By Reason of Insanity

by Shane Stevens

  But he had been registered there?

  Oh yes.

  When was his last day?

  He had paid to the twentyfifth.

  This was the twenty-ninth.

  When had the desk clerk last seen him?

  Who was asking?

  Kenton hung up.

  It was Bishop, he was sure of that. He had found his man again. And missed him again, this time by four days. But it might as well have been four years. Slowly he smoked a cigarette. The phone rang twice; he didn’t answer. For the first time he began to smell defeat. He was going to lose Bishop, he knew that now. There would be no more chances.

  When he finished the cigarette he dialed downtown.

  “Inspector Dimitri.”

  BY SIX o’clock that evening Thomas Brewster’s former room at the Jersey City YMCA had been searched and the desk clerk questioned. He had no recollection of the man and was certain he hadn’t seen him in weeks or he would remember. Brewster had paid a month’s rent in advance. He had not returned the room key when the month was up. The cleaning personnel said the bed hadn’t been slept in during that time, except for several nights a few weeks back.

  Upon reflection the desk clerk did remember a letter Brewster had received at the very beginning of his stay. He hadn’t noticed the sender’s name or the return address. Since that day he had not seen the man. He had a vague impression of a beard but that was all. He could not positively identify the license photo of Daniel Long as being Thomas Brewster.

  The letter had to be the birth certificate. Brewster received no other mail at the Y. Fingerprints in the room matched those known to belong to the maniacal woman slayer.

  Chess Man’s latest identity had been discovered.

  To no avail. Whether he was Bishop or Brewster or the devil himself, the trail was cold. Even worse, it told police that he had secured a back-up position long before needed. He was obviously taking no chances. Which meant he had any number of them. And probably a different identity to go with each.

  Police naturally wanted the discovery kept secret in the hope that Chess Man would use the Brewster name elsewhere, but they were already too late. Someone in the local Vital Statistics office had told the Jersey Journal about a corpse getting a birth certificate, And Adam Kenton had called his contact at the Daily News right after he talked to Dimitri. He didn’t intend that his efforts be lost in the subsequent police investigation. Especially since he didn’t think he would ever get close to Chess Man again—if indeed he had ever been close at all.

  By late evening the news was being broadcast across the nation. Stories in both New York morning papers included mention of Adam Kenton as having once again unmasked the homicidal madman. Primarily because of the continuing and increasingly dramatic Washington findings, investigative journalism was the year’s rage, and Kenton was rapidly becoming a favorite of the New York media.

  Inspector Dimitri was furious of course. Possessing the police mentality, he believed that as much as possible should be kept secret from as many as possible for as long as possible. In the matter of Chess Man, that meant everything. If he had his way the public would know nothing at all about such affairs. Which would leave the authorities free to do their job without interference. Since he didn’t have his way he tried his best to be friendly with the press, never knowing when he might need their support. But he didn’t really trust them, any of them. Here he was doing all the worrying about Chess Man, having all the responsibility, and a lousy goddam reporter was getting all the credit. Just because he got there first.

  But he had to admit Kenton was good. A reporter with the skills of a detective. Unfortunately, what he needed at the moment were a few detectives with the skills of a detective.

  FRIDAY NEWSPAPERS around the country were again featuring the infamous Chess Man. He was considered hot copy and good for extra sales. Sometime after three o’clock that afternoon Bishop bought a paper in Miami. As always, he delighted in reading about himself but this time his delight was tempered with concern. He had worked hard to become Thomas Brewster and now it was useless, wiped out. They were getting close to him, or so it seemed.

  He sat at the small counter in the downtown bus station, a young man in cotton slacks and a sport shirt opened at the throat. His winter clothes were in his hotel room and his casual dress in the Miami sunshine occasioned no special interest. He smiled as the woman behind the counter drew near.

  “More coffee, please,” he said politely.

  To an observer the pleasant-faced youth would not have seemed out of place in a city of easy charm and informal manner. He drank his coffee and read his newspaper and calmly hid his insanity.

  Only his eyes showed his force of concentration.

  The Brewster discovery was a blow; he hadn’t been prepared for it. At once he had lost all his money and the identity he had fashioned with such great care. Nothing was left except the two new wallets he had secured for future use. At least they gave him an identity.

  Nevertheless there was danger. He had no history to go with the new names; they belonged to other men. He would not be able to withstand investigation. And with no money he would not be able to move around.

  Bishop liked Miami, had stayed two weeks instead of just the one. Now he was doubly glad he had. In New York he might already have been caught as Thomas Brewster.

  He thought of remaining in Miami but quickly decided it was impractical. The city was too open, even though women were plentiful. There was no anonymity as in New York.

  Though distressed at his misfortune, Bishop felt rested and relaxed and ready to be about his father’s business again. He would return to New York with his new names and get a cheap place somewhere with the money he had left while he sought more.

  He paid for his coffee, showering the woman with another smile. He would leave for home that very day. But first he would have to say goodbye to Miami, just in case he never came back.

  If he wasn’t loved, at least he was needed.

  Much later on the bus, his eyes drooping, his body relaxed, a hand draped over the armrest, Bishop fell asleep and dreamed of things beyond his control. He fought bravely, as always.

  Somewhere in Georgia, a train blew midnight and November turned to December.

  Twentythree

  ADAM KENTON was dreaming. It was Saturday morning and in his dream he rose from his bed to answer the phone.

  “George Homer here. Sorry to bother you like this but I’ve just had an idea about our boy. Got a minute?”

  The dream was real.

  “Sure,” Kenton grumped, forcing his eyes open. “Go ahead.”

  “By now I think I’ve read mostly everything there is on Caryl Chessman. His psychology is fairly obvious, as you probably know; the swaggering and braggadocio typical of someone insecure around other people. In his case, particularly women. And I had this thought, you see, that it might have come from some sexual inadequacy. You even hinted at that in a Chessman article some time back.”

  Kenton remembered Ding’s idea about Chessman being impotent. “Go on,” he said quietly.

  “Suppose we leak a story to the press that Caryl Chessman couldn’t possibly have been Thomas Bishop’s father. That he was physically incapable of achieving parenthood.”

  “Wat’ll it get us?”

  “It just might get us Bishop. He glows in the fact that he is Chessman’s son. Suppose we take that fact away from him.”

  Kenton saw what Homer meant. Bishop obviously adored Chessman, and being his son gave him the psychological crutch he needed. If that were suddenly taken away from him, he might cave in.

  “If Chessman wasn’t his father, who was?”

  “Harry Owens, a nobody. Killed in a robbery by one of his own gang. That should bring Bishop’s spirits down a bit. It’s Chessman that keeps him hyped up, that makes his whole insane view of the world work for him. He’s avenging his father. But if his father was just a small-time thief who did nothing, it makes him out to be no
thing too.”

  It might just work. At the least it would fill him with self-doubt. As the son of Sara and Harry Owens, he was a nobody again. Even worse, all his killing would have been in vain.

  “One thing sure,” said Kenton. “When he reads it he’ll blow skyhigh.”

  Homer agreed.

  “He’ll get in touch with you somehow. He will be forced to, no matter what the danger. Like all mass murderers, he has a compulsion to keep the record straight. That way, when he’s caught he can justify his behavior.”

  “You think he wants to be caught?”

  “They all do. They kill because they’re alienated; the murders are an extreme expression of their extreme alienation. But they don’t really want to be alienated; no one does. So unconsciously they hope to get caught, which is the only way to end their unbearable isolation.”

  Homer paused a moment.

  “He’ll get to you,” he repeated ominously, “one way or another.”

  That was the plan, then. If Kenton couldn’t get to Bishop, he’d make Bishop come to him. And in the process, when Bishop learned he was not Caryl Chessman’s son, maybe he’d come apart.

  “What do you think?” asked Homer.

  Kenton thought he was right.

  THE NEWS from Florida reached New York at six o’clock that evening. Less than an hour earlier a twenty-eight-year-old Miami woman had been found murdered in her apartment in the city’s northwest section. Murdered and mutilated. The body—what was left of it—had been discovered by a neighbor and the building’s superintendent after repeated calls during the day had proved futile. Miami police suspected the gruesome find might be the work of the celebrated New York woman killer because of the condition of the body. That, and the two words smeared in blood on the refrigerator door. “Chess Man.”

  “I just heard,” said Kenton when he finally got through to Dimitri at the 13th Precinct. “You think it’s him?”

  The inspector blew into a large handkerchief. He was coming down with something he hoped might be triple pneumonia.

  “How could it be?” he answered sarcastically after a moment. “You assured me he didn’t leave town.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “You telling me.”

  “So what’s your idea?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  Kenton wondered if he should mention the plan to lure Chess Man into the open; a little help would be a good thing. But he quickly decided against it. Dimitri might try to stop him.

  “It could just be a diversion,” he said softly, and the man on the other end grunted.

  “Some diversion.”

  “This is where he belongs and he knows it,” continued Kenton, almost adding: It’s where he wants to be caught. But Dimitri would just laugh at him and he wasn’t in the mood for that right now. Too many things to think about. Like how much danger he was walking into, assuming Bishop went for the bait. The more he worried, the stronger became his conviction. It would work.

  The Newstime investigator sat quietly in his hotel room, racing his mind through all the ways Chess Man could get in touch with him. The phone, a letter, a third person, maybe even a secret meeting. Would he go? Yes, with a gun in his pocket. Maybe even two guns. But he’d go, damn right he would. It was too late to stop now and he had come too far.

  The phone rang at 6:30 and Kenton had a flash of Thomas Bishop calling him. He stared at the instrument for a few seconds. Then he slowly reached out for it.

  “Who?”

  Not his prey, not yet.

  He talked to his contact at the Daily News, giving him the story about Bishop not being Caryl Chessman’s son. Yes, it was legitimate in the sense that there was some indication that Chessman might have been impotent. But he needed it handled as an interview, that was important. He had to be listed as the source. And his residence was to be included too, the St. Moritz.

  Fifteen minutes later the story was settled. It would make the late finals, meaning the Sunday-morning editions. “Chess Man Not Son of Chessman.” Who said so? Newstime expert Adam Kenton, who had been tracking the killer for months and knew more about him than anyone else. Which wasn’t hard since no one really knew anything about him, though some people once thought they did.

  Now only he knew it all. Except where the man was and what he would do next.

  THE BIG land cruiser rolled into the Port Authority bus terminal at 9:30, right on schedule. In the rear of the bus Bishop stared out the window until most of the passengers were gone. Good to be back? He wasn’t sure. In a way New York had everything he needed but now there was danger as well. Adam Kenton had bulled his way through Vincent Mungo and through Jay Cooper and through Thomas Brewster. The man was an absolute bloodhound.

  Bishop finally sauntered out of the silent bus and across the lobby crowded with weekend travelers.

  There was only one way to beat a bloodhound and every fox knew it. He was doing it right now.

  Doubling back.

  THE CALL from Fred Grimes came at 10:45. He had just heard from one of his mob sources that a man bearing a resemblance to Bishop’s description had been seen in the Port Authority terminal earlier in the evening. The spotter just noted the general likeness and thought nothing more about it since the man’s hair was dark rather than light and he wore a goatee. And of course a great many men fit the category of medium height and build.

  On a whim the spotter checked the bus the young man had been seen leaving moments before.

  “Guess where it came from,” Grimes whispered.

  “Only one place it could be,” answered Kenton. “Miami.”

  By the time the man had raced after the suspect he was swallowed up in the crowd.

  BISHOP HAD decided that the safest place for him would be the Upper West Side, where he had stayed on his first night in New York. There were seemingly hundreds of small hotels in the area, many of them run-down and accustomed to renting rooms by the hour with no attention paid to the occupants. He rode the subway uptown and got off at 96th and Broadway. The streets were a Saturday night fever of Latin music and great masses of peoples all apparently bent on having a good time.

  In a drugstore he bought a bottle of the lightest blond hair dye and a cream rinse, a razor and shaving soap, some small cotton balls and a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses with delicate frames. He also picked up a ten-dollar vinyl travel bag into which he put his purchases. At a nearby discount outlet he paid for a tiny portable radio and some extra batteries. These went into the black bag too. Soon afterward he got a room for the night in a grubby little hotel off Broadway in the nineties. The place was murky and cheap and he signed some fictitious name. No one cared.

  Upstairs he listened to music as he set about altering his appearance once again. He assumed that by now the police would conclude he had dyed his hair. The natural choice would be black, Or he might be remembered from the Miami bus station as a young man with dark hair who had bought a ticket to New York City on the night of that killing. Or even by the driver or other passengers. A man with dark hair and a goatee. That would have to go too. Along with the thick glasses. All of it, everything.

  First he washed his hair in the small sink behind the door. A cracked mirror hung above the sink and he kept looking at his progress in the dim light of the one ceiling bulb. It took several washings to rinse out the dark coloring, even with the chemical preparation. While his hair dried he shaved off his goatee. Eventually he applied the bleaching mixture, following directions carefully so it would be as light a blond as possible.

  He again was wearing his New York clothes, chiefly the suede leather jacket and the heavy workboots with the rubber soles and heels. He now had only a pair of corduroy pants, which he found adequate for the weather, and a wool shirt. Everything else, including the Florida clothes he had bought, had been left in his room in Miami. But not his hunter’s cap. That had come with him and was resting on the hook that held his jacket.

  Sometime near midnight he wrappe
d a towel around his head and went to sleep. He couldn’t go out and he had no television. He didn’t know what else to do.

  AT ABOUT that time Inspector Dimitri was in his command post at the precinct, surrounded by members of the special task force. He had been personally told of the man spotted in the bus terminal, a voice on the phone giving him the information. He knew of course about the mob helping in the search, though he wasn’t aware of any of the arrangements. He also knew there was a contract on Chess Man. Obviously the mob had missed him this time, and to show good faith they were letting the police in on their discovery.

  No matter. Only the information counted. Was it reliable? Dimitri thought it fit the facts pretty well. And Kenton had said Chess Man would return to New York, didn’t he? Which was right before he said Chess Man hadn’t left at all. Still, if that was really their man in Miami, and if he had really killed the woman there, it made good sense to get out right away. Miami was no New York—far from it. There weren’t a million holes for him to drop into, or crawl out of, whenever he felt in a killing mood.

  Alex Dimitri believed Chess Man was back in New York and had been seen.

  “It looks like he’s back in town,” he told his men. “This time we won’t miss him, I don’t care how many names he’s using. According to our information”—he didn’t say from where—”he now has dark hair and a goatee. Which should help us, since he doesn’t know he was seen, Forget light hair, forget beards. Tell all your contacts what we’re looking for. That’s it.”

  He turned to Captain Olson, his second-in-command, “We’ll keep his new look quiet as long as we can. Even a few days might be enough to flush him out.”

  AT 10:30 Sunday morning Bishop went out for a breakfast of a cheese omelette, toast and coffee. It was a sunny day of little wind, and the young man in the warm jacket walked several extra blocks just for the exercise. He felt alive again in the deadening anonymity of New York.