By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  With a rush of pleasure Stoner recalled their last time together in bed. He had lain naked on his back while she knelt above him. Slowly she lowered herself onto his penis, deeper and deeper, until her skin touched his. For a long moment she remained motionless, as though impaled on him. Then she began to move ever so slowly, rhythmically, her Venus lips expanding and contracting in controlled muscular spasms as his body writhed in sensual delight. What was that he had shouted through clenched teeth, unable to contain himself any longer? “Take me, you bitch.” As he exploded inside her the bitch quickly lifted a hand-held massager out of the ice bucket and ran its icy fingers over his abdomen and chest, sending him into ecstatic shock.

  Thinking it over, Stoner wondered if he wasn’t being too hasty. She really was very good at that sort of thing. He shook his head. All the same, she would have to go.

  There was only one thing to do. He would tell her, and quickly. That very weekend. Better still, on Monday or Tuesday, just before he left for the East and New York. That way he could get her in bed a few more times.

  She would be crushed, naturally. What woman wouldn’t? But he’d give her a few hundred dollars for old times and just say goodbye.

  He was moving up in every way.

  IT WAS eleven o’clock before Sheriff Oates returned to his office in Forest City. He found the memo from Hillside and immediately called John Spanner.

  “Good or bad?” he asked when he finally got through to the lieutenant, who had been interrogating a prisoner in another section of the building.

  Spanner couldn’t hide his disappointment. He had expected to be able to tell Oates that the Willows killer was known at last. Instead he was being forced to confess failure once again, and to a man who had never subscribed to his theories or methods. He wouldn’t blame the sheriff for laughing at him.

  “It’s all bad,” he replied with sadness in his voice.

  “Circumcised?”

  “Right down to the bone.”

  Oates was not surprised. It would’ve been too much to expect after all this time that they’d come up with the answer so easily. Besides, he didn’t think it was Bishop, though he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. Neither did he think it was Mungo. The best brain in the world couldn’t have survived this long and, from his record, Mungo was no brain. Nor was anyone that lucky. Men disappear all the time but this one was right out there killing women whenever he felt the urge. Only one answer was possible. He hadn’t been caught because he hadn’t been sought. But who was he? And where was Mungo?

  “Got any suggestions?” asked Spanner after a moment. “I’m open to anything from now on.”

  He was grateful to the sheriff for not laughing. It might indicate a change of mind or perhaps just professional courtesy. Either way he was immensely relieved.

  “It could still be Bishop,” said Oates kindly. “Both of them were circumcised and so was the body. We’re no worse off than before.”

  “Except we have no proof,” protested Spanner, “and that was the last chance to get any.”

  “Maybe the record’s wrong. Hospitals make mistakes, you know.”

  “I already checked. No mistake. It’s right in his file, which hadn’t been touched in twentyfive years. Doctor’s name and everything.” His sigh of defeat was long and clearly audible over the phone. “I’ve given up on Bishop. I guess it has to be Mungo.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Oates slowly. “Not anymore.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Damned if I know. But not Mungo. He would’ve been picked up by now.”

  “A friend?”

  “Or someone he met after he busted out.”

  “But what happened to him?”

  Oates coughed. “Maybe he got himself killed or went into hiding, I don’t know.”

  A pause. Then, Spanner: “You sound like Finch now.”

  “Who?”

  Spanner reminded him of the Berkeley professor who had figured out the circumcision angle.

  “He’s said almost from the beginning it wasn’t Mungo.”

  “Who’s he got in mind?”

  “Nobody particular, just a mad genius.”

  “Doesn’t help us. If it’s not Mungo or Bishop we need a suspect, a name. Something, for chrissake.”

  “Jim, do you think there’s a chance this—this nobody may have nothing at all to do with the Willows killing?”

  “Either that,” said Oates heavily, “or Mungo’s out there laughing like hell at us. Personally, I hope the son of a bitch is dead and gone. One thing sure. If he ain’t dead and I get to him first, he won’t be around to go back to a nut house.”

  CARL HANSUN finally got out of bed at noon after an all-night poker session. His head ached, his throat hurt and his hands shook; all of which meant he had enjoyed himself in his night out with the boys. At age fifty-seven he was in reasonably good health for a man with a bad lung and a steel plate in his head. Except for his constant coughing from the cigarettes and occasional stomach pains whenever he boozed it up too much. Tall and still comparatively thin for his years, he ate sparingly and exercised regularly. A millionaire now, Hansun planned to live a long time enjoying his money.

  While he shaved and dressed he had the cook prepare his usual breakfast of grapefruit juice, a cheese omelet, and coffee, after which he lit his first Camel of the day. At the moment he found himself alone in the huge Idaho house, save for the servants of course. His wife of many years was visiting her ailing mother in Washington, his younger son had returned to college. The older boy, Carl, Jr., now lived in New York, a move his father hoped was only temporary. After five months in a state hospital getting over the depression caused by an unstable wife’s suicide in their California home, the young man had spent a year with his parents before moving on to New York where he had some college friends. He wrote regularly and seemed to be doing fine. Still the father worried, as good fathers often do.

  By one o’clock Hansun was being driven to the first of several meetings he had scheduled for this Friday afternoon. His business interests were varied and he gave personal attention to each of them. A meticulous man, no less now than twenty years earlier, he saw to every detail of his affairs. Much of his later success was attributable to this methodical nature, as well as to a certain ruthlessness in business matters.

  To anyone who might have known him for the several decades, he would appear to have changed very little. His fortune of course. A dozen added pounds, a bit less hair, a few more lines in his face. And the name change. After leaving California he had changed it to Pandel, since Carl Hansun was wanted for an armored car robbery. In Idaho, Pandel lived quietly on his share of the money, soon surrounding himself with new associates. In the fifties and early sixties there was big money to be made in the West and Carl’s fortune grew rapidly. So did his power and influence.

  Now he had four cars, and as he stepped out of the limousine the door was held open by the chauffeur-bodyguard who quickly followed him into the office building.

  ASSISTANT DIRECTOR Henry Baylor arrived at his new home at 2 P.M., his devoted wife by his side. Both of them were exhausted from their travels and glad to be back.

  The house was an A-frame, with a small front lawn and a garden on one side. The living room and den were downstairs, a kitchen in the rear. The cathedral ceiling ended at the stairwell, which led to two upstairs bedrooms. Baylor intended to use one of them as his study. A third room would be set aside for overnight guests, what few there might be. The doctor’s new position did not afford him quite the authority or prestige he had enjoyed at Willows.

  The Baylors had been away for one month, the first vacation in more years than they cared to remember. Three weeks spent in Hawaii, exploring craters and native life styles, with the final week given over to a leisurely drive up the northern California coast from San Francisco to the doctor’s new assignment, a state facility near the Oregon border. Smaller than Willows, it did not house those judged criminally insane. Nor di
d it normally accept behavioral problems from other institutions.

  After some political and administrative maneuvering Baylor was assigned to the number-two spot at the facility. He resented the move of course. In his view the police were entirely at fault for not quickly capturing Vincent Mungo. Within Willows the blame lay with Dr. Lang, who had brought Mungo there.

  Yet politics necessitated some sacrificial offering and, as head man, he was the logical target. Baylor understood this; most of his professional career had been spent in administrative capacities. What he could not accept was their callous disregard of his stature in demoting him to assistant director. For more than a decade he had been a full director of state institutions. This latest move was a severe embarrassment to him, and the fact that it was merely temporary didn’t make it any more palatable. He was not accustomed to waiting around for someone to retire.

  He sat now in his new furnished home, provided by his employer, and wondered if he should wait the year—no, actually fifteen months—until he became the director. Perhaps he should himself retire. He was fifty-eight years old and had put in twentyfive years with the state. A quarter of a century was a long time, and there were other things he might want to do.

  THE BUS from San Diego and Los Angeles pulled into Fresno just after three o’clock. Don Solis was the last to leave, his gym bag in his hand. He walked the few blocks from the station to his hotel, where he undressed and lay naked on the bed for a half hour, resting his weary body and weaving fantasies of incredibly gifted women. Though Fresno was his home, he had never felt a sense of permanency anywhere and so he lived his life out of dresser drawers in hostile hotels, always paying by the week and leaving behind nothing of value. It suited his style and at the moment his frame of mind as well.

  Solis was jumpy. Ever since his brother’s death he felt trapped, as though his whole life was beginning to close in on him. Actually the feeling began even earlier, when he first agreed to do what Carl Hansun wanted. He had played his part well and Senator Stoner got a lot of publicity, for which Solis was responsible. Then his brother got killed and he was responsible for that too.

  Now he saw it was all coming apart for him; all the wrong things he had done in his life would catch up with him. His brother’s death was just the start. There were many others. The killing of Harry Owens, twenty-one years earlier, was not one of them, at least in his eyes. But it had changed his life, lost him much time and led indirectly to his involvement with Caryl Chessman and Senator Stoner. That made it important and he thought about it a lot lately.

  He took a fast shower, a habit acquired in prison where everything was done quickly in order to have even more time in which to do nothing. After an equally rapid shave he dressed and left the room, double-locking the door behind him. On the stairs he mumbled a greeting to a young couple he had seen previously. The girl looked about sixteen but already had the ripe lushness of womanhood, her long legs shapely, her breasts heavy. She wore a blouse with three buttons open and a brief skirt that revealed the promise of muscular thighs. Solis snapped her into his mind for a future fantasy. The boy couldn’t have been more than twenty, and he guessed that they were runaways from home having a sexual orgy before reality caught up with them. He wondered if the boy knew what to do with it. Of the girl he had no doubts; he had known too many like her in his own youth. And a few since then too.

  At the corner he paid for his ticket and pulled the Dodge out of the parking lot. It felt good to be behind the wheel again after those long hours on the bus. But it had been worth the time and effort. He had needed to see Messick again, to spend a few days away from home, to get his head straight and his perspective back. He thought of Johnny Messick, fifty now and doing all right in San Diego. They had been friends for many years, even though they hadn’t seen each other for most of those years. The two of them, and his brother Lester of course, had been tight long before Carl Hansun and Hank Green showed up in Los Angeles. Long before Harry Owens too. They should never have met Hansun or the others; they would’ve been better off All those years wasted in prison, for all of them. All wasted.

  He had told Messick about Hansun’s visit to the diner, about the anonymous gift often thousand dollars he used to start up the business, about the story he was asked to tell Senator Stoner regarding Gary! Chessman, for which he had received another ten thousand. The story that got his brother killed. And now apparently was causing more trouble. He had been approached by a national newspaper wanting to do a feature on his prison relationship with Chessman. Naturally he had refused. He had also received several calls warning him to keep his mouth shut.

  Messick had listened carefully, his thin lips pressed in worry. He was not in the organized rackets himself but he was friendly with some of the mob and knew the score. He told Solis to be cautious. Caryl Chessman’s friends could be after him, Carl Hansun’s people might be afraid he would talk, someone in the business might resent his squealing just on general principles. Remember Albert Anastasia and Arnold Schuster? Or he could be the target of some real nut, like the one who hit his brother.

  Solis agreed; anything was possible. But Hansun really worried him. He was sorry he had started the whole thing. Now it was too late.

  No it wasn’t, Messick had pointed out. Not if he went to Stoner and laid it all out for him.

  But Solis couldn’t do that. The senator had gained from his story, he would not want to hear anything different. Those politicians were as bad as the mob when it came to protecting themselves. Besides, it was over now and Stoner was riding his own crest. He didn’t need anything local anymore.

  What about the newspapers? Once they had it, no one would get to him about keeping quiet.

  Then they would for not keeping quiet. And anyway, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wasn’t a canary. All he wanted was to be left alone.

  Before he left San Diego he had given Messick an envelope containing the full account of his dealings with Carl Hansun, beginning with the armored-car robbery in 1952 and going up to what he had recently been asked—told—to do. It included Hansun’s Idaho construction company address, got through a contact who checked the limousine registration from the license plate noted by Solis on the day of the visit.

  If anything happened to him, Messick was to give the envelope to the police. That way, at least he would be avenged. Johnny Messick had promised he would take care of it.

  Now on the way to his diner Solis tried to relax. Business was still good and he was making money. The cops were not looking for him so he wasn’t going back to prison. Maybe he would get out of this okay. All he had to do was tell Carl about the envelope, but not who had it; that was his life insurance. He would make Hansun see that he was no threat as long as he was left alone.

  In the parking area Solis cut the engine, his mind made up. On Monday he would call Idaho and get to Hansun through the construction company. A half hour in a business library had even given him the new name. The president of the company was listed as Carl Pandel.

  Mr. Pandel would see that he meant business too.

  Now, if he could only get rid of the feeling that everything was about to blow up in his face.

  FRIDAY WAS a late day for Amos Finch, and he didn’t arrive home until almost four o’clock, his last class ending at three twentyfive. No sooner was he in the door than the phone’s insistent ring brought him on the run. It was John Spanner calling from Hillside. He had tried the house several times during the day; he hadn’t wanted to bother the professor on campus.

  The news was not good. Both Mungo and Bishop had been circumcised as infants. Bishop’s records named a Dr. Timothy Engles. The records were doublechecked by the hospital administration in Los Angeles.

  Finch expressed his surprise and disappointment. He had played the law of averages, expecting one of the two to be circumcised. That would have told them which was which. But with both the same, the idea lost its value. He was very sorry.

  The lieutenant sighed over the
phone. No more sorry than he. Were there any other suggestions Finch might have? Anything at all?

  Not at the moment, no. There was of course a difference in motive between circumcising for cosmetic purposes and because the foreskin was too tight but the operation itself was basically the same. It would be too much to expect the same doctor to have done both and to remember them after twentyfive years. Besides, pictures wouldn’t reveal anything since the difference might have been in the reason but not the result.

  The ears could possibly have told something. There were experts who claimed they were as distinctive as fingerprints. But of course they had been hacked to pieces with the rest of the face and head. And the same for the teeth. Too bad the killer’s maniacal fury had been so thorough.

  Almost like he planned it that way, said Spanner, who couldn’t seem to let go of his obsession.

  What about footprints on the hospital certificate? That was often done immediately after birth to prevent any mix-up of infants.

  Spanner told him that had been checked long ago. Los Angeles had started such a procedure only in the early fifties. Too late for their needs.

  Both men agreed it was another piece of bad luck.

  Afterward Finch reviewed his feelings about this latest development. Had he proved Thomas Bishop was alive, since only Bishop and Mungo were missing from Willows, he would have gained some recognition, especially if Bishop had proved to be the maniac and was quickly apprehended. Instead, the identity was still a mystery and the man still apparently safe from capture.

  Amos Finch didn’t know whether to be happy or not.

  For his own part, John Spanner was definitely on the unhappy side. Both Finch and Sheriff Oates believed the madman was not Bishop but someone who had come along after Mungo escaped. Now he, Spanner, was thinking the same thing. Bishop was dead, Mungo was dead or missing, and the nameless killer was in New York. So be it.