Fatal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  AS the room around her settled, she thought of the lyrics of a sQJtg by the Geto Boys. Before there were cop-killer raps, thejee were woman-killer raps. Jessica got the message loud and clear, and she recalled that after Matisak's attack on her, she had been unable to shower alone. It was sheer animal fear and a great, growing hatred of her own at the person who did this to her. Fear changed the way she went to bed each night, the way she woke in the morning; it changed the way she did every-thing...

  Rychman's voice cut through her thoughts. “I've been told to be here, people, just like you, but I received one additional order—”

  “And?” asked O’Toole, a burly detective Rychman had worked with before.

  “And that I'm to inform you folks that we—you and I—are to be the nucleus of a special task force—”

  “So you're heading up this task force,” replied O’Toole, his brows knitted in thought.

  “That's the gist of it, yeah. Any problems with that?”

  O’Toole only laughed before saying, “Better you than me.”

  “Good choice. Congratulations, Captain!” others piped in.

  “Not so sure congratulations are quite appropriate here, people,” he said, looking around the room.

  “So what's your first call, Alan?” asked O’Toole.

  “I say we use every detective we can collar.”

  “What about regular caseloads?” someone asked.

  “To hell with regular... back-shelve the bastards. Send some of your casework over to Missing Persons and the DMV, I don't care.”

  One of the other detectives wailed, “That's easier said than done. Do we have topflight clearance on this, Captain Rychman?”

  “It comes from the top.”

  “Why the sudden change in policy?” asked another.

  Rychman's face turned stony; he was obviously not used to being questioned.

  “We are not here to question policy, people. We are here to carry out policy, understood?”

  The quasi-military organization was having its military straps pulled tight, he was saying.

  Rychman took the measure of his newly formed task force again. “People, the press and others are saying we're sitting with our fingers up our asses on this case. They're drawing little cartoons of the mayor and the C.P., and if it keeps up, you and me. Some people are comparing this to the Yorkshire Ripper case in England, 1980. And that's not good. Police had questioned the killer nine times without realizing who they had. Not even Scotland Yard could catch this guy because none of the police agencies were cooperating with the others. And that's what the press is saying about us, that we can't play well together in the New York City sandbox, and maybe that's so, and maybe there'll always be a certain amount of that; maybe it's inevitable, given the fact we're all cops and cops are very territorial. But I tell you what: this killer we have on our hands, he's not so territorial. In fact, he doesn't know Queens from Bronx from Manhattan, as we've seen. He's grazing.”

  “So we're supposed to be a super-squad?” asked Louis Emmons, a detective from Queens.

  “That's right. We're it, so if you've got family, if you've got girlfriends or boyfriends, you'll have to put them at arm's length.”

  The men began to complain and moan.

  Rychman held on to his calm. Watching him from where she sat, Dr. Jessica Coran thought him handsome in a rugged way. He was slim for so large a man and those eyes commanded such attention and respect.

  “Now, we have no lack of red tape, computers or not,” said Rychman. “And we've got no lack of quacks, crackpots and idiots giving information, and enough confessions to fill St. Pat's, but what we don't seem to have is a central clearinghouse on this. The FBI has been called in and they're sending a crack man to help us coordinate efforts. I'd expected him to be here by now, but—any of you guys see anyone wearing a three-piece suit over steel-plated B.V.D.s?”

  The remark drew laughter from every cop in the place, except the pretty auburn-haired lady in front. Most city cops refused to wear vests and most feds refused not to. She kept still, biding her time.

  “Anyway, the feds'11 be helping us with a profile of the killer and with forensic backup any way they can, now that the mayor's finally given us the go-ahead.”

  “Good move,” said Jessica Coran, drawing a few stares. “And first thing you might wish to do—”

  “And what's that?” asked Rychman a bit disdainfully.

  “Put a gag order on every police agency and officer; nothing is released to the press except what goes out from here.”

  “Good thinking,” said O’Toole, with others agreeing.

  Rychman nodded. “I was getting to that. Thank you for saving us time. Now, on to the next problem. Time to swallow our pride, and time to work together at all levels. That's what this team is all about. No showboating, no hot dogs or super-sleuths, just hard-hitting, teeth-grinding police investigation. All of you've been handpicked by your captains because you're dogged, determined, hardworking cops... like me.”

  “Right on!”

  “We're being asked to do the miraculous, to find a needle in a haystack... a rather large haystack of over eight million people, to trace this mystery down to one man. We're to set up a Ripper-type special squad to combat the sick creep the press is calling the Claw. So far the actual weapon the bastard uses across his victims' bodies hasn't been determined. Fo-rensics hasn't an answer. So we're working blind as to weapon, and as far as motive, we haven't a clue. Maybe there is none... maybe it's just plain old-fashioned evil, the same that's been spawning these monsters since time began.”

  Rychman allowed the notion to settle in.

  “While we wait for that FBI guy to get here,” he continued, “I want each captain present to tell us in capsule form what his division has, and then I want assurances that this information will get to this computer.” He stopped to point to the machine. “This is the incident room and the only incident room on this case, gentlemen. Does everyone understand this?”

  Everyone nodded and the various captains got up one at a time, each offering a few crumbs. The killer was very adept at leaving nothing whatever of himself behind. He appeared to be as swift and relentless as a gale-force wind.

  Jessica could not fathom such callous disregard for life. One of the captains said, “You've got to remember the kind of area we're talking here. Nobody wants to get involved. They see a man hit a woman with a hammer, they think it's between the man and his wife, and that's that.”

  “The hammer blow is just the beginning,” said Rychman, “to render the victim defenseless. The actual murder occurs later. This guy drags his victim to a secluded area, usually a basement he has broken into, or below some stairwell, behind some cans, whatever, and there he takes out this incredible rage on the body.”

  “This guy is really sick... sicker than... than...” Louis Emmons began.

  “... sicker than O’Toole at last year's annual?”

  This brought some mixed laughter.

  “Sicker than that vampire creep the FBI stopped in Chicago last year,” finished the good-looking female detective.

  Jessica felt it was time to come forward when Rychman regained the attention of the assembled men and women. “I'm Agent Coran, Dr. Jessica Coran, of the FBI crime lab,” she said.

  Rychman's deep-set dark eyes narrowed, showing his displeasure at her having sat through the meeting to this point without identifying herself. She could also see that he was mentally flipping back through the files of his memory for any and all remarks he had made regarding the feds.

  “Bad assumption that the fed would be a man,” she replied. “Who did you think I was, the cleaning lady?”

  “Christ, I don't know everybody in the entire department. I thought... Well, never mind what I thought. Would you like ahh... to add to anything that has been said here?”

  She turned to the assembled detectives, holding onto her cane. “We recently put away Gerald Ray Sims, and you may have read that he killed h
imself in his prison cell. I... I had seen him in the prison only days before. Sims and your Claw have much in common.” Her eyes scanned the room of silenced detectives.

  “His doctor—and I concur—believes that his other self, the murderous side of his personality, talked him into killing himself.”

  “We can only pray the Claw does the same,” said O’Toole.

  “Not likely so long as he's at large.”

  She allowed this to sink in for a few moments before she calmly said, “My team was also responsible for the capture of Matthew Matisak.”

  This brought about a great deal of murmuring as many in the room now realized exactly who Dr. Jessica Coran was. They had all read about the spectacular break in the vampire case and how she had been maimed in the process of catching Matisak.

  “So you can rest assured that my team and I are not exactly amateurs at this. At any rate, I'm glad to have been selected to help you here. We have the best forensics lab on the planet. If there's an iota of information that has been overlooked, our lab will find it. In the meantime, I have to concur with everything—almost everything—that Captain Rychman has had to say to you. It's vital that all areas of the city work in close harmony against this... creature.”

  Five

  After the meeting broke up, Alan Rychman asked Jessica Coran into the adjacent office, which Eldritch had designated as his. Once they were alone, he said, “I didn't appreciate your little masquerade in there, Dr. Coran.”

  “I was informed that you were told of my—”

  “I'd say it's fairly apparent that I was unaware that you'd arrived. How long have you been in the city?”

  “I arrived late yesterday, took the evening to familiarize myself with the case—as much as possible, given the lack of information. I had a meeting with Commissioner Eldritch and was asked to be here this morning. No one notified me about last night's homicide.”

  Rychman followed her speech with a series of “I sees.”

  “In the future, I'd like to be on the call list,” she added.

  “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

  “I'm anxious to help in whatever way possible.”

  “I guess you've seen this kind of thing before.”

  “A killer whose teeth imprints were lifted from the intestines of one of his victims? Not quite, but you might say I've seen enough ghouls so that I won't swoon.”

  She had a tough line, he thought, appraising her. She was a stunning woman, even with the distraction of the cane. “Matisak's victims surely suffered longer, and Gerald Ray Sims may've been sicker than this freak we've got on our hands. Doctor, but the way this bastard operates, the way he leaves their bodies... it may even shock you.”

  “What's that supposed to mean, Captain? That my reputation has preceded me? That I'm unshakable? That you'd like to see me shake?”

  She'd read a complete file on Rychman, who was bom in 1948 to working-class parents, the third of five children. He attended New York City schools, spent two years at John Jay College, dropped out for a stint in Vietnam and entered the Police Academy in 1973 on his return. He'd quickly risen through the ranks from patrolman to detective after a series of dazzling arrests. He moved from Vice to Homicide in '79 and had remained a homicide detective since. In 1989 he was named captain of the 31st Precinct, a precinct considered the worst in the city until he turned it around, making it immune to corruption and internal problems. Now the 31 st had one of the highest arrest rates in the city. He'd done so well with the 31st that he had since been moved to two other “dirty” precincts to clean them up, and he had succeeded admirably. She understood that his successes were due to his unrelenting na-ture and a hands-on style of management. He was called “the Boot” by men who served under him because he had given so many burned-out cops a kick in the ass.

  He'd also been decorated for bravery under fire in two wars, Nam and New York. In some ways he reminded her of Otto Boutine; the two would have been either extremely close friends or archenemies, butting heads like a pair of rams, she decided.

  “Where're you staying?” he asked.

  “Marriott.”

  “Downtown? Nice if you can get it. Close, should a call come in.”

  “I hope that's not an indication of how vigorously you intend to pursue this case, Captain.”

  He looked askance at her, confused. “What?”

  “By waiting for a call.” She picked up her cane and her bag, making for the door.

  He thought of pursuing her, setting her straight, but tossed a disdainful wave in her direction instead, letting her go. But then she stuck her head back inside.

  “Yes?”

  “I'll want a copy of the forensics report on the sixth victim. Can you direct me?”

  “I'll see you get a copy. It'll be on my desk sometime today.”

  “Is Archer or Darius the M.E. on the case?”

  “Fellow name of Perkins.”

  “Hmmmm, I see. New?”

  “Not exactly, but first time he's done a Claw crime scene. Seems Archer was occupied elsewhere and Darius... well, he's been under the weather lately.”

  “There's been no continuity.”

  “You might say that, yes.”

  “The only constant at all the scenes has been the killer. The M.E.'s office has been playing musical chairs.”

  He frowned, pursed his lips and apologetically said, “We do the best we can with what we got, Dr. Coran.”

  “Unfortunately, that's not always good enough.”

  “We've got the best man in the country here and the men under him are equally good, Doctor. You go second-guessing a man of Dr. Darius' reputation and you might get burned.”

  “I don't want this to be an adversarial relationship, Captain.”

  “You could've fooled me.”

  She managed a smile, something he hadn't seen until now. It warmed the room, he thought. “If we're going to stop this madman, we've got to do as you preach—cooperate with one another. That means your crime lab has to cooperate with mine.”

  “And I have to cooperate with you.”

  “Couldn't hurt.”

  Despite her rough-and-tumble verbal display and the rigid exterior, the cane and limp, something about her eyes marked her as soft, caring and warm. But this was gone in a second, retracted in what might be an unconscious and automatic response to his stare. He was smiling but hers had faded. She had stood up to him; it had been a long time since last he met a woman capable of that.

  Jessica Coran was learning the labyrinth of Police Plaza One and adjacent buildings by trying to follow directions given her by Sgt. Lou Pierce as to how to get to the crime lab. She'd been told that Dr. Luther Darius, world-renowned for his advancements in the field—his two textbooks were required reading at the FBI Academy—was not available. From the way Lou Pierce had mumbled it, she assumed the seventy-year-old forensics genius was bedridden. With most of the work going on at his lab now being performed by younger men and women, Darius spent his working hours grooming interns as they came through the co-op program associated with New York University, John Jay and other col-leges in the vicinity. However, inside information or careless hearsay had it that the old man was at least partially responsible for careless oversights made in the past year or so, resulting in lawsuits and settlements against the city. If Darius had lost his edge, perhaps he ought not to be handling what precious little medicolegal evidence there was on the Claw. But how do you unseat a Milton Helpern or a Luther Darius?

  One step at a time, she thought. First she wanted to see the remains of the Claw's latest victim. She could do so, Pierce informed her, by locating Dr. Simon Archer, Darius' second-in-command.

  She now found the lab and adjacent autopsy rooms and freezer compartments. A helpful young technician pointed out Dr. Archer, a tall, good-looking and muscular man with a firm bearing and large brown eyes so intense they seemed to see through her as she introduced herself.

  “Ahh, yes, the task force and you're Dr. Co
ran. I got a call from the C.P Welcome aboard and let me be the first to congratulate you on surviving the Matisak affair.”

  “Yes, well, if I could have a surgical gown, I'd really like to see the Claw's latest victim.”

  “Of course. You'll find what you need through here and the body'11 be waiting on the other side.”

  He held the door, stared at her cane, making her feel uncomfortable about her limp. Inside she suited up in surgeon's gown, mask and gloves while Dr. Archer put his people in motion to retrieve the body from a freezer compartment and have it waiting in the inner room. She found Dr. Archer also waiting, standing alongside the body like a mortician fishing for praise over his handiwork.

  “Did the autopsy myself,” he muttered. “Understandably nervous, having you look Mrs. Hamner over, what with your reputation. What is it the papers call you?”

  “There's no need for nervousness, Doctor.”

  “Scavenger, isn't it?”

  “I'm called that, but only affectionately.” She smiled below the mask, trying to get him to loosen up.

  “Do you mind my hovering?”

  “Truthfully, you're making me nervous, Doctor.”

  “Oh, I don't mean to. It's just that since 1 did the autopsy... Well, if I've missed anything, I'd like to be the first to know. I took the case out of Dr. Perkins' hands for... well, personal reasons.”

  “Personal reasons? Did you know the victim?”

  “No, no, no! You misunderstand. Dr. Perkins... well, he hasn't really been on the beam, so to speak. In fact, he walked out during the autopsy. So I... I took over, and given the kind of night we had... well, I did my best.”

  She seemed to be hearing that phrase a lot around here.

  “I've been up all night, spent nine hours with Mrs. Hamner.”