Darkest Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  “Night Crawler? This guy’s the Night Crawler?” begged the young lady.

  “We don’t know that,” Mark Samernow assured her, gesturing for her to keep her voice down. “Very likely no.” But it was already too late; by now everyone in the place was buzzing with two words: Night Crawler.

  “Our information on this creep is that he’s capable of disguise and sleight of hand as well as charm, so...” con­tinued Eriq as he once again kneeled over the man, whom the wallet proclaimed to be a retired American naval officer named George V. Slaughter. Eriq placed his hands over the forehead and right cheek, checking for cosmetics, and find­ing none he yanked at the man’s mustache and hair. “Noth­ing false about this guy, except maybe his line.” Eriq had noticed a photo of a woman and three children as Mark had rifled through Slaughter’s wallet.

  “What next?” asked Ford.

  “We have a look at his boat. We have to be sure, one way or another.”

  “That might take a court order. Could take a while.”

  Santiva pointed down at Slaughter. “He’s got no place to go. Get the search warrant. Meantime, we’ll see if we can’t locate next of kin.”

  The young detective who made the collar had turned white by now. He shakily said, “You think... you think my nabbing him, you know, caused his heart attack?”

  “Most likely he has a history,” Ford assured his man. “Don’t go punishing yourself, son. Wait here for IAD and—”

  “IAD?”

  “Internal Affairs’s is going to want to talk to you briefly. Just state the facts as you know them, Bear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Naples wasn’t exactly a small town, but Eriq found that the police captain and his men had a small-town cohesive- ness which was charming and rare.

  “What about the girl?” Samernow asked Eriq.

  “Send her home for now, but get all her vitals.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m going to get a bite to eat here and sit on this boat while Captain Ford or one of our local guys gets us that warrant. Federal warrant might carry more weight...”

  “But you don’t think this guy’s our man, do you?”

  Santiva shook his head. “No, no, I don’t. Not even in the ballpark.”

  “Then why’re we bothering?”

  “Protocol dictates. We’ve come this far. People here know we’re after the Night Crawler. This is going to be all over the news in an hour. We have to see if we can pluck some phoenix from these ashes, even if it’s a speeding ticket or boating violation. Hell, in a sense we have to cover our asses; this could blow up in our faces, like the police counterpart of a medical malpractice suit. A guy may’ve died as a direct result of our stakeout.”

  Samernow nodded, understanding. “You think the guy’s family might sue the city or the FBI, or both?”

  “Nowadays? Who knows—all of the above, including you and me, Mark.”

  “Yeah, right. People’ve tried to sue for a hell of a lot less.”

  Santiva went to the bar and ordered a whiskey sour, wanting to see what Jessica Coran liked about them. He wondered how she had fared in Key Largo and Metacumbe, wondered why she hadn’t been in contact, wondered where she was at this moment. When the bartender returned with his drink, he ordered a ham and swiss on rye with fries.

  He found himself missing Jessica, missing her company, their partnership and camaraderie. Being apart from her now these several days, he realized just how important to him their friendship was, how much he valued her trust and respect. He admired the way she had barged in with regard to the investigation, and even her attitude toward the release of information which she believed vital to the well-being of others. It showed she had courage and heart, a brave heart. She had shown such backbone, that one...

  Around him people buzzed; Ford was trying desperately to keep a lid on things, guiding IAD officers through the maze of what had happened here, and how it had happened, finally leading them to a still shaken Detective Bear. Ford seemed a good man, a solid cop.

  Once more Eriq’s thoughts floated away to where Jessica might be. He might easily have taken a hard-nosed ap­proach with her for having released information to the press without his express consent, but he hadn’t, for the simple reason that he had secretly agreed with her move. If the damned agency and the damned politicians would let him do his job, if they’d stop roping his hands behind his back, he most assuredly would have released everything they had on the Night Crawler himself the night Jessica had done so. Maybe then she’d see him in a better light, maybe. It had become extremely important that she not view him as the enemy, and that she continue to hold a positive opin­ion of him.

  Once the proverbial shit had hit the proverbial fan— when Jess had chosen to release the artist sketch and APB on the killer—Eriq had simply told himself to hell with it, but that attitude hadn’t lessened in the least the amount of flak which he’d had to endure from above. He had taken a great deal of crap for Jessica’s actions; half or more of it she would never know.

  Now however, here in Naples, removed from the situa­tion and from Dr. Jessica Coran’s presence, he wondered if there weren’t more to it—the admiration and respect he held for this fine woman of science and integrity. Despite the fact that they actually had not accomplished a great deal here in Florida, Eriq found himself admiring her at every turn, and he’d come to realize that he didn’t want ever to lose her trust and friendship to bureaucratic bullshit, neither now nor in the future. Still, something else had been nag­ging at him all day, and sitting about with Samernow hour after dour hour had given him a great deal of time to think. So he had begun to wonder... If it were any other agent than Dr. Jessica Coran, would he have behaved in the same calm, polite, accepting manner that he had? Anyone else and he most likely would have lobbed off the head and sent the body to Siberia, or at least to Pocatello, Idaho.

  He wasn’t sure what his feelings meant or precisely how to deal with them, but one thing he was increasingly sure of: This chief agent in Hawaii, James Parry, was a fool to have lost Jessica.

  The radio on Captain Elliot Anderson’s charter boat crackled with stories about arrests taking place overnight in and around the Naples area; apparently authorities every­where were on a full-scale effort, or so reported WKIK— Kick Radio—in Naples. Jessica learned of the heart attack victim, “who,” the reporter said, “was arrested after he expired, police taking no chances... and every precau­tion...”

  The joke wasn’t lost on either Quincey or Anderson, who shook their heads over the announcer’s words and tone.

  Other outlandish arrest stories followed: One female- male impersonator, one African-American, one man with an Austrian—not an Australian—accent. This fellow was a man named Neubaurer who was on holiday, just come from Mickey Mouse Land in Orlando only to be accosted by police in Naples. “The moment he was released,” the radio announcer said, “Neubaurer rushed directly to the nearest law office to file a complaint in the hope of winning the great American dream, a fortune through litigation.”

  Along their watery route to Naples, Captain Elliot An­derson had been studying all manner of charts and maps, but now he had snatched down a gazetteer-styled map of the entire state of Florida and its waterways. He spread the map across the top of the cabin of his charter vessel and asked Jessica and Quincey to give him the exact locations where each of the Night Crawler’s victims had washed ashore.

  This done, Anderson placed an overlay onto the map which showed precise ocean currents and drift factors. From a small black journal, he factored in wind coefficients and velocities on or about the day of each gruesome dis­covery. He then began a startlingly intelligent geography of the crimes using educated guesses as to the location of the killer’s boat at each instance a body was, as he put it, “launched” from Patric Allain’s craft.

  Given the degree of wind and water current in from the sea, Anderson’s projections were startlingly on target.

  Ev
en as an approximation, the map of killings revealed a great deal about the movements of the killer—a great deal more than the large map on the wall back in Miami had ever revealed. Anderson’s quick hand and expert eye had created a clear picture of a ship that’d sailed from the Keys north to Miami and back again along a certain time line. Given the northward drift of the eastern coastal waters, a body that had been discovered as far north as Pompano Beach, north of Fort Lauderdale, which police had not put together with the Night Crawler’s heinous collection could, according to Anderson, be among the victims if the killer had toured at all toward Fort Lauderdale. Jessica looked out over the emerald-green waters of the peaceful Gulf of Mexico and away from the white buildings and red-tiled roofs of Naples on the port side of the bow now.

  “As to your earlier question,” said Anderson, “there is a taxidermist of considerable reputation here, name of Buckner—rather famous, actually. Does all kinds of ani­mals, even does this thing where he puts the head of a gator onto the body of a blue- or yellowfin, or the head of a possum on a fish, names the things and sells ‘em to the highest bidder.”

  “There you have it,” said Quincey. “Maybe our guy’s come to see Buckner’s special creations.”

  “We haven’t had any sort of uncanny luck before in this case, so why should we now?” Jessica asked. She momen­tarily wondered if Santiva wouldn’t soon be throwing it in her face, that it had all been a wild-goose chase coming here. She wondered if Eriq had determined with any degree of certainty if the handwritten note from the killer post­marked Naples was indeed the same handwriting as earlier notes.

  Anderson tried to soothe Jessica’s fear that perhaps the killer had taken another direction altogether and that they were now pursuing a copycat killer. Anderson said, “If the SOB did come this way, he took one of the channels up, just as we did, and we’re in his wake now.”

  Jessica remained cynical, crossing from one side of the boat to the other, pacing as she spoke. “Even if we were sure that we were in his wake, as we came along the south­ern tip of Florida there were literally thousands of islands amid which he might have hidden. We’re working blind here, gentlemen, and I can honestly tell you that I don’t believe I’ve ever worked a case with so little to go on but frustrated efforts...”

  “But if his ship is a seventy-footer and as beautiful as you say it is... “ Anderson rejoined.

  “No,” she corrected him, “we only know what wit­nesses have said about the boat, and Quince, we both know how unreliable witnesses are. We can’t even be sure if our sketch of the man is accurate, much less his boat.”

  “On the other hand,” Anderson continued as if speaking to himself now, “we’ve passed some of the most gorgeous sailing vessels ever to frequent these waters—there are so many here fitting your description.”

  Quincey pushed Anderson in a good-natured way, say­ing, “That’s right, side with her.”

  “Well, she’s a damn sight prettier than you!”

  Jessica, Quince and Captain Anderson now eased into a harbor and boat slip in downtown Naples, a sign proclaim­ing the slip for the express use of the harbor patrol only. Captain Anderson had warned they might have problems docking here and that he was concerned, as fines were mea­sured out in the hundreds of dollars at a city-owned harbor, telling Jessica and Quince that the harbormaster would rent out as much space as possible to make a buck under the table, cutting corners when it came to holding open slips for Coast Guard and police vehicles. “At the moment, this is a police vehicle—undercover,” Quince assured his friend. “Commandeered, as they say.”

  “That mean I don’t get paid, pal?”

  “Not to worry. Your check’ll come from Miami-Dade as soon as I get back and make out the voucher.”

  “Six to nine months after the voucher, you mean.”

  Jessica piped up with, “Maybe with the FBI putting a little juice on it, we can do better this time, Captain.”

  Elliot Anderson grimly looked in Jessica’s direction but only found her raising a disparaging shrug and saying, “We’ll see you’re reimbursed for your time and effort here, Captain, my promise.”

  As they entered an empty slip—which appeared to be the only one open, just as Anderson had warned—a stubby little man with a clipboard came racing out to them, waving them off and shouting, “Can’t you damned fools read?” The little mustached man reminded Jessica of the gate­keeper in the Wizard of Oz, and he didn’t look above a bribe. Captain Anderson chose the Naples municipal harbor as perfectly suited to their needs, for City Hall and the main branch of the Naples Police Department were within view and walking distance. After securing the boat, Jessica said to Anderson as he was about to alight from the boat, “Cap­tain, please bring your navigational chart, the one you used to get us here, and the map and overlay you created which shows the movements of the killer since discovery of the first body by Coudriet in—”

  “You can take them,” he replied, “but I’ll need replace­ments.”

  “Replace them while you’re in port here. I’ll reimburse you on the receipts.”

  “Fine.”

  “But I want you to come with Quince and me to show our associates your chart. It’s of great importance.”

  “You want me inside a police station? Don’t know if I’d feel comfortable, Doctor, much as I’d like to help...“Damnit, Elliot,” bawled Quincey. “It’s not like we’re asking you to step into a war camp. It’s just a big office, and you’re not under arrest.”

  “Just a big office, huh? With rooms in the basement with lots of bars—and not the kind of bars I like to frequent.” The man reminded Jessica of Jimmy Buffet as he scrunched up his face and nose, considering his options a moment until he saw Jessica’s pleading eyes.

  “Just long enough to explain the maps to my partner,” she asked.

  “All right... anyone ever say no to you, Dr. Coran?”

  “Sometimes, sure.”

  “Stronger men than I ...”

  Jessica now took note of the beautiful setting and lush greenery here. The city was alabaster-white, almost all the buildings bright pastels or whitewash with exotic-looking orange- and red-tiled roofs in old Spanish style. Moss hung like strange garlands around ancient trees, giving them the appearance of alien Christmas trees. These ancient oaks and poplars lined wide streets, and palm-lined avenues—corri­dors to the city—were clean and inviting. From here she could see that the business, historical and government dis­tricts all shared the stage along the same spacious avenues. There were no skyscrapers here, the tallest of buildings per­haps ten stories, and these were rare—hospitals and banks. Like many or most Florida towns, Naples maintained a small-town atmosphere where parks along the waterways were filled to capacity with boaters and picnicking families, the children flying kites, chasing dogs and Frisbees and climbing up and down the town gazebo.

  All in all, it was an elegant little city, the kind of place found only in dreams, the kind of place where evil died of loneliness, the kind of place where fear, ignorance, rage, prejudice, pestilence and poverty never entered—or rather hid very well amid the scarcity of shadow; still, it appeared the kind of place where only gentleness, kindness and light- heartedness could thrive, the kind of place lost in America’s past and found now only in imagination, the kind of place where people were lulled into believing that peace and safety and brotherhood and sisterhood and tranquillity and an unlocked door could actually exist on the planet. The little city by the emerald Gulf seemed quite out of keeping with the Night Crawler’s usual teeming haunts.

  On their walk toward the expensively laid-out grounds of the police station here—a sure sign that all was not well in this little jeweled city—Jessica thought of the allusions in the Night Crawler’s poetry to stage and theater. She now voiced her thoughts to Quincey. “This doesn’t exactly look the perfect stage for the Night Crawler to crawl out on to strut his stuff.”

  Quincey cleared his throat and thoughtfully replied, “Well, th
ere’re areas, especially along the outer islands and north of here, that are teeming with nightclubs and night­life.”

  Elliot Anderson added, “If your guy’s here, the bastard’s most likely just casually trawling these waters while on his way to a larger arena...

  ” Jessica’s step slowed. “A larger arena?”

  “A major metropolis, like Miami,” Quincey filled in.n“Tampa-St. Pete, I believe,” said Anderson. Quincey agreed instantly.

  Jessica sadly agreed as well. “I guess you’re both right on one score.”

  “He needs a big kettle,” Anderson finished for her.

  She nodded. “He feeds on the anonymity afforded by a large city.” Quincey quickly added, “Every predator needs a jungle.”

  She added. “And every predator’s jungle must con­ceal him.”

  • FIFTEEN •

  To go and find out and be damned...

  —Rudyard Kipling

  At police headquarters, Jessica had no trouble locating Eriq once she and Quincey found Mark Samernow nursing a cup of coffee and a gone-cold gyro. Although it was not quite 11 a.m., Samernow explained that he and Chief Santiva had been up all night with a character who might or might not have a line on the Night Crawler, a fellow who may’ve harbored the killer for a time. They’d just finished up with a lie detector test on him.

  Jessica followed Samernow and Quince to the interro­gation room, along the way locating the ready room where Elliot Anderson could set up his maps.

  Quincey joked with Samernow, ribbing him about the news accounts they’d been hearing out on the Gulf. “So, I hear you collared a dead guy, Mark?”

  Samernow’s ears reddened and Jessica could only imag­ine the scowl on his face, unable as she was to actually see the gaunt man’s features as he kept walking.

  Quince dug the knife in deeper and twisted it by repeat­ing what he’d said as if Mark hadn’t heard. “Heard you collared a dead guy?” He just couldn’t resist.