Fatal Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  They had bad news, one agent said, as he shook hands with the two men. The phrase almost knocked Rychman down until the second agent qualified it. “Dr. Coran was not at her place, and at the moment no one's quite certain where she is, but we assume she may be in her lab and that's where we're going.”

  “Why haven't you sent someone to the lab?”

  “We've sent word ahead for security to be beefed up and we asked the guard if Dr. Coran was in the building. At that time, we were told that she was not on the premises.”

  “Other areas are being checked,” said the second agent.

  “We've got to find her,” muttered Rychman, drained and fearful.

  Rychman had spent the previous several days going over every shred of legitimate information about Simon Archer, with Lou Pierce's help the entire time. He had done what he could to reconstruct Simon Archer's past, but large gaps remained, especially those related to his childhood, young manhood and schooling years. So Rychman had put his best detectives on it, sending a pair to visit Mrs. Felona Hankersen, the woman who'd been fired from St. Stephen's when Archer—allegedly—made a mistake.

  Meanwhile, IAD detectives had apprised Rychman of a shopping list of grievances, all relatively minor when viewed alone: incidental procedural errors, some a first-year med student might make. The accumulation of errors, however, pointed toward an unusual picture, just as Jessica had tried to tell him. There were wide gaps in the chain of custody of evidence—a breach of ethics and conduct—not only with the Claw victims but with the evidence that had indicted and condemned Leon Helfer to his cell. Had Leon had a better defense attorney, he might have gotten off on chain of custody violations large enough to drive a truck through.

  Altogether, the shadow of wrongdoing in the laboratory had only grown larger during the short time since Jessica had left. Archer's motives must be questioned. Was it blind ambition, an attempt to best Dr. Darius' record? Was there, buried below Archer's machinations, evidence of far more sinister motives and crimes? Jessica had suspected Archer of intentionally poisoning an eleven-year-old boy who may or may not have witnessed a ghastly perversion, and if he was capable of that, was he also capable of helping Dr. Darius out that hospital window?

  His careful plan to outwit Dr. Darius had unraveled when Jessica came on the scene and Dr. Darius returned. From that point on, there was never a right time to expose the “truth” about the Claw as Dr. Archer had created it.

  Things began to really smell bad as Rychman examined closely how Archer had mishandled the Claw case. Archer had been M.E. of record on the second, third, fifth and ninth killings. Perkins had been on the scene for the sixth case, but Archer had done the autopsy. The first, fourth, seventh and eighth autopsies had fallen to Darius. The seventh, eighth and ninth victims had also seen input from Jessica Coran. In all cases where Archer had not participated, the integrity of the chain of custody of evidence was maintained assiduously. Even Perkins concerned himself with this. But with Archer there were serious time lapses between crime scene and lab, between tagged information and missing tags and lost evidence. He had placed clothing into plastic rather than paper bags, knowing that plastic hampered the natural air-drying process, which greatly enhanced microscopic opportunities for blood and seminal stains. He also had failed to chalk-mark notable stains on occasion. Through various “misunderstandings” evidence had been accidentally destroyed or lost or had gotten out of his hands. A trail of responsibility for such indiscretions led to lab assistants and sometimes Perkins, but in all cases, it ought to have been Archer's responsibility.

  He added to the equation the deaths of Leon Helfer's boss and dentist, and the fact that both men's bank accounts had swelled with thousands of dollars only weeks before. Leon Helfer couldn't have laid out the kind of money that was going to Dr. Parke and Malthuesen, so who did? And if these men were paid for services rendered, what were those services? Obviously, a dentist's services had to do with teeth, and a large part of the case against Leon rested on his tooth impressions.

  Rychman had gone to Parke's office personally to have a look around, and when he found any number of casts for teeth lying about, it got him to thinking further. Jessica had somehow guessed right about the bite marks; they were identical, yes, but suppose that some—or even all—of them had been made by a cast? He had then gone down the hall to other dentists in the building and inquired about the possibilities, and he came away with a set of teeth that fit over his own, teeth that slipped over his gums and remained fixed tightly against the skin with a little coat of adhesive.

  And if Archer liked chewing on human organs and eyeballs, he well could be up to his own eyeballs in guilt as Leon Helfer's accomplice, the dominant half of the duo, as Jessica had believed.

  Rychman had next gone to Archer's office to confront him, but he found the doctor had taken the day off, leaving early for the long holiday weekend. He then pursued him to his condominium complex, where he got no response from his apartment. Picking about the lobby, asking questions, he learned that Dr. Archer simply was not findable. The doorman had said that Archer could not be away long, that he was carrying no bags, that he hailed no cab, that he must be in the vicinity of the condo. But no amount of searching had turned up any sign of Archer.

  By 7 P.M. Rychman's unofficial APB on the coroner had gotten him nowhere. The man was not even answering his page beeper, which Rychman was told was unlike Dr. Archer. No one seemed to know where he'd gone.

  Then Rychman's imagination went into overdrive, sending him into a panic. Suppose he's not answering his beeper because he's out of range? he asked himself. Suppose he was on a plane for D.C.? Suppose he was afraid of Jessica, knowing she wouldn't let it rest? Suppose he'd decided to get rid of her?

  Rychman tore for the airport, radioing ahead that he was on police business and that he must have a seat on the next flight to the Virginia/D.C. area.

  That had been several hours before. Now he was in Quantico, in the company of Quantico police and FBI men, all of whom had their orders. Rychman wanted Jessica safe at all costs; he also wanted Simon Archer alive, if possible, but he would be the first to blow his head away if he had harmed Jess.

  The chopper now put down with a jarring thud, its rotor blades sending a cascade of debris in all directions around the bubble. The men jumped from their seats, and even as he raced for the waiting car, Rychman kept damning himself for not having trusted Jessica's instincts earlier. He prayed she was safe and unharmed, but Archer had had a long head start on him.

  Why hadn't I been listening sooner? he silently berated himself as he and the others now sped for the nearby Quantico labs. Like everyone else in New York at the time, he had wanted to wrap up the case of the Claw as quickly as possible, get a conviction, smile for the damned press, one of whose members had also mysteriously died.

  Little smoke clouds, one upon another, rose off the wet pavement that had earlier been heated by a baking sun and was now being doused with a weak, intermittent drizzle. The car, leading a motorcade of others, fishtailed along the slick street and out of the compound.

  It was only a matter of minutes before they came to a gate and a guardpost. Here they found the phone off the hook and the guard's throat cut. “The bastard's here!” Rychman shouted, and behind them they heard the sirens of an ambulance.

  They raced forward, circling one of the taller structures on the FBI Academy grounds, shattering the usual calm of the campuslike setting, lights going on at the academy dorms nearby. Rychman held his breath, his heart beating a mad chant against his chest, afraid for Jessica with every fiber of his being.

  Jessica debated her options before leaving the relative safety of the hallway for the roof, almost certain that the perverted Dr. Archer had gone in the direction she had hoped he would take. He must surely now feel safe, she thought, safe and out of range of her deadly gunfire. It was exactly what she wanted him to believe.

  The roof was black with night and wind that whipped around her, tear
ing at the bloodied lab coat where Frakley's and the security guard's blood had soaked her. She went to the north ledge of the building, cautious of the blacker shadows that crossed and fed upon one another here, fearing that Archer could leap out at her at any moment. But the silence and the darkness were total. There was no human soul here save hers. The weasel had scurried exactly as she had believed he would, possibly thinking that if he escaped now he would have another chance at her another time.

  She shivered at the thought of his invading her home, of defiling it. It was the one place she had always felt safe.

  She looked out over the edge feeling a bit dizzy, seeing the stable of security vehicles at the rear of the building, sensing that Archer would go for one of these. She also saw the distance from here, twenty-nine stories up; the distance between herself and her target would be great. Suppose she missed? Had she made a foolish choice in coming up here, rather than giving close pursuit? Fearing she might miss, she tried desperately to adjust her eyes on the aim required. She had to take into consideration the wind factor as well as the distance and the trajectory of the bullet as it would wend its way down. Her largest target would be his skull from this angle. She had four shots left. She must make each count.

  Where the hell was he? Had he decided to double back? Had he remained in the building? Where was he?

  “Show yourself, dammit,” she muttered, her eyes never veering from the area below where she expected to see him streak for the security vehicles.

  Then she saw the lights and faint scream of sirens. An ambulance was approaching. Audrey had gotten help for Robertson, thank God. The noise and lights distracted her for a moment, and as if waiting for the confusion to begin, Archer chose this same moment to dash for the safety of the security vehicle he had selected.

  He was running at top speed. She aimed, drew a bead and fired, anticipating his step. The bullet blew up smoke at his ankles. She drew another bead, sent the second shot just ahead of him, and it struck him in the shoulder, sending him reeling into the truck he latched onto. She fired a third shot that hit the cab, sending paint shards into his eyes, but he threw himself into the truck before she could get off a last shot.

  Police below were suddenly firing up at her, their bullets going far wide, but making her leap back. “Dammit, I'm FBI! He's getting away!” she shouted, but only the wind up here could hear her.

  She leaned out over the ledge and saw the truck moving off, veering down a loping lane that would take Archer to the gate. In a few minutes, he would be out of range.

  She was suddenly hit by flying debris from a bullet that impacted the ledge in front of her. She screamed with pain, tore away from the north wall to the west wall, where she leaned out over the edge, aimed and drew a bead on the cab of the truck. She couldn't make the shot at anything resembling a horizontal through the window, as the truck was almost straight below her. If she waited for a horizontal shot, he'd be out of range.

  The police and FBI below, understandably thinking her a sniper, were gauging her new position and readying to open fire on her again at any moment. In the distance, she could hear a helicopter and knew that shaipshooters would be aboard. Soon its searchlight and airborne guns would be trained on her.

  She had but one shot left if she was to stop Archer. She concentrated with every fiber in her being, remembering all the years of practice since childhood, everything her father had taught her, all that she had learned at the academy and on the firing range. She guessed at what point below the square of the cab Archer's head would be if he were sitting in an upright, driving position. She drew a bead on the imaginary cranium below the metal rooftop. Her finger was steady, her reasoning good, her eyesight perfect when she pulled hard on the trigger and the clap of the bullet's response came seconds later.

  She'd fired through the roof of the moving truck but it remained on the road, moving easily off. She'd missed.

  More bullets rained around her, and the helicopter was now within range. Her own people were about to kill her. She stood up, holding the weapon high above her head, her white coat flapping about her like a flag of truce.

  For one horrible moment, she feared the men in the flying machine were going to open fire, fillet her with their automatics, but they held as the helicopter put down on the roof and she tossed away the .38.

  She then relaxed and leaned back against the ledge, turning to stare down at the brown and beige security truck. Suddenly it toppled like a dying elephant off the roadbed and into a ditch.

  “Christ,” she said to herself, “I did it... I got him.”

  The euphoria she felt wasn't dampened even by the rough handling she was suddenly receiving and the handcuffs that locked her arms behind her. As she was being searched for other weapons, Alan Rychman rushed out onto the rooftop and pushed people from her, shouting, “It's Dr. Coran, you fools! Step aside! Let her go!”

  He took her in his arms, holding on firmly, her hands still cuffed behind her back. She thought he would crush her. “Jess, oh, Jess! I thought... I thought that he... that he got to you.”

  “He almost did. But he underestimated me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “You'll find him on the road out there, in that truck that's turned over.” She pointed it out to him with a flick of her head and her eyes. He followed the gestures down to the truck.

  “You made a hit like that from here?”

  “I had to stop him, to place him at this scene. You'll find a security guard dead along with a stand-in for the Claw named Frakley and my serologist, Dr. Robertson.”

  “Robertson's all right,” said J.T., who had followed Rychman up.

  “We found two dead security guards below,” added an agent, who ordered that Dr. Coran be released from the cuffs.

  “He must've been crazy to try a stunt like this here,” said J.T.

  “He was a lunatic,” replied Rychman.

  “I don't think he planned to kill me here. He and Frakley meant the paralyzing agent for me, not for Robertson. I think they meant to overpower me, take me somewhere else to torture and kill me.”

  “It's over now,” said Alan. “That bastard can never again hurt you or anyone else.”

  Alan strengthened his hold on her and helped her toward the stairs. J.T. and the other men watched until J.T. shouted, “All right, secure this area. M.E.'s going to want to go over this area just the same as down in the lab and the lobby. Get a photo man up here. I'll call in our people for evidence-gathering. We don't want anything screwed up here. We've got to protect our own.”

  Simon Archer was in desperate, horrid pain, his eyes having gone blind with the last impact to his cranium, his body slumped so tightly below the wheel and on the floor of the cab that he had to be pried out by the hands that reached him. He was bleeding from three wounds, the head wound the most severe. It would likely kill him within hours if not minutes. The ambulance attendants nonetheless began their regimen, placing him on fluids and IV-drip, stabilizing him as much as possible as the ambulance driver got the signal to transport. This was all happening as Jessica and Rychman got to the ground floor and came out to the waiting car that would take her home.

  “Dammit,” she said, “he's not dead. He's not dead!”

  Her eyes were bulging with a murderous rage.

  “He's in the hands of God now, Jess. Leave it... come away,” said Rychman, pulling at her. She tugged back and came away with the gun from his shoulder holster, pointing it at the ambulance just as the attendant closed the door, the man's eyes going wide at seeing her. Rychman grabbed the gun and sent the muzzle skyward, but she didn't pull the trigger.

  “Are you crazy? You might've hit one of the attendants.”

  “That's the only reason I hesitated.”

  He took the full measure of her hatred in all at once, and he found it immeasurable.

  She lifted her cane. “You got any scars to match this, Rychman?”

  “If you want to match scars, let's do it somewhere more p
rivate, shall we? Come on, Jess. Enough for one night. You've got to let it go now.”

  “In God's hands? Do you think God will put that bastard in a cell next to Matisak?”

  He had no answer for her. Instead, he held her once more in his arms. She wrapped her own arms around him and sobbed.

  Twenty-Nine

  The bullet entered here.” The doctor pointed to the occipital lobe of the brain represented by the plaster-cast model he was using. “It completely fractured the occipital bone, here; and this in turn destroyed much of the occipital artery, which is why the man is on a heart-lung, because that artery supplies the head and scalp with blood from the carotid.”

  “Is he in any pain?” Jessica wanted to know.

  “When he's conscious, which isn't often, yes, considerable pain.”

  She nodded. It was all she wanted to know. But the doctor continued with his explanation just the same.

  “We've done successive brain scans to determine the sites of blood clotting and the extent of damage. Radioisotopes indicate far more damage than can be repaired in any one operation, and in his condition any single operation could kill him.”

  Alan Rychman pointed to a computer chart beside the brain model. “What's this, Doctor?”

  “Oh, the BEAM.”

  “Beam?”

  “Brain map, brain electric activity map,” he replied, lifting the chart and pointing out the evidence of brain activity going on inside the head of the dying man not fifteen feet from them. “The computer map of the brain responds to the brain's electrical signals, monitoring them and creating a map for us every hour. Abnormal patterns, blocked and distorted signals, like those you see here and here indicate extensive damage. Of course, you realize the violent jarring of a bullet into the brain is, well, tantamount to a Hiroshima bomb exploded in that contained miniature world. Little wonder his body reaction is one of paralysis and long periods of unconsciousness. I'm surprised the man has not lapsed into irreversible coma and brain death.”