Rychman called the meeting of the task force to order a little past six, delaying as long as he could for Dr. Ames' arrival. Everyone was still buzzing about the double homicide and the equally puzzling double crime scenes. None of the detectives knew about the bizarre poetry sent to them by Ovid.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” began Rychman, “we have a great deal to cover this moming, so let's get to it. First, suffice it to say that last night's double murder was most certainly the work of the man known to us as the Claw, no question. But the killer left us with a little more to go on this time than he—or they—have in the past.”
“They? Whataya saying, Captain? That the Claw is two men instead of one?” asked O’Toole's partner, a burly detective named Mannion.
“That possibility is being discussed in light of new evidence that has come to our . . . well, that was placed under our noses. Dr. Darius and Dr. Coran fished a note from the body of the Phillips woman from a man signing himself Ovid. He claimed knowledge of the killer.”
“A note?”
“What kind of note?”
Rychman held up his hands. “You'll see the note in due time. At the moment, I'd like you to rethink your quarry; this bird may be two birds. Meanwhile, Forensics is trying to pursue the case from the same angle.”
O’Toole, sitting near the front, said in his baritone voice, “So the creep had to reach out and touch somebody...”
“More like Western Union,” said Rychman. “He sent a message, which I'll let Dr. Coran tell you about.”
Jessica came to the front and leaned her cane against the podium. “Our killer, or one of our killers, is into poetry. At 1100 hours yesterday, when we were about to close Amelia Phillips up after autopsy, Dr. Darius found a wadded-up piece of paper below the rib cage with a message from this man calling himself Ovid. I'll read it to you in its entirety.” Jessica read the bizarre poem to her audience as the mutilated faces of the Claw's victims looked on from the photos along the walls in the ready room.
A collective sense of curious bewilderment filled the room. The silence was broken by O’Toole, who asked, “Is it literate; I mean, how's the spelling, punctuation, all that?”
“Not a problem.”
“Holy shit,” said Mannion. “It does sound like there're two guys. TTiis guy signs as Ovid and he talks about the Claw like he's another guy.”
“Why'd he leave the poem inside her?” asked Detective Emmons. “How'd he know you'd find it?” she added.
“He likely knows that on autopsy we'd be pretty thorough,” she replied. “So far, no other messages had been found in this manner, and a recheck has turned up nothing further, according to Dr. Darius.”
“What Emmons means, Dr. Coran,” said Mannion, “is why'd the creep jam it inside the dead woman? Why not write it on the goddamned wall in blood like a Manson might do?”
She considered this and looked to Alan for a reply. Rychman stepped closer to the mic and said, “People, this is one indication we may be dealing with two separate personalities here: one being fearful and timid, the other dominant and daring. The fearful Ovid is in awe of his more potent accomplice.”
Jessica jumped back in. “Maybe Ovid doesn't want the other killer to know that he took this step.”
“And he's counting on us not to leak this information, maybe, and maybe he's as good as dead if the other one finds out,” added Rychman. “Least, that's the way Dr. Coran and I see it at this point. Call it educated conjecture, if you wish.”
This seemed to satisfy most in the room. Emmons' thin hand went up as she raised another question. “What does he have to gain by this act? Does he want to be caught? Is he trying to end the killing spree?”
“We don't have all the answers, not by a long shot,” replied Rychman. “The poem shows a lot of misguided, insane notions are swimming around in the guy's head, like the business of the Claw's doing the world a good turn, servicing us, you might say, by getting rid of the wretched among us.”
“This ties in with a related theory that Captain Rychman is working on, about the killer or killers knowing that some and perhaps all of his victims were having medical problems,” Jessica added.
This brought a rumble from the assembled detectives. Only a handful were working on the probe of the medical histories. Rychman asked these few to report any new findings, but they'd just begun to scratch the surface and each begged for more time.
O’Toole asked the question that seemed now on everyone's mind. “Then this bastard, or these bastards, knew their victims?”
“We can't say that's a for-sure at this point,” countered Rychman. “But we're betting that he had prior knowledge of their weaknesses through their medical histories or records. Believe me, people, it has been a leap of faith to take our speculations this far, but that's why we're lucky to have Dr. Coran on our side.”
The group acknowledged this with positive grunts and nods. Emmons asked in her quiet voice, “You got all this from that poem? Maybe I'd better go back to school, because I don't see it.”
“The medical history trail came independently through Captain Rychman's investigation,” Jessica answered. “All we truly got from the poem is the belief that Ovid is a weak and subordinated personality at the mercy of the one he calls the Claw. It was Ovid who contacted the radio station after the initial attacks way back in November of last year. Ovid has remained silent until now—out of fear, we believe. But just as with his radio appearance, he is championing the work of the Claw with his poem.”
“Sorry,” said Emmons. “I just don't get that much out of this loon's poem, Doctor, and if you're wrong we could be looking in all the wrong places.”
“The poem doesn't really say all that much,” agreed another detective.
“But it does” Jessica disagreed. “It's a sick rationalization for the Claw's cannibalistic nature, and it places the Claw in a godlike role, doing the work of an archangel of death. It tells us a great deal about the killer, and about his accomplice, this Ovid who is in fear for his own life and quite surely in awe of the other man, who has convinced him somehow to be a part of some glorious master plan.”
“Obviously delusionary,” said Dr. Richard Ames, who had stepped through the door, his secretary beside him with a handful of slides. “However, I'm not convinced that you have two men with murderous intent and cannibalistic urges, and not one man with a dual personality disorder.”
Dr. Ames' contradiction took both Rychman and Jessica by surprise. Jessica tried to minimize the damage already done. “No, this is not a case of one man with two identities, Doctor, but two men with a shared psychosis, acting out a shared fantasy.”
“If you will bear with me, please,” Ames pleaded with an upraised palm, displaying his huge hand. He then gave a nod to his secretary, who looked disgruntled to be working so early. Priscilla obviously knew the routine, going for the slide projector at the rear of the room. Rychman pulled down a screen from overhead.
Meanwhile, Ames was saying, “I will provide you with my opinion regarding the Claw as he has revealed himself through his writing. Beginning with his handwriting, it is clear that he has a great reservoir of self-hatred and is lacking in self-esteem. As to how many killers you have? I believe this a case of encroaching possession of one personality over the other—that is to say, what the press has dubbed the Claw is another Gerald Ray Sims, i.e., Sims equals Ovid, Stainlype equals the Claw.”
“No, no,” Jessica started to object, unable to hide her disappointment, her eyes meeting Rychman's. He, too, was upset, realizing that Ames' conclusions toppled all that they had so carefully built up in the minds of his detectives. They had been suddenly clipped at the knees.
Ames had taken the podium, and seeing the dismay in their eyes, he said to Jessica and Rychman, “Aren't you even curious as to how I arrived at my conclusions? Shall I go on, Captain?”
Rychman bit his lip and nodded. “Please... please do.”
Jessica sat down alongside Alan, the two of th
em waiting for Ames, who was waiting for Priscilla, to continue. Rychman began tapping with a pencil, his confused people looking on.
Sixteen
The room was darkened, and overhead, larger than life, was the handwriting of the Claw. The childish script of huge swirls and loops looked almost as if it had been intentionally used to throw police off. Dr. Ames, a huge, dark shadow beside the screen, pointed at each line as he discussed it.
“His rage and anger have been sublimated by this fantastic idea that he has somehow done the right thing; his words here and here, about tearing out his victims' eyes, feeding on the soft flesh, are balanced by his holier-than-thou attitude that he is somehow the agent of a spirit beyond this world, an angel or archangel. He feels that the power controlling him is in fact superhuman, and so if it tells him to kill, if it tells him to feed on those he kills, he does so. Not that he is without fear of the spirit that has overtaken him, but it is this fear that motivates him. He would rather eat out the sins of his victims, swallow them down and accumulate them, than face this being from another world that has taken control of him.”
“Then there are two killers and not one,” said someone in the group.
“No,” Ames disagreed. “There is only one killer, but he is a psychopath who receives visits from a second, more powerful personality, the dire, black side of his own soul, perhaps. Voices he takes to be that of God or God-directed.”
“Then he's one guy with two personalities?”
“Two personalities, yes, but one is at the beck and call of the other, the weaker will subjugated by the more demonic.”
Jessica was unnerved by Ames' profile of the killer. He was describing Gerald Ray Sims and a host of others either behind bars or executed long ago.
Rychman said in her ear, “We should've postponed this, gotten together with Ames ourselves and hashed it out before we presented it in front of my people. This is going to send them out with a lot of mixed signals.”
Jessica interrupted Ames. “Dr. Ames, isn't it at all possible that the two personalities you're referring to are, in fact, two physically separate men? One dominated by the other?”
“This is my interpretation of the poem the man has written. It fits the classic pattern of a dangerous psychopath.”
“But isn't it possible that he could just as well be writing about himself and his dominant partner, the one he protects?”
Ames was decisive. “No... not in my estimation.”
Damn, she thought. “I really need those reports from J.T. now,” she told Rychman.
The lights came up on the confusion of sixty creased faces, each person and each team trying to weigh the theories and decide whether the Claw was a single individual with a dual personality, or a killing couple.
Rychman was as upset with the way things had gone as Jessica, and it appeared, finally, that Dr. Ames realized just how upset they were with him. “I'm sorry if my diagnosis of the situation does not fit neatly into your plans, but I must be honest,” he told them as he began to pack up his notes and files. Priscilla had already abandoned the overhead and was now waiting for him at the door.
Rychman shook Ames' hand and thanked him for coming, as did Jessica. When Ames disappeared, hands went up all over the room. Rychman said in his firmest voice, “I believe Dr. Ames is half-right, and Dr. Coran is half-right. At any rate, quite soon, we will have forensics evidence to prove one theory or the other. In the meantime, you have your assignments. Dig into the medical records of each victim, and think about—think about—the possibility of the Claw being the Claws. Dismissed.”
The room cleared quickly, leaving Rychman and Jessica alone. She said, “Sorry it went so badly.”
“Oh, I don't think it went too badly,” he politely lied.
“You're a terrible liar.”
“When I wanna be, yeah.”
She shook her head, and her knuckles went white when she gripped her cane. “We completely confused your entire task force. It was a fiasco, admit it.”
“They needed shaking up. Come on, you don't have to take this all on your shoulders, Jess.”
They had moved toward the door, and he turned off the light, leaving them in the dark, at close quarters. She could feel the strength and the heat coming off him as he nudged still closer, dipped his head downward and pressed his lips tenderly against hers. When he pulled away, he said, “I hope this is better than the elevator.”
“You can't blame it on the wine this time,” she replied, reaching around his neck and kissing him in return.
Her cane slipped away and slapped against the floor with a crack that made her start.
Rychman felt her tremble under his touch, realizing she was teetering; he sensed that part of her wanted to give in to him, while another part wanted no romantic entanglements. He wisely let her go, lifted her cane and returned it to her, saying, “I hope we're still on for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“The play? Dinner?”
“Oh, I don't know, Alan.”
“Come on, we both need to get some relief from this case, and what better way than an evening at the theater?”
She didn't readily answer. “Alan, there're a million things to do around here right now, and Dr. Darius and Archer can't do it alone, and—”
“You've got a bad case of the ands, Doctor, and what is it they say? Physician, heal thyself?”
She smiled back at him. “Is that your prescription?”
“Stop thinking in ands and show a little concern for your blood pressure, that's right.”
She knew it would be easy to become stressed-out if she chose to work at the lab tonight. And staying alone with her thoughts in her hotel room, uneasy about sleep for fear she'd return to the nightmares that featured Teach Matisak would be just as bad. With an expectant look into Alan's eyes, she finally replied, “What do you propose? Take an evening off and call you in the morning?”
“Things'11 look a whole lot better in the morning,” he assured her, taking her hands in his. “Trust me.”
“I want to, Alan, but—”
“But what?”
“I've... we've got important work to do here and to get involved in any but a professional relationship... well, it could jeopardize the investigation in ways neither of us can predict, and, and—”
“There's those ands again. I told you it was a sickness. You're worrying about things that haven't happened and may not!”
“And besides, there's just no future in our becoming romantically—”
He kissed her firmly yet gently, his passion once more getting the better of him. She felt her breath taken away and she returned his kiss. When they parted, he said simply, “We'll just see the play, have dinner. Anything else will be up to you.”
She laughed lightly. “I guess I do have a bad case of the ands. Maybe you're right. Maybe I do need a little time to call my own. Although I don't believe my boss at Quantico would understand.”
“Is that an acceptance?”
She put her hands to her temples and said, “Yes and yes.”
It was getting very late, but Dr. Luther Darius was driven, refusing all overtures from his associate, Dr. Simon Archer, to vacate the lab and relent. First there was the double autopsy of the day before, and then a re-examination of the Hamner cadaver, and now personally overseeing every aspect of the laboratory follow-up work on Olin and Phillips. It was too much for any man, but when Simon Archer asked him if he didn't need rest, the old man told Archer that he planned to push himself further by re-examining all earlier evidence-taking that'd accompanied the various Claw-case autopsies.
“Searching for what?”
“Any iota of evidence that may've been missed either by Perkins, you, Dr. Coran or myself.”
By now everyone in the lab understood that Darius was obsessing, and that although Archer'd been of great help, assisting in the re-examinations of the Olin and Hamner cadavers, they'd found nothing further. During their close work on the now wooden
and grisly Hamner corpse, Darius confided much in Archer, and told him, “Somewhere along the way we've all missed some vital clue. This macabre poem we found wadded up inside the Phillips woman is just the tip of the iceberg, Simon.” Coran had since explained the nature of the communication to Darius. “Dr. Coran believes the killer to be not one but two people, and coincidentally, I have held the same suspicion for some time myself.”
“I find it all rather doubtful, given the facts,” Archer said.
Still, Darius insisted they comb back through every shred and fiber of evidence with the exactitude he was famous for before his recent illness and bouts with depression and alcohol.
“You forget, sir, that in your absence during your illness, I've been in charge, and... well... I've found nothing to point to two perpetrators. In fact, all the evidence points to a single individual.”
Darius bit at the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. “Yes... yes, well... of course, Simon... you may well be proven correct.”
“I'm sure, sir, that I will be, and I am anxious for Dr. Coran's people at the FBI to fully corroborate my findings.”
“We shall see, Dr. Archer. As for now... would you please close her up and see to final dispensation of Miss Olin here?”
Archer, ever the faithful associate, said, “Of course, sir. I think you may have overtaxed yourself. Dr. Darius. You'd best get a car home.”
“I can remember a time I could have done four or five autopsies in a twenty-four-hour period; God, when your stamina goes, Simon, it's a horrible thing. Your mind is as fully functional and alive as when you were twenty, but your body begins to resist what your mind tells it to do.”
“I'm sorry for your... difficulties. Dr. Darius. I take it your doctor's advice hasn't—”
“Isn't worth a damn, Simon.” Archer smiled and waved him off, Darius hobbling from the area, his body racked with pain.
Alone, Dr. Darius now sat on a bench in the changing room before the locker he had used for so many years, trying to regain enough strength to get himself home. Finally he stood and opened his locker. He began to pull off his green surgeon's shirt, and in doing so, felt as if he were being watched. He saw the eyeless head of Mrs. Hamner staring down from the top tray of his locker.
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