Scalpers dgmm-2

by Robert W. Walker

  "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? Go
d, 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.