“My task force is meeting at six tomorrow morning,” said Rychman tentatively. “I don't suppose...”
“Police Plaza One? I'll be there. Give you what I've got.”
“That's very generous of you,” said Jessica.
“With a madman like this, we all must do what we can.”
Fifteen
When he was alone, Dr. Ames immediately started to analyze the poem. It was literate, which told him something about the killer. It was forced, however, and not what one might call good poetry by any standard, including that strange, bizarre and measured poetry he had seen written under the classification of horror. And yet, knowing of its discovery, hidden in the corpse of the victim as it was, and going on the assumption that the Claw himself had penned the work, gave it all of the horrific overtones required to make the thing chilling in its every aspect.
Still, he knew he must remain objective to look at the words in the context of psychiatry.
He knew it would take some time. He buzzed his secretary and asked that she send in some sandwiches, a cola and a large Snickers bar. He'd need sustenance, he told himself, and a little sugar kick to get finished by 6 A.M. tomorrow.
He then turned back to the words before him. One phrase seemed to leap out at him, as if it were underlined, and yet it wasn't. “Your sins will be eaten away.” He read it aloud, and then he scanned down to find its sister line: “By eating away your sin...”
Instantly Ames realized the author of the piece was the worst kind of sociopath, the sort that was truly deranged, following the urgings of a voice or voices in his head, not unlike the Son of Sam, David Berkowitz. Berkowitz had claimed that Satan had come to him using the name of Sam and had convinced Berkowitz that he was in fact his true father, having used his mother in some unholy fashion to conceive him. Satan's instructions were to go about the city with a .44-caliber handgun and blow away couples parked in cars. It seemed obvious to Ames as he considered the latent meaning in the phrase “eating away your sin” that the Claw felt he had been selected or chosen by a higher power to do so.
Following the instructions of Satan or some other such evil father figure, he was doing his victims a favor, sending them on to a new and better life without the excess baggage of their inherent sins. If the poetry could be believed, these sins were being taken on by the killer, ingested with each swallowed bite of the victim. By extension, the more sins ingested by the Claw, the more evil and powerful he became.
One sick son of a bitch, Ames moaned inwardly. He had kept up with the Claw in the news and had even read many of the police reports on the victims. He had asked for and gotten placement on the task force as a special consultant. He knew it was an important case, but more important to him than the political clout breaking such a case would give him within the community, he honestly wished to put an end to the madman's reign of terror. No one looking at the photos of the victims could want anything else.
It was now almost 3 A.M.; he had only a few hours to dictate his notes and prepare some graphics that might assist him in explaining to Rychman precisely what he had. Priscilla, asleep on the couch beside him, would have to be awakened shortly.
He rushed on through the poem again, reading it once more in its entirety.
He realized there was something that didn't ring true with the rest of the poem. It was the fifth line, ending with him instead of me. The entire poem was cast in the first person, as though the author was speaking of himself and his own inhuman accomplishments. But suddenly, in the middle, he called himself him.
He read it aloud. “The Claw is no name for him.”
He considered it the other way with the personal pronoun. “The Claw is no name for me.”
He thought and stared at the line for some time. “Is it him or is it meT he asked the empty room. “He just needed the him to sorta rhyme with sin?” he asked himself.
He stared longer. It was my teeth, my rabid, hungry sin-feast, and all so as to give you eternal peace without your sins following you to the grave, if / hadn't come along and saved you from yourself. At the bottom the “I” was proclaimed in the signature as Ovid, Divine Protector. In the reference to di-vine protector, it was all too evident that this guy had honed a helpful rationalization for his cannibalism, that he felt it was a benevolent cannibalism. The third person encroached almost like a Freudian slip. The Claw is no name for him... who gives you eternal life... by eating away your sin.
Who was him? Ames wondered. What psychosis-fed creature came to this poor devil, Ovid, to send uncontrollable urges of murder and cannibalism coursing through his mind? Was it the same brain monster that spoke to John Wayne Gacy, Richard Speck, Jeffrey Dahmer and Morgan Sayer, Chicago's infamous Handyman? Was it the same demon of the mind that spoke to the Son of Sam killer, the Boston Strangler, the Hillside Strangler and a host of other sociopaths who were unable to empathize in the slightest with the suffering they caused in their victims? Was the Claw totally at the mercy of the demonic urges that moved him to commit the most heinous of crimes? He was obviously capable of rationalizing away his own part in the proceedings, as if he weren't really responsible. That's where Ames parted with the soft approach of other psychiatrists, for he firmly believed that such men as this, men who were dominated by an inner “spirit” that drove them ever onward to commit vicious acts against humanity, were by definition insane.
Those other sociopaths who were driven purely by lust and libido were fodder for the electric chair, but men like Morgan Sayer, driven by the demons of their childhoods, controlled by the demons of past horrors and abuses unimaginable, were legally and medically insane. To destroy them in an electric chair or gas chamber was tantamount to destroying a wolf by the same means. An animal instinct for “survival,” not one of evil, seemed at work here. Such men were to be restricted for life, certainly, but such men were also valuable to scientific laboratories. Given the current state of brain research and neurosurgery, it was evident to Ames that one day such men could be medically cured of their insane behaviors... one day...
Richard Ames had read, heard or seen every kind of human rationalization associated with cannibals, but this “divine protector” thing was something new in the annals of cannibalistic behavior. Ames was now convinced that the killer was working in tandem with an inner demon.
He wasn't sure how Rychman and Coran would react to his educated guesses, but given the time frame, it was the best he could do.
His secretary rolled to her side, the blanket covering her falling away to reveal her nudity. He went to her and tenderly began to caress her inviting skin. She'd uprooted from home and family in Chicago to remain with him. He momentarily wondered why she put up with him, and when he would commit himself wholly to her.
“That'll do just fine, Priscilla . . . just fine,” he said in an escape of breath when her hand went instinctively to his inner thigh.
Others might see New York City as an earth mother in repose, or even a lovely, sensual goddess, but Jessica had no such illusions toward this cruel city. Like Chicago, its character was molded from the butcher's block of commerce and profit, and those without were damned to poverty, homeless-ness, infirmity—to become easy prey to wolves like the Claw who flourished in shadow and darkness.
Jessica wondered where her personal joy in life had gone; another more youthful and innocent Jessica might have felt that joy encircling her, even here in New York, as a kind of life-force or energy shield. The re'd once been a time when the teeming life of a New York would've easily excited her imagination and sense of play, no matter how dire her reasons for being there, but now she saw all life through a darker lens.
Staring through the rain beading up on Alan's car window and paying no heed to the constant buzz on his police-band radio, she mentally toyed with life as it was lived in the towering buildings that made up the city's famous skyline. Alan had tried to improve her mood by giving her a quick tour, pointing out landmarks, museums, art galleries, the Met. He obviously loved hi
s city, despite, or perhaps because of, its many flaws. His professional life, like Jessica's, hinged on the sins of those he policed. The uneasy relationship between hunter and hunted made Rychman as much a part of the equation as the Claw.
“Look, whataya think about my suppositions in light of the Claw's stepped-up agenda, and what we found at the Phillips apartment?” Rychman asked, breaking the silence between them.
“I'm glad you've opened your mind to the possibility of a second perpetrator, but still we need more to go on.”
“It's not something we can ignore.”
“I dunno, maybe I just don't want to face another Gerald Ray Sims,” she replied, “I dunno...”
Her voice gave her away. She was tired and didn't want to pursue it, but this gave Rychman the opening he'd been waiting for. “Look, I've got two show tickets and—”
“The theater?”
“You needn't sound so surprised. I've even been known to stay awake, especially for a Neil Simon.”
“I don't know, Alan. There's just so much to—”
“You've got to get in some R&R sometime, Jess, or else you'll fall apart on me, and then you'll be of no use to anyone, including yourself.”
She seethed a moment before she got hold of herself, realizing he hadn't meant it the way it sounded. He couldn't possibly know of her therapy with Dr. Lemonte, or her very real fear at times that she would come unglued. She calmly replied, “I'm that transparent, am I?”
“Come on, it'll be good for you. This case's enough to make O’Toole give up drink, and Mannion to give up women.”
She laughed at this and dropped her guard. “All right. I know I push myself hard. Guess I could use some stress-free time... but I'm not convinced it ought to be with you!”
“Hey, I'm not so bad, and I promise to keep a hands-off posture all evening long.”
“A cop's promise, hmmmmmm.”
“Is that a yes or no?” he demanded, wheeling the car into the underground garage at Police Plaza One.
“Maybe yes... maybe no... maybe maybe. Call me at the end of the day, and we'll see.” It took all Rychman's strength to resist saying another word, and to content him self with the maybes and the we'll sees which he wasn't particularly fond of or used to.
They were now in Rychman's ready room, awaiting others for the six A.M. meeting. Jessica sat near a window, staring out.
This morning New York shared a collective fear that permeated the air like a coarse, uneven blanket. Lying over the skyline, smothering the streets, the nightmare was heralded in bold black headlines at every corner. News of the double murder filled everyone's conversation, and with the morning's coffee, every New Yorker had something far more bitter to swallow: the fact that the Claw had gone inside this time, finding his prey in their homes, no longer content with the occasional streetwalker or those foolish enough to be wandering after dark. Now there was no place safe from the cannibal. The monster might choose any woman in the city, no matter her neighborhood or habits. Jessica could almost reach out and touch the palpable fear that was all around her.
Lingering clouds played a tumbling game of seesaw above the city, capturing industrial smoke and exhaust fumes. By 5:30 A.M. a fog of hazy heat was accumulating, causing the tops of the spiraling temples of Manhattan to wink and disappear.
Her thoughts were cut short by Alan's angry words. “That SOB Eldritch had the nerve to call this morning to ask what we were doing to calm the public mind, and how we're going to play the press. Ever see such a jag-off?”
“I've run into more than my share,” she confided, reaching into her purse for a mint, offering him one.
Declining her offer, he snatched out a pack of Rolaids instead. “I just hope I can keep my mind from exploding along with my stomach.”
“Don't let the stress get to you, Alan.” She reached across and laid her hand over his, squeezing momentarily, a gesture that made him look across at her. He visibly relaxed, the creases in his face smoothing.
Stress came with the strain of having to face death in its myriad forms, and while a cop had to harden himself against it so as to appear in control, he still internalized such brutality—such as that meted out on the victims of the Claw—as would incapacitate a lesser man. He had to console those left behind, had to relive the events via the mountain of paperwork each case spawned; even then he must contend with his own feelings, not to mention the system and those higher-ups in it, who, like Eldritch, only poured salt on the wounds. The scars left on a homicide investigator often became visible only when a man smoked himself with his own gun.
“You okay, Alan?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure... fine...” he managed in his best tough-guy brogue. “God, I hope we can keep the friggin' press from learning about his taking the brain matter out.”
“I agree.”
“We're batting zero with controlling leaks.”
She nodded and took her hand away. “As it is, when an arrest is made, it's going to be difficult to prove it's not just another lunatic who reads.”
“The real Claw will have secrets to share with us that no one else could know... things we don't even know. Things we can't even imagine. Or worse, things we have imagined. What is it they say in Disneyland? If you can imagine it, you can do it? Tell it to the Claw.”
She didn't answer, allowing him to vent.
“Still,” he continued, “if ever I find out where the leaks are coming from... well, God help the fool.”
“These press guys like Drake are real smart about getting people to slip or cooperate. They've got more tricks than divorce lawyers.”
He blanched a little at the mention of divorce lawyers. “Once again, you're not telling me anything I don't already know.”
“Sorry . . .”
Rychman changed the subject. “We're searching like hell through the backgrounds of the victims, sticking with old-fashioned police work.”
“So what's it gotten you?” she asked.
“A lot of upset relatives who think we've got no business asking questions. They don't want us to know their loved one frequented a neighborhood bar, mixed it up with some character in a one-night stand... you know, the usual.”
“Still no common threads?”
“Does he like them lean and mean? Does he like them young or old? Hell, what happened in Scarsdale tells us emphatically, he isn't a choosy bastard. He'll take his tall or short, brunette or blonde, in her teens or in her eighties.”
“Frustrating.”
“We have sniffed out one item of interest, though. It took us long enough to see it, but I got a little curious; something you said about the killer's knowing something about medicine, anatomy maybe.”
“Yeah, and... ?”
“So it appears all the vies were relatively poor, on food stamps, on small incomes, Medicare.”
She brightened and sat up. “That could be very important.”
“At least some of them were having some sort of medical problem. We're checking into each of their medical histories and running down doctors they've been seeing, trying to cross-check, but so far nothing.”
“Has it occurred to you that one of the killers likes them young, while the other likes them old?”
“Then you've definitely found forensic support for your theory that there're two of them at work here?”
“No, not yet, but we're working on it, and if that poem is interpreted as I believe it will be... well, it lends credence to the idea.”
“Because if you and Darius are sure, I could get my task force going in that direction. Some of them have already been thinking along those lines. Anyway, it's coming clear to me that the killer or killers knew at least one of the victims, and perhaps others.”
Mulling it over, she said, “If he knew them, then perhaps he knew them from where they received their medical assistance. Someone working in the medical community, or a closely related field, say insurance, would be in a position to get information on Medicare patients.”
<
br /> “We're already working on it. We're comparing all the vietims' preferences regarding medical clinics, hospitals and private doctors. Of course, the guy could be anybody working in the health or health-related professions. We're talking medics, nurses, pharmaceutical supply companies, clinics, hospitals, the goddamned housing authority, the health authority, HUD, for God's sake.”
“It's still a trail worth pursuing, Alan.”
“So we start with the victims' medical records, which I've already got my detectives searching through. Maybe we'll get lucky.”
“Then you did have something to tell Eldritch. Why didn't you get him off your back with this news?”
“I'm done with letting Eldritch make a fool of me. I know what he'd do with the information.”
“You're not saying he's the leak!”
“No, but I am saying he takes all the kudos when everything goes well, but he's the invisible man when things fall apart.”
“This could prove the most important lead we have, Alan.” She brightened. “It gives me hope. And we're overdue to be due, as Casey Stengel would say.”
This made Rychman laugh. “I didn't know you were a baseball fan.”
“Baseball, football, sure. My dad did not neglect his duty to me.”
“So what do you think of the Giants' chances this year for the Super Bowl?”
“Do you really want me to answer that? But,” she added, again looking out at the passing traffic of the city, seeing a glimmer of the sun that had been shut out for the past few days, “I just might feel up to the theater, after all.”
“Great, great.” Rychman felt a sudden surge of excitement himself.
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