Consciously carnal, the teenager shivered with thrills as she felt his thing explore her. It felt very professional. She hoped he had a lot of staying power because she surely needed it. Needed something, for certain.
To Solis, smothered in sensuality, life was looking up again. He had the business with Carl Hansun straightened out, and his letter was safe with Johnny Messick. He was making money in the diner and he would make even more. He had plans.
Throughout the night, between bouts of sleep, the two combatants fitfully coupled and uncoupled as the flesh moved them.
KENTON AWAKENED at 8 A.M. right on schedule, rested and alert. By 8:30 he had showered and shaved and was ready to sit down to breakfast, which he ordered sent up. When the awaited merchandise was delivered at nine o’clock he was in the middle of two eggs fried pancake style and a muffin burned black. He gave the man one thousand dollars in cash and watched it being counted. Twice.
For the next twenty minutes he read about Carl Pandel, Senior. Besides heading up Western Holding, Pandel controlled or was a principal in all the satellite companies, including Rincan Development, of which he was chief executive officer, and the Pacifica Construction firm, which he owned outright and served as president. He was big money and had big political clout. He was also fifty-seven, his wife fifty-six. Two sons, Carl, Junior, now in New York, and Charles, in his second year at Stanford. Owned property in Idaho, Washington, Oregon and northern California. Lived in Idaho at least twenty years. Served in a number of administrative capacities in Boise and on several state commissions. A Republican, Pandel was known for his generous political contributions. Investment portfolio included a dozen major stocks, mostly in energy-related fields, and a wide assortment of state and municipal tax-free bonds. A heavy trader in lumber, mineral and precious metals commodities on both the West Coast and Chicago commodity exchanges. Also the Calgary Exchange in Canada. Believed to hold major equity in several Canadian mining ventures. Believed to have a Swiss bank account. Traditionally made unusually low income-tax payments for such a high gross income. Had individual trust funds set up for wife and sons …
The financial report went on and on and as Kenton read it through, he noted two obvious conclusions. Carl Pandel was apparently interested only in his own land and mineral ventures in the West and held no directorships or corporate seats on the boards of other businesses or in other geographical areas, such as New York. Pandel also was seemingly not himself involved in the business underworld, though he might have associates who were so involved. Such men often did.
Kenton noticed there was nothing in the report about the man’s background and early years, and he wondered about it. But since his interest was focused entirely on the present, on what was happening at the moment, he soon let the thought slip from his mind.
He had found nothing unusual about Pandel or his business activities, nothing that would shed any light on either Chess Man or Senator Stoner. Evidently it was just a coincidence that the man who was behind Western Holding had a son who was a suspect in the search for the maniac. Coincidences happened all the time, even stranger than that. Like the fact that Senator Stoner got valuable land for next to nothing from a satellite of Western Holding. Or like the fact that the top corporate people at Newstime—Mackenzie, Dunlop, most of the other big shots—all had a piece of Western Holding, which was very big in lumber which made paper for things like magazines. Even though the antitrust laws frowned on publishing corporations owning forests. But Newstime didn’t own any forests. Western Holding did. Newstime people just owned a piece of Western Holding. It probably was a smart buy and they all saw it and simply bought at the same time. Just another coincidence.
Adam Kenton didn’t believe in coincidences. He was willing to admit that the Pandel boy coming briefly into the picture was an oddity. But the Stoner deal was strictly malodorous. So was his company’s fancy footwork, though everything was no doubt legal. He knew what to do about Stoner but he wasn’t sure about Newstime. He’d probably just tell them to sell their holdings. The stink from the Stoner publicity would do the rest.
Assuming they printed the story when he wrote it.
God help them if they didn’t! He would be forced to go after all of them like an avenging demon.
The power of the press. And didn’t he love it!
When he had finished his reading and his breakfast Kenton took the report to his office and put it in the safe. The time was 9:50 into the morning of November 5.
INSPECTOR DIMITRI’S meeting was just breaking up at the i3th Precinct on East 21St Street. The mood this time was not quite so confident as that of the initial assembly two weeks earlier. By now the homicide detectives were beginning to realize they were up against somebody a little more resourceful than a slobbering madman or a wild-eyed berserker. Their enemy was shrewd and dispassionate. He went about his hideous business with a professional instinct, his every step calculated. Much like a chess player plotting his next move. He was obviously a master of disguise or else possessed the legendary cloak of invisibility. Thousands of hotel people in the city had his picture—dark, menacing. Other thousands of posters were in supermarkets, post offices, car-rental agencies and sales lots, bus and airline terminals, gas stations, banks, anywhere he might be recognized. Sooner or later their efforts would pay off at least they were still sure of that. Most of them anyway.
The latest victim had been found the previous Wednesday evening. This was Monday morning. Four days and no further killings. None discovered, at any rate. A few of them, the inveterate optimists, thought the worst might be over.
Dimitri knew better. His man had found a hole somewhere. Or had made one for himself, which was really all he needed. With a base of operations, he could sneak out whenever he wanted, and then slip back. Wherever too. He was already branching out. Not only prostitutes but girls living alone. Next time it could be any female anywhere.
But why the change to bat man? Why write a new name? What was its significance? There were some in the Department who believed the latest killing was the work of an imitator. Yet the M.O. was identical to the others. It had to be the work of the same madman. The imitators would come later, after the original was dead and gone.
Dimitri frowned in thought. He hoped he was around to see it. Couldn’t tell for sure, though. They never did catch Jack the Ripper.
Meanwhile he had ten more men and could use a hundred. But the net was widening every day. Something was bound to fall in.
For no reason he suddenly had a vision of vampire bats. They lived on blood. Maybe that was what Chess Man meant. He was a vampire bat. He could not be killed and he would not be captured.
Dimitri had a helpless feeling that things were going to get worse before they got better.
BY ELEVEN o’clock Kenton had listened to the entire Stoner tape for the second time. On it was talk of the land purchased from the real estate outfit, as well as mention of several other questionable and highly suspicious business deals. One section concerned the Solis incident. It sounded as though someone had set up the whole confession story to benefit Stoner but no names were mentioned. There were other things too, sleazy political deals and scatological opinions of prominent politicians and much obscene sexual material. All of it added up to enough for a withering investigative report on Senator Stoner.
Kenton put the tape in the safe. He would work on the article concurrently with his other investigation, mostly at night. It shouldn’t take him more than a week.
John Perrone called to assure him that all phone taps had been removed. In turn he was told that the story on the politician would be in his hands by the following Monday, hopefully. He wanted to know who it was. Kenton told him.
Perrone asked for a preliminary discussion first and a look at what they had in the way of information. That seemed fair under the circumstances and Kenton agreed. Ordinarily his stuff would go through a senior editor and then to one or more of the assistant managing editors before reaching Perrone’s
exalted desk. But he was on special assignment and responsible to Perrone personally. He wasn’t sure that was altogether a good thing in this instance.
At 11:30 he called Amos Finch in Berkeley but got no answer. From Mel Brown he learned that Thomas Bishop had been born in Los Angeles in 1948. He didn’t have the exact date or the hospital, if any. Kenton quickly sorted through the stack of papers on Vincent Mungo from the safe. What he sought was near the bottom. All about Bishop’s father’s death and the mother resuming her maiden name. Which meant that Bishop was Owens at birth and his mother had nothing to do with Caryl Chessman. No! It meant only that Bishop wasn’t Bishop at birth. Best to make certain. He skipped down the notice until he found what he needed. Born in Los Angeles County General Hospital on April 30, 1948. Just about the time Chessman went to prison for good.
He called Los Angeles. The administration office wasn’t open yet. Frustrated, he stared out the window at a gray New York morning.
Eventually he called Fred Grimes. When would the private detectives be finished checking out the Manhattan mail-drop list?
By that evening. Why?
Forget the other boroughs. They should immediately get on the twenty-two young white males. Plus whatever other eligibles they came up with. A total screening job.
What would they look for?
Anything out of the ordinary. Anything recent. Maybe someone just moved in but didn’t say from where. Maybe he acted funny. Maybe he liked knives. Maybe anything strange.
Chess Man lived in Manhattan, Kenton was sure of that now. He had studied his prey for a month, thought of him, dreamed of him, lived with him in his head until he was almost beginning to feel what Chess Man was feeling. Like any animal, he wouldn’t stray too far from the kill.
At 12:15 Kenton again called Amos Finch. Still no answer. He tried Los Angeles County General. The administration office was open and he was put through to one of the hospital administrators, a Mr. Hallock. He identified himself and briefly explained what he wanted.
Thomas Bishop? Yes, of course. He seems to be suddenly very popular. Umm. Yes. Born right here, April 30, 1948. How do I know? Had the same question couple weeks back. A policeman. Had the file right here on my desk. Only his legal name was Owens. Father was Harold Owens, mother Sara Bishop Owens. Guess that’s where he got the Bishop from. Not legal though, unless he had it changed. What? Yes, I’m positive. Thomas Owens. One of forty babies born that day. I checked them all just to make sure I got the right one because the policeman kept saying Bishop and it’s really Owens, you see. But I knew who he meant of course. With all the publicity when the poor man was killed, I certainly knew who Thomas Bishop was. He was Thomas Owens.
What’s that? The policeman? Yes, I think his name was Spanner. That’s right. Lieutenant Spanner… . Upstate somewhere. A town called Hillside, I believe he said. Had to call him there when I found the information… . No, afraid I didn’t keep the number. Quite all right. Glad to be of help.
Spanner! That was the name Amos Finch had mentioned. The cop who had once thought that Thomas Bishop—
Kenton grabbed for the earliest Mungo papers. He had seen that name before. He had seen it—there! Lieutenant John Spanner of Hillside, who had jurisdiction over the killing at Willows State Hospital. The killing of Thomas Bishop.
He quickly read through the account. Thomas Bishop’s face had been obliterated. Totally. Nothing was left. His identity was established largely by the clothes and personal possessions. It was a brutal, fiendish slaying. The work, it was said, of an absolute madman. Vincent Mungo.
Kenton lowered the paper.
Or an absolute Chess Man.
Chess Man.
Chess.
A master chessman. Every move carefully planned and brilliantly executed. He had made no mistakes. He had crossed a continent and shocked a nation. He had killed whenever he wanted and eluded capture wherever he went.
Mad he might be, but he was far from crazy.
He was also far from caught.
And he certainly wasn’t Vincent Mungo.
In later years Adam Kenton was to recall that moment many times as his mind made an intuitive leap, his imagination sparked a cerebral current that instantly fused all obstacles and impossibilities of an insanely devious and sinister scheme.
The idea grew even as his hand reached for the phone.
PETE ALLEN had tried a half dozen times to get through to Franklin Bush. Each time he was told the same thing. Mr. Bush was in conference and couldn’t be disturbed. But he would be given the message that Mr. Allen had called just as soon as he was free again.
On the last call Allen hung up abruptly. He didn’t think Bush would be free again for a long time. Being a good newspaperman, he didn’t take it personally. But he wondered how his friend’s superiors had found out so quickly about their meeting. Was the White House staff being spied on? Were they all followed wherever they went?
Or was he the one?
The Washington Post reporter went in to see his section chief
IN THE White House, Bob Gardner leaned back in the leather lounge chair that rested on a double thickness of plastic sheeting. Being somewhat shorter than the average male, Gardner had his chair fully raised and his specially-designed desk lowered several inches to give himself the maximum height advantage. The needed modifications helped to increase his feeling of security, which was one of the presumptives of power.
It had not been a particularly good Monday morning, all things considered, and Dean Gardner was not at his affable best. Demands for the President’s resignation were growing, following statements calling for such action by Democratic Senators Tunney of California and Inouye of Hawaii. Sunday’s New York Times had suggested resignation in an editorial, as had the Detroit News and the Denver Post. So had Joseph Alsop, long a Nixon supporter, and some TV newsmen, such as Howard K. Smith. The bandwagon was beginning to roll and Gardner definitely didn’t like the feel of it.
To make matters even worse the President was acting aloof, having abruptly left for Key Biscayne on Thursday and remaining in seclusion all weekend. And Wednesday evening he was due to make a televised speech to the nation on the energy crisis.
Dean Gardner sighed. He was going to suggest that the President end his speech on a personal note by saying he would never resign. Maybe that would stop some of the foolishness.
He buzzed his secretary. He wanted to speak to Ned Robbins of the White House legal counsel. On his desk was the Bush report suggesting that Newstime might be guilty of federal crimes as well as manipulation of news. Rumor had it that the weekly magazine was preparing an editorial strongly advising the President to resign. But pressure, as Bob Gardner well knew, could be made to work both ways.
In a few minutes he had Ned Robbins, who was very smooth and knew all the right people. He picked up the report.
“Ned? The President has asked me …”
IN NEW YORK Adam Kenton bit into the sandwich sent up for lunch. Corned beef on a roll, with Russian dressing dripping all over. Next to it the piece of pie looked anemic. He rested his feet on the desk and took a few minutes out to eat. His eyes fell on the dictaphone machine. George Homer had returned the tapes earlier, thanking Kenton for taking him into confidence. He had found the analysis of the problem compelling. He had also found no major flaws in the idea that Chess Man was not Vincent Mungo. But that was only half of the equation. What of the other half? Did Kenton also have a good idea who Chess Man was?
Kenton said he was still working on it.
Homer had brought down the remainder of the Caryl Chessman material as well, including the four books Chessman had written. He let it be known that he felt himself to be a qualified expert on the subject, having read everything. With Chessman, Senator Stoner, the maniacal killer, and sundry other areas of interest in and out of the company, it seemed to Homer that they were working on quite a few different stories at the same time.
Suppose they were all connected, Kenton had sai
d.
What if they were all one story?
He finished the corned beef roll and wolfed down the pie with swallows of coffee. John Spanner had been out to his earlier call but was expected back at 1 P.M. California time. He glanced at his watch. It was after two o’clock in New York. Two hours to go. Meanwhile he had already spoken to Dr. Poole at Willows. Vincent Mungo did not know how to play chess; the man was not at all interested in such things. How about Thomas Bishop? Yes, Bishop had played chess. In fact he was a very good player. Really excellent.
Kenton had expected no less.
As his idea grew, so did his excitement.
For the next hour he reviewed the various parts of his puzzle, speaking into the machine, going over the pieces again and again. His original analysis still held up. He was seeking someone close to Mungo in the recent past. Thomas Bishop was his only friend at Willows. He was seeking someone who would be immediately suspected if not for Mungo. Thomas Bishop would be known as the killer if Mungo’s body had been found. But it was supposedly Bishop’s body that was found, so he had the greatest alibi in the world. He was dead.
The only major piece missing was the connection to Caryl Chessman. And that, he hoped, would be found hidden somewhere. Eventually. But only if his idea was right. If it wasn’t, nothing lost. Except maybe everything.
At three o’clock Kenton at last got Amos Finch at home. Did Finch know that Thomas Bishop and Vincent Mungo were both born in the same Los Angeles hospital, only five months apart? He did not. Did Finch know that Bishop’s mother lived in Los Angeles at the time of Caryl Chessman’s attacks, the same as Vincent Mungo’s mother? He did not. Did Finch know that Bishop’s father was killed by a man who was in prison with Caryl Chessman for years, who knew him on death row and talked to him many times? He did not. Finally, did Finch know that Thomas Bishop was an expert chess player? No, he did not.
Chess, as Kenton saw it, was the key to the puzzle. A superb series of chess moves brilliantly planned and executed. He reminded Finch that Vincent Mungo, who didn’t know the game, asked the doctor at Willows if he played chess. Why? Because he had been hearing his one friend explain their daring escape plan in terms of the game. Mungo was much impressed even though the game meant nothing to him.
By Reason of Insanity Page 49