By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  Dr. Baylor recognized that different cycles were required for degeneration to take over. For Jack the Ripper it had been perhaps half a dozen women, for Thomas Bishop many more than that. But the end was the same for all. None could escape. Nor would Bishop. His time, as Baylor knew, was running out.

  Unfortunately it was coming too late to restore the doctor’s career.

  IN MIAMI a young man with dark hair and a goatee read of himself in a national magazine. It was not a pleasant experience for it brought back terrible memories of the kind that filled his nightmares. Afterward he sat a long time in thought, protected from the burning sun by a hat and beach umbrella.

  He wondered about the reporter. The man was no fool, not like the others. He was clever, a good hunter. But was he also a good fox? A hunter should know how it felt to be on the other side. He knew. He was hunted and was himself the hunter. That made him the best. The other could be only second best. Still, that was more than anyone else. Thinking about that, he slowly began to develop a feeling of kinship with the reporter. Maybe, he told himself, they had something in common.

  He wondered if Adam Kenton played chess.

  SHERIFF JAMES OATES thought he should’ve been mentioned in the article. Didn’t he start on the murder investigation the very first day same as John Spanner? And didn’t he listen to Spanner’s crazy ideas when no one else would? He spent months following Mungo— Bishop—all over California, He knew as much about the man as anyone did. It wasn’t fair that Spanner got all the credit. He was just a local lawman with no ambition. He didn’t want to be a state senator. Or the governor. So the credit meant nothing to him. Why waste it?

  Oates was jealous. Publicity on a national scale could’ve helped his political chances. There were some people who thought he might do well running for office. This could have given him a push. And he really was in charge of the search for the maniac for most of those early months. It was really all his responsibility.

  His responsibility.

  Oates had a sudden thought. At least they didn’t say anything bad about him in the article. And that was something good.

  ON SUNDAY evening Helena Rintelcane Stoner told her husband that he was going to be the subject of a damaging story in Newstime the following week. She had learned of it from her father. Apparently an investigative reporter had uncovered illegal business dealings. The story could seriously hurt his career.

  Stoner was wild with anger. It was all lies, invented by his political enemies, Lies and distortions and false accusations without a shred of evidence. He had done nothing wrong, certainly no more than any other politician in looking out for the people’s interests. His general honesty was above reproach. It was big business that was after him. Big business and the power brokers in the East. They couldn’t buy him so they would try to break him. His enemies at home too. They were all in it, all of them. They wanted to destroy him.

  After he had calmed down, the senator tried to figure the angles. Obviously someone was out to get him. But who? He was certainly friendly to business and all the major vested interests; he supported all the right causes, he didn’t interfere with underworld concerns, he was liked by the Midwest power sources and now by the East, both of whom regarded him as a winner. He had not stepped on any big toes and was not involved in any big scandals.

  It made no sense. Here he was shooting for the sky and somebody was trying to shoot him down. His only real enemies were archliberals and all the other crazies and one-worlders and welfare-staters. But their power was spread out, they didn’t usually concentrate it on a single subject. The whole thing was crazy. Who would feed information about him to a reporter? And Newstime, for chrissake? Somebody was kidding. Newstime was as much a part of big business as he was.

  Before she retired for the night the senator’s wife, an honorable woman, told her husband that she would of course stand by him. She did not bother to mention that she came from a family of quality and good breeding. Or that she had known of the senator’s various women for years, knew all about his sordid little affairs, his brief trips and overnight business meetings, his reputation as a sexual athlete. Not a woman of excess energy, she intended to keep her marriage vows because loyalty and patience were virtues of the well bred.

  For his part Stoner saw his wife as an absolute angel, a woman filled with all the kindness and generosity of spirit that a man needed in life, and certainly much too good for him.

  Whenever he was mad at her he called her a dumb Jew bitch.

  HE DIDN’T know how he had missed it earlier. Probably in his anxiety over the story he hadn’t looked any further after the ending. But there it was, in a separate section by itself, on light-green paper with a black border.

  Seated now at the wobbly table in his small cheerless room, Bishop began reading the pages of a woman’s tearful review of her life, written by his mother sixteen years before, scribbled on sheets of paper and put away between the pages of a book written by his father that same year, the year he was nine and still living with his mother, whom he loved dearly.

  As he read of her youthful dreams and the things she later endured, he saw his mother bending over the silent boy, caressing him, her soft hands smoothing his troubled features, her face smiling at him, her eyes alive with love, her mouth calming him with words of reassurance. She had loved him so very much and had always taken such good care of him. He was the luckiest boy in the whole world to have a mother like her.

  He read the pages many times that night. After a while he took out his little wallet and looked at the picture of his mother in her severe dress, tall and stately and firm. He kept the picture next to the pages as he read on and on.

  ALEX DIMITRI was in no mood to be crossed on this late November afternoon. It had been ten days since Greene Street. Ten days of the most intensive manhunt the city had ever seen, and still no sign of Chess Man. Despite countless searchings and raids and swoops, despite a thorough shaking up of neighborhoods, Thomas Bishop was still free. Which didn’t look good for Alex Dimitri. He had just been chewed out by Lloyd Geary, who had himself been put on the carpet by the Police Commissioner, who naturally had heard from the mayor’s office just that very morning.

  The Newstime story hadn’t helped any.

  Personally, Dimitri liked it. He was mentioned favorably and his task force singled out as a possible solution. But overall the Department seemed no better than any other police group in the country, and perhaps worse. None of them had been able to get Chess Man. But now his face was known, his real face. And his real name. He had no one helping him or hiding him. What was holding things up? Why wasn’t he caught? People were beginning to wonder.

  On the other hand, he hadn’t killed any more women in the ten days. That meant they were at least keeping him bottled up.

  Maybe.

  Dimitri wet his lips nervously. Suppose they found another apartment with seven more bodies hacked to pieces. God forbid! New York would panic. There’d be vigilantes on every corner. People would die. Not to mention a big shake-up at headquarters. He’d probably be forced to retire, or maybe given a post at the other end of Staten Island. All things considered, it wasn’t a very bright future.

  Now, to round things out on this Monday afternoon, it seemed that the damn magazine reporter was working on another story somewhere and couldn’t be disturbed at the present time. Couldn’t be disturbed! Dimitri would’ve liked to wring his fool neck. All he really wanted was to ask Kenton if he thought Bishop might have skipped town. A man answering his description had left a note on a plane to Miami saying he was Chess Man and he was starting a new life, leaving behind New York and all the killing.

  BY TUESDAY the issue with the inside story of Thomas Bishop had sold out. With no cover picture, with just the banner across the top screaming “Chess Man,” the magazine had sold more copies than any issue in several years. Which meant Chess Man had captured the imagination of the public. Or was it the media hype that had captured the public? John Perr
one didn’t care. Either way, he had been right about going after the madman. Now, if Kenton could only come up with the same miracle again, this time nailing the killer for good, they might all be in line for some awards.

  That morning Kenton had turned in the Stoner piece. Perrone found it factual and convincing. It examined Stoner’s land acquisition, naming names and dates. It went into other business dealings, again with facts and figures. Finally, it discussed some of Stoner’s personal views as they might affect his public performance and hinted that a tape existed of the senator airing many of his own thoughts. Perrone edited out a few sexual references, and the piece was soon on its way to publication in the next issue. Because of Stoner’s national look the story was certain to create a sensation of sorts, following in the wake of the Chess Man bell ringer. Adam Kenton was becoming a power in investigative journalism.

  On the seventh floor, meanwhile, Kenton was already back on Bishop. His one fear during the past week had been that his prey would be somehow cornered and killed by police. He didn’t really believe it could happen but he knew the gods sometimes played strange tricks. Now they were giving him another chance, his last one.

  Where to begin?

  With Bishop’s pattern; that was the only constant, His pattern was to seek new identities and to get each one on his own. All he needed to start accumulating papers was a birth certificate, and all he needed for that was a name and date and place of birth. Alive or dead? Dead would be easier and much safer. Somebody born and died in New York. A male around his age. He could get the name and place of birth from an obituary column. How about the date of birth? Vital-statistics records were closed to the general public. And he couldn’t very well go to the relatives of the deceased. Too risky.

  What about a live person like Jay Cooper of Chicago? No good. That could mean anywhere in the country for the place of birth; but he needed it fast, so it had to be local.

  Suppose he had come to New York with other identities besides that of Jay Cooper? Suppose he had identities from every city he passed through?

  Kenton squirmed in his chair, annoyed at the thought. In that case, he had to admit, they didn’t stand a chance in hell. Not until Bishop made another big mistake.

  Would he?

  No, said Kenton firmly, knowing the man he had never met.

  ON THAT same day in Miami a young man removed a wallet from a cabana at a private beach by posing as a waiter. The wallet belonged to an equally young man. No one saw the thief or remembered the waiter.

  IT CAME to Kenton that night at a most embarrassing moment. He jumped up from the bed, suddenly excited in a different way. Doris became so angry she was almost dressed before he could talk her out of leaving the hotel right then. All she knew was that he kept repeating something about the hospital.

  BY WEDNESDAY Senator Stoner had called everybody he knew and pulled every string he could. He even talked to John Perrone himself. Nothing worked. The article was on the presses; in a few days it would be on the newsstands.

  Stoner was furious. He would of course deny everything, at least everything illegal. For the rest, people were broadminded these days. They would forgive some indiscretions on the part of their elected leaders. Sure, look at John Kennedy and his women. And Mendel Rivers and his drinking. There were hundreds of examples. Maybe he could blunt some of the attack by being open and honest, maybe even turn it to his advantage. Naturally he’d be open and honest only about those things they would find out anyway.

  IT WAS really very simple. All they had to do was call the hospitals in the city to find out if anyone had been asking about birth dates of males born there. Not city agencies or any kind of organizations, only individuals. Only strangers. Asking hospital record rooms about dates of birth. Just of males born between twenty and thirty years ago.

  Mel Brown would work on it, using some of his people. Shouldn’t take too long.

  Just New York City?

  Maybe Long Island and Westchester and northern New Jersey, to make sure.

  That would take a bit longer.

  KENTON ASSURED Inspector Dimitri that it didn’t matter if Chess Man had left the city. He would be back. Where else could he find anything like New York, with all its women and its places to hide? He’d never find that anywhere else, not in this country anyway. For what he was hunting, New York was the biggest national game preserve there was.

  But did Kenton think he was gone?

  No.

  That meant he could be turning another apartment into a slaughterhouse while they were talking.

  Kenton hesitated, thinking of Greene Street.

  Well?

  Yes, he could be. Were any women missing?

  No more than usual, said Dimitri.

  Both men thought of it at the same time.

  Suppose he was killing the usual?

  “SOME IDEAS work out and some don’t.”

  Mel Brown’s research team had called every public and private hospital in six metropolitan counties. They had come up with nothing. No record of unauthorized requests for birth-date information, no recollection of strangers wanting any such information.

  WEDNESDAY WAS Mrs. Majurski’s day off. Wednesdays and Sundays. She liked a split week, made the work seem less tiring somehow. Her married daughter kept telling her it still amounted to five days every week in that hospital, but she didn’t mind. At least she was around people. Her husband was dead, her two sons lived away, the daughter had children of her own. Mrs. Majurski lived alone with a giant tiger tabby cat and a heating pad that was always on when she was home. Which was most nights and all day Wednesdays and Sundays.

  On Thursday morning her co-worker in the hospital records office told her of the call from New York. The woman was thrilled. Imagine! Newstime magazine calling them.

  Mrs. Majurski immediately remembered Father Foley. But they didn’t mean a priest, did they? He wanted the date of a boy born in 1946, which was between twenty and thirty years ago. But a priest? She decided to ring Father Foley and tell him about the magazine, maybe he could see what they wanted, Now what did he say? St. John’s on the Boulevard. She dialed the rectory, asked to speak to Father Foley.

  There was no Father Foley at St. John’s. Mrs. Majurski prided herself on her memory, hardly ever made a mistake. He had said St. John’s. She was sure of it. How strange.

  THE CLERK at Margaret Hague Maternity Hospital had answered truthfully the previous day when asked about unauthorized requests for information. She hadn’t even thought of the priest who had called weeks earlier. A strong Catholic in a strong Catholic town, she regarded all priests as authorized. They were like police and firemen. She wouldn’t dream of giving out information to strangers.

  THE CALL to Mel Brown as head of research came in the early afternoon, a Mrs. Majurski from Christ Hospital in Jersey City. He listened a moment and then hurriedly patched the call through to Adam Kenton, asking the woman to begin again.

  She had given information on a hospital birth to a local priest over the phone, but now she discovered there was no such priest. She called St. John’s parish earlier that day, thinking Father Foley might want to get in touch with their magazine. But he didn’t exist—.

  When did she talk to this Foley?

  About a month ago.

  And the baby’s name he was interested in?

  Brewster. Thomas Wayne Brewster. She had just looked it up again.

  Date of birth?

  May 3, 1946.

  Kenton sucked in his breath. Bishop was born in 1948. Just two years apart. Close enough.

  He thanked the woman, told her it was a criminal-investigation story they were working on. He’d keep her informed.

  Just one more thing, she said quickly.

  Yes?

  She thought she should mention that Thomas Wayne Brewster was a Negro.

  Kenton’s eyes closed in despair.

  A Negro?

  She had noticed it at the time because there weren’t that many Negro
Catholic families in the forties.

  Afterward Mel Brown tried to console him.

  “It was a good try.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “He’ll slip up again. Then you’ll get him.”

  “Then the police will get him.”

  “So stay on their good side.”

  “It’s hard,” said Kenton, “and getting harder.”

  Brown agreed. “You think this Foley was our man?”

  “It fits. Except the kid was black.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  Kenton’s ears opened.

  “Maybe he didn’t know before he called the hospital or he wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “So the woman told him.”

  “Did she say that?”

  A minute later Kenton was again talking to Mrs. Majurski. He was sorry to bother her, but did she tell Father Foley that the baby was Negro? It was very important.

  She did not.

  Was she sure?

  Positive. He didn’t ask and besides, she didn’t even notice it until afterward.

  Kenton then called a well-placed political contact in Newark. He needed two questions asked of Vital Statistics in Jersey City. Fast.

  In twenty minutes he got his two answers. Thomas Wayne Brewster died on September 1, 1949, at age three. Curiously, a birth certificate was issued to Thomas Wayne Brewster on October 26, 1973.

  The certificate was mailed to that name at the address given, 654 Bergen Avenue in Jersey City.

  Mel Brown quickly determined that the address was the Bergen Avenue YMCA, near Journal Square. With a shaking hand Kenton dialed the Y and asked for Thomas Wayne Brewster’s room. Seconds later he was told that Mr. Brewster was not registered.