"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 publ
ic, 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 al
l 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?
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