Two of them did everything right, at least in their father’s eyes. They accepted their parents’ life style and position in local society, they enjoyed the abundance of money, and generally behaved themselves as well-to-do girls with nothing in their heads beyond the moment.
The oldest daughter was the problem. She did not quite fit, was not quite content. At thirteen she wanted to be a rodeo rider, at sixteen she was going to be the first woman astronaut. When she was turning eighteen her true goal in life became clear to her. She would be a movie star. She was pretty and she was clever and she would make it big in the movies. When her sisters laughed at her she just gritted her teeth still one more time and walked away. When her parents refused to listen she just grew silent. They would all be sorry someday, she kept telling herself They would see, but it would be too late.
Mary Wells Little hated where she lived and hated horses and especially hated her father’s business. Funerals! Ugh! What she wanted, needed, was some glamour—bright lights, good times. Show business, that was for her. She’d go to Hollywood and become a movie star. Then she would get on the Johnny Carson show and she’d sit down next to his desk and talk about all kinds of interesting things. Mostly about herself of course. Then afterward they’d go out to dinner and dancing. He’d hold her in his arms and they would whirl around the floor for hours and hours, and at daybreak he would take her home to his beach house by the ocean and they would make mad passionate love. She was barely eighteen and still a virgin and she wanted Johnny Carson to be her first lover. Please God, make it all happen for me! Please! Please!
The next year Mary Wells was nineteen and no longer a virgin, but she still wanted to be a movie star and be on the Johnny Carson show. She would lie on her bed at night watching him on television from faraway California. After a while her long pony legs would open and she would feel him inside of her, on top of her, all over her. He was the symbol for everything she needed, he was the end of the rainbow. She would get to him if only she could get away from home. She would somehow do it. She had to. “Johnny,” she would whisper as she watched him, felt him inside her, “help me, please help me. Please, Johnny! Please!”
The following summer she bade her parents goodbye. She had finished one year of college and that was enough. Almost twenty, she was going to Hollywood. They stormed and pleaded and cried, and still she left their home. They couldn’t stop her. At the door her father, overwrought, screamed names at her and told her never to come back. He didn’t mean it but she did. She silently vowed never to return to the house or the town.
A week later she found a small apartment in Los Angeles. She changed her name to Kit and began making the rounds. Youthful and full of energy, she was out to conquer the world.
Within a year her world had crumbled. She had done her very best but luck did not smile on her. Slowly she changed from wide-eyed innocence to hardened indifference. She began exchanging sex for job offers or even promises of offers. Eventually she exchanged sex for gifts. She worked many part-time jobs, mostly at night so her days were free to seek movie parts. After a while her searchings became more infrequent until finally, toward the end, there were none.
She got a job in a dance hail because she needed money. It was hard work and she hated it, and one night after work she stood outside a few moments to breathe in the sultry air. A young man saw her from across the street, hurried over. At the corner he caught up with her …
The body was released to the father by the coroner’s office on August 5. They had tried to patch it up, to bring some kind of order back to the body, but the father was an expert in such matters and would not be fooled. Because he was himself a forensic man who spent his life with dead bodies, he was finally allowed to read the coroner’s report. Unlike the average layman, he understood precisely what was written in the report, and as he read he saw exactly what had been done to his daughter. Tears welled in his eyes, he found it hard to swallow. The one who had done these things was a devil; no mere man could have committed such destruction without losing his sanity. Either that or he was already a raving lunatic, furiously homicidal. Vincent Mungo was all that and more.
George D. Little took his oldest daughter home to Kansas to be buried. He did not tell his wife or his other two daughters what had been done to Mary Wells. The following day he buried her in a sealed coffin in the family plot, near a grove of trees in the carefully landscaped cemetery. Only the immediate family was in attendance.
On August 7 the bereaved father returned to Los Angeles. He did not expect the police to catch the killer of his little girl. Half devil, Vincent Mungo was beyond the power of the law. He had been free for a month, against all odds. He would remain free unless other forces were used.
In Los Angeles the father made discreet inquiries based on information given him by certain businessmen back home. On the evening of his return he sat in a sleazy topless lounge off Sunset Boulevard waiting for a man who would perhaps be able to have Vincent Mungo found. Found and killed. Not only killed but destroyed.
George Little was not a violent man, nor was he much given to flashes of anger. Yet he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his sanity if he didn’t do everything in his power to correct the great wrong done him and his family. He had to do everything he could, and he intended to do the ultimate. Only then could he again find peace with his family and his work and his life.
In the lounge he waited impatiently, surrounded by young girls with bare breasts bouncing to the music.
SENATOR JONATHAN STONER was dozing when the phone interrupted his catnap. He had slept little in the three days since the discovery of Vincent Mungo’s latest victim. Interviews had been given to reporters from one end of the state to the other. He had already been on television and radio, with a half dozen further appearances scheduled for succeeding days. Lecture offers were pouring in from local communities and schools. Suddenly everybody wanted him. His castigation of Mungo fed the public’s craving for a personification of evil. He was the hero, Mungo the devil. Everything was simple after all.
The phone blared again in his ear. He shook his head awake. If he didn’t get some real sleep soon he would keel over. His hand reached out.
“Stoner.”
Roger’s voice was a beat late, as though far away.
“Good news,” he said loudly. “Five colleges lined up already, with TV spots in Denver and Houston so far. Others sure to come. They think you may be onto something.”
“Where you now?”
“Houston.”
Stoner chewed his lip in thought.
“Listen carefully. I got a call this morning from Danzinger in Kansas City. His people are very interested in what’s going on here. They’d like to know more. You run up there and set the deal. At their convenience.” Pause. “This is a big one, Roger. If we get them with us it means access to the whole Midwest. You know? So get there right away and work it out. Next week would be a good time for me but the sooner the better.”
“Okay. What about the other schools on the list? There’s still a good dozen that should come through.”
“You’ll just have to take care of them by phone when you get back. If they want me—”
“That’s not the problem, for chrissake. The thing is lining up the TV spots in the big towns. It’s a bitch at the beginning, at least until you get the steamroller effect going for you.”
“If we get it.”
“Look. I’ll go up to Kansas City now, then take care of as many as I could on the way back. Okay?”
Stoner thought quickly.
“Okay,” he sighed. “But get here soon’s you can. I’m up to my ass in mail and every other goddam thing.”
He called his wife to say that he would be working late again. Yes, on the go, as always. Then he called his mistress and told her he would be right over. What he needed was some good rest and relaxation.
JOHN SPANNER hadn’t believed it when he first heard the news on the radio. After a month of freedom Mun
go was virtually safe from detection; he apparently had found a perfect disguise and a way to survive. Why blow it all in a moment of rage? No, it didn’t make sense and everything Mungo had done thus far had been eminently sensible. So much so that Spanner was filled with increasing doubt about the validity of determining anyone’s sanity. Or insanity.
His first thought had been that someone was again imitating Mungo, as the handyman had done two weeks earlier. It was a good way to shift the blame for a murder. A known killer was always easier to digest in the public mind than was the fear of the unknown. Too often in the police mind as well. With a killer on the loose, responsibility could be dribbled away; in a murder investigation that sought a killer’s identity the responsibility was clearly defined. Which was why police generally accepted the theory of multiple murders, and potential killers often duplicated the method of operation of those who were highly publicized. As with Vincent Mungo.
But as more details became known of the Los Angeles murder, especially the fearful destruction of the body, Spanner began to realize that this time was not mere imitation. Mungo had returned to the world with a vengeance. If anything, this latest attack was apparently more savage even than his killing of the other mental patient on the night of his escape.
To Spanner this was an ominous sign. Much experienced in such matters, and by nature and temperament attuned to the nuances in aberrant behavior, he saw or thought he saw a pattern emerging that could precipitate a reign of terror in the state. Assuming that Mungo could be held within the state at all. His disguise seemingly allowed him freedom of movement so he could as easily move away, move anywhere he chose. Free to stop or go like anyone else, he would be a plague descending on people. Or a wolf among sheep. Spanner preferred not to think of the consequences.
He couldn’t shake the conviction that the insane mutilation of the bodies was the key to Mungo’s sudden passion for murder after a young lifetime of noncriminal behavior. People suddenly killed for an infinite variety of reasons or for no reason at all. But the butchery afterward had to come from something in the man’s dreadful past, something that wouldn’t let go of him. Which was why he chanced blowing his cover, his whole new identity, whatever that might be. He did it because he had to do it. That meant he would do it again. And again. Until he was captured or killed.
The prospect made Spanner flinch. If he was right about the present pattern coming out of the past, it would be virtually impossible to predict where or when Mungo would next strike without knowing about that particular past locked into the man’s crazed head. He, Spanner, had read all the records on Mungo going back to the beginning; there was nothing in them that gave a clue to his present rage beyond the fact that he was paranoid. Nor was there anything in the newspaper accounts of his background or relatives.
With nothing to go on for motive or opportunity, without an idea of the new disguise or identity, the police would be powerless to take any action. Except to wait until he made a mistake or got caught in the act. Each time he wasn’t caught meant still another innocent victim would be killed horribly.
Spanner had a feeling that Mungo would become a mass murderer before he made a mistake.
Beyond that, the lieutenant knew that he, everybody, was up against the most dangerous, most elusive killer in all the world: the man who kills at random for no discernible reason. Such a man was impossible to stop. Without even a description, he was invisible. Just the thought of a monster like that loose in a city or state or even a country made Spanner shudder and filled him, as it would any policeman, with a cold dread.
On August 5 he finally called some four hundred miles downstate to Dr. Walter Lang’s new post. It was a Sunday and two days after they had found Mary Wells Little. Lang was familiar with Mungo’s record. More important, he had examined Mungo, talked with him. Maybe Spanner could get a few questions answered.
The hospital reported the doctor out but due back at 6:30 P.M., when he would return the lieutenant’s call.
WILLOWS WAS exceptionally quiet on the morning of August 4, or so it seemed to Henry Baylor after the news conference of the previous afternoon and the endless phone calls and meetings. He usually took Saturdays off, enjoying his quiet weekends at home with his wife. But this weekend was different. The head of an institution like Willows should be at his post, he kept telling himself, in times of trouble. He wondered just how much trouble this time would bring.
He couldn’t understand why the police didn’t apprehend Mungo. They had his picture and description, his habits and vices, where he liked to go, what he liked to do. He had nothing, not even much intellect. Yet after a month he was still free and the police had no idea where he was. Except that he might be in Los Angeles, because he had just murdered someone there. But he might as easily be elsewhere already, murdering still another somebody, for all they knew.
Baylor was becoming increasingly bitter toward the police. He had always enjoyed the best of relations with them, being himself a policeman of sorts as director of a state hospital for mentally ill criminals as well as others. But now he was being caused embarrassment and perhaps even trouble. After Mungo’s escape he was able to jettison the experimental program and get Dr. Lang reassigned, thus keeping himself afloat. This pacified state officials for the moment. But a new killing had again turned attention to Willows and himself There was little point in sacrificing anyone else on staff; the next head would probably be his. He grimaced painfully at the thought that Mungo might kill yet again.
He answered the phone on the third ring, remembering his secretary was out. It was Adolph Myers of the California State Department of Corrections, calling from Sacramento. A meeting was being held in the capital within the hour. Yes, right up to the very top. That’s right. About the latest killing of course. Something would have to be done, some … readjustments might have to be made. Certain people were unhappy about the whole thing. Very unhappy indeed. No, predictions were impossible. Much too early to tell anyway. If only the police would get him. Well, there was still a chance. Yes, in a few hours. What? Of course.
Dr. Baylor cradled the receiver, knowing he would be going through the motion many times that day. He wished he were in Sacramento instead of having to wait for their call. He didn’t like disorder and he didn’t like to be interrupted. But most of all he didn’t like to be kept waiting when he was waiting for something.
FRANK CHILLS couldn’t get the image out of his head. There they were on the table like two scoops of ice cream. Or a giant boiled potato, peeled and cut in half He had seen severed arms and fingers and legs but never anything like that. Two years in the Medical Corps and nine years an attendant in a general hospital and he’d never seen that before.
He belted down another drink. And he didn’t even get a chance to look in the other room! Son of a bitch, he said to himself, he’d like to get his hands on the guy. He would cut him into little pieces.
Frank liked his liquor and thought he’d better have another. It was only nine o’clock and he still wasn’t totally drunk on this Friday night. Or even drunk enough to get rid of the terrible memory of that morning. Earlier he had called County General Hospital to report in sick for his four-to-midnight shift. Now all he wanted was to forget the sight of the girl’s breasts. He ordered another drink.
THE NIGHT-OWL editions were already on the newsstands, their headlines screaming murder. Buried on a back page was a brief item dated Friday, August 3, about a local woman reported missing for several weeks. She had been taking a motoring vacation around the state. Her name was Velma Adams and she owned a prosperous beauty salon in west Los Angeles.
BY MIDNIGHT Frank Chills was so drunk he had to be helped to the door. He had told everyone in the bar about finding the murdered girl. Nobody wanted to hear it, all they wanted was a good time at the beginning of a weekend in a hot city.
As he slowly struggled homeward Frank wished, just wished that the killer would start something with him. He’d rip’m apart. Kill’m, s’help
me! He threw up on a car fender.
By the time he finally made it home and to bed, Friday night had turned into Saturday morning.
THE CALL from Sacramento came through at 3:40 Saturday afternoon. Dr. Baylor answered the phone. He was distressingly angry because of the long wait but he controlled his emotion and his voice. The meeting, he was informed, had gone better than expected. The police rather than the Department of Corrections was receiving most of the heat. However, they were not out of the woods by any means. Certain reform measures would have to be taken at all state facilities. Particulars would be discussed at a future date. Also, there might be some necessary changes in personnel. No, nothing was said about any of the directors. Not yet anyway.
The call ended with the admonition that if the killings continued— well, anything could happen. Baylor, a conservative psychiatrist and efficient administrator, clearly understood.
He left his office after four o’clock and spent Saturday evening attending a dull party where the host insisted on playing obscenely loud music. Baylor and his wife departed early and on the way home he wondered, as he often did, why some people never seem to grow up. It was as though they were caught in a time warp of childhood, forever trapped in impossible dreams or irreconcilable nightmares.
ON SUNDAY evening at 7:30 Dr. Lang returned John Spanner’s call. He apologized for being out earlier but Sunday and all that. Spanner in turn voiced his regret for bothering the doctor. He just had a few thoughts he wanted to check out for a moment if Lang would be so kind.
By Reason of Insanity Page 22