His hair was now a whitish blond that seemed a good match for his fair skin and smooth face. Two weeks in the Florida sunshine had produced no appreciable tan since he had kept himself covered most of the time. When he checked in the mirror before leaving he was well pleased with the different appearance he had created. Wearing his new delicately framed sunglasses, he bore little resemblance to the dark man with the goatee.
He could think ofonly one further refinement to complete his changeover. On the way home he bought an eye pencil with which to give himself a noticeable scar running down a cheek along the mouth lines to the jawbone. His description, as he well knew, contained no mention of facial scars.
He also picked up a copy of the Sunday News.
JOHN PERRONE liked to play tennis on Sunday mornings at his home in Rye, unless he was nursing a hangover from a Saturday night party. This was one of those Sundays, and so he stayed in bed reading the papers instead. First the Times, as befitted the managing editor of a top newsweekly. By 11:30 he was starting on the News. He never got past page 3.
THERE IT was staring him in the face. A headline saying he was not Caryl Chessman’s son. He never was and never could be Chessman’s son because Caryl Chessman had been impotent.
Impotent!
Bishop was beyond anger. They were trying to take away his very reason for living. Make a mockery of his father, a liar of his mother. Trying to make people believe his real father was a common thief, a nobody. A man who did nothing with his life. A man no one cared about, no one missed. They were saying he was nothing because his father was nothing.
They?
Who were they?
Adam Kenton.
Bishop read the interview again. Caryl Chessman had been impotent and therefore couldn’t have raped Sara Bishop. She had made up the story for reasons of her own. Perhaps she was going mad herself, there were indications of that. She had the boy by Harry Owens, and after he was killed in Los Angeles she moved north. Eventually the boy went mad as well. But Chessman had nothing to do with any of it, not with the mother or the boy. He never even knew they existed. Nor did they know of him until Sara Bishop got it into her head that she had been raped by Chessman, which she apparently told the boy at some point. But he was really the son of Harry Owens and all his killing was in vain. What was more, he knew it.
Lies! Lies!
Bishop threw the paper aside. He was shocked by the accusations regarding his mother. She had loved him dearly and would never lie to him. He was Caryl Chessman’s son and always would be.
Even worse was the statement that he was acting falsely. Bishop felt hurt and insulted. Over the past weeks he had developed a certain respect for the Newstime investigative reporter. Now he saw how foolish he had been to think that any newsman could treat him fairly. They were jealous of him, all of them, envious because he was doing the impossible. Adam Kenton was as bad as the rest of them. Worse! He knew more so he should know better.
Bishop lay on the bed like a stone, unmoving, his eyes closed, his mind locked in confused thought. He’d show Kenton. He’d show them all. What did they know? He was his father’s son. He was the demon hunter.
He would give them a sign by which they might know him. Something they would remember forever.
JOHN PERRONE finally got Adam Kenton at 1:15 at the hotel. He had been calling for hours, where had Kenton gone? For a walk in Central Park. On Sunday morning? It’s the best time, the park is empty, the air is clear. Besides, it’s afternoon. Perrone should try it sometime, get out there and commune with nature. Anyway, what was on his mind?
Plenty. And it all had to do with the interview in the News.
“What was the idea?”
“What idea?”
“Saying Chessman was impotent. You were the one who first reported that the lunatic was his son, for chrissake.”
“I reported that the lunatic thought he was Chessman’s son. There’s a big difference, you know.”
“Not that much once the police found out it could be true.”
“I don’t believe any of it myself.”
“Why not?”
“Take Vincent Mungo. His mother said she was raped, told her family. And it supposedly happened in the time and place that Chessman was operating. So now the police say he did it. But there’s no real proof she was raped. No police report at the time, no doctor’s examination. Just her word. It could as easily have been a lover who left when she got pregnant.”
“And Thomas Bishop?”
“All we have is Sara Bishop’s writing years later. No dates, no specifics. Maybe she imagined the whole thing, or made it up for some reason, If you read her words carefully, it begins to sound like a romantic fantasy in an otherwise dreary existence.”
John Perrone was perplexed. “How could you have written about Chessman’s son if the man was impotent? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t think he was impotent.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because I need something to get Bishop so angry he’ll have to show himself, something that will make him take chances.” Kenton lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve run out of miracles, don’t you see?”
The managing editor saw, “If Bishop does start coming apart,” he said, his voice equally low, “you know who he’ll be coming after.”
“Of course,” said Kenton. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”
THE IMPROMPTU meeting in the inspector’s office began at four o’clock. He wasn’t in the best of moods as he stared at the Newstime reporter and Fred Grimes, who Kenton had insisted be present.
“Do you have any idea of the danger,” asked Dimitri gravely, “any idea at all?” His eyes rested on Grimes for a moment. “And you, Fred, I’m surprised you let him do this. You know what could happen.”
“Fred knew nothing about it,” said Kenton matter-of-factly. “I told him after you called me.”
“Then what’s he doing here?”
“Let’s say he’s representing the Newstime management. I wanted all of us to be clear on what I’m trying to do so there’d be no misunderstanding. It’s obvious we can’t get to Bishop again through his identities, like we did with Jay Cooper and Thomas Brewster. I’m sure he’s not using mail drops or getting mail wherever he’s living. It’s too dangerous now, and he doesn’t need it anymore. I think he has enough new names for a while, probably from the cities he was in before New York. Or maybe from Miami.”
“We’re still not sure he was there.”
“I’m sure. But it’s not worth asking Miami police to check all missing wallets for weeks back. There’d be hundreds of them. The same goes for all the big towns he’s been in.”
“If he had other papers when he came here, why’d he get the Brewster ID right away?”
“Because all the others were out-of-state, far away. He needed something local that wouldn’t cause suspicion, that would make him a member of the community, so to speak. Remember, you were looking for somebody from California. The only way he could’ve got a local ID was from someone he met in another state who lived here. But apparently he wasn’t that lucky, so he had to get one fast.”
Dimitri grunted. It made sense.
“When we got to Brewster, Bishop ran out of time. He couldn’t get another local since the mail was too dangerous, so he had to fall back on the ones from other cities. Or maybe he had none and that’s why he went to Miami.”
“Or maybe,” said Grimes in reflection, “he was getting papers on other local names the same time as Brewster.”
“That too,” conceded Kenton.
“So he’s got other names now,” growled Dimitri. “What’s that have to do with the interview you gave about Chessman not being his father?”
“Everything. With his new identities there’s no way we can get to him, so I’m trying to make him come to us. To me, He’s too smart to be caught in a police trap but I have no connection with the police. To him I’m probably just a nosy reporte
r who’s been writing about him for a long time. He read that first piece about Chessman back in July and probably everything since. When he reads what I say now he’ll find a way to me. His anger will make him do it.”
“That’s what worries me,” said Dimitri gruffly. “He might try to kill you.”
“I don’t think so. He’ll want to explain, to have me set the record straight. I’m no personal threat to him,”
“Neither were the women.”
“Evidently he thought so.”
“Still does,” Grimes pointed out.
Dimitri studied his nails for a moment. There was really nothing he could do about it; the paper was already out. He would try to protect the damn fool of course, but anything that happened was his own fault. His own stupid fault. Who did he think he was? Superman?
“You’ll have a bodyguard,” said the inspector. “Round the clock.”
Kenton shook his head vigorously. “No bodyguard, that’s out. I don’t want him scared off.”
“A tail, then.”
“Just so I don’t see them.”
“Is there anything else you would like?” Dimitri asked with exaggerated politeness. “Anything we might’ve missed?”
Kenton glanced over at Fred Grimes, then returned his gaze to Alex Dimitri. He smiled pleasantly but his manner was determined. “If I do flush him out, I want your word that your men will not immediately kill him.”
“What makes you think they would?”
The reporter shrugged. “In every city the police have vowed to kill him on sight. New York is no different. I understand the feeling. A wounded animal like that is too dangerous to live.”
“Then why do you want him kept alive?” asked the inspector suspiciously.
“Right now he’s the biggest story around. I’ve worked hard to get near him and I want everything he has to say. That’s my job.”
After another examination of his nails Dimitri agreed. “If it’s at all possible,” he added swiftly.
There were no further demands.
“You think it’ll be soon?”
“Tuesday’s the fourth,” said Kenton by way of an answer.
“What’s December fourth?”
“Five months since Bishop’s escape. He might want to celebrate.’
They didn’t understand.
“Five months,” said Kenton softly, “completes the pentagram. In mystical lore once the holy pentagram is sealed after a series of sacrificial killings, any further discovery is impossible. After Tuesday, don’t you see, Thomas Bishop will be free forever.”
There was a strained silence.
Finally somebody cleared his throat. Dimitri: “You’re not serious.”
“Why not?” said Kenton with a defensive shrug. “In matters of great madness anything’s possible. You seem to forget that in many ancient cultures madness was synonymous with magic. Even today in some South American groups, demented people are considered the true magicians of the tribe. They are thought to possess a ‘special understanding’ of things hidden to others.”
“But Bishop?” The voice was incredulous.
“Don’t you think he has magic? His hideous desires, his sexual sadism, his sheer invisibility. All are far beyond the normal range. What is magic but a supernatural power over natural forces? Bishop’s absolute madness gives him this kind of absolute power. And if that isn’t real magic, what is?”
Nobody answered him.
“God forgive us,” intoned Kenton slowly, “but the Thomas Bishops have become the true magicians of our tribe.”
AT 7:30 that evening, washing down a hamburger with lemon soda at a Broadway stand, his blond hair framing a face marred by an ugly scar, Kenton’s magician came to a sudden realization concerning what he must do. Of course, that was it! He continued to stare at the three women in the corner booth, obviously good friends. They had given him the answer. A superstitious man, he regarded that as a sign.
AN HOUR later the early-bird editions were on the streets. Both morning papers mentioned Adam Kenton’s latest startling revelation about Chess Man. In the News an editorial demanded a review of the whole insanity-defense issue. The New York Times was content to report the possibility that Thomas Bishop might not be the son of Caryl Chessman, as had been generally believed. With copies of both papers under his arm Bishop checked into another seedy hotel, this time in the high eighties off Broadway. Again he received no undue notice as he paid for one night, careful to show only a few dollars.
In his room he intended to read of himself and then make the final preparations for his plan. The section he needed from the Manhattan Yellow Pages was already in his bag, filched from a phone booth. He also had a few pads and some pencils. The rest he would get in the morning.
Meanwhile he simply had to control his mounting excitement. He would soon show Adam Kenton and all of New York that he was indeed who he claimed to be, the son of his almighty father, come down from the heavens to rout his enemies.
Horrific images of destruction flashed across his disordered mind and he calmly accepted them all as reasonable and natural.
IT WAS 9:30 before Inspector Alex Dimitri finally got home to Queens. He didn’t like Sunday work, and lately it seemed he had been doing a lot of it. His wife didn’t much care for it either. Traditional people, they believed Sunday was supposed to be spent with one’s family in relaxation. As it happened, the eldest daughter worked in Manhattan and lived in a hotel for women, another was engaged and the third away at college, so Dimitri hardly ever got to see them anymore. But much of the blame was his, for they were often around on weekends. There was one son, also in college.
As he settled down in his favorite chair with the evening newspaper, the father again wished his children hadn’t grown up so fast. He missed the years when there was always youthful noise in the house, and he and his wife Evelyn would often talk of those days. For the hundredth time he silently vowed to stop all the Sunday and late-night work and stay home more with his own.
Just as soon as he cleaned up the Chess Man thing. Just that, and he’d have plenty of time.
AT TEN o’clock Adam Kenton stormed out of Doris Quinn’s fashionable apartment on East 77th Street. They had quarreled over his affection for her, or rather the lack of it. She had wanted more than he was prepared to give—an old story to Kenton. Over the years he had been with many women, most of whom sooner or later presented him with escalating demands. When he suggested that everything for him was temporary and held no meaning beyond the moment, women invariably became hurt, angry, resentful. He couldn’t understand it. Having no sense of permanency, he distrusted all declarations of undying love or eternal allegiance. They seemed foolish and insincere to him. But most of all he disliked anyone who couldn’t enjoy the pleasures of the moment, who always sought assurances for the next hour or the next day or the rest of life itself. He had no such guarantees to give.
In truth, he didn’t himself know what the next moment would bring to his existence. That he had no emotional life was obvious even to him but he didn’t know how to change the condition, since he felt nothing for people. Nor did he particularly want to change. His satisfaction came from power, from being around it, involved with it. Women, largely powerless, didn’t normally enter that consideration. They gave him no satisfaction beyond their company when needed. For him they were essentially harmless creatures of little consequence in the scheme of things.
He couldn’t understand how Chess Man could go around wanting to kill them, wasting all his energy and purpose in seeking their destruction. His view of women, thought Kenton, was hopelessly distorted.
IN RYE the streets were generally deserted by 11 P.M. For most of its residents, hardworking and affluent, Sunday night was a time to gather strength for the workweek ahead. For John Perrone on this late-night evening it was also a time of deep foreboding. Try as he would he couldn’t shake the conviction that irreconcilable tragedy was imminent. It had to do with Adam Kenton’s plan to snar
e the demented killer, or at least establish some communication with him. But it would lead instead to acts of madness. Madness!
The managing editor had good reason to trust his present sense of doom. Many times such intuitive feelings had been proved correct. Though not overly superstitious or even religious, he had been reluctantly forced by fact to accept the phenomenon of precognition—if not in specific detail, then at least in outline. A practical man, willing to use every tool, Perrone wasn’t about to deny his own experience. Oftentimes such feelings worked and that was all he needed to know.
At the moment he also needed something to take his mind off the foreboding, something violent and visceral and gory that would ultimately lull him to sleep. in TV Guide he found two possibilities, The Texas Chain-Saw Massacre and the Eleven O’Clock Evening News. He chose the news.
BY 11:30 Kenton had downed six or seven Scotch-and-waters and felt reasonably relaxed. He weaved out of the English pub near Doris Quinn’s house and piled into a cab. Some twenty minutes later he was in his rooms at the St. Moritz. Another few minutes and he was ready for bed, his mind dulled by drink.
Further uptown a young man in a cheap hotel left his room to use the pay phone in the hall for the tenth time.
Kenton was struggling with the covers when he heard the first ring. He grumbled and decided not to answer. At the fourth insistent ring he let out a curse and grabbed for the instrument.
“Who’s that?” he yelled into the mouthpiece. And immediately burped.
No one answered him.
Annoyed, he repeated the question. Even louder this time.
A voice politely asked if he was Adam Kenton.
“Yes!”
“Mr. Kenton? I’ve been trying to reach you all evening. My name is Thomas Bishop. I have been reading the things you’ve written about me and my father …”
THOUGH TRAINED AS a reporter, with ten years on the firing line of instant emergencies and a young lifetime of quick decisions and fast movement, all Kenton could remember of the brief one-sided conversation was that he would be hearing from Chess Man again very soon. And so would the rest of the world.
By Reason of Insanity Page 60