“That's a lie. You acted alone, just as Sims acted alone.”
“Alone? Really? Alone with the devil, perhaps. Besides, if you will just look more closely, you will find there are two sets of teeth marks. Those of some dupe like Sims and those of Stainlype, or maybe the demon that once lived within me.”
She could see the direction Matisak was moving in. He was trying to bolster the “guilty by reason of insanity” plea he had maintained throughout. If he could convince the authorities that his aberration was identical to Sims', the parole board might cut him some slack in twenty years—or even ten.
“Just the same, Matisak, your so-called information is worthless. I've already moved in that direction.”
“Then you do feel Stainlype is there with you?”
“No, damn your soul, and if you have nothing further—”
“Stainlype's teeth marks were distinctly—distinctly— different from those of Gerald Ray Sims, remember?”
“That's what I'd expect a crazy person to believe, Matisak, so go right ahead.”
“It was proven at his trial, remember?”
“That's more garbage. The difference was attributed to the degree of puncture, the rending. Any expert—”
“It was more than that and you know it! It was physical proof. The same phenomenon as in Joan of Arc and others throughout history who've been possessed, such as the appearance of stigmata, disease spots, burns on the body. Careful examination of the difference in the two bites proved Sims was possessed of an evil force, a demon. There were several dental experts who testified to the fact Sims left the marks of two different sets of teeth, and not of two men but a man and a woman! One set was daintier than the other.” He allowed his hideous chuckle to creep into the conversation.
She could hear Arnold breathing heavily into the extension, monitoring every word even as it was being recorded. He was wondering, no doubt, if he should or should not cut Matisak off.
“There were just as many experts who didn't see it that way,” she replied to Matisak.
She was mad at O'Rourke, at Arnold, at the asinine situation they had created, but she was also mad at herself for letting Matisak bait her this way; but what he'd said earlier gave her pause. Perhaps her theory of two killers was shaky; maybe the Claw was another Sims a.k.a. Stainlype case.
Matisak continued on about Sims. “You know the poor bastard died alone with the devil, and why, Doctor? Because he angered Stainlype, and why'd he do that when he knew the consequences? Why'd he anger Stainlype? Because he wanted to please you, Doctor. Sims did please you, didn't he, Doctor? But in doing so he pissed Stainlype off, because you kept dragging her secrets out of him. You're as responsible for Sims' death as you were for Otto's, Jessica.”
She wanted to scream for him to shut up, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “If you say so, Matisak, then it must be so.”
“If you ask Dr. Arnold for a video of exactly how Sims was killed by Stainlype, I'm sure—” God damn you, Matisak,” she coldly said.
“Dr. Arnold, you wouldn't mind, would you? Sure, sure he'd oblige. I understand Stainlype cracked open his skull in three places before she was through with him.”
Arnold broke him off, shouting into the phone, “That's enough, Matisak, enough!” When they had gotten the phone away from Matisak, Arnold came back on line, saying, “I hope this hasn't been a waste of your time, Dr. Coran; truly, I had no idea Matisak was going to launch into... well, all that nonsense. I hope... Well, I'm sorry.”
“Is Matisak off?”
“Yes, of course. You may speak freely.”
“Is our conversation on tape?”
“As you might expect, yes.”
“I don't want a single word about the possibility the Claw is two people leaking out. Do you understand?”
“You may depend on it.”
“For how long?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“Teach is full of surprises. I apologize for my part in this. But if we are to continue to glean information from him, then—”
She blew off his apology. “Whataya think his master plan is, Arnold?”
“Minimum security in ten years.”
“And from there an easy escape.”
“And if he is ever free again...” He let it hang.
“He'll feed again like the vampire he is, Doctor. He has an instinct for evil.”
Lights began to go on everywhere in the lab as day became night. Jessica felt like throwing things, the way Alan Rychman had that day she, Eldritch and the mayor had entered his office. Maybe she'd feel better if she could let out the anger the way Rychman did. She tried it, pushing a pen set to the floor, but it had no effect on her. She went back to work instead, faxing some additional information to Quantico. She wanted J.T. to have everything as she got it. She had tried to get her mind off Matisak, Dr. Arnold and the asylum in Philadelphia, as well as Sims and Stainlype. But the more her mind played over Matisak's being allowed, if not encouraged, to telephone her here, the angrier she'd become.
She didn't hear the knock on her door because she was cursing too loudly, saying, “Why doesn't O'Rourke just get Matisak a fucking fax machine in his cell?”
“Sorry if I caught you at a bad time,” Alan Rychman said. “Is everything all right? You want me to come back later?”
“No, no, come on in. Sorry about the tantrum.”
“No reason you should be having tantrums, any more than I.” He tried a laugh and this brought a small smile to her lips.
“That's pretty,” he said.
“What's pretty?”
“That smile of yours. Does it get better with a little help?”
“Haven't had much to smile about in a long time.”
“Then this is a good sign?” he asked, but she only looked back at the fax machine, finishing what she had to send, speaking with her back to him.
“It's a wonder I can find anything to smile about, if that's what you mean. We've got one hell of a problem on our hands, Rychman.”
“So what's new? And what's got you so riled up?”
“Long story,” she said, finishing with the fax and wheeling around in her chair to face him again. “It'd just bore you.”
“It's going to be a long night. Why not tell me about it over dinner?”
“Dinner? Jesus, what time is it?” she asked, and glanced at her watch. “How'd it get so late? I missed the six o'clock meeting. I'm... I'm sorry.”
Rychman waved it off. “Forget it. You didn't miss much. Assignments, fresh leads that don't smell too fresh; nothing I can't fill you in on, Doctor. But I can tell you that you were missed by all.”
This made her smile again. “Really? By everyone?”
“Heard you were up here working hard, so I came to haul you out.”
“Haul me out? You do have a way with words, Captain.”
“For dinner, I mean.”
“I've had some training in cryptology; I figured you meant, 'Would you care to have dinner with me?' when you said, 'Haul you out,' but I'm just a little rusty, so it took me a moment.”
He half frowned and squinted at her. “Is that a yes?”
“You haven't deciphered it yet?”
“Working... I'd say it was an affirmative reply.”
Nine
Rychman suggested an Italian restaurant named Donatel-lo's Greatest Achievements, in the heart of Manhattan. Along the way, she filled him in on what the FBI had been trying to accomplish with Gerald Ray Sims before his suicide, and what they were trying to do with Matisak. Rychman agreed that her bosses were pandering to Matisak, to the point that any information gained from him was suspect. He was sympathetic and very understanding about her earlier outburst. He seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being, she felt. She sensed a gentleness that perhaps only a few were privy to.
“So what credence do you give to Matisak's theory, if it can be called that? I mean maybe it's not a demonic possession but what about a pair of madmen?”
“I'm sorry, it's just too early to tell,” she replied, saying nothing of her own suspicions along these lines. “Have you any reason to believe it could be two men instead of one?”
“No, not really,” he readily admitted.
After arriving at the restaurant and being seated, they ordered a carafe of Chablis and she was soon asking him about his home life. “Any children?”
“A pair of 'em. Sweet, gentle kids. Raised far from their father's profession, thanks to their mother.”
“You get to see them on weekends?”
“When the job doesn't interfere, which isn't often, lately. My ex jokes that I'm a merchant marine and I come around when my ship's in.”
She dipped her head and bit her lip. “It doesn't sound like the perfect amicable divorce, but it takes a special person to understand how important the job is to a dedicated cop, or agent, as in my case.”
“It's been difficult, to say the least, not seeing the kids when I come home at night, and as for a woman's company... well, let's just say, I miss that, too.”
“Guess we've got some things in common, Captain.”
“I think it'd be okay if you called me Alan under the circumstances.”
“Maybe not. Wouldn't want to slip around your men.”
“We're not around my men. Go ahead. Try it. A-L-A-N, Alan.”
“Alan,” she said.
“You've got it, and you make it sound better than 'Captain.' “
“I'm starved,” she replied. “Where's that waiter?” In a moment someone was there taking their orders. He opted for a small New York strip steak, she for the red snapper.
She caught him staring at her before he realized what he was doing. To cover, he said abruptly, “I'm given to understand that you're extremely good at reading people, at psychologically dissecting killers; that you have an instinct for it.”
“I have some talent in that direction, yes.”
“Then you've already made some judgments about our friend or friends, the Claw?” He seemed to be drawing inward again. Maybe he wanted their relationship to remain on a firm professional footing, too. Perhaps talking about the case would accomplish this.
Or was he slicker than she'd given him credit for? Was this Alan Rychman's way of maneuvering her into talking more openly about her initial impressions and findings than she had intended?
“I know that the Claw's appetite grows,” she said.
“Grows? You mean the stepped-up calendar of his kills?”
“I mean that with each victim, apparently, he has either eaten more or walked off with more of the organs. He's working his way up to feeding jackal fashion on the brains of his future victims.” Rychman stared across at her. “You can tell that from what you've seen in the lab?” The same notion had crossed his mind at the Hamner murder scene.
“First victim was only lightly hit over the head. Now he's murderously battering the cranial matter, splitting open the skull. He'll take the brains of his next victim, because he has been working his way through the organs, tasting each in turn. He gorges himself on the entrails, disinterested in the intestines themselves, but fascinated with the organ tissues. He's fed on heart, lung, liver and kidney tissues, as well as the eyes of his victims. He's bored now with this and he'll go on to their brains next.”
The waiter gulped back bile as he stood listening to her. She'd been unaware of his presence. Rychman looked up at the man and said, “We're testing dog food materials at the plant. Don't mind us.”
The waiter quickly deposited their meals and backed off, hurriedly asking if they needed anything else, quite anxious to make his exit. Rychman waved the poor man off.
They dug in, both hungry, the aroma of the hot meals and juices swirling about them. Rychman poured them both more wine until she placed a hand up to him.
Jessica's cane slid softly away from the unoccupied chair she'd propped it on, slapping the floor. She reddened and began to reach for it, but Alan was faster, lifting it and laying it gingerly across the arms of the chair.
“That'll do better there.” He stared at the Irish shillelagh. Its clublike pearl handle had a brass band around it, like the markings on the neck of a wild goose, the rest of the cane a simple black.
“Nice cane, a real beauty.”
“A gift,” she said.
“Oh? From a friend?” He was fishing.
“From several friends at headquarters.”
“I'm sorry I'm so nosy.”
She waved it off. “Not necessary, really. As for any more details on the predilections of the Claw, it's going to take a little more time. You'll have to remain patient.”
“Tell that to everybody that's after my... neck.”
She took a deep breath. “Is this why you asked me to dinner? To interrogate me? To draw at straws?”
“No, no,” he replied. “I just don't know what else to talk to you about.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“Me? I'd have thought you'd learned all you wanted to know from Lou by now.”
“I did, but there are a few holes. What do you do to relax?”
“Firing range helps me, sometimes.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
“You a good shot?”
Grinning, she replied, “The best.”
“You're on, anytime.”
“How about after dinner?”
“All right... you're on!”
She could feel his tension easing.
“What do you do for fun?” he asked.
“Recently learned to scuba dive.”
“Really? That's a kick, isn't it?”
“You dive?”
“Since I was seventeen, sure.”
“I love the feeling of freedom it offers.”
He nodded knowingly and their eyes met. “We do have something in common, after all.”
“I'm not what you're used to, I know. Not your typical M.E.”
He thought of Perkins and some others he'd worked cases with and this made him laugh. “No, you sure aren't.”
“Lot of men have a hard time dealing with a woman who isn't easily intimidated,” she said.
“A lot of women are easily intimidated,” he countered.
“By you, I'm sure.”
“But not you.”
“No, not me.”
“Good.”
The food beckoned, and they drifted into other areas of discussion as they ate. She talked passionately about hunting deer and bear in Minnesota, Canada and Alaska. He had hunted deer in northern New York but hadn't gone after larger game. She talked about her father and how he had brought her up to be proud and independent and a capable gunwoman. The evening seemed to evaporate around them, and when she looked at her watch, it was nine forty-five.
“I guess the range is out, huh?” she asked.
“Closes at ten, but I've got a little pull. Come on.”
He took her to his former precinct headquarters where they rode an elevator down to the sub-subbasement to find an enormous indoor shooting range unnaturally silent and unlit. He shouted an order to the cop on duty to bring up the lights.
“Captain!” came the quick reply. “Been a while. Hope you're not turning into a full-time desk jock. Just lock up when you go,” said the sergeant as he tacked a pair of targets to the electronic runners and sent them on their way.
“How many yards?”
“Make it fifty,” he said.
“Seventy-five,” she countered.
“A hundred, Pete. Make it one hundred.”
“Wanta make up your mind?” Pete, a wizened, leathery-faced man, lightweight and short enough to pass as a jockey, stared first at Rychman and then at Jessica, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Havin' a little contest, huh?”
“Just put 'em up, Pete.” Rychman whipped out his Police Special, a standard .38, and she pulled out hers, a near identical Smith & Wesson, but hers was a .44-caliber.
“Nice-looking weapon,” he complimented h
er.
“Put up or shut up,” she replied, turned and without hesitation drilled the target at a hundred yards with successive rounds until she had emptied the chamber.
He was impressed and she knew it. “Your turn,” she said.
He took a casual stance and clicked off bullet after bullet as quickly as she had.
Pete had been about to drift out, but was held back by their display of shooting. “I want to see this,” he said, punching the buttons that returned the targets to their owners. As they approached, the two targets looked almost identical in every detail, every bullet hole. It was impossible to tell which of them was the better shot; both had several shots going through the same hole.
Pete was bug-eyed, stammering.
“I knew you were good, Captain, but... wow... Young lady, you're quite a shot.”
“Thanks, Pete.”
“Come on, I'll drive you home,” Alan said.
“That'd be some drive. Home's in Virginia.”
“Your hotel, then. Pete,” he said, turning at the elevator door, “log these for us, will you? I need the points.”
When they got into the elevator and were going up, he said, “So, you relaxed a little now? Got some of that stress out?”
“It feels great, getting a few rounds off. Relieves a lot of tension.”
He came across the elevator toward her and took her in his arms, kissing her passionately. She pushed him away.
“Stop it, Captain, stop,” she said, and he backed off.
“Sorry, I shouldn't have done that. Too much wine lingering in the brain, I suppose, but... well, dammit, you are—”
“Captain Rychman, we... we are going to be working together, and I don't think it's wise to get involved in... in any other fashion until our work together is... is complete.”
She was feeling the effects of the wine, too, and finding it hard to put into words what her exact feelings and thoughts were. It seemed odd to her that a little alcohol gave her a sharp edge as a shooter, but that it dulled her emotional senses. She wasn't sure how she felt at having him kiss her. She wasn't sure if she had invited or allowed it, whether she enjoyed or disliked it. It had been a long time since she'd been touched—either physically or emotionally—by a “sane” man.
Fatal Instinct Page 9