Darkest Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  Officer Conway quickly handed over the sketch to a fe­male assistant, telling her to run it through the usual process and to get copies out to every precinct. He then pushed past them, in search of Judy, saying, “I’ll see that Miss Templar gets home all right.”

  “We’ll need to keep those copies in-house for now,” Santiva told the assistant. “Send them out to the precincts, like your boss said, but with a word of caution. Nothing on this goes to the press as yet. We have a deal with the Herald, remember?”

  “Yes, sir.” She was off and running.

  “Ahhhh, I know I’m kinda new here and all,” said Donna LeMonte, “but am I to understand that you’re going to willfully withhold information vital to the safety of every woman in this city, because you’ve struck a deal with the local press? Excuse me, but—”

  “We don’t release anything to the press on a case with­out a powwow, Dr. LeMonte, and you... well, you’re not involved in policy, so I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it tonight.”

  “And you’re part of this policy-making, Jessica?” she asked, turning to her friend with an accusing eye.

  “We’ve had to make certain concessions to the Herald. It has to do with the fact that the killer has been sending them exclusives, like I’ve told you, Donna.”

  “Well, just how long do you intend to withhold infor­mation like this from the public so that you can play games with this madman?”

  “As I said, that is none of your concern,” replied San­tiva.

  She glowered at him. “None of my concern. I beg to differ, Agent Santiva.”

  “Look, you’re on retainer; we’re paying your bill, and I understand that you’re intending on a weeklong stay, to catch some sun and surf. Why don’t you get at it?”

  “That young lady who just left here is likely going to need months, if not years, of psychiatric support, and I’ve got to sift the countryside here for someone capable of help­ing her. I won’t be able to long distance. In the meantime, she thinks she just possibly helped to save another Tammy or maybe even herself from harm by this fiend you’re after. Now what in hell do I tell her?” Santiva’s Cuban ire was up. “You don’t tell her a thing.”

  . “We’ll release the sketch to the public when we as a team feel that it is right to do so,” interjected Jessica, trying to mediate between her boss and her best friend while won­dering how things had blown up so quickly.

  “And not before,” Santiva added.

  “Donna,” Jessica tried to soothe her friend, “it’s pol­icy.”

  “Fine nonsense to hide behind: policy. Jess, I never thought you’d stoop to this.”

  Donna stormed out, leaving Jessica feeling drained and deflated. She and Eriq exchanged a shaky glance and then she asked, “Why not release the sketch now, immediately? Give it to the Herald and everybody else.”

  “You know’s well as I do: It could send our man fleeing into oblivion faster than a freak wave.”

  “Yeah, I know that.”

  “It happened in Hawaii when you got close to Ko wona, didn’t it? You know that the consequences can be devastating.”

  I also know that maybe, just maybe, if we’d gotten Kowona’s picture out twenty-four hours before we did, a young woman I saw tied to a wall and mutilated with swords from head to toe might be alive today.”

  “There’s no room for argument on this one, Jess. This one’s my call, and I say law enforcement and need-to- know only until we know more about this Patric Allain. We’re armed now with a name and a full description. We’re getting close; let’s don’t blow it now out of some notion about serving the public good when we know that the public doesn’t heed a damn thing we say in the first place.”

  “How long?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “How long do we withhold this from the Herald then?”

  He bit back on his lower lip. “I don’t know.”

  “We made a deal with Merrick.”

  “I want to take this carefully and by the book.”

  “There are no books to go by here, only one’s instincts, and mine tell me that—”

  “I want to get a sculptor in here to do a 3-D bust from the sketch before we go anywhere else with it. Then, maybe we take it to the next level.”

  She slowly repeated, “We had a deal with Merrick.”

  “There’re others to consider in this besides Merrick and Judy Templar and Dr. LeMonte, Jess.”

  Jessica relented, backing away. “Oh, I see... others.” Her tone mocked him.

  He pursued. “Don’t give me that, Jess. You knew going in that this was as politically red hot as coals from hell; that every bloody politician and hack in this city is trying to make hay one way or another with these killings. The mayor and the city council are concerned about—”

  “—about the downturn in revenues from a distrustful tourist population, I’m sure. As if all these money matters matter!”

  “We don’t work in a fucking vacuum, Doctor. We never did, and you of all people should know that. Wasn’t it that way when you were head of pathology at Washington Me­morial?”

  She clenched her teeth and fists and turned away from him. She thought of the political ramifications of the case in New Orleans the year before, of the dirty politics in Hawaii that had gotten an innocent young man killed, of Chicago and New York, L.A. and D.C., where politics also ruled, holding sway over the lives of individuals who couldn’t fathom what hit them until it was too late.

  “Nothing’s changed on that front, Jessica. It never will.”

  “You told Donna that releasing the police sketch of the killer would be a team decision. Well, I’m part of this team, and I say we release it immediately to the Herald for tonight’s late edition, and soon after to the rest of the media.”

  “Sorry, but this half of the team disagrees with you, and I’ve got a little more experience in dealing with personal­ities like this Patric guy than you do, so I’ll ask you to bow to my judgment in this instance.”

  “But, Eriq—”

  “No more discussion, Jess. For now, we leave it alone. We forward what we have only to law enforcement officials with the disclaimer that it’s not to be released to the press. Meantime, I’ll take what we have to the mayor’s office, and from there it’ll be filtered through the governor’s man­sion in Tallahassee.”

  Her stare forced a cold, steel lance through his chest now. “You’re going to withhold this even from other law en­forcement agencies until you get the nod from the governor, aren’t you?”

  “It goes a little higher than that, Jess. There are several former presidents and White House execs and senators who live in this state, and—”

  “Christ, I don’t want to hear it, Eriq.”

  “And there’s something in the wind about a spot on America’s Most Wanted if we can fit into their program­ming schedule, which—”

  “Are you nuts, Eriq, or just ambitious? I know you think you’re Errol Flynn but—”

  “Goddamnit, Jess, you haven’t got a clue. This isn’t about me or you or Tammy Sue Sheppard. This is about Allison Norris, the senator’s daughter, and by God, we’ve got—I’ve got—orders, Jessica... orders I can’t just dis­obey. Paul Zanek is no longer in Washington because he ignored orders once too often. You know where he is now?’’

  A part of her was curious about Zanek; obviously Paul was not in cushy Puerto Rico after all. She exploded, “Donna was right: Policy stinks, Eriq.” She marched from the room.

  • ELEVEN •

  If the devil doesn ‘t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.

  —Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Somewhere on the Atlantic off the Florida Coast

  The Next Morning

  Far out to sea, under clouds which painted the sky a cold, gunmetal gray, Warren Tauman thought about his current circumstances. He felt safe, secure in the knowledge that no one knew him or his deeds, and yet he wanted notoriety; he wanted the world to kn
ow what he’d done and why, for the why of it was important, and it was for this reason that he kept a diary of his activities and travels. He wrote halt­ingly, awkwardly and badly, however, never quite able to smooth out the words the way his mind wanted. Maybe he would never be a real writer, as he had always dreamed of becoming. Perhaps he wasn’t good enough, and maybe he wasn’t interesting enough, and maybe what he wrote about no one but the most bookish police science types would find the least bit interesting. Maybe the exact words of the killer would all become as arcane as some lost alchemist’s recipes.

  “Another reason to leave the Miami area,” he spoke aloud to the dead Madeleine. “I was beginning to get bloody morbid and negative there. Not to mention the fact that women were becoming more distrustful, wary and cau­tious of strangers, and I was, after all, a stranger to every­one there.”

  He was already well below Islamorada Key, according to his calculations. He had weathered the storm well. It had turned out to be a simple blow, over quickly and painlessly. He had spent much of his time replacing Mother on the wall, but she had gone stone cold again, not speaking or moving or showing any sign that she remained or planned to reanimate what again seemed a useless corpse.

  He had spent the rest of his time at the wheel and writing in his notebook, chronicling the night’s experience, the fact that Mother had finally showed herself, that it wasn’t mad­ness or a fantasy that drove him but a real quest, and a winnable one at that.

  He lamented the fact that Mother’s spirit and time here had been so damnably short-lived, that Madeleine’s body was found wanting, for Mother had obviously and com­pletely vacated it. He had come close, but not close enough.

  In calm seas, with the ship making a steady clip of eleven knots, he pushed southward. Warren once again placed the sleek schooner-class ship on automatic pilot and began re­moving Madeleine’s body from the wall of his cabin. This chore accomplished, he carried it, this time more gently, to the waiting sea.

  At the stern, he calmly looked down into the dead fea­tures, somehow knowing that Mother wanted better, and said, “Good-bye, sweet slut; go now to our lord and mas­ter; make Tauto as pleased with you as I once was...”He now watched the corpse as it slid over the side and out to sea. He watched the stiff form bob over the top of the water, caught in the ship’s considerable wake.

  The body, so loaded with stiffening agents and preser­vatives, would float atop the water like a log. “You’ll be discovered shortly and they’ll give chase, Madeleine. Maybe that’s what we need to relieve the boredom, hey. Mother? A good chase? Perhaps that’s what Mother wants... and we always do what Mother wants, don’t we, Warren...”

  He grimaced up at the blinding sun.

  He knew that leaving the Greater Miami area was the wise thing to do. He had been seen now countless times by women, many of whom were in the company of the women he’d sent to Tauto. He anticipated a police sketch of his likeness would come next, and so he had already begun to grow a beard to add to his repertoire of disguises and makeup. Once again thanks be to Mother, who had taught him the proper use of rouge, lipstick and other assorted feminine items. Mother had used Warren in her act from time to time to play, of all things, a little girl, a daughter or niece. Mother had always wanted a little girl to dress up and play dolly with.

  Mother had been wonderful when she was on stage, a force to be reckoned with. Patric Allain was just another of his own stage names, taken from his mother, whose stage name was Patricia Allain. He’d picked up the art of makeup from a life in the theatre, with Mother dragging him about from one engagement to the next, from London to the nether reaches of Scotland and Ireland and beyond, all the while giving him what she called the “best education she knew how.” The knowledge of second rate theatre in Brit­ain, makeup, how to play a part—it was all the best, most practical gift that had been left him, aside from the estate.

  Mother had married well near the end of her life; fortu­nately, too, for she was beginning to lose both her looks and all hope of ever becoming the actress she had set out to become—slowed by a kid, she had so often reminded her bastard son, Warren.

  He never knew his father; he rather doubted that his mother knew his father. She wised up later in life, accepting a proposal from a dazzled old country squire, upon whom she worked her considerable feminine wiles. The old man had not for a moment stood a chance, not since the moment he saw her on stage and showed up at her dressing room door, annoyed from the first to discover Warren there in a corner.

  The old man. William Anthony Kirlian, had soon turned over everything he owned to the ravishing Patricia Allain, stage star—shortly before his death of “natural causes,” or so the coroner’s inquest had put it. Everyone suspected poi­soning at the hand of the new wife, but no one except Mother had suspected suffocation at Warren’s hand.

  It was then that she had shipped Warren off to a boarding school, where he did indeed acquire a fine education, but where he also remained lonely, depressed and sullen. When he would visit Mother at her palatial estate outside London, he was made to feel like a guest, an outsider, even an in­truder, for Mother always had a man around, and she liked her privacy up until the day she died, in an apparent acci­dental fall from a cliff near her seaside estate.

  He had inherited everything, which after taxes did not amount to near so much as it had appeared it would. The estate had to be sold, and with it went most of the prestige and privilege of class that Warren had for the first time in his life enjoyed, and despite the occasional remorse at having killed his mother, over the years his only constant and tangible remorse had congealed in a desire to have killed her with more aplomb and alacrity, to have drawn out her suffering for long days and nights—and why not? Hadn’t she made his life a living hell? Hadn’t she made him suffer like a pet collie at her hands all his miserable life?

  So he had had to sell off the gaudy estate and pocket what he could of the proceeds, and he was left with a sail­ing ship which he knew not a whit about. The ship, how­ever, became his home and his one true source of pride and excitement. That had been four years ago, and since then he had killed many, many women. He didn’t at first know why he was driven to do so, knowing only that he must, and that he could not control the urge.

  When he had killed his mother that day on the precipice, it had come about in a moment of passion born of sheer rage when she told him that he must earn his own way, that she could not in clear conscience provide for his needs a moment longer after having financed his education at Southwark and having learned of the indelicate indiscretion he had committed with another boy there. Southwark wanted no part of Warren, so she had nowhere to send him, and this angered her.

  “After I die, Warren, then all this will be yours, Warren, but until that time, Warren, I would like to see you strike out on your own, Warren, make a go of it, Warren, make Mummy proud, Warren, make as much of yourself as humanly possible, Warren... show me some backbone, Warren... After all, you have an education now, Warren, far more than when I started out in life. Then... well, then... we will see ... don’t you see that it’s for your best, Warren?”

  They were the last words she ever uttered to him, the last sounds aside from the scream that echoed all the way back up to him.

  Since that day, he found himself inextricably drawn to kill others, women in particular. He had killed things be­fore, small birds and animals, and there was the incident at Southwark in which he had tortured the homosexual boy who had made advances. He had lured the boy to a desolate place and kept him trapped there for forty-eight hours be­fore anyone suspected him of having a hand in the disap­pearance. The nude boy’s body was covered in welts and bite marks. He hadn’t killed the boy, but he might well have, if given more time.

  And nowadays he continued to torture and kill, but it all had a purpose, a reason. He targeted only women who re­minded him of his mother when she was a young, stupid little tramp. His kill spree had begun with whores and pros­titutes along the Th
ames River in the White Chapel District, women who were closer in age to Mother when she’d died, but he had slowly worked his phantasm of murdering the old sot over and over again so often that he grew tired of the game; he wanted more, especially now. Nowadays, his greatest dream was to kill Mother’s spirit, the soul spirit which visited and tormented his mind whenever he slept, and he had to destroy it before Tauto, in His eyes.

  Warren had not known Tauto when he had killed out of rage. Now he wanted to introduce Mother to Tauto, in the only way that such an introduction could occur. He also wanted to destroy her at an early age, before she turned twenty, before she had an opportunity to turn his life into a shambles. He wanted her when she was not much more than a child. He wanted most to kill her at a time in her life before she had given birth to him.

  The corpse he’d just thrown overboard was now out of sight, flushed from the wake of his ship like so much refuse. He wondered what authorities would make of this last one, all those chemicals pumped into her... the hook in her back...

  It would be such a deviation from the others. He had experimented on some of the others’ limbs, a hand here, a leg there, but this was the first time he had left one whole, preserved body. It would serve only to confuse and anger the faceless people who pursued him. The recent papers carried a photograph of a pair of FBI investigators, one a man, the other a woman, who were in dogged pursuit of clues leading to his whereabouts, or so the reporter said. A total exaggeration, so far as Warren could make out. Still, he knew that when his skin told him to get, he should get, and so he had instinctively decided to flee.

  He returned now to the wheel and steered his ship, the ocean pleased with his work, in harmony with him. He was one of two beings in the universe which the ocean smiled upon. The other was his god.

  He returned in his mind to those first killings in London. He had enjoyed each better than the one before, his ritual of humiliating and creating suffering in his victims becom­ing more and more elaborate as he went, more exciting and satisfying as he continued building onto the ritual labyrinth of inducing pain and horror in his prey. They were all so easy to kill; but it took some imagination to torture them, and so his imagination grew.