Unfortunately none of them looked anything like Thomas Bishop.
Kenton groped for his chair, stunned. Something had gone wrong. How could he be so mistaken, so off base? Bishop needed a mailing address. Too dangerous wherever he was living. So he would get a mail drop. And his psychology would prompt him to get it right away.
It made sense.
Except Bishop wasn’t there.
And he probably wasn’t Curtis Manning of Florida.
That left nobody.
For much of the afternoon Kenton stared at the blank wall nearest him. After a while he didn’t see it any more as he returned in time to his own painful childhood. His foster parents had been older people who had no children of their own. They were bitterly poor and knew little about raising a boy. It was not their fault. They were not cruel and he loved them while they lived, but he had suffered terribly in ways he would never get over.
As he became the lost boy again his eyes slowly filled with tears and his mind eventually turned to another boy who had once suffered desperately, inconsolably, and who had finally found a certain peace in madness.
Nor were the two boys so very far apart, except in degree.
AT HOME now on this dark and fearful night, with a torrential rain hammering at every exposed nerve, Bishop put on the TV, prepared to be entertained until he fell asleep. Instead he received the shock of his young life. The show was a police detective series from San Francisco in which a youthful killer was finally captured through his telephone-answering service. To Bishop the similarities were startling.
He leaped off his pallet bed, badly frightened. He had made a major mistake, a serious error that could destroy him. It was already too late. They knew all about him and were outside his door even now, waiting to pounce. He looked toward the door, imagining them on the other side. Dreadful demonic shapes out of hell itself. Them!
His fright quickly turned to rage, the involuntary frenzied rage of the caged beast. His features contorted, his body shook in spasms. Soon he was howling like a wounded animal maddened by pain. He rolled on the floor, unmindful of his head banging on the cement. He tore at his own limbs. He punched himself and beat himself without direction, all the while shrieking in total derangement. Were he not alone in the house he could easily have been heard from above. Were the wind and rain not thunderous he would surely have been heard from the street.
After a long time the rage was spent and he lay on the floor in peaceful stupor, his clothes shredded, his body lacerated and bloodied. No longer did the animal howl as the glazed eyes closed in merciful sleep.
KENTON DREAMED of a time of coldness and hunger; of his boyhood, helpless, isolated, unable to act or even understand. Of the white rabbit of his youth, and the black cat. As he lay in bed now, safe against the ravages of night but not those of the past, he was not at all sure whether it was a time of waking or sleeping. Or if the boy was real. Or even the man.
BISHOP SLEPT into the morning on the cold cement floor and awoke ravenous. He washed his animal body and soothed it with ointment and then ate breakfast. Fearful no longer, he set his mind to work on his problem.
He had made a fatal error in getting the answering service. Several in fact. The photography idea itself was valid but not his execution. To have the women leave their names with his service meant someone had a list of them. Sooner or later the service would become suspicious, and that list would be matched against the list of missing women. All had called Jay Cooper just before they disappeared. How odd. But the police would find it more than odd.
Also sooner or later a model would leave his name as her destination in a note to a friend or relative, or become suspicious beforehand and report him to the police. Granted no one knew where he lived, which was why he always met them in public places and took them home only when he was certain they had come alone. And granted they were all amateur models, half-crazed artistic types and semiprostitutes and desperate women needing money or kicks or both, none of whom would know enough to first check prospective clients and always leave full information on appointments. Still, something would eventually go wrong. Maybe already had for all he knew. They could be after him right now, knowing his name and the mail-drop address.
That was his third mistake. The answering service had the mail drop on Lafayette Street as his address, to be given to the police. He could not go there again. At least there he had given the Chicago address, so that wouldn’t help them. But they could get to his home through the owner of the building. He had rented to Jay Cooper. When he saw the name in the paper he would call the police. So the apartment was no good anymore either.
Bishop frowned in disgust. He blew it all on a bad move. All his work, his plans, his New York identity. All gone. He had no doubt they would expose him in another week. Maybe only a matter of days if any more women disappeared. And he had an appointment for that very evening!
He added up the score. The apartment, the mail drop, the telephone, the photography. He had lost it all. New York held nothing more for him.
But what if he hadn’t watched that show? Thank God for television!
He went to work quickly and efficiently, destroying his Jay Cooper identity, refilling the wallet with Thomas Wayne Brewster’s driver’s license and birth certificate. In the pocket with the wallet also went his new passport. At the local bank he closed out his savings account, pointedly saying he was returning to Chicago. Home again, he removed the money hidden behind the bricks. An hour later he had over $21,000 rn the New Jersey bank. It was only temporary, he assured himself on the way back. Half would be returned to New York when he found another place to live in his new identity. Until then at least the money was safe. No one knew of Thomas Wayne Brewster, and he would make no more mistakes.
FRED GRIMES had the bad news when Kenton finally got to the office. Curtis Manning was straight out of Florida. Family still lived there. He was sensitive, artistic, different from other local young men, and he had decided New York would be more responsive to his needs, whatever they might be. The pictures matched. It was Manning all right.
Kenton already knew it. Not factually, not the specific details, but in his gut instinct where he lived. Manning would have been too perfect. Madman, Chess Man, Bat Man, Manning. Everything was Man. Bishop had a problem identifying as a man. It would have been an incredible piece of irony for him to take over the identity of someone named Manning. Maybe in novels or in the movies they could get away with things like that, where everything was planned in perfect circles and things always seemed to fit exactly. But not in real life. Nothing ever worked out perfectly in real life because there was no director or central casting or even stage manager. It was all hit or miss.
And this time he had missed. That was it and that was all. Somehow he blew it. He had spent half the night trying to figure what had gone wrong, and he still didn’t know. It was a valid idea—that much was certain. He couldn’t compete with the cops in checking hotels and public places. Nor could he put thousands of men on the streets.
Instead he had studied his prey until he felt things, knew things about the man. Bishop lived in New York, in Manhattan. He would want to stay near his kills. He found Manhattan exciting, all those millions of women at his fingers, all around him. A madman’s dream. He would find a place to live, But he wouldn’t want to call attention to himself so he’d get his mail elsewhere. What mail? Pieces of identification mostly. Part of his pattern was a constant search for new and safer identities. Apparently he would not, could not stop.
So he, Kenton, had picked something Bishop would do. Something the police wouldn’t think of, not knowing the man. The city’s mail drops. And he picked the first week, which was also in Bishop’s pattern of immediate action.
When he pulled up the net, Bishop should have been inside.
Only he wasn’t.
And Kenton didn’t know why.
He asked Grimes again if the city officials had gone to all the drops in Manhattan. If they got all the recent names fro
m each. If the detectives checked all those names for eligibles. If they investigated all twenty-seven finalists.
As far as Grimes knew, the answer was yes to all.
Kenton went back to staring at the wall.
IN THE early afternoon Kenton took a long lunch and then worked for an hour on the Stoner article, his mind far away. Toward the close of the day a thought popped into his head and he called Mel Brown, The secretary reported him away for the afternoon on business and Kenton said he’d call again in the morning.
BISHOP LEFT the lights on in the studio. He didn’t expect to be away very long. When he returned with the model it would be his last opportunity to play photographer, a role he rather liked, and the thought saddened him. He would at least try to make it an outstanding performance, one the model would remember for the rest of her life.
Outside the air was brisk, and Bishop shuddered a bit as he turned left into early evening shadow.
SHE WAS late as usual, and as she ran out the door she dashed off a note to her roommate that she was going to model for a magazine with a photographer named Jay Cooper. Somewhere downtown, she didn’t know exactly where.
Back in a few hours.
DORY MADE herself walk over to the car. This time she wasn’t frightened by the two men, not terribly anyway. Her mind was on money and they had it. And she had what they wanted, at least the information, She told them the letter was kept in a steel desk at home. Messick had this room that he used for business and making calls, it was really a second bedroom. Earlier in the day when he was out, she had looked at the desk. On the right side was a little door, like a safe. It opened with a key but it didn’t look all that strong.
Was she sure about the letter?
She shook her head. Don Solis. Right. She was sure.
They believed her.
When would she get the money?
When they got the letter.
She couldn’t open the safe by herself
They would take care of it. All she had to do was open the front door for them. Friday morning. They’d get the letter and she’d get the money.
What about Messick?
He wouldn’t know anything about her part.
And what should she do meanwhile?
Nothing. She’d done enough already.
KENTON THOUGHT Mel Brown might see something he missed. The detectives checked everybody for those who could fit the description. Came to twenty-seven. Then they got pictures and reports on those twenty-seven.
One thing Brown couldn’t understand. How did they check everybody initially?
By taking a quick look at each one.
That was what he couldn’t understand. Were they all available to be looked at? Nobody traveling for a few weeks or away on a job? Nobody giving a wrong address? And did every single name have a local address that could be checked out?
Eyes narrowed, Kenton called Fred Grimes. Would he ask the detective agency if they had any names they could not reach, names with no local addresses? Right now?
He got his answer in minutes. There were eight names with no local addresses given. They all were out of state. Many individuals and firms from other areas of the country kept convenience addresses in New York from which the mail was routinely forwarded. The agency considered the eight to be of that type and didn’t list them because it was presumably looking for an individual who actually lived in the city.
What about Manning in Florida? He was out-of-state.
True. But he had given a local address as well.
Kenton wanted the eight investigated immediately. That very minute. Each had to be verified by the renter. And he wanted the information by 5 P.M. if at all possible.
IN SACRAMENTO, Roger Tompkins told Senator Stoner of the several original letters and copies he had in his possession which might prove embarrassing to the senator. They would, however, remain in his possession since he had no intention of resigning from the senator’s staff. Not at the moment anyway.
Stoner said nothing. As a politician he knew all about power.
AT 11 A.M, Kenton informed James Mackenzie that he was close to Chess Man but he needed more time. Mackenzie said they were running out of time. It had been a week now and he had hoped—.
Maybe just a few days, Kenton pleaded.
The others in the room were in favor of continuing.
Mackenzie told John Perrone to go ahead with the editorial calling for the President’s resignation. They would take their chances.
But—he could not guarantee more than a few days. Another week at the very most, when the new issue would be out. That was it.
BY 4:30 Kenton had answers on five of the out-of-state rentals. Three were small industrial firms in Ohio, West Virginia and Wisconsin. The fourth was a man from a hollow in Kentucky who was a mail addict and liked the prestige of a New York address. The fifth was from New Mexico, a woman who used the drop in her mail-order occult business. All had been verified.
The three left, all individuals, were from Denver, Los Angeles and Chicago. The search was on. They would know in the morning.
Los Angeles. Kenton thought of Bishop’s stay in Los Angeles after the escape. Of his mother being raped there, his father killed there. Of Caryl Chessman’s life there. Of his own Los Angeles article on Chessman, which must have been a beacon to Bishop and a godsend to Stoner. Everything came out of Los Angeles.
Now Bishop was in a box.
Kenton had a feeling it was Los Angeles.
THE ROOMMATE was worried. Pam had not been home all night or all day. Now another night and she still wasn’t home. It wasn’t like her. She had no steady boyfriend. An art student, she stayed home mostly and worked.
The roommate looked again at the note. Model for a magazine. Jay Cooper. Somewhere downtown.
Well, she’d give her until morning.
BISHOP HAD a change of heart. He had intended to leave that morning, after disposing of the final model. Now it was after nine at night and he was still at home. He had already decided to take nothing extra with him, not the camera or any of the books or his radio or even his extra clothes. He would start all over again as Thomas Wayne Brewster. Everything different. But he wanted one more final night as Jay Cooper in the only real home that had ever been his. The danger was there and it was real. Yet he was giving them too much credit. He was far too clever for them, He was the Chess Man, the Bat Man. They could never kill him or even capture him. He would outlast and outlive them all. What did they know about him? Nothing. And they never would.
He was going to go out to a bar and pick up a woman and take her to his first home on his last night and hold a final celebration. She would be part of his celebration, a very big part.
In the morning he would leave alone, as he always was and always would be. World without end.
AT 8:20 A.M. Pam Boyer’s roommate called the police to report her friend missing. She gave the particulars and read the note, including the name Jay Cooper. The information was routinely dispatched to Missing Persons Bureau. Because of the current publicity concerning several such women, the report was also marked for special attention Task Force.
AT 9:10 Jay Cooper left his home for the last time. Wearing his wool socks under brown boots, wrapped in his muffler and suede leather jacket, and carrying only his portable TV set, he walked to a subway that would take him to a new life.
He was alone.
AT 9:25 Adam Kenton was told that it was not Los Angeles that hid Chess Man behind its New York mailing address. The rental was paid by an irate client who apparently used it for purposes not entirely legal. But he was confirmed as its lessee and he was not Thomas Bishop. Nor was it Denver, where the customer was a self-employed businessman who was in New York one week a month.
It was Chicago.
Jay Cooper was a Chicago resident who knew nothing about a mail address in New York City. It wasn’t his. How could it be? He didn’t even like New York. Hadn’t been there for years.
It was Bisho
p.
Somehow he’d been able to latch onto Jay Cooper’s identity. The rest was easy. No, not easy. Just a lot of thought and careful planning. That was never easy.
Kenton had the face and he had the name. All he needed was the address.
Now was when he should go to the cops. From here on in he could be accused of anything and they’d be right. He was withholding, interfering and probably a lot more. But he hadn’t come this far to hand it over to someone else. He wasn’t built that way. Never would be.
Mackenzie had given him a few more days.
He would take them. And the consequences too.
By ten o’clock he was talking to the manager of the midtown detective agency, explaining what he wanted. An all-out effort to locate one man. His mailing address was downtown, so he probably lived downtown. East Village, Bowery, Soho. Copies of the drawing of his face would be ready by midafternoon for the detectives. They should show it everywhere in the area, especially in stores and restaurants. Other operators were to go after the name. Jay Cooper. Somebody must’ve heard it. He paid rent under the name. Maybe worked or had a phone or rented a car or applied for something. Cost was no object. Whatever it took. The manager was to throw everybody he had into it. If that wasn’t enough he should get more.
Kenton was to be kept informed. Right through the night at the St. Moritz. They should work round the clock. He needed results and he had no time left.
ELSEWHERE IN midtown a telephone operator for an answering service thought she probably was being silly, but it seemed like all those girls who disappeared had called one of her clients. She remembered hearing their names on the phone. Johnson. Daley. Ubis. Boyer.
She stared at the names in the paper. Lots of people have the same name, Sure, that was it. She was just being silly.
NOVEMBER 15 was a day Adam Kenton afterward swore he would long remember. He sat in his office hour after hour, unable to work or even concentrate. Each time the phone rang he jumped for it, then had to tell people to get off the line. Several times he checked with the agency. Each time the answer was the same. Almost fifty people were in the field. Other shifts would take over in the evening. They would work all night if that was what he wanted.
By Reason of Insanity Page 53