Spanner understood.
“One strange thing in Bishop’s file, though.”
“Oh?”
“Or rather not in the file, which is the strange part.”
“What was that?”
“Every inmate folder has two photos, one taken on admission and one usually taken within the previous two years. In Bishop’s case this would mean a picture of him as a young boy and another as he looked now.”
A pause.
“The strange thing is—”
“Yes?”
“Well, both pictures are missing.”
Spanner’s heart quickened.
“There apparently are no pictures of Thomas Bishop anywhere.”
That was it!
No pictures of him in his file. He had gone there as a boy. So no pictures of him as a man anywhere. It was too much of a coincidence. The policeman in Spanner rebelled at the thought.
He got out his own file on Vincent Mungo, put together at the time of the Willows killing. The information on Bishop was in it. Born April 30, 1948, in Los Angeles County General Hospital. Mother: Sara Bishop Owens, deceased. Father: Harry Owens, deceased. The mother was killed by the boy at age ten. But how did the father die?
Spanner intended to find out.
He asked Communications to request immediate help from the Los Angeles police. What he wanted was the full record of Thomas Bishop at the hospital in which he was born. Also, he needed all information regarding the death of the father, Harry Owens.
Hopefully, morning would bring some answers. After a half hour’s attempt to work on other things he gave up and went home.
At eight o’clock he was awakened by the phone while dozing in front of the TV. It was Oates. He had talked to Vincent Mungo’s people in Stockton. The boy had been circumcised at the hospital where he was born. Perhaps someone had thought that Mungo sounded Jewish. Or maybe it was just done routinely, in view of the fact that no father seemed to be around. Though the mother’s family was Protestant, no one objected to the circumcision. It didn’t seem important.
No chance of a mistake?
None. Why?
He told Oates that the Willows body had also been circumcised.
With the body gone, how did he know?
The pictures that were taken in the morgue showed the circumcised penis. It was the one thing they had never thought of.
Until now.
No, it was a civilian.
Spanner told him about Amos Finch and his ideas on the killer. Or killers. And how Finch had solved the riddle of how to identify the dead man.
Except he hadn’t really solved it yet, Oates pointed out. All they knew now was that it could’ve been Mungo. But if Thomas Bishop also had been circumcised, they were back where they started.
Los Angeles was checking on him now.
It would just be a matter of time.
All they could do was wait.
When he finally drifted into troubled sleep, John Spanner dreamed that he stood helpless, unable to move, as a figure slowly approached from a great distance. When it drew closer he saw it was of average height and weight and dressed in man’s clothes. Still nearer came the figure until he was able to see the face. It had no features. Nothing. Just a small hole where a mouth should have been, out of which came a sound of maniacal laughter.
As the figure drew abreast, a hand mechanically opened to reveal a long thin knife of incredible sharpness. Spanner watched in mounting horror while the hand with the knife rose higher and higher and higher until it blotted out all light in front of him and he stood in the dark screaming against the insane laugh as the knife plunged downward through his eyes to softened tissue turning the sockets to rivers of blood… .
Thirteen
BISHOP ROSE early Tuesday morning filled with enthusiasm. He intended to do many things on his first full day in New York. In his narcissistic mind the city lay before him like an extension of his own body, open, waiting to be touched, to be caressed in the warm glow of self-gratification. He would walk its streets to feel the blood coursing through its veins and arteries, he would stand on crowded corners and listen to its heartbeat. In the nameless faces and faceless bodies of its inhabitants he would find the ultimate onanistic thrill of knowing that the Power was now among them. He was the Power and he alone knew that he held absolute life and death over all around him. At any moment, in the while of a whim, he could strike down any one of them, any number of them, without design or effort, as they scurried about their meaningless duties, their empty lives. The thought was delicious. He would look at them, the women of New York, and in their eyes he would see that for which they longed so desperately and worked so diligently. They would find through him the release from their pain and madness. He would give them their due, which was death. And for his benevolence they would honor him by taking into their vile bodies for the last time the seed of life which they both craved and feared. It was justice. In the final moment of suffering they would become part of him and he them, and even as he was reborn in the agony of orgasm they would be released in the ecstasy of death.
He alone would choose upon whom to bestow this final ultimate blessing. Nor would he, could he, be stopped. They were waiting for him by the millions, not knowing who he was or when he would strike, but waiting in frantic hope nonetheless. He would not disappoint them. Though the quest was endless and victory seemingly impossible, he would continue with his mission for in truth he could do no less. His was the Power that prevailed and he survived only by its exercise, Now in New York, where he believed he belonged from the very beginning, and in which he intended to remain at least for a while, Bishop had no doubts that he would continue to be safely anonymous as he prowled the largest city in the world. That it might not literally be the very largest city in the world didn’t bother him; it was eminently big enough. Nor did he doubt that he would find enough work to keep him occupied. He had already noticed in his few Monday hours that women were everywhere. Dozens of them, hundreds, thousands, millions of them. They were absolutely everywhere, just waiting for him. Everywhere.
Meanwhile the city lay open before him. He would search out a place to live, a crowded area of young people with little money where he could go unnoticed. He would secure still another identity, this one virtually undetectable. He would funnel the hundred-dollar bills he had in the black case into legal channels, so that he could draw from the amount or add to it. He would fabricate a whole history in order to give the appearance of roots, should anyone become inquisitive about a newcomer to town. Finally, he would create some slight business venture in order to have a seemingly legitimate source of income, one at the barest survival level, to be sure, yet enough to allay any suspicions about how he managed to survive.
Since he wasn’t going to travel, at least for a while, and would not be in bus stations or train depots where police were watching, he decided to grow a beard. It was a common practice among young men now and would enable him to blend in more easily. In the unlikely event that his true identity were discovered, he would be safer with a beard. The authorities had no photographs of him any longer but they would be able to come up with a good drawing of his face. Putting a beard on the drawing would render it almost useless, and he could always change the shape of his own. It was the best he could do short of plastic surgery, which he ruled out as being too risky even though he now had the money. A surgeon would surely become suspicious and notify the police. While he believed himself perhaps immortal, Bishop somehow knew he was not bulletproof
All this and more would he do in the days to come. Winter clothes had to be bought, maybe even some light furniture and bedding. Books about New York had to be read, the city divided into areas and studied. With living quarters and an established identity, with a new face and the proper money, he would be truly invisible. And with invisibility would come invincibility. A face in the crowd, one of the masses, a workingman, able to slip in and out, appear and disappear, undistinguished, unrecognized,
unseen.
Untouchable.
Not as the leper, slow and cumulative.
But as the plague, swift and deadly.
In the tickings of his heart, in the twistings of his mind, Bishop knew this all would come to pass. But first—.
First he would offer up a sacrifice in celebration.
He would perform his ritual in thanksgiving for his safe arrival upon these shores. In the beginning he had intended to move ever onward because to remain fixed was far too dangerous. As he crossed the mountains and plains, the cities and towns of America, eventually he came to realize that New York was his true destination, his star in the East. The wisest of men by his own definition, he did not try to fight that which compelled him to follow the star. Unlike others, he was aware of his destiny and accepted it without bitterness.
Now he had arrived safely at his destination, at least for the present, and his star shone overhead. It was time to celebrate.
By 8:30 that Tuesday morning he was already out of the dingy hotel of one night’s lodging. He turned into Broadway in the eighties and headed downtown. The air was cool and crisp, the start of one of those bright October days for which New York is famous. Bishop shivered against the cold; his jacket seemed suddenly inadequate in such weather, and he decided it would be prudent to buy something warmer as soon as possible. And perhaps a heavier shirt and a cap of some kind. He noticed the men in suits, apparently on the way to office work; most of them wore topcoats. The younger people he saw were dressed in the fashion of youth everywhere; in denim and corduroy and outer jackets of every description and indeterminate origin. Boots of leather or plastic, usually well scuffed and worn under bellbottom pants, were the standard footwear for both sexes. He gazed down at his own shoes, now worn beyond redemption, and made a mental note. They would have to go too.
On Broadway and 73rd Street the chill drove him into a small restaurant, where he ordered ham and eggs and black coffee. His lifetime in an institution had equipped him for an early breakfast and early dinner, and though he had changed his eating habits to conform to his new-found freedom the idea of breakfast seemed reasonable to him. His table was by the window, a square slab of wood on a center stand and topped with red Formica. The four chairs were the straightback kind, one had a hole punched into its oval seat. He bypassed it for the window slot.
Sipping his hot coffee he watched the hordes of people, all of them intent on their separate journeys. With closed faces and rigid bodies, they rushed past or waited for buses or dove between cars against the light. They behaved en masse as though they needed desperately to go somewhere and had precious little time to get there, and after a while Bishop became uneasy watching them. He finally turned away as his mind flashed on an image of rats scurrying in a maze that he had once seen on television. They had nothing to do and nowhere to go but they kept up their frantic activity. He wondered what all the people had to do and where they needed to go. In five minutes he had seen more people than he had in five months at Willows. It was still a bit scary and he was glad he hadn’t come upon them his first day out,
His ham and eggs were brought over and he ate hungrily, staring into the plate. He saved the toast for last, to go with a second cup of coffee.
As he lifted his eyes from the empty dish he saw the girl at the next table. She was sitting alone with a cup in front of her, its handle chipped. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes vacant. She sat motionless save for a slight swaying of the head. Though she stared in his direction she gave no indication of having seen him. For a moment he thought she might be ill but then he remembered all the TV shows he had seen about drug addicts. They looked just like the girl at the table. That same kind of vacant stare, that same nodding of the head. He kept watching her, fascinated.
A man eventually came from behind the counter and told her it was time to go. She didn’t hear him. He said it again. Still no notice. He gently took her arm and raised her to a standing position, then slowly escorted her to the door. He pushed it open and led her out to the sidewalk and a metal pole by the curb. She appeared not to care.
Back in the restaurant the man rubbed his hands briskly as he returned behind the counter. He was a New Yorker, wise to the ways of many life styles and much experienced in the neighborhood. He knew better than to startle a junkie, to come upon one suddenly. Junkies might do anything. The best way was to touch them gently and lead them firmly. They were sick people who needed help they didn’t get. He felt sorry for them even though most of them were pigs. Like the girl he had just got out. He would never trust a junkie, not even for a cup of coffee. Without money they were the poorest of the poor, and that was the worst thing of all to be in New York. Or the South Pole too.
Bishop had noted the episode carefully. The man was very gentle with her, very considerate. Which meant he loved her and was sorry she was a drug addict. It was sad and Bishop giggled softly. He was already learning about New York.
He went back to his coffee and toast. People were still scurrying in all directions. Traffic was backing up, horns were blowing. Someone dashed madly across the street, causing brakes to squeal in the far lane. Others seemingly dared cars to hit them.
A female drug addict. He considered the possibilities. Here, on Broadway in New York City, a woman with dead eyes was killing herself with evil drugs. Trying to end the horror of what she was. Probably many others were doing the same. Women who couldn’t stand the awful suffering any longer and in their madness turned to drugs of death. Women too old or too ill or too crazed to destroy any more men; women ready to die, wanting to die, crying out to die.
Maybe he could help some of them.
He was still thinking about helping women when the young man came over to the table. He took the broken chair, slumped down on it. His hands reached up for his sunglasses. “You holding?”
Bishop turned to him. “Holding what?”
“Your dick,” shot back the other in exasperation. “What you think I mean? Scag. You buying or selling?”
“What’s scag?” Bishop asked. He had the feeling that the youth in pink jeans and flannel shirt had mistaken him for someone else. Someone who spoke another language.
“You a narc or something?”
“Not really.”
“You from the mob?”
“Not really.”
“Which is it?”
“Really not.”
“You just come in for a cup of coffee, is that it?”
Bishop didn’t understand what was so strange about that. It was a restaurant, wasn’t it? Why did people go into restaurants except to eat? But maybe New York was different. Maybe it had restaurants where no one went in just for coffee, maybe even where no one went in to eat anything. But then why did they go at all? He would try to learn what he could.
“I also had ham and eggs,” he said helpfully. He thought that might make him seem all right.
“No shit,” said the youth in disgust.
“No shit,” said Bishop, trying to follow the leader in order to understand what was expected of him.
The pink-jeans-and-flannel-shirt looked at the speaker for the first time. He didn’t see a cop or a hood. So what was it?
“You from here?” he asked suspiciously.
“No.”
“From where?”
“There.”
The youth nodded in sympathetic understanding. “Rough.”
“Rough enough.” Bishop began to believe the man was totally insane.
“So you holding?”
“Holding what?”
That did it for the jeans-and-shirt. He could see only a pure, dumb hick who probably didn’t know one drug from another. And he had some sugar pills on him.
“I got some dynamite shit,” he whispered hoarsely. “You want a dime?”
“I have enough money. Thanks anyway.”
The youth mumbled under his breath. “I mean heroin. Top stuff. I got it in pills. Two for ten bucks.”
Bishop looked at him
reproachfully. “I don’t take drugs,” he announced with an air of injured dignity.
“So get ‘em for a friend.”
Dignity turned to the window. The girl was still by the curb, leaning up against the post. An idea came into his head. “All right,” he said, turning back. “I’ll buy two of your drug pills. But only for five dollars.” He remembered a TV show in which a narcotics officer told how drug dealers would sell to strangers for double the price. He was too smart for anything like that.
“Five dollars,” he repeated, “or nothing.”
The youth didn’t even hesitate. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out two transparent capsules filled with a white powder and shoved them into the waiting hand.
From his jacket Bishop pulled several bills, careful not to reveal the black money case concealed underneath. He unfolded them; the smallest was a ten. The young man said they wouldn’t change it in the restaurant, but he offered to go across the street to the cigar store and get change while his amigo finished his coffee. It would only take a minute.
Bishop thought that was very nice of him. He watched as the dealer crossed Broadway, dodging cars and buses. Somewhere on the other side of the crowded avenue he lost sight of his ten dollars.
Twenty minutes later, his second cup of coffee long gone, Bishop sadly got up and paid for his meal and left the restaurant. He reminded himself to be more careful in New York. The city might contain some thieves.
Outside he walked over to the girl. Her head was slowly bobbing up and down. Passersby would stare at her for a second and then hurry onward, never breaking their stride. She seemed oblivious to them.
“Where do you live? Can I take you home?” He put his hand on her arm in a gentle manner.
Her only response was to shake herself free.
Several minutes of talk got him nothing but moans from the girl and hostile stares from others. Even mention of the drug didn’t excite her. He decided it was too dangerous for him to be standing there. His intention had been to get her home, assuming she lived alone, and to feed her the drug and then end her misery in celebration of his arrival. Now he saw that would be impractical for him to do.
By Reason of Insanity Page 35