Police Psychiatry. Dean hesitated at the door. As a rule he agreed with Peggy Carson: not too many police shrinks had impressed him. Stephens in Chicago was a rarity. He wished he had Stephens with him on this case the same way he wished he had Kelso by his side—people he could trust and be at complete ease with—but that wasn't to be and he must make do. These thoughts born-barded Dean when suddenly the door opened and Hamel stood before him, about to depart.
"Going to dinner?” asked Dean.
"I was planning a quiet meal at home ... but if you'd like to talk, sure, Dr. Grant."
"A quiet meal at home sounds nice. Do you wish to call your wife?"
"I have none. I'm alone."
"And you like your own cooking? That's good."
Hamel nodded. “What is it you'd like to talk about, Doctor?"
"I'd like your impression of the killers, and how you deduced the possibility of two men long before we did."
"All right."
"And I'd like to have your professional opinion on a policeman here."
"Park or Dyer, or both?"
"Park in particular."
"Interesting choice."
"Oh, why do you say so?"
"Man's a manic-depressive, with mood swings wider than a ball on a tether, the obvious choice. Dyer, on the other hand, is steady. Psychiatry is rather a simple science if one uses the God-given powers of observation we all have, don't you agree?"
"Sometimes that's the case, yes."
"But there are those who mask their perversions more ... successfully, you mean? Yes, that is also sometimes the case. But by and large, most human beings don't have the strength of will to carry it off. Most of us display our deficiencies in our relationships, either at work or at home."
"You won't mind discussing Park with me, then?"
"Chief Hodges has informed me you're on the case, and so, Dr. Grant, you have a right to know who your case partners are. Privileged information between a public servant carrying a gun and his psychiatrist is not so privileged as in the private sector. It's one reason we police “shrinks,” as we're called, are quite unpopular. However, Officer Park's been granted special concidera—"
At that moment Peggy Carson was coming toward them and Dean saw something flash in her eyes. On seeing Hamel, she immediately looked for an avenue of escape, but there was none.
"Well, the wayward Officer Carson,” said Dr. Hamel. “You, my dear girl, have been doubly negligent today—first skipping out on the hospital, and now missing our session. I see that promptness is not your strong suit, Officer. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp."
Peggy said a perfunctory hello to Dean, keeping it brief and professional, and then replied to Dr. Hamel “I don't see how wasting my time with you, Dr. Hamel, is going to serve the public or myself one bit, and if you please, read this, and no thank you, I will not see you tomorrow at nine. Good evening."
Peggy pushed an envelope into Hamel's hands, and turned abruptly, and disappeared the way she came.
"Peggy, Officer Carson, has been dodging me. We have some sessions together, the first of which has just come to an end without her,” the thin Dr. Hamel told Dean. The man's cheekbones, high to begin with, seemed enlarged now with a controlled rage toward Peggy Carson. Dean had seen it before, one part of a police department trying to do its job, at war with a second part. Often it boiled away to personality conflicts.
"Nobody relishes being cross-examined, especially by people tending to disbelieve them,” said Dean in Peggy's defense.
Dr. Hamel stared at Dean, studying him closely for the first time. “You don't seriously bel
ieve the second killer is a ... a dwarf?"
"We're onto evidence that could quite well corroborate the fact, Dr. Hamel."
Hamel gave Dean an enigmatic smile. “You do intend to live up to your reputation for the bizarre, Dr. Grant."
"It's not my reputation I'm concerned with."
"Of course, of course ... You realize, doctor, my concern for Officer Carson must include assessing the safety of people she will come into contact with daily. The department can't afford to have even the appearance of an hysterical woman on the street with a revolver in her hands, now can it?"
"Quite frankly, sir. I've never met a more level-headed police officer, male or female."
Dean and Dr. Hamel resumed their conversation over dinner at a nearby cafe-style restaurant which, while small, looked out over a busy downtown street from a second-floor perch.
"So, what sort of man goes about terrorizing people with a scalpel, taking scalps, with the help of a dwarf?” Dean inquired, interested in how Dr. Hamel would answer the question.
"A Wild West showman out of a job?” joked the tall, angular Hamel, who might himself have been a stand-in for Henry Fonda in My Darling Clementine. “Or a man who is fixing on hair, the scalp in particular, and in this fixation lies his motive. Here we probably have a man who has a nine-to-five job, either blue- or white-collar—a computer programmer, clerk, or plumber—but by night must feed an insatiable need for bloodshed of a most specific nature, bloodshed that involves the taking of another man's head."
"Head? By head you mean scalp."
"One and the same thing among barbaric peoples, you know. The scalp represents the human mind and spirit to the scalper. It embodies his spirit and all the energies of his being."
"What does he do with the scalps?"
"Who knows ... sleeps with them, stuffs mattresses with them, decorates his walls with them. It may even be assumed that he derives sexual gratification from them, and for all I know, he—or they—might very well ingest them."
"Eat hair?"
"If it brought you strength and power over others, wouldn't you?"
"These men believe that? Is that like a religion with some people, like maybe Hare Kirshna?"
"Not to my knowledge, no. But we're dealing with sick minds here. Minds that live for scalp raising."
"But this is all speculation, isn't it, Dr. Hamel?"
Hamel bit his lip, plunking down his wineglass and saying, “You've caught me, yes. I speculate a great deal on such crimes, as I know you must. It's part of my job. But like you, it is speculation based on an educated guess, educated by the killer himself."
"We're not so different then, you and I."
Hamel considered this. “No, but I don't cut up dead people, Dr. Grant, although I sometimes mentally slice open a dead man to understand the workings of his mind."
"You theorized early on that there could be two men doing the scalping. How did you arrive at that conclusion with so little evidence to go on?"
"Quite simple, really. If we look back at the multitude of such cruel serial murders, they often involve two persons or more. Your very celebrated Floater case in Chicago points at an entire family's involvement, and the killer herself was actually living out two personalities, correct? Angel Rae, the girl, and Brother Timothy, was it? Now, if you read as much as I do in the literature, it wouldn't take much to speculate that the Scalper is acting out some form of wish fulfillment and that his hand is directed by a domineering, powerful force, very likely a second killer, who has him mesmerized into doing what he's told.
"But most of all, I base it on the telephone calls we've been receiving. The murderers—one of them, at least—have called us, more or less owning up to everything."
Dean was speechless.
"And although it's hard for me to tell you this, well, we've had a tip-off. It concerns Corman and the forensic mistakes he's made."
Dean stared for a solid minute at Hamel, unbelieving. “Is this general knowledge? Do Park and Dyer know about this? Hodges?"
"Of course they do."
"Corman didn't say a word."
"Sid was never informed, Dr. Grant."
"You people don't need my help, you need an efficiency expert. One hand doesn't know what the other's doing."
"What did you expect of us once we began to suspect Corman of malfeseance?"
"You can't really suspect him of these hideous crimes!'
"Perhaps not, but he may be covering for someone else. It certainly points in his direction."
Dean bit his lower lip and shook his head thoughtfully. “Tell me all you can about this voice over the phone."
"Not much to tell. It was rather ordinary, with no accent, no inflections, rather a monotone, as if he were reading something he'd written down, or someone else had written down for him. Almost—"
"Yes?"
"Almost as if he were taunting us, enjoying it, and the business about being under the other's thumb, well, it could've been some nonsense cooked up, but if his voice rose even an iota, it was when speaking of this other one."
"So, on the basis of how many such calls did you do your diagnosis, Dr. Hamel?"
Hamel frowned. “Granted, making a prognosis of a madman over the wires is no mean feat, and I'm the first to admit its weakness, believe me, but there was something ... I don't know ... uncanny about the voice and the plea. I believe a part of him wants to walk through our doors, to give himself up."
"A lot of contenders for the part have, I understand."
"The holding cell's full of them, and I've got to interview every damned one, but until I find a man who's obviously living under the power of a second, more powerful personality, I feel safe in passing the would-be scalpers."
This made Dean think of the dual personality of Angel Rae again, and how she was dominated by her second personality, Brother Timothy. “You don't think our killer could be working out two personalities, one stronger than the other? Using two separate weapons, even, so strong is the belief he has in his other self?"
"I know this, too, is a possibility, but when the forensics errors were made, when I learned there were actually two distinct weapons used—well, common sense, you know, is a strong force, too."
"And just how did you and Hodges learn about Sid's errors ?"
"Through a casual remark by one of his technical people."
"Tom Warner?"
"Yes, I think it was Tom."
"Tell me again, Dr. Hamel, exactly how many times did the man professing to be the killer telephone you?"
"Unfortunately, only twice."
"Twice?"
"And then it stopped."
"Rather strange, isn't it?"
"Not at all."
"I mean, usually when a killer contacts a reporter, or a cop, or a man like yourself in a position of authority, it's a plea for help, to be stopped, isn't it?"
"Quite often, yes."
"And normally, despite the fact that he continues killing, he will contact again and again to pursue this need."
"The second time he called at my home,” said Hamel, taking a deep breath. “I have an apartment not far from here. I was totally unprepared to get a call there from this faceless killer ... shocked, in fact. I have an unlisted number, and the department wouldn't dare give it out. The first time, I was at my desk, it wasn't such a big deal, but the second call frightened the hell out of me, I can tell you."
"That is understandable.” Dean sipped his tea.
"The fact he could learn my number, and perhaps knew where I lived, and that he seemed to know we'd tapped my phone lines at both locations and so he never again even attempted contact—that, Dr. Grant, more than any other factor, convinced Hodges and me of the possibility that the killer was closer to us than we knew. Perhaps close enough even to have daily contact with us in the department."
"So you began looking in your own backyard."
"Interdepartmentally speaking, yes."
"And Sid's errors were blown out of
proportion."
"On such a case, every error becomes a big deal, since we're all under the watchful eye of the public."
Dean had to agree, sipping more tea, watching Hamel closely.
"Anyway, there was no way to trace either call, and when we were prepared to do so, he never called back. It was as if ... I fear to say it ... someone closer to me than I wished to know had knowledge of my having had my phone tapped at home as well as the office."
"And that's why you and Hodges began investigating Sid Corman?"
"In light of the error, yes. What would you have done?"
"Has it occurred to you that it could be someone else close to you, and not Sid?"
"Like Park, you mean?"
"Like Park, yes."
"Park has a record of violence, but not recently. He seems to have gotten a handle on that, and—"
"Maybe he's taking his violence out in a different fashion. He told us of a strange story about a guy in Vietnam who reportedly took scalps. Has he ever repeated that story to you?"
Hamel's eyes lifted at this. “No ... never."
"He's a vet, you know."
"Yes, of course, but that doesn't—"
"Doesn't make him crazy, I know."
"Did I say the killer was mentally imbalanced?"
"What would you call him?"
"His actions are engineered by someone whom he is in such awe of, or fear of, that he cannot totally be held accountable."
"Doctor, the ‘other guy’ is a goddamned midget."
"Perhaps he is physically small, but you have no idea how powerful a dominant personality can be, do you, Dr. Grant? You've never known anyone who's made you feel insignificant and small and wasted, and good for doing only one thing, good for doing the bastard's bidding."
"Sounds like you have,” Dean said suddenly.
Hamel choked, realizing he had revealed more of himself in his words than he'd intended to. “My ... my father, and to some extent, my mother, yes, they were tyrants, they imprisoned me in a mental way, telling me I was ... well, you know how parents can tell you they're doing it all for your own good when it's really for theirs ... sorry, you don't want to hear my life story, I'm sure."
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