by Art Bourgeau
Seated around the table were Captain Zinkowsky, Mary Kane and three detectives he recognized as Rafferty, Evans and Spivak from Sloan’s unit Seven Squad. Sloan was at the head of the table talking with a man Mercanto did not recognize. Everyone in the room was smoking except himself. The air stung his eyes. In the center of the table was coffee in styrofoam cups. He helped himself to a cup as the door opened and the Medical Examiner came in with a file under his arm. He looked beat from his long night of autopsying the body.
Sloan looked over. "We’re all here. Let’s get started."
The man he was talking to took a seat. Sloan held up a copy of the morning edition of the Globe. The headline read:
"Cannibal Loose in Fairmount Park." Mercanto had not seen it. Below the headline was a picture of the body bag being unloaded at the morgue.
"I'm not going to ask who leaked this to the press," Sloan said, "but if I find out he’s in trouble." His gaze seemed to be more fixed on Mercanto than the others. "We kept this quiet in the Hightower case but whoever did it now has made our job twice as hard as before. The switchboard downstairs has been ringing off the wall since this hit the streets. Not only do we have a weirdo killer to contend with but a frightened public as well."
No one at the table had to be told what that meant. Teenagers would be cruising the park hoping to get a glimpse of him. Citizens would be getting out loaded guns. And worse yet, some other nut might be inspired to imitate.
People shifted uncomfortably. Sloan put down the paper.
"Spivak, you're going to be in charge of sorting out this part of the mess. That means fielding the crank calls, reassuring the public, making sure no valid lead from any of them gets by us. Any further statements to the press will be handled by me.’
Sloan looked at Captain Zinkowsky. "How we coming on this Rashid character?"
"Nothing yet. I'm meeting with the drug people after we finish here. We'll get him, don't worry," she said.
The name caused looks of interest to be exchanged around the table. "For those of you who don't know," Sloan said, "this Rashid is a lead Mercanto turned up. He’s apparently a Jamaican drug dealer working the Germantown Avenue area. Hightower was involved with him. That could explain what Hightower was doing in the park that night. We don't know about the kid yet." He turned to the Medical Examiner. "Any trace of drugs on the kid?"
The Medical Examiner opened the file in front of him. "He wasn’t high when he was killed, but we did find traces of cocaine in his system."
Mercanto remembered the look on the kid's face during the holdup. So he was right, the kid was a user.
"We’ve finished the autopsy," continued the Medical Examiner. "There was nothing that we didn't expect to find. Death was caused by loss of blood from a torn carotid artery in the neck. From traces of saliva we found in the wound, we were able to determine that the killer was a male with blood type ’O.' We also found blond hairs on the body. They were from his head, not from a mustache or beard — under a microscope you can tell the difference. Because of the violence of the killing, specifically the biting aspect of it, I think we can assume that the absence of any facial hairs in the wound or on the victim means that the killer was cleanshaven."
He paused to look at the file again. "Sorry I don't have this on the tip of my tongue but I’m speaking for the lab boys, too, and I want to be sure I’m right," he said. "It rained the night of the murder. I checked the weather report to be sure. We found some footprints at the scene. They came from a man’s sneaker, size ten. From the tread we think it might be the Nike brand but can’t be sure. There are other models with similar treads. We were able to make a partial mold of the teeth marks from the wound. They seem to match the teeth marks from Hightower’s mutilation. But we can’t be positive of that either."
"Why not?" asked Mary Kane.
"With wounds of this type it’s not like making a mold from a half-eaten candy bar or chunk of cheese where you have a clean bite. Here we have as much tearing as biting, so the impression is distorted, in some places obliterated."
Which brought an uneasy silence even over this table.
"Last night Captain Zinkowsky and I met with the Chief and the Mayor," Sloan said. "They’ve agreed to clear the decks, give us all the help we need. Temporarily our headquarters will be the park station. Beginning today we’re tripling park patrols. That means more cars, more men. We're bringing in the whole mounted patrol. With the terrain, horses may be more useful than cars, but we’re going to have both."
He unfolded a map of the park on the table. "As you know, the park is the largest city park in the world. At one point you can ride on horseback for over twenty-five miles without coming out of it. Effectively patrolling the whole thing is out of the question, so we're going to eliminate the area around the zoo, Strawberry Mansion, Robin Hood Dell, Kelly Drive, West River Drive and Lincoln Drive. For now we'll use the two murder sites as our boundaries and concentrate on the area between them.
Mercanto well knew what a big area they were still talking about. The killer had too many places to hide.
Sloan drew an imaginary circle on the map with his forefinger. "Inside this area we're also going to deploy plainclothes people posing as couples parking. Might draw him out. On the West Mt. Airy side we're beginning a house-to-house canvass. Captain Zinkowsky will be heading that up."
It would be the biggest manhunt any of them could remember.
"This is Dr. Charles Foster, a psychiatrist who consults for the department," Sloan went on. "Maybe he can give us some help about the man we're looking for." Sloan nodded toward the man in his mid-sixties who was sitting next to him.
Dr. Foster cleared his throat: "I don't need to tell anyone that the person we're talking about is severely disturbed. From what the Medical Examiner just told us, we know he is male by his saliva and hair. Because of the viciousness of the attacks we can assume he was a young man, somewhere between his late teens and mid-thirties, I'd say. He will be someone who's badly repressed, unable to express his true feelings in any normal fashion. We all know people who are like this in one degree or another. In its mildest form it can be the sort of person who is fine when he’s sober but becomes an unpleasant drunk. Or in its more serious stages, like now, the sort of person who internalizes things until such a rage builds that he goes on a killing rampage. The kind of man the neighbors invariably describe afterward as being a quiet man who kept to himself and never made any enemies."
"A psycho . . ." ventured Mary Kane.
"Not exactly," Foster said. "The term is often misused. A psychopathic personality is usually a very charismatic one, made up of impulsive, immoral behavior marked by antisocial tendencies. For our purposes a psycho, a psychopath, is a person who has no guilt mechanism or ability to distinguish between right and wrong beyond a very rudimentary level. I doubt that is the sort of man we’re looking for. More likely our man will have a very clear-cut idea of right and wrong, at least by his lights, and that may just be the triggering influence of his disturbance."
"Disturbance," Mercanto thought. Some fucking "disturbance."
"What kind of a job will he have?" Spivak asked.
"Difficult to say," said the Holmesian Dr. Foster. "Let’s use the word psychosis to describe his illness. In this case the psychosis is in a very advanced stage. If this is something that has been occurring in varying stages throughout his adult life, he is likely to be unemployed or a menial employee. If it is something that has had a long latent period, he may well be anything — a lawyer, a businessman, an accountant — "
"A doctor?" someone muttered.
Foster let it pass. "Whatever stage he is in now, he will have increasing trouble functioning."
"What do you mean?" Sloan said.
"He will have periods in which he seems normal, then periods when he is clearly not. Right now the periods when he is not normal will probably be greater than the periods when he is. Since he has no control over these periods they will naturally af
fect every aspect of his life, his job, his friends — "
"What about his family life?" asked Mary Kane.
Foster hesitated. "That's a complex matter. In all likelihood he is single with probably no close attachments. His behavior is too bizarre to go unnoticed within a family circle, but that doesn't mean that he wasn't married at one time. Separation could be a triggering influence."
"Sounds like my theory about the drug dealer is kaput!" Mercanto said. "Him being Jamaican, I thought it might be something cultural, like voodoo. I asked an expert at the Braddon — "
"I could be wrong," said a suddenly cautious Foster, "but I don't think the dealer is the answer, at least not without seeing him or the people he employs. It's a question of control. The kind of rage our killer must be feeling is not something that can be turned on and off."
"What do you think's causing this rage?" Spivak asked. Dr. Foster, true to his image, paused to light his pipe. "There are a number of possibilities, so anything I say will be a guess. Psychiatry is not the science of detection, it's the science of clarification. To do that we need to study the patient, but I know that's not why you called me here so I’ll say, based on the small amount of data we have to work from, that he is most likely a schizophrenic with paranoid delusions."
"What the hell is that?" said Rafferty.
"Paranoid delusion is pretty well-known. He hallucinates . . . hears things, smells things, sees things that aren't there," he said, thinking for a moment about the patient Margaret described at their lunch, then dismissing it. "Schizophrenia is trickier. Usually it starts in the early twenties, though sometimes later. It's characterized by anxiety, sleep disorder, hallucinations, too, and the tendency to withdraw from others. We tend to think of it as a problem of perception. Among the outward signs are confusing language, compulsive alliteration . . . for example phrases like every exigency for final finesse . . . and a change in eating habits. No one knows for sure what causes it. Some think it is hereditary, some think acquired. Often the two go hand in hand."
"My voodoo expert said schizophrenics were shamen in some societies . . ." said Mercanto.
"Leave the damn voodoo thing alone," Sloan told him.
"No, no, he’s right," said Dr. Foster. "Because it's a problem of perception they are often viewed as holy men in primitive societies. In our man's case he may have a genetic predisposition to the disorder but I think it's safe to say it's also somehow tied in with the family. Actually, most schizophrenics exhibit little or no sign of rage. They are more dangerous to themselves than others. With their altered perceptions suicide or death from starvation are more likely. When you do encounter rage, most often it is a result of their abuse as a child, sexually or physically."
"We're checking profiles of people recently released from mental hospitals and known sex offenders," Sloan said.
"A good idea, especially in the first case, possibly not so much in the second. As a Freudian, I believe sex plays a part in most disorders, but in this case I think our man may have very little sexual experience, a low sex drive, and even be impotent. Again, the rage and the nature of the disorder lead me to think that. The denial of his normal urges would close out this avenue of release and tend to fuel his rage."
"Isn't what you just said contradictory? Earlier you said that he might have been married once . . . " Mary Kane put in.
"No, I don't think so. For instance, in this day and age would you classify someone who has only had sex with one person, or even a couple of people as sexually inexperienced?" he said.
She nodded, he had a point.
"Remember I also said that marital breakup could be a trigger for what’s happening now. I'm sure you can see what I mean. His wife, the only woman he’s ever slept with, rejects him, maybe humiliates him, then leaves him . . ."
"Then you think he'll do it again . . ." Mary Kane said.
"Definitely, but he’s not like a serial killer. The pattern will be much more vague. His victims chosen just because they happen to be there rather than fitting some psychological profile, such as prostitutes in the case of a Jack the Ripper."
"Why did he pick the park for his turf?" Mercanto asked.
"A very good question. And one that I can't answer, except to say that to him there is a valid reason. It may be the offshoot of the disorder. . . the desire to withdraw. In a city where there are not many places where a person can withdraw from human contact, be alone, the park offers an excellent opportunity with its remoteness. Schizophrenics also tend to seek or respond to signs from nature. Their disorders are more likely to be worse during the full noon, or a particular time of the season, or even at high or low tide if they're near the seashore. But it might not be any of these. Don’t laugh, but it might be that he’s going to the park because he’s waiting for a spaceship to pick him up and take him to Mars, outer space. Remember I said it was a problem of perception. Or it might be something as simple as the fact that the park is convenient for him, nearby."
Mercanto suddenly sat up straighter in his chair. He remembered the night he found Hightower's body, the sounds in the woods, and the heavily wooded area where the kid's body was found.
"When he’s in one of those states can he drive a car?" he asked.
Foster considered for a moment. "That depends on the severity of the state. It's a matter of degree. Schizophrenics often have trouble with physical dexterity in the more advanced stages, but I would have to say, yes, he could. The question is whether he would want to. It’s all a function of his desire, his need to withdraw."
"How likely is it that he's someone from the neighborhood?" asked Sloan.
"Well, certainly not unlikely."
"Do these periods or states come on gradually or all at once?"
Mercanto asked.
"Both. They can come of a sudden, but that's rare. Usually there is an incident that triggers it, followed by a build-up in the form of abnormal behavior until it reaches full-blown proportions. As the psychosis progresses it takes less and less time to reach the full-blown stage."
"After he kills, is that the end of the stage, is he normal again?" Mercanto asked.
"No, not at all. As with the build-up, there will be a cooling down period, a time when he will try to put things in perspective again. For instance, after crimes of this type he will be covered in blood. Literally covered, I mean it will be all over him. Psychologically he will have to deal with this in the cooling down period. He probably won’t be so-called normal again for several hours, maybe even days in a psychosis this severe, and when he is it will be for shorter and shorter periods of time."
"How can anybody come to terms with something this horrible? It’s not like regular crimes, even killings," Mary Kane asked.
"By that ol' debbil repression," Dr. Foster told her, allowing a smile. "His conscious mind will totally reject the incident. Make as if it didn’t happen. In all likelihood he will be amnesiac about it, or if he does remember it in any fashion he will treat it as a dream or something that happened to someone else."
"Do you think we can take him alive?" Mercanto asked, not much liking the prospect.
Foster considered his answer. "That depends on you, but I can assure you he won't want you to. For him death may seem the only way out of his predicament."
CHAPTER 20
NEAR DAWN the voice commanded him to go into the park. He changed from his tuxedo into a dark blue sweatsuit and went out. Once in the trees he followed a path that led down to the rocks at Devil’s Pool.
Out of sight of the house he no longer felt the presence. If he could just hide, maybe all this would pass. Maybe it was only a dream, a hallucination, after all. He hadn't really done those . . . things. It was only his mind playing tricks on him, an imaginary voice.
He took refuge, squatting in a clump of bushes among the trees, sure no one could see him. Time moved slowly, he did not know how long he was there, but just when he was beginning to feel safe, he heard it again. As clear and strong and real as
the night before.
"There you are, I've been looking for you," and the words were his stepfather’s, the same words said when he found him hiding in the closet, trying to escape from what he knew was going to happen. Where to hide now? To escape what he knew was going to happen . . .
He found himself on his feet and running through the trees, branches whipping across his face, underbrush tripping him. He kept on until exhausted and had to stop. Above the rasp of his breath he heard the sound of Wissahickon Creek on his right. That meant he was headed toward the stables or Lincoln Drive beyond. Find other people, then he would be safe . . .
But as he stood there he saw the eyes gleaming in the trees, heard the now too familiar voice say, "If you’re going to act like a naughty pet you’re going to be treated like one . . ."
He felt his legs collapse under him and fell to the ground. He tried to get up but could not. Finally he managed to get to all fours, the dampness of the ground seeping through the knees of his sweatsuit.
"The way of the wolf, Loring. Once he also walked on two legs . . . until he disobeyed. I know because I made him that way. Now turn and follow me."
Again he tried to stand and could not. He was in his body and out of it, aware and yet beyond any self-control. He followed, crawling on all fours, the gleaming eyes always in front of him, leading. Back they went in the direction he had come. What did he feel? Humiliation, pain, forced down on his knees like an animal, like the wolf he had become. He felt shame. Margaret. . . he had so badly wanted to love her, instead had felt only lust, like an animal . . .
The rocks and underbrush tore at his knees, making them raw and bloody. The cold dampness of the ground seemed to fill him as he crawled. Was this how his life was to end? A beast, face almost unrecognizable, pulled into distorted features . . . the punishment was mythological. Strange that he could have such thoughts, the way he was now . . .