Grave Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  THE day after the strange call on her cell phone had passed uneventfully for Jessica, but on the day after that, she accompanied Lorena Combs to Amanda Manning's funeral. The Jax-town police and Combs's office positioned plainclothes detectives and cameras at every angle, some mingling in with the crowd of mourners. Anyone and everyone attending was put on videotape.

  The funeral over, Jessica and Combs poured over the photographic surveillance of the funeral, searching for any likely suspects to the girl's murder. Often, out of a sense of guilt and remorse—or a perverted sort of pride in their work—a killer showed up at his victim's funeral, unable to keep away. Some did it out of a sense of pride at having gone undetected, a final flip of the bird to officialdom, society, the church, the family, the parents and the victim.

  Similar tapes had been made at the funerals in Richmond and Winston-Salem. But no one had looked out of place, nervous or anxious beyond the grieving loved ones. There were no loners holding back behind nearby trees or tombstones.

  J.T. arranged for a member of the family, an uncle, to review the tapes with them as well. Ted Manning picked out any faces that didn't belong, and he was accurate with all the undercover officers, male and female. Then he hit on one face in the crowd he could not recognize, a blurred profile shot of a man standing at the center of the crowd, left of the coffin.

  J.T. had the shot blown up, and still the Mannings did not recognize the man, but Sheriff Combs did, coming out of her seat. “I know that face. He was at the marina the night the body surfaced. He was supposedly off one of the yachts, and he got pushy with my men, real interested in what had happened.”

  They detoured back to the Venetia Warf and located the harbormaster, who instantly identified the man in the picture as Mr. Swantor, and he pointed out the man's large yacht. Welcoming them aboard, Swantor showed them gracious hospitality, sitting them down topside, offering them drinks. Combs agreed to lemonade and Jessica thought that sounded refreshing. She expected him to call out to a servant or a wife to fetch the drinks, but Swantor did the dubious honors himself. Jessica thought him overeager to please the authorities, as was reported the night of Captain Abrams's gruesome discovery. Still, while this could point to a hidden agenda, it could also say that Swantor was civic-minded or downright lonely and starved for attention.

  “So . . . sir . . . tell us,” asked Combs, “what was your purpose in attending the Manning girl's funeral?”

  “You people . . . you are so clever. How did you know I was there? Never mind, I'm sure you don't dare reveal your sources or methods to a civilian.”

  Jessica set aside her lemonade. “Will you please answer the question, Mr. Swantor?”

  He took a deep breath. “Because I felt awful about what had happened to the Mannings and thought it the only thing I could do under the circumstances, you know, to represent the yachts-people. None of whom,” he added apologetically, “could make the funeral, although I made it my business that each should know when and where it would be held. Short of that, I set up a collection, you know, for everyone to chip in something for the parents, called the local TV news channel and asked to form a fund in memory of the dead girl. They said they'd get back to me on it, but haven't so far. So far, I've collected five hundred dollars from guess who?”

  Swantor had just set himself up as the exception to the thoughtless well-off people residing on the yachts surrounding them. He was a tall, strong-looking man, robust from the sun on his face and arms, with the pontification of a pacing, fully displaying peacock. Lorena Combs complimented him on his generosity and concern. He blew it off with a suave wave of the hand, saying, “Look ... let me show you two ladies the rest of the boat, belowdecks! Ladies . . . ahhh, Sheriff, Doctor?” He gestured with both hands for them to follow him as he backed down the steps to the cabin below.

  He was expansive in showing them his beloved yacht, opening every nook and cranny for them to fawn over. His yacht was magnificent, state-of-the-art and fully equipped with the latest in nautical equipment. Jessica noticed the computer aboard, and he freely talked about its capacity.

  “The damn thing can practically run the ship on its own. Hardly needs me. It can detect objects in its path! Warns me fifty to a hundred yards in advance, depending on the size of the obstruction.”

  Jessica saw a separate computer with a large screen and a movie camera attached to it.

  “Where is Mrs. Swantor?” asked Lorena.

  “Oh . . . no . . . I'm quite alone aboard,” he explained. “Mrs. Swantor . . . Lara and I . . . well, we divorced some months back. Still adjusting to the new life. Not easy, I can tell you. Maybe the trip to Cancun will help. Plan on going there soon.”

  After talking to Swantor, they walked down the wharf back toward their unmarked Sheriff s Office vehicle.

  Combs said, “Satisfied with Swantor's good intentions?”

  “Maybe . . . maybe not.”

  “Same here. I always get the creeps when somebody's in such heat to get near the body. And this guy did it two or three times when she was on the shrimp boat, and then he goes to the funeral.”

  “But we've got nothing on him.” While Jessica felt some unnamable nagging sensation at the base of her skull creep down her spine, she knew they had nothing but gut instincts to go on. Not enough for a next step. “I just don't like the guy.”

  At the end of the dock ramp, Jessica suggested, “Lorena, I think you should do a thorough background check on our Mr. Jervis Swantor.”

  BACK at the Duval County Sheriff s Office, Jessica spent time with the first officers on the Manning scene to get their first impressions of the condition of the body, but she also really wanted to know what they had thought of Mr. Swantor. Both officers thought him strange and overbearing that night. Officers Plummer and Bierdsley were leaving as Lorena Combs came into the temporary office given to Jessica. She had the background check in hand. “It's Dr. Jervis Swantor, retired GP.”

  “Doctor? That makes him even more likable.”

  “Maybe that explains why he thought he could help that night, assuming he thought the victim in need of medical attention.”

  “So, why didn't he tell Plummer or Bierdsley or any of the other officers that he was a doctor?”

  “I can't say. All we know for certain is that he was very interested in getting a good look at the dead girl, as if he wanted to know precisely how she died.”

  “What else did you find out?”

  “The check revealed a run-in with the law that involved a messy domestic dispute, sometime before his divorce. It got a little violent,” said Combs.

  “How so?”

  “He had roped her to a tree and was threatening her with a meat cleaver the size of Rhode Island when the police arrived.”

  “Where did this occur?”

  “Someplace called Grand Isle, Louisiana, where they lived at the time.”

  “And Swantor's also a doctor. Wonder why he was so modest about that,” asked Jessica, scanning Combs's report.

  “Well. . . he's not a surgeon. Aren't surgeons the big-headed ones?”

  “Heavily invested in computer and tech stocks, but his picks all went south right before his marriage did.”

  Jessica called Santiva and, putting him on speakerphone with Lorena and herself, asked that he have Swantor's name run through the VICAP program. In a half hour, Santiva phoned with the news.

  “We ran his name and his record reflects the single domestic disturbance warrant, that's all. How good does this guy look to you for the Skull-digger?”

  “Only so-so. He's not a surgeon, and he doesn't drive a van. Though we've only assumed that since our shaky near-victim eyewitness in Fayetteville put him in a van, and then we outfitted that van with restraints and tools as his killing ground, based on the autopsy findings. Suppose the killer drove a rental van to his boat, and the boat was the site of restraints and the killing ground?”

  “But said you had a thorough look all over his yacht, and he you the grand t
our without your having to ask.”

  “Suppose he reserves another boat for his butchery?”

  “Sounds like you're reaching, Jess.”

  Jessica exchanged a look with Lorena. “It occurred to me, yes, but—”

  Eriq cut her off. “You said the guy is or was a general practitioner. Would he know how to make those cuts we've called—what was it—precise, professional, surgical? Although, I suppose, he could learn to cut a hole like that from one of those god-awful pathology books of yours, couldn't he?”

  “I suppose his good intentions act might actually be genuinely motivated out of a concern about the Mannings and the girl. He even talked about getting a fund started in the girl's name.

  “Could be he's one of those rare individuals we seldom see, Jess, a good, caring, wanna-be-helpful, OK person? So rare, we forget that we've ever seen one.”

  “Maybe you're right.”

  Lorena piped in, “It's just that both Jessica and I got the same vibes off him. Maybe he's not the Skull-digger, but he's got something strange about him. I've put a watch on him.” “Maybe he is just a pompous ass . . . makes himself feel better by setting himself up as a spokesperson for the rest of the community on the wharf,” said Jessica.

  Lorena added, “He claimed he was representing them someway, but the neighbors are pretty much in agreement they didn't gram him any such authority, and most see him as a self-important mini-potentate out there at the wharf, and he's only been docked there for a week!”

  Jessica said, “If he's been plying the coast prior to tying up at Jacksonville . . . Well, it just points out that if he isn't the killer, then maybe he is in someway trawling for victims as an accomplice.”

  “Don't tell me, the ex-wife is the killer,” Santiva's tone gave the remark a less than serious tweek. “And he's going to blow both their covers out of a curiosity over something he already knows has happened?”

  “All right . . . We're just saying that he may bear watching,” suggested Combs.

  “What about this Daryl Cahil character, Eriq? Anything you find useful there?”

  “Are you kidding? He's a gold mine, Jessica. He could well be our man.”

  “Based on?”

  “Based on timing.”

  “Timing?”

  “The creep was released a few months ago, after almost twelve years in the detention center. These brain theft crimes began after his release, and Richmond's not that far from Morristown.”

  “Released from where?” she asked while Combs's tall body leaned in an effort to hear more about this possible break in the case.

  “From the Federal Penitentiary for the Criminally Insane in Pennsylvania. I think you know the facility,” Eriq replied. Jessica indeed knew the Pennsylvania facility well. She had placed some of its most notorious inmates there. She had also interviewed more than 160 lunatic killers at the facility in an effort to learn how a sociopath became a sociopathic killer, and what their thinking was like, and how they lured victims, and in some cases where bodies that had been missing for years might be found. But she recalled nothing about Cahil. Perhaps due to his not having actually murdered anyone.

  “You're telling us this guy's resumed his previous behavior after being released?” asked Combs. “What a surprise. Released after twelve years?” she asked. “What happened? Overturned on appeal? Some technicality of arrest or seizure? What? And who is this guy, and why's his record got you so excited?”

  “Slow down, Sheriff Combs,” replied Eriq. “The guy's been on psychoactive drugs for twelve years, and he was a model prisoner, got religion, all of it, the whole nine—”

  “I get the picture, but—”

  “Been in the facility since late 1990. He was the head shrinks model project; that's why you never heard of him. He was a test case for a theory of rehabilitation that Dr. Jack Deitze was championing, and he didn't believe that FBI access and studies about sociopaths fit Daryl Cahil's particular aberration, because he hadn't actually murdered anyone. Remember, he fed off dead people he dug up.”

  “Then he was at the facility while I was doing my study, and now . . . only a few months before the Skull-digger shows up in Richmond, Dr. Deitze proclaims Daryl cured and releases him? Coupled with the call naming him—”

  Jessica had told Combs about the call, but she'd characterized it before as a crank call.

  Eriq said, “Maybe 'cured' isn't exactly the right word.” You mean, it's most likely that his cure and release all had to do with the success of Dr. Deitze's study, I presume.”

  Combs added, “Must be an impressive particularized case study—cured of grave robbing tendencies.”

  Jessica shook her head. “No . . . cured of feeding on the brains of dead children.”

  Combs, hearing this, winced and swallowed hard. This was the first time she'd heard of Cahil's crimes.

  Jessica continued, “Truth is, since this particular loon didn't actually murder anyone, it's unlikely he'd start now.”

  “So? Sounds like his crimes've gone well beyond murder, if you ask me.”

  “I agree,” said Eriq from about six hundred miles away, “but now we have to deal with what's in front of us. He's free and it's a good bet that Daryl has graduated to murdering young women. All Deitze cured him of was the effort of digging for his victims.

  “Nothing solid just yet, and authorities checking the address you gave me say it appears abandoned. No dark vans sitting outside.”

  “Well, if Cahil is committing murders with his van down here, it's highly unlikely he'll have a van sitting outside his home,” Jessica pointed out wryly. “Penn state's federal pen,” she repeated, again giving thought to the facility and her history with it. “They're building a reputation for hiring the worst damned shrinks I've ever come across.”

  “I know the irony's not lost on you, Jess.”

  Jessica explained for Lorena's benefit, “Same facility that housed Mad Matthew Matisak, who so ingratiated himself with Dr. Gabriel Arnold that the doctor let his guard down and paid the ultimate price. His foolishness also allowed the way for Matisak's escape.”

  “An escape that left a wide swath of murder across the nation, from Pennsylvania to Oklahoma and Louisiana,” added Santiva.

  “Now Dr. Jack Deitze has fallen under the spell of this maniac Cahil,” Jessica said. “Setting him free.”

  “Deitze wants to meet with us, Jess. He says he has proof that Cahil could not have committed the Skull-digger killings. Can you get back soon to see him? Maybe stopover in Pennsylvania on your way back home? I could meet you there, perhaps?”

  “I suppose, although I don't relish visiting that place.”

  “Soon as you wrap up there, we'll make arrangements.”

  Another office phone rang, and Combs went to that line, picking up and listening intently to someone on the other end. Combs hung up and interrupted the conference call by saying, “Jessica, Chief Santiva, that call I just took. News of a brainless body found in a farmer's field outside Savannah, Georgia, only about a hundred and forty miles from Jacksonville.”

  “Did you hear that, Eriq?” “I did.”

  “I've gotta go to Savannah.”

  “Good luck and keep me apprised. I'm going to keep digging into the Cahil lead from here,” he replied before hanging up.

  Combs said, “I can get you to Savannah. My patrol car'll get you there as fast as anything else might.”

  “I'm sure you have friends in Georgia, and I'm sure to bristle a few hairs there. I'd welcome your company and assistance, Sheriff.”

  “I know I've allowed myself to become emotionally involved in the Manning girl's murder, Jessica, but I still want to do everything I can to help catch this snake.”

  “And cut off his head?” “You think my anger's a bad thing?”

  “I'm not the one to tell you that becoming emotionally involved in the Manning case is a bad thing. I'm too highly invested in this case myself to point any fingers.”

  Lorena bit her lower
lip and slipped on her gun and trooper hat. Jessica called the FDLE in search of John Thorpe. Unable to locate him, she left word at the lab regarding what had occurred, and that she'd call him from her cell phone. Together, she and Combs rushed for the waiting cruiser in the underground lot.

  COMBS drove the cruiser herself. The two law-enforcement women talked the entire way, learning that they enjoyed many of the same leisure activities, including swimming, diving and flying. They had even visited some of the same vacation spots over the years. They talked about the beauty of Florida's underwater state park, the John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park.

  Strobe lights ahead alerted Jessica and Lorena that they were at the location outside Savannah, Georgia, where the victim awaited them. Along the way, Jessica had reached J.T., who had agreed to remain in Jacksonville to tie up the loose ends there and to await the outcome of the tests they had run on Amanda Manning.

  Lorena pulled off the gravel road they had been on for the past mile or so, within a foot of thick trees and brush, but while they saw three Georgia State Patrol cars parked to form an oddly shaped triangle, nose to tail like circling wagons, there was no one around to greet them. No one in sight.

  It was still daylight, but the woods seemed eerily still. No birds in the trees, no sounds of life whatsoever, not even insect life. A cloud-filled sky and a darkening horizon threatened rain, while the tops of tall pines began to rock in a developing wind, creating a welcomed noise. Then came a rolling thunder from the distance.

  “Where is everybody?” Jessica wondered aloud.

  “Kind of creepy. Like a B horror movie,” commented Combs. “Let's go see if we can find these crackers.”

  As they exited the car, Jessica and Lorena heard someone coming through the dense wood alongside them. Lorena fingered her holster but remained calm. From the trees came a uniformed deputy. “That you, Combs? Dr. Coran?” he asked.

  “It's us, Milt,” replied Combs.

  “You look as sweet as ever, Lorena,” replied Milton Stof-fel, extending a hand, his smile cheerful and reassuring. “Sorry we have to meet under such awful circumstances, Dr. Coran, but I guess you meet a lot of people under . . . Well, I won't say worse conditions, but similar conditions.”