By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  Past groups of sleepy travelers and impatient personnel he picked his way out of the TWA terminal and into a yellow cab. He was going on a special assignment, that much was certain. Feeling a rush of anticipation, he lay back and closed his eyes to the late night gloom that surrounded the fleeing cab on its headlong flight into the midst of Manhattan.

  On the front seat next to the driver an early-bird edition of the Daily News screamed murder in Grand Central Station. A young woman’s body, gutted like an animal’s, had been found on an in-bound train at 4:40 Monday afternoon. The train, the Lake Shore Limited, had arrived at 1:30 from Chicago. The savage murder was believed to be the work of the California madman Vincent Mungo.

  Kenton had written several pieces about Mungo of course, including the recent story that had been such a success. What he didn’t yet know, as New York slipped into Tuesday morning, was that Mungo had struck again. Or that he would be asked, ordered, to go after the story of the year. Long afterward he would be heard to say more than once that had he known what lay ahead of him at that moment …

  By eleven o’clock Tuesday morning Adam Kenton knew why he had been summoned to New York and what was expected of him. He had been given the Rockefeller Institute profile to read and had then listened to Martin Dunlop and John Perrone discuss the project at length. As they briefed him, his eyes grew smaller until only pinpoints of light remained. He was to track down Vincent Mungo for the glory, and benefit, of the magazine and the company. He would conduct what amounted essentially to a one-man operation, headquartered in an unmarked office on the seventh floor, away from prying eyes. Everything he needed would be given him. He would have virtually all the resources of the company at his command. His authority would be unquestioned, the funds unlimited. Only time was in short supply; if he didn’t get to Mungo before the police did, the entire effort would be wasted and the project labeled a failure. Naturally nobody wanted that.

  There was, unfortunately, one small catch.

  The entire operation had to be conducted in total secrecy. No one outside the company would know of the search. That was on direct order of James Llewellyn Mackenzie himself. Even within the Newstime organization only a few top people would know of the existence of such a project. There would be no reports written or files kept. Nothing would be on paper. All communications from the field would be shredded each evening. Inquirers would be told only that Kenton was gathering material for another cover story on Vincent Mungo.

  That was it.

  Just a simple clandestine operation involving dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people in the field who could be told nothing. Searching for a man who had eluded the combined efforts of federal authorities and the police of a dozen states and cities across the entire length of the country.. And working without benefit of any time schedule, since the whole thing could blow up at any time with Mungo’s capture by police.

  Added to which were no clues to Mungo’s latest identity. And no witnesses to his present appearance. At least none alive.

  As each of these desperate facts sifted into his consciousness, Kenton wondered if the three men in the room realized what an impossible assignment they had handed him. Surely they must see that there was no chance of success, barring a miracle.

  Of the few things in which he still believed, miracles was not one.

  Several times during the briefing he wanted to ask what idiot had dreamed up the idea of a magazine searching secretly for a mass murderer. Besides being insane, it sounded damned illegal! But his reporter’s instincts warned him that the answer was already right there in the room.

  Something suddenly stuck in his suspicious mind. California Senator Jonathan Stoner was now riding his own crest to national prominence. He didn’t need Vincent Mungo any longer; at best Mungo was an embarrassment, at worst a political liability. The sooner Mungo was killed off the better it would be for Stoner. The one thing the senator didn’t need at this point was adverse publicity.

  Kenton silently vowed to learn what he could of Stoner’s activities, past and present, just in case that was part of the reason he was now in New York. He did not intend to be sidetracked from a story by anyone, and most certainly not by his own people.

  “… and you’ll start immediately. Set things up as quickly as you can. You’ll have whatever you need.”

  Dunlop was speaking and Kenton found himself nodding in agreement, much against his will.

  “Everything will be routed through Grimes here. He’ll be your liaison in the company.” The editor-in-chief turned to the leather couch. “Fred, you know the ropes in this kind of operation. See that things run smoothly.” He looked around. “Anything else?”

  “Just one thing,” said John Perrone. “If we want this kept secret, I suggest we adopt a code name. Something only we know about.”

  “Good idea.”

  Fred Grimes’ brow wrinkled in thought. “It all started with the Rockefeller Institute profile on Mungo.”

  “Mungo shouldn’t be mentioned.”

  “But the report can. Adam’s supposed to be doing a story on Mungo.”

  “Fred’s right,” said Perrone. “It’s the perfect cover.”

  “What is?”

  “The Rockefeller Institute Profile: R.I.P.”

  “R.I.P. Ripper,” cried Grimes. “The Ripper—”

  “The Ripper Reference,” said Perrone quietly.

  Dunlop pursed his lips, then nodded. “It’ll do.” He turned to Kenton. “Use it on all communiques to the field. That’s it then.”

  He reached for some papers on his desk. The meeting was over.

  As the trio reached the door Martin Dunlop called out.

  “Mr. Kenton, allow me now to offer my personal congratulations on the swift success of your mission. I know I speak for Mr. Mackenzie when I say the company is deeply indebted to you.”

  John Perrone and Fred Grimes exchanged quick glances on the way out.

  The sly son of a bitch, Kenton muttered savagely to himself. He’s fixed it so I can’t fail or I’m through. And if I do somehow pull off the impossible, he’ll wind up with all the credit, sure as shit. Either way I lose. The sly son of a bitch.

  Still muttering, Kenton’s sly mind had already begun to search for effective countermeasures. He was damned if he’d let some superslick country editor get the best of him.

  Adam Kenton knew he was a good investigative reporter. Better than most and as good as the best of them. He researched his subjects carefully, dug thoroughly for facts, and always applied the human equation to his findings. How did this or that benefit the subject? If the answer was not clear he dug further. In his constant, sometimes frantic search for information he never allowed himself to forget the truth that men invariably acted out of self-serving motives. Whatever was done, whether by individuals or groups or even whole governments, ultimately was done for self-interest. His job was to discover that interest. The conclusions were then usually inescapable.

  His only present regret was that he was not working for a paper like the Washington Post. For an investigative reporter Washington was the in place at the moment, the place where the news was literally being made by reporters digging into a corrupt government.

  Short of that he was satisfied with Newstime. It was relatively honest for a mass magazine that served an incredible array of vested interests. The chief sin was not in what it printed, which was for the most part straightforward, but in what it neglected to print. Some Machiavellian mind at the top, perhaps Mackenzie himself, had discovered that it was less troublesome to omit something altogether than to slant it. Once locked in print an article was open to censure, but an omission could always be called simply an oversight. It was a much more subtle and sophisticated way of managing the news, though no less reprehensible. Yet in his six years with the magazine Kenton had seen nothing of his pulled or even materially distorted. It was, even by his cynical standards, a pretty good record.

  He was regarded by his peers on the magazine, and b
y the press corps in general, as a gifted, occasionally brilliant reporter who usually got his story whatever the odds. His investigative instincts were superb, and he had more than once refused offers from private industry. He liked writing about real people and he liked reporting the news, but most of all he liked to dig underneath the news to write about what was really happening. That gave him a sense of power, and power to a newsman, as he well understood, was what it was all about.

  He had quickly come to the attention of the assistant managing editors, who soon began using him for the more difficult stories. Within a year he had become a staff writer, in three years a senior writer. He worked in a dozen cities and was always somewhere in the field, always on the move. Several times he was offered a supervisory position in one of the bureaus; each time the offer was refused. He was a maverick journalist who intended to continue doing the one thing that turned him on, and sitting behind a desk was definitely not it.

  In 1972 he was sent to California, where he worked on the bizarre Juan Corona case. A Mexican-American, Juan Corona had been accused of killing at least twentyfive migrant workers over a two-year period. He was finally sentenced in the California courts to twentyfive consecutive life terms.

  Later that year Kenton moved on to New Mexico, where he investigated a fantastic land-grant scheme that would have netted millions of dollars to a few unscrupulous real estate operators. The entire story appeared first in an issue of Newstime.

  After several special assignments he returned to California in April of 1973, assigned to the Los Angeles bureau. The whole political climate of that state was in turmoil and could be, so some responsible people in New York felt, a harbinger of what was to come in national politics.

  Kenton kept his investigative pores open and was soon deep into a number of stories. The articles on Caryl Chessman and Vincent Mungo, and one on the rise of Senator Stoner had been just a few of them.

  Now here he was suddenly back in New York, where he didn’t particularly want to be, and saddled with an impossible task that promised only trouble. He had nothing to go on, nothing to work with except his own skills. And those were hardly up to finding one man out of more than one hundred million in the fourth-largest country in the world.

  Yet he had to admit that if he could somehow work the miracle, if he could get to Vincent Mungo first, his name would become a legend of investigative reporting. Assuming he could prevent Dunlop, the big corporate cheese, from stealing the glory. Or John Perrone from downgrading his role.

  Assuming all that, including the possibility of miracles, he would not only be plugged into the power but he would be part of the power itself, if only temporarily.

  It was worth a shot, or so he thought at the moment.

  Which meant he knew he had no choice.

  Back in Perrone’s office he was asked what he needed for a start. A getaway car, he had replied grimly. Nobody laughed. He settled for a WATS line covering the whole country and a complete listing of Newstime reporters and stringers in all cities. He also wanted everything written about Vincent Mungo, from the smallest country rag to The New York Times, as well as copies of all important documents, starting with Mungo’s birth certificate. Perrone had promised to put two researchers on the job immediately; both would be his for the duration of the project.

  Anything else?

  For the moment, no. Except—Kenton had smiled—he would require the full list of all Newstime confidential sources of information, Perrone’s famed information spies. Without the list, he forcefully observed, he would be severely restricted in his ability to reach out quickly for a vital fact or a needed name or even a covert operation.

  The managing editor had cautioned that the list was available only to three or four top men on the magazine. How could it remain confidential if allowed to circulate? Kenton had replied that only he would see the list, that in any event he would be solely responsible for its confidentiality and eventual return. A hurried call had prompted Perrone to consent.

  If asked, both Perrone and Fred Grimes would have had to express a certain sympathy for their supersleuth at that moment. They recognized the difficulties he faced, the impossible odds he bucked. Yet they passionately believed it was worth a try. They wished Kenton good luck.

  Now on the seventh floor he sat in his new temporary office looking out the window and thinking of California. Just twentyfour hours earlier he had been in sunshine and warmth, and here he was in a barren room on a dark and dreary New York day. It didn’t seem fair somehow, and had he believed in the gods he would have cursed them roundly. As it was, he blamed John Perrone and Martin Dunlop and everybody at Newstime. But most of all he blamed Vincent Mungo.

  He turned to watch the wizened man march into the office. Military bearing, iron-gray hair clipped short, dark ferret eyes. He had heard the name before. Otto Klemp, the company security boss. Klemp introduced himself formally, allowing the ghost of a smile to disturb his rigid features. He allowed nothing else.

  His message was brief and precise.

  “While you are on this assignment you will live at the St. Moritz in rooms kept by the company. You will tell no one of your work beyond the cover story. No one, in or out of the organization. If your cover is blown for any reason, if the secrecy is compromised in any way, your assignment is automatically canceled.” Again the ghost of a smile. “We will be watching your progress closely, very closely. Your quarry, as you know, apparently arrived in New York yesterday. The same day, I believe, as did you. Interesting, nein?” His hand was on the door. “In Austria they tell of the fox who dressed like a hound. When the chase began he ran with the pack. Everything went fine—until the wind shifted.”

  Klemp seemed to click his heels as he turned and slipped through the narrow opening. Kenton watched the door slowly close behind him.

  Of all the traits that combined in Adam Kenton to make him the best investigative reporter on the biggest newsmagazine staff in the country, traits that had in a brief decade brought him a certain measure of renown and respect, and that would ultimately lead to a Pulitzer for his investigation of the sinister forces behind the movement for repeal of the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, perhaps the most important was his ability to adapt himself to the roles of those from whom he sought information. In mannerisms and speech he seemed to blend into their public identities. His sympathetic understanding and acceptance almost invariably prompted a flow of confidences not normally given to reporters. Whether it was businessmen or politicians or bureaucrats or the police, he understood their problems. He was really one of them.

  This metaphoric quality was coupled with an intense concentration that often enabled him to think like his adversaries. He constantly asked himself the question: What would they do next? Or: Why did they do that? His guess was usually correct. Only it wasn’t ever just a guess but more of an instinctive leap into their minds. This mental bit of magic, grounded in voluminous information and a brilliant imagination, probably more than anything else had led to the nickname of Superman given him by his peers, not without a strong touch of envy.

  Average in everything including his clothes, appearing ordinary except for his eyes, he was able to become whatever was needed.

  Beyond that, he had put in ten years at ajob that required an ability to fight dirty and a stubborn refusal to quit. For whatever success he may have achieved he had paid a price in his increasing paranoia, his detachment from women, his negativistic outlook. The years had made him shrewd and tough; they had also brought out his hunger for power and the strong streak of sadism underneath. In his growing isolation, his fantasies of perfection and incorruptibility were becoming more fragmented. Yet the shrewdness and toughness were the dominant strengths of Kenton’s professional life, and were ignored by others only at considerable peril to their freedom of operation or even liberty.

  At age thirty-five, with a desperately poor childhood behind him, with a college degree paid by four years of menial jobs, w
ith a disastrous marriage and two years in Vietnam, plus ten years on the firing line, four of them at newspapers in the boondocks and the last six in the big leagues at Newstime, Adam Kenton was just about immune to everything but good luck. And he certainly wasn’t going to be fazed by veiled threats from within the company.

  His only reaction to what Otto Klemp had said was to narrow his eyes to slits and think furiously.

  A half hour’s reflection convinced him of two things. There were some people in the company who really believed that he could scoop Vincent Mungo out of thin air and deliver him to the Corporate Powers, ready to give them the story of the year.

  And there were some who wanted him to fail.

  As his thoughts finally shifted toward the problem of an invisible madman who seemed to be worth a lot of money to a lot of people, John Perrone came into the room and sat down. He looked worried.

  “So Klemp’s been here already, eh? I wondered how long it’d take him. I saw him upstairs and he told me to make sure you had anything you needed. He stressed ‘anything.’ I think the man likes you.” He hesitated. “Or else he’s afraid of you. Does he know something I don’t?”

  Kenton glanced over at his boss. “Maybe he’s really Vincent Mungo and he knows I’ll find out.” He grinned at the idea.