By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  The local precinct cops had gone, some of the others were just leaving. Dimitri had no desire to be with the lab people, not while they were working inside. He had seen enough.

  “Inspector?”

  It was Murphy, the first to arrive from the task force. His eyes were red with fatigue, his mouth grim. He sat down heavily, slowly ran a hand over his jaw.

  “What he done in there. Suppose the guy turns out to be—not human. I mean, suppose he’s something we don’t know anything about. Nobody knows. Maybe some strange kind of horrible animal.”

  “You mean like the Abominable Snowman or Bigfoot?”

  “Something like that. Only worse. Maybe it has the power to become human or even to hypnotize people to see it as human. Then it could never be caught or killed or—”

  The look on the inspector’s face stopped him. Dimitri had much the same thought when he viewed the body—animal cunning and primeval savagery—but he realized it was not good thinking for a police officer. Animals didn’t make good suspects. Or good arrests.

  “He’s human all right,” Dimitri said, “just barely. And we’ll get him too. One way or another.”

  Their eyes met in understanding.

  “One thing sure,” Murphy said, rising from the couch. “Whatever it is, it’ll never stand trial.”

  AT 9:20 A.M. in Washington, D.C., in an office less than a half mile from the White House, a youngish man in a dark suit sat at his desk and read the memo for the third time. Newstime was preparing a cover story on Caryl Chessman, using Vincent Mungo as a front. Reporters from the magazine were digging up everything they could in California. In view of the fact that the President was Vice-President under Eisenhower at the time Chessman was executed, it could mean a major attack on the administration. The fanatical hostility of Newstime toward the Nixon people made it a strong possibility.

  The man placed the single sheet on his excessively neat desk and smoothed it out carefully. The memo was from one of his staff on the Committee to Reelect the President. Even though it seemed a bit far-fetched, this was no time to take chances. The press was becoming increasingly vehement in its denunciation of the President. Newstime was a good example. A longtime Republican supporter going back to the days of Herbert Hoover, it was now a leading critic not only of Nixon but of his entire administration. In the past six months it had published four highly critical articles.

  Still, how damaging could a story on Caryl Chessman be to his chief? He should probably forget about the memo. There was nothing definite about the report; it could as easily be a straight news story. But suppose it wasn’t? Suppose Newstime had found something explosive to use against the government, something that would feed the rumormongers at the Washington Post, for example? Once they got their rabid teeth into it, once they smelled blood, there would be no stopping them. Not that they could find anything, mind you, or print anything but lies and distortions. But why give them even that opportunity? Why give them anything but the cold contempt they deserved?

  The still youngish man was inordinately proud of the Nixon administration, and most especially of the Committee to Reelect the President. Using specific techniques, some of which he had himself created or perfected, the Committee had seen the President through reelection. It had been a difficult time and they had done their job well, so well in fact that it was a virtual landslide. Only seventeen electoral votes for McGovern. Seventeen—in the whole country! And a plurality of eighteen million! Unbelievable.

  Now they were faced with an even bigger task, one of enormous implications. Instead of disbanding after the ‘72 elections, as they were expected to do since the President could serve only two terms, they were entrusted, at least partially, with an awesome responsibility. Nothing less than to seek ways to implement a movement for a third term. Such a movement would require the most precise kind of manipulation since it would have to come directly from grassroots support, from the American people themselves. Or at least be made to appear that way. Only a prolonged groundswell of emotion that eventually erupted into thunderous assent across the entire country could produce sufficient leverage to have the Twenty-second Amendment repealed. The Committee to Reelect the President might finally have to change its name or even go underground, but its creative capabilities were equal to the task before it, and it would, God willing, succeed in its holy mission.

  The Committee executive liked the political life very much and intended to remain in the center of all the immense power. Nothing must interfere with that destiny. Sitting now at his desk, he came to a decision. Best to play it safe. In the matter of his subordinate’s memo concerning the Newstime story, he would kick it upstairs. Meaning the White House.

  AT ABOUT the same time that Friday in New York City, Newstime investigative reporter Adam Kenton arrived at his office, morning paper in hand. He opened it on the cluttered desk and stared again at the headline: “Chess Man Claims Second Victim in City.” On page 3 he read the gruesome details for the tenth time. What he read confirmed his belief that his prey had a fix on Caryl Chessman—the word “Chess” had been printed in blood on a wall of the victim’s apartment—and that he was acting out the killing of his mother, either real or imagined. Kenton stubbornly clung to the conviction that it was real. The story also told him something he had never fully realized until that moment. The man was totally committed to his insane course and would not be stopped except by death, final and irrevocable. Except by death …

  The phone interrupted his thoughts. Fred Grimes had news of Carl Pandel from the detective agency. Pandel had arrived in New York on July 10 by train; was afraid to fly, according to California information. He worked part-time for the Museum of Modern Art, two days a week, in the membership-services section on the main floor. Mostly to be around people, it seemed, since the money wasn’t much. Started there August i. Hung out with a few college friends, had a small place on the upper West Side near Columbia University. Father sent him $800 every month through an Idaho bank to his account here. Spent most of his time at home or the movies when not with his friends, was a movie freak. No known female attachments in New York at the present time.

  Detectives had been on him since Wednesday, tailing him from when he left the apartment to his eventual return. No unusual movements observed thus far. On both evenings he got home around eight o’clock, at which time surveillance was discontinued for the night.

  So there was no way of knowing if he had gone out again, perhaps down to Greenwich Village to kill. Asking other tenants if he had left the building later in the evening, assuming anyone saw him, would prove nothing and might tip Pandel to the fact that he was being watched.

  It was a bad break, and Kenton blamed himself. He told Grimes he wanted a twentyfour-hour surveillance until something happened. Starting immediately, if not sooner.

  Then he added it all up. July 10 in New York, and Vincent Mungo had crashed out July 4. Two days of work a week, leaving five days free. And giving him a sort of alibi. If his fear of flying was just a cover, it could’ve been done. He could have slipped back and forth across the country by plane during August and September, paying in cash under a phony name each time. At least he was still a good possibility.

  That over with, Kenton called the 13th Precinct. Deputy Inspector Dimitri had assured him that the Department was interested in an exchange of information but no mention was made of money. He took this to mean the police had no leads and were afraid to accept money from a magazine. Which meant they would be of no help to him. With no insurance left, he would have to get to Chess Man first.

  Dimitri had nothing for him beyond what was in the papers. He did not bother to mention that the police were widening their investigation to include local used-car dealers and apartment-rental agencies. And Kenton didn’t reveal in return his investigation of Carl Pandel or the mail-drop names that private detectives were already running down.

  Each promised to continue the free flow of information.

  At the Rockefell
er Institute he spoke with the two doctors who had drawn the profile of the maniacal slayer and Ripper Reference subject.

  Was there any chance that the person they profiled was clinically sane?

  None whatsoever. Not in their opinion.

  What about legally sane?

  They couldn’t say for sure. Legally he might be considered sane if he knew the difference between right and wrong. But in this case his actions were so bizarre that probably no judge would declare him competent to stand trial.

  So he would be sent to an institution for the criminally insane.

  That is right.

  An institution like Willows in California, from which Vincent Mungo had escaped.

  Yes.

  Would he ever be set free?

  Probably not.

  But was there any chance that he might someday be free again?

  In such matters there was always that chance.

  Free to destroy again …

  Kenton thanked the doctors for their time and wheeled round to face Otto Klemp, who had entered the office without a sound. His thick glasses effectively hid his probing eyes.

  The two men stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Why am I being followed?” Kenton finally asked when Klemp had seated himself.

  “Are you being followed?”

  “For the past few days, maybe longer. Aren’t they your people?”

  The security chief permitted himself a smile. “You called me down here to tell me I’m having you followed?”

  “I called you here to tell you to stop it.” Kenton reached for a pack of cigarettes, took one out, lit it. “I don’t think Mr. Mackenzie knows about this or would allow it. I’ll tell him if I have to.”

  “You mean I’ll tell him if you have to.” Klemp stood up. “Is that all?”

  “Just a word of advice. See that it stops. I have enough problems looking for Mungo without having to watch you over my shoulder every minute.”

  Klemp carefully removed his glasses and began to polish them with a small cloth. “Now I’ll return the advice, Mr. Kenton, equally free. Anybody can find out anything about anyone else, all it takes is money. And we all have something to hide. Presidents, kings, businessmen, the FBI. Everybody. You too. For example, you call yourself Kenton but you are not really of that family. You were left on a doorstep as an infant. The Kentons took you in and kept you as their own since they had no children. You knew that of course. But did you also know of your mother? Most likely she was a high school girl named Jenson who was extraordinarily generous with her—favors? So generous in fact that no one could say with any degree of certainty who your father was. A short time later her family moved away. Interesting, no?” Klemp slowly put his glasses back on. “The advice I spoke of is this: Always watch over your shoulder because something might be gaining on you.” He adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face. “As I had occasion to tell you once before, Mr. Kenton, whenever you step out of your class you step down.” With a polite nod of the head he turned away and marched to the door.

  Kenton, whose foster parents were dead, had not known about the Jenson girl and had never really wanted to hear anything about his actual mother or father. Nor was he much impressed by the news though he knew he would someday have to try to find her, now that he had a name.

  But that was for the future. His main concern at the moment had the door opened.

  “Give my regards to the Western Holding Company,” he blurted out. He hadn’t meant to say it, didn’t want to tip his hand just yet. But his mind was filled with disgust for the shabby thing Klemp had just said.

  The effect was startling. Klemp stopped in mid-step, his hand still on the door. He did not turn around but his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, enough to show he had been stunned.

  Kenton smiled in smug satisfaction.

  “Like you say, anybody can find out anything,” he shouted as the door closed softly.

  When he ran the scene over in his mind one thing became clear. He would have to get some spectacular results on his assignment since Klemp made a powerful enemy in the company, one with access to Mackenzie himself

  He was still weighing it all when George Homer came in full of information. As far as he was able to determine, the rumor about Vincent Mungo’s father having been a homosexual was just that. A rumor, with no basis in reality. The man had apparently been very gentle, except when drunk, and certainly weak in action, if not character. Not too effective in anything. One of the probable causes of his suicide was his wife’s death. He didn’t seem able to do much without her.

  With regard to Senator Stoner, his home in Sacramento had been bought legitimately on a twenty-year mortgage, paid off in nine years. Not an unusual thing for politicians. The house in Beaumont, Washington, a flamboyant affair, was given to Stoner and his wife by her parents, who had a bunch of money. They lived in Washington. Stoner’s land in northern California and Idaho was another story. Both properties were bought separately over the past six years from the same realty outfit, the Rincan Development Corporation. For twenty thousand—evidently in cash—and now worth about forty. But the interesting thing was that both were in narrow areas of valuable mineral deposits. When the states allowed further development, the value would zoom. Which should be fairly soon.

  A fortuitous purchase for the senator.

  Fortuitous or otherwise.

  Homer had also discovered the Berkeley criminologist who had been saying in his classes that Vincent Mungo was not the killer. His name was Amos Finch. He was a recognized expert on mass murderers and his books on the subject were considered classics. He lived quietly in a rented house near the university campus. His only vices seemed to be women and horses.

  Kenton smiled to himself, thinking that only Homer could get away with such an observation.

  Finally, he was in the process of going through the Chessman material. There was plenty, more than he had expected. What he had read thus far seemed either grossly maudlin or inflammatory. Chessman apparently induced very little middle ground. Should he continue?

  Yes, and he should also look into the Rincan Development Corporation. Whatever he could get. That was important. Also how close California and Idaho were to allowing mineral development on those lands. And would he get the name and phone number of Stoner’s mistress in Sacramento? Maybe they could make a deal with her.

  “Use Doris for whatever you need. I gave her back to Mel Brown part-time.”

  Homer laughed and said he was a bit old for that sort of thing. She was much nearer Kenton’s age.

  Remembering her full-bodied blouse, Kenton quickly agreed and said he would have to look into it.

  At the phone’s first insistent ring he spun around, and was back in the chase.

  OTTO KLEMP had just finished a chase of a different kind, one that had taken him only a few hours, and he now stood in the office of Martin Dunlop. He was not happy.

  “You investigate someone in the company and neglect to tell me? You have him followed without my consent?” His voice sounded incredulous. “That was not smart, Martin. I am responsible for all internal security. Or did you forget?”

  Dunlop frowned. “I just didn’t want to bother you with this.”

  “But now I am bothered even more.” His lips formed a cheerless smile. “Your thoughtfulness is appreciated but, as you can see, it has helped nobody. Kenton is no fool, he knows he is being followed. Did you think less, hiring a pack of amateurs?”

  The contempt in his voice stung Dunlop’s pride.

  “They were highly recommended,” he said coldly.

  “They are bungling idiots,” shouted Klemp, who quickly lowered his voice to a whisper. “Now it will be more difficult to do properly. And more expensive.” He gazed stonily at Dunlop. “What else did you purchase?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any telephone taps?”

  The editor-in-chief looked uncomforta
ble. “Just the office phone. They said they couldn’t do the St. Moritz.”

  “Amateurs,” Klemp repeated scornfully. “Anything else?”

  Dunlop shook his head.

  “So from now on I will handle all security matters and you will manage your magazine.” He smiled. “Maybe we do better that way.”

  “Just make sure you find out what he’s up to.”

  “I already know what our young man is up to. I was aware of it almost from the beginning.”

  “And when will we get the benefit of your knowledge?” asked the editor-in-chief sarcastically.

  Klemp shrugged. “It is quite simple. He is a maverick, a rebel who must always tilt at windmills. He sees a chance to investigate the company and perhaps slay a few dragons, and he cannot resist. He is an idealist, incorruptible and full of moral rectitude. He cannot bend, and so one day a windmill will break his fool neck. Until then he is the most dangerous animal on earth.”

  “But can he find this Vincent Mungo?”

  “Possibly. He is really very good at what he does.”

  “Then he had better do it on his assignments instead of snooping around the company.”

  Klemp went to the door. “He’ll probably do both. By the way,” the security head said on the way out, “he asked about the Western Holding Company.”

  He didn’t turn around to witness Dunlop’s startled reaction.

  ACROSS THE river, in an office of the Board of Health and Vital Statistics, an official copy of Thomas Wayne Brewster’s birth certificate, complete with the raised seal of Jersey City, was being mailed to him at his residence, 654 Bergen Avenue.

  Both buildings were in the same mailing zone and the envelope would normally arrive the following day.

  JONATHAN STONER had put in three tough days in as many places starting with Kansas City, and he was now in D.C. still working hard. He had a lot of people to meet, big people, and a lot of talking to do. He hoped to hear some big talk in return. That was very important at this stage. He had come a long way, and there were people from the West and Midwest power centers who believed he was going far and were ready to back him. Now the eastern power bloc would look him over but Stoner wasn’t worried. He was riding high and his time was at hand.