Rychman nodded vigorously. “That's about how 1 see it, yes.”
Dr. Coran continued. “His taste for flesh is an integral part of his gaming.”
“Gaming?”
“Fantasizing, fantasy fulfillment, sport, if you like.”
Mayor Halle swallowed. “Well... yes...”
“He hunts for flesh, for the excitement of it all, to quench a perceived need,” she said, pacing nervously before the three men. “A flesh-eater, like a blood-drinker, is an aberration far beyond your normal sex deviant. He's gone so far beyond what we know as our normal lunatic that . . . well, this man has returned to a state of cannibalism; in his head and in his genes he is a cannibal doing only what comes naturally, like the flesh-eating ape from which mankind evolved.”
“A bloody animal,” said Eldritch, trying to imagine the man.
“But don't be fooled. He's no simple animal,” she countered.
“Go on,” said the mayor.
“He displays a very complex personality... perhaps too complex.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don't believe he will be a simpleton, a crazed drug addict, a street person or one of the names in your MSDO files.”
“We've already looked at all our deviants and've cut them loose,” added Rychman.
“Whoever this guy is, he shows careful ritualistic patterns; he's working out a deep-seated fantasy which, as horrible as it is, requires a high level of cognitive thought and planning.”
“Well, yes, the crimes have shown significant repetition,” said Eldritch. “Pattern crimes...”
Halle took in a great breath of air. “What you're saying is that this guy could elude us for a long time, if we ever catch him at all.”
“I'm afraid so. And if you're going to force your people to make arrests at this point, it could backfire.”
“We're not talking about arrests,” said Eldritch. “We're talking about one goddamned arrest.”
Rychman said sharply, “I stand with Dr. Coran. Any arrest at this point is bound to come back to haunt us as the lie it is.”
“If it takes a lie—” began the C.P, but the mayor put up a hand, silencing him.
“May I suggest, Captain Rychman, that you do as Carl says and make one arrest. Get a man you've wanted off the street, anyway... a good stand-in for this, this Claw. Bring him up on charges, hold him as long as possible, while you continue to investigate. Who knows, could turn out to be the Claw.”
Rychman stared out his new office window at the teeming life of the city below. He turned and said, “If that's what you want, Your Honor.”
“Have one of your detectives bring this other fellow in, and have others go through the motions. And when you get the real monster, then all will be settled. I should think it would make for a calmer working environment,” said the mayor.
Rychman nodded. “Sure, yes... yes, you're right... if we could get some of the heat off.”
The mayor stood, took Rychman's hand and shook it firmly. “Good, I'm glad we came to some consensus on this matter.” He turned, faced Dr. Coran and said, “Well, Dr. Coran, I'll be anxious to hear that progress toward apprehending this fiend is going forward with your help. Do maintain a low profile.”
“Yes, of course.” She shook his hand.
The C.R followed the mayor out, but stopped at the door and said, “Alan, I have complete confidence in you. Good luck.”
Rychman allowed his frown to surface only when the C.R was gone, and then he turned his attention on Dr. Coran. “Thanks for being straight.”
“They've got political reasons for what they do. I don't.”
“When you came in here together, I thought you were all of one mind.”
“So did they, apparently.”
He laughed a full laugh, something he'd not done in a long time.
“I told them,” she continued, “that any bits of information on the investigation they could feed the public might help calm the situation, but I didn't know they were advocating false arrest.”
“They're getting desperate, but who do they have to blame but themselves? Or me, now that I'm in charge. As to false arrest, if anyone should bring up due process, well, they've still got me as their patsy.”
“They can deny every word of it,” she agreed, “except that I have it on tape.” She revealed the miniature recorder to his startled eyes. “I use it for autopsy notes. I don't know how I could have left it on.”
Rychman smiled approvingly, laughing again. She liked the sound of his warm, magnetic laughter.
“You're something else, Dr. Coran,” he said when he regained his composure. Lou ducked in for a quick glance inside to see what the commotion was all about before disappearing again. “I hear you paid a call on Archer yesterday.”
“That's my job.”
“Heard you hang tough.”
She nodded, her chin up.
“Come on,” he said, guiding her to the adjacent crime incident room where they had first met. “At nine we're reassembling for an old-fashioned rap and think-tank session. You're cordially invited.”
“Would love to, but I've got appointments most all day.”
“Oh? You're wasting no time.”
“At nine I begin meetings with each division head in the crime lab,” she said. “I'll listen to each for ideas, suggestions, information and maybe a few tips.”
“Learn what each is working on; I get it.”
“And you,” she countered, “you have to find a suitable Claw to arrest.”
“For the likes of Jim Drake III and the public.”
“And the mayor.”
“And Carl.”
“I'm sure you've got men on your list begging to be arrested for these crimes.”
“We have that!”
“Who knows, you might get lucky like the mayor says.”
“But you and I know better.”
“We do.”
She started out of the incident room, where the eyeless faces of the photographed victims stared down at them. Alan Rychman, watching her go, almost pursued, thinking he'd ask her for lunch, but he stopped short, afraid of her answer.
Seven
Rychman learned that every detective in the city had a “favorite” killer who was, in his or her mind, the Claw.
He'd simply told his detectives in strict confidence that “in order for us to work with the press off our backs, we gotta put somebody in the lockup, then we dummy up on this guy, make 'em think we've got someone hot. So I want our hottest guy, and only you people can tell me who that is.”
It had started a bidding war of sorts, each detective fighting for his choice, his favored Claw. They all sounded like good, likely candidates.
“Cameron Reeves, a real mixed-up wacko,” said one detective. “I've been after his ass for years. He fits the profile and has a long list of prior sex offenses.”
“That'd make good copy for the press,” Rychman said, as if now enjoying the idea of screwing the press.
“I got a better guy,” suggested another detective, a gruff, big-shouldered, wide fellow called Marty. “A guy named Lamb, Earl T. Lamb.”
“What's his story?”
“Climbs trees.”
“Climbs trees?”
“But he don't just stay in the tree. He jumps down on women who happen by.”
“Christ.” A mutter went around the room.
“Does he have a rap sheet?”
“Does a shark shit in the ocean?”
“Does he use a weapon?”
“A lead pipe.”
“Sounds like we ought to pay Earl the Claw a visit.”
“We have.”
“And?”
“Loony tunes.”
“So he's out on the street?”
“Lives with Momma, aged forty-three. She says he's harmless, so long as he takes his psychoactive drugs.”
“And so long as he's kept out of trees?” asked Rychman.
“I got to admit
, Lamb would serve up well to the papers. “The Claw is a Lamb,' all that,” said a female detective, flipping open a pocket-sized notebook. “But I got a creep that makes Lamb sound like a Boy Scout.”
“You're Emmons, right?” asked Rychman.
“Yes, sir.”
“What a ya got?”
She took a moment to review her notes. “We got a call at the 54th desk one night about this guy. Seems he lurks around back alleys, breaks into basement windows, rapes women after he knocks them out.”
“How? How does he overpower his victims?”
“Renders them unconscious with a hammerblow.”
“He's done time?”
“Fourteen years, Rockaway.”
“Released?”
“Six months ago.”
“About the time the Claw came on the scene,” said Emmons' partner, Dave Turner. “We think—”
Rychman put up a hand and said, “How old is this man?”
Louise Emmons checked her notes. “Thirty... thirty... thirty something... thirty-four.”
“Been incarcerated most of his adult life,” said Rychman, looking to see everyone's reaction. “Got to be a lot of anger and hostility toward society in this guy. Is he white, black, Hispanic, what?”
“Caucasian,” said Emmons.
“Lives with a common-law wife,” added Turner. “They live very close to the bone.”
Some of the others began to heckle, calling on Rychman to reconsider their choices. Rychman banged his fist on the podium. “Call this bastard's parole officer. See how many of his terms he's already violated... see if any of those terms prohibit him from work using anything like a hammer. Let's see just how lucky we can get here. Also see what came of the call that had him lurking in that alleyway. Did he talk his way free, or did he go before a judge?”
Emmons had taken to jotting down his requests, but she stopped now to say, “He was just rousted. Cops found him roosting between some trash cans, like he was just waiting for a victim to come along.”
“What's his name?”
“Conrad Shaw.”
“Shaw... claw,” said one of the other detectives. “Least it rhymes.”
“Press'11 like that.”
“Let's drag his ass in, put the screws to him,” suggested another.
“Check it out, like I said, and if we learn any more, we'll go for it. But so far, my vote goes with Shaw.” Rychman settled in.
He glanced over his shoulder at Lou, whose nod seemed to place a final stamp of approval on the discussion.
“Now, as for you other stiffs who have favorites. Don't abandon them. In fact, pursue them like before, even more relentlessly. If you think you can do something to strike this guy or that off your list, if you can make him show his true colors, do so. We've got to work fast and carefully at the same time.”
He turned to the map of the city behind him and told them the red pins represented the areas in the city where the maniac had struck. Thus far, they had no witnesses and every victim was dead. No one escaped this guy.
“Geographically we have no pattern. The only pattern we have,” said Rychman, “is the M.O., how this pervert operates. So we'll be examining this from every angle very closely, and we will be examining the forensics evidence thoroughly. I've already got some ideas along those lines. As for now, we have a cannibal on our streets, a human predator, and he will... eat again.” He came from behind the podium.
“That's all for this morning,” Rychman said. “Remember, every day, here nine and six, no matter your shift or other duties. The task force is cleared as your number-one priority.”
People began to file out. It was ten-twenty A.M.
It was late in the day, nearly five, and dark clouds had converged over the city, turning the sky and the area all around Police Plaza One into a grim, dismal, charcoal painting. Rain threatened and in the distance the rumble of thunder gave everyone a catlike sixth sense of impending danger while radio and TV announcers called for a besotted and blackened city. Everyone paused over their work, some staring out at the coming storm.
Rychman was going between offices when he saw Jessica Coran coming down the hall. He went to greet her.
“All finished for the day?” he asked.
“Pretty much, yeah. I was about to call a cab, try to beat the storm.”
“Don't. I'll have Lou send a radio car around for you. You know your way to the garage?”
“I passed a sign for it, yeah.”
“So what do you think of Luther Darius' operation?”
“Excellent lab, terrified people.”
“Terrified?”
“Nervous, let's say. Course I haven't met Darius himself yet.”
“Yeah, I understand he's under doctor's care.”
“A euphemism for what?” she asked pointedly.
Rychman shrugged, his eyes alert. “Just talk... Some say he has Parkinson's, others say it's cancer. Some say he has both.”
“Poor man. I didn't know.” She thought momentarily of the debilitating disease that had claimed her father, made him a prisoner within his own body. “Think I'd rather go quickly and cleanly.”
“Agreed. Luther's lab people are extremely loyal to him,” he confided. “They weren't likely to discuss his condition, I'm sure, but his problems have had an ill effect on the lab. Reports aren't as timely or complete as they once were, mistakes have been made with the handling of evidence. You know how that looks. I don't suppose his people would have revealed a thing about that, either, so... Oh, and here's the report on the Hamner woman.”
“So my dealings will almost certainly be with Dr. Archer,” she replied, taking the report and watching for his reaction.
“You could do worse,” he said. “Perkins, for instance.”
“Yeah, I heard about Perkins quitting.”
“Quitting? He actually quit?”
“I thought you were about to tell me!”
“I was just going to tell you he was an asshole.”
“From what I've heard of him, I'd have to agree. Lou tells me you slammed him into a wall at the crime scene? Sounds like clever crime scene tactics, a boys' fight over the corpse? Really... I'm sure the integrity of the evidence-gathering wasn't compromised.”
“You certainly have a way with sarcasm, Doctor.”
“I was reared on it, sorry. Well, I'd best run. I didn't bring an umbrella.”
“Lou,” he shouted suddenly, spying Pierce. “See to it someone gets Dr. Coran back to where she's staying.”
Pierce shouted back, “You got it. Captain.”
“Just wander down to the garage. Someone'11 be along in a moment.”
People with papers in their hands were streaming by them in the hallway, some trying to get his attention. He continued to stare at her until he said, “Your examination of the Hamner woman? Did it tell you anything I should know?”
“Nothing new, no . . . sorry.”
“Well... keep me informed.”
“What about an arrest? Has your task force come up with any suggestions?”
“Several, but we took the mayor's advice and arrested only one. Shaw the Claw, they're calling him. Detaining him on charges other than murder at this point, but letting it be known that he is suspected of the killings. Press is doing as expected, eating it up.”
“That should cool the brew a bit. Later, then, Captain.”
“Right, later.”
He turned and hurried fullback fashion to the confines of his new office, Jessica staring after, watching him go and wondering what had changed their relationship so drastically. Had it to do with her being on his side against the C.P. and the mayor? Adversity made for strange bedfellows. As for her, when she had read about his troubled divorce, she'd come to realize why he posed as such a hard-ass. She sensed that deep below the surface he was repressing a great deal of pain and grief.
Her ankles throbbed and twitched, a nervous reaction that she'd come to know as a sign that she'd been standing too da
mned long. She found the police garage where a young, aggressive reporter had somehow penetrated the barricades, and now rushed up to her and said, “You're with the FBI, aren't you?”
“And who are you?”
“I'm with the Times, and I'm just interested in you. I understand you're the agent who ended the career of that crazy guy in Chicago who thought he was a vampire?”
“I was one of a team, Mr. ahh...”
“Drake, Jim Drake.”
She recognized his name from the byline accompanying the twisted-knife story on Rychman. “I'd like you to stand away from me,” she said firmly.
“You're a hero—heroine—what you did in Chicago.” He glanced at the cane, his eyes glued there long enough to embarrass her. “You're big news, and now you're here to help the NYPD find the Claw, aren't you? Aren't you?”
A uniformed police guard rushed over to them just as her car pulled up. The driver was Lou Pierce, who got out and joined the other uniformed man to help usher the reporter out of the restricted area, shouts filling the basement garage.
She got into the car, kicked off her shoes and massaged her ankles.
Lou returned and settled into the driver's seat, a broad smile, sandy-brown hair and blue eyes forming a pleasant demeanor. “We drew straws who'd get you, and I won,” he said triumphantly as he put the car in gear and started from the garage, the car tilting almost straight up on the exit ramp.
It was overcast out and there was a picket line in front of the precinct. The picketers carried signs, denouncing the police as fools, and they chanted, “The Claw controls the city... the Claw controls the city...” They had no idea just how true the slogan was.
Just as the car was turning out, a camera was all but slammed against the back window and Jessica saw a flash, realizing that Jim Drake had gotten his photographer to capture her before she could get away.
“Damn, damn,” she muttered.
Lou was cursing under his breath, too. “Bloody reporters can be like camel shit on your shoe, Dr. Coran.”
“How's that, Lou?”
“Ever try to kick camel shit off your shoe, ma'am?”
She laughed for the first time that day.
“You sure got one beautiful smile, Dr. Coran,” he said.
She smiled wider. “Thanks, I'm glad you won the draw.”
Fatal Instinct Page 7