Field heard nothing. His back to Bishop, he was on his knees and reaching under the bed when his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of something moving behind him. He instinctively turned his head around and upward just as the great knife was arcing down into the top of his skull, at the very center of the bald spot. Grasped with both hands by Bishop and driven downward with terrible force, the knife tore through bone and cartilage, almost to the hilt. There was a flash of incredible light, beyond anything Field had ever seen. The light quickly turned to red. His eyes rolled inward, the jaws slackened. He had no time to react or to recall anything. As his body began to sag toward the floor Henry Field was already dead.
Bishop returned to his final facial preparations. His hands shook. He was angry at the man for trying to trap him, to stop him from his work. Why were they like that? He was not the enemy. In the long run he was helping all of them. They should be praising him but instead they sought to lock him away again. Or even destroy him.
He became so enraged by the thought that he rushed back in the room and plunged the knife again and again into the lifeless body. The rug was soon wet with blood. When his passion was finally spent he shoved the body under the bed, where it came to rest next to that of the slain woman.
After washing the blood off himself, Bishop dressed in a leisurely manner. Then it was time to go. The hail would be empty and some women would be home. With thirteen more floors below!
BY ELEVEN o’clock Bill Torolla was wondering what had happened to his senior partner. He had been gone over an hour, which was not like the man. As a security precaution they usually kept each other informed of their location if they expected to be gone for more than a half hour. Torolla thought he might be with the manager upstairs. Or maybe chasing his phantom prowler again.
HAD THE closed-circuit TV been switched to the fourteenth floor, and had anyone been watching at the time, a young woman might have been seen knocking on a door in the middle of the hail. A door that was soon opened and through which the young woman rather quickly entered.
BY NOON Torolla was concerned. He learned that Field had asked about the person in 1438, Miss Dunbar. One of the elevator operators had taken him to her floor. No one had brought him down. Torolia called upstairs but got no answer. He decided that his partner was spending an amorous few hours with the woman in 1438. It was against hotel regulations of course, but both men had done it on occasion.
Frustrated, he returned to his work and then went out to lunch at 12:30 with a friend and prompfly forgot all about it.
AT ABOUT the same time in Berkeley, California, two parcels were being delivered to the home of Amos Finch. They had been sent to him by Adam Kenton in New York City and contained all the final possessions of Sara Bishop and her boy that had been saved. Almost all. Kenton had kept a few things for himself to help him in the search. Things that made him feel a closeness to Bishop, such as several childish drawings of monsters and copies of Caryl Chessman’s books. And the worn leather strap—Kenton kept that too.
Finch was delighted with the new acquisitions. They would become part of the Thomas Bishop collection he was assembling. He had already acquired Bishop’s meager possessions at Willows State Hospital: a few clothes, some books, the lockbox from under his bed, a blanket and sheet from the bed itself, other odds and ends. More important to the collection were the items given him just recently by Lieutenant Spanner. A very distinctive harmonica and an alligator comb, a little wallet with a picture of Sara Bishop, and the uniform that Vincent Mungo had worn on the night of the escape. Inside each garment was sewn the name of Thomas Bishop. Spanner did not expect Bishop ever to stand trial in his jurisdiction for the killing of Vincent Mungo. He would never, the lieutenant knew, stay alive that long.
Finch naturally hoped to get whatever he could of Bishop’s things when he was finally killed. Like mostly everyone, Finch had no doubts that Bishop would die swiftly. Already having resigned himself to it, he considered the loss a staggering one for criminology but nonetheless as certain as the ending of an epic Greek tragedy, with which Bishop’s life had much in common.
Now, on this California Tuesday morning, Amos Finch dialed New York to thank Kenton, hoping the man would remember his promise to salvage everything he could that belonged to Bishop at the end.
IN SACRAMENTO, Roger Tompkins had just walked into Senator Stoner’s office and announëed his resignation. There were other offers, naturally. It had been a great time but it was just one of those things.
He returned several letters and copies taken earlier when he had feared he might become the victim of a forced resignation. That was in better times, of course. But no hard feelings. Politics is a rough game, as the senator well knew.
He smiled his warmest.
From behind his desk Stoner stared at the young man facing him. There was no doubt in his mind that Roger would go far in politics. He had the ruthlessness and hunger for power that were necessary, and he also had the insincerity and cynicism needed. He would make his mark.
Meanwhile he was making a mistake. A big one, but he was young and still had a lot to learn about politics. He was learning something right now, though he didn’t realize it yet. Nothing was as it seemed in politics. Like snakes, politicians should never be counted out until after the death rattle.
Over the weekend Stoner had met with the state party leaders. Because of his new prominence he was considered a big asset to state Republican hopes, so they had given his present troubles special handling. Meaning a deal had been made. His questionable business maneuvers were actually honest errors of judgment rather than of illegal intent and had been stopped immediately when called to his attention. California Democrats had one of their own caught in a similar mess so neither party would press the issue. Without a storm of publicity the public would not regard the matter as serious. Californians were notoriously easy on their own, anyway.
Of even greater significance to Stoner was the reaction of the big power blocs in the Midwest and East. At first blush they had been ready to write him off. He had committed the unpardonable political sin of being caught. Yet his burgeoning popularity, his increasing national recognition, gave them second thought. They needed some new faces to take people’s minds off some old ones. Even more, they needed some who could be shaped into winners in the coming dark season.
Stoner had captured the public’s fancy with his imaginative campaign for capital punishment. It was a big issue and would get bigger as things like crime and urban terrorism got worse in the country. And the senator had capital punishment by the throat. As one New York Republican bigwig put it, “Stoner found it, he built it, and he’s going to keep it.”
The consensus was to back him, after a brief period to let the public forget the Newstime revelations. Much as an airline stops all newspaper advertising for several days following a crash.
None of this did Stoner mention to Roger Tompkins. Instead he accepted the young man’s resignation with “profound regret” and wished him well. Fuck him! Let the little bastard learn on his own.
At noon he would call Tom Donaldson in Chicago. From now on he wanted big-time support in everything from press agents to fund raising.
He thought of the evening ahead, when he would be with his new mistress. She was big-time support too.
Senator Jonathan Stoner was not only a survivor, he was a winner. He would beat them all yet.
THE OTHER survivor sat in his New York hotel room and wondered if he would ever win again. He had been writing about the man for nearly four months and tracking him for almost two and still had not seen him or even come close. But at least he had heard the voice. Twice. For a few seconds.
It just wasn’t enough.
Adam Kenton suddenly felt discouraged. He had spent the morning in his hotel thinking Bishop might call again. Here it was 1:30 in the afternoon and he had heard nothing. Nor would he again, he was sure of that now. And of something else too. Bishop was busy at that very moment, involved in a
n utterly mad grand design only he knew about. The man was capable of anything but pity. Kenton swore softly, fearful in spite of himself.
There had been some rings: from Fred Grimes, reporting his mob contacts had no leads on the target; from John Perrone, who still had his premonition of disaster; from Inspector Dimitri, up all night waiting for the inevitable news; from George Homer, wondering if Bishop might be seeking to invade some unprotected preserve of women in the city, such as a nunnery or health club. Kenton passed the idea on to Dimitri, who ordered increased surveillance of those places.
At noontime Doris rang up to apologize. It wasn’t easy to become physically involved and yet not be involved emotionally. Maybe she wasn’t as grown up as she’d thought. Maybe she’d never be that grown up. But she hadn’t meant to treat him unkindly or shout at him.
Kenton understood. It was as much his fault. They’d get together again, he told her. Until the next time anyway, or the time after that. What he didn’t tell her was that he had been through it all before. More than once.
Amos Finch’s call an hour later depressed Kenton further, reminding him that Thomas Bishop was not some evil monster from another world but a child who had been tortured so viciously that his mind finally took refuge in hopeless insanity.
There were thousands of adult children like him in mental hospitals all over the country, lost forever in the abyss of madness, the bottomless pit of hell. But not entirely like him. Thomas Bishop’s torture had been so horrendous that he had touched bottom. He had turned on his own kind, seeing them as the enemy. In turning homicidal he had become a cancer.
Kenton couldn’t even conceive of the incalculable suffering that could have done such a thing to another human being. His heart broke at the thought. He wanted to cry out for vengeance, but there was no one on whom to take revenge. No one was there. Except an army of police with infinite weapons trained on a single target, like a radiation machine focused on a malignant growth. When the moment came, the button would be pressed.
And he knew that was the right thing to do.
And he knew he would grieve for the dead.
IT WAS 2:l0 when Bill Torolla got back from lunch expecting to find Henry Field. The office was empty. He tried room 1438 again without luck. At 2:30 Torolla, still alone in the office, took his passkey to the fourteenth floor and entered the corner room. No one was home. He noticed dark stains on the rug by the bed, and he bent down for a closer look… .
BY 3 P.M. the hotel on East 61st Street was an armed camp. Police vehicles were everywhere, precinct cars and division cars and forensic wagons and emergency trucks. Unmarked detective cars too. And, of course, those of the special task force under the command of Deputy Inspector Alex Dimitri. Network TV crews were arriving, setting up their equipment on the pavement since they were not allowed inside the hotel. Not yet anyway. The street itself was closed to traffic, and pedestrians were restricted to the opposite sidewalk for halfway down the block.
Inside, the confusion appeared even worse as seemingly endless police paraded through the lobby or gathered in ominous groups. The most frightful rumors were passed from one excited man to the next, all of which would eventually pale before the reality. One name was heard repeated over and over, often more as an improper epithet than a proper noun. Chess Man. The only certainty in those first hectic moments of arrival, during that first half hour as police brass set up field communications and priority missions, was that they had discovered, or stumbled into, the madman’s latest outrage. It was not yet clear whether they had caught Chess Man in the act or arrived only after the final curtain.
Upstairs on the fourteenth floor every room was quickly searched with the help of a still dazed backup security man, but only the dead awaited the living. The count was five bodies, including that of Henry Field. Other units were beginning to check out the thirteenth floor in a more systematic approach as the nature of the gruesome task became evident. Still more police prepared for a search of lower floors. At ground level the entire building was sealed; men were stationed everywhere around the base, in every alley and passageway. If Chess Man were inside he would not escape again.
Soon after three o’clock the sensational news began to be broadcast on radio and television, special bulletins interrupting regular programming. TV showed the dramatic scene at the Ashley as network executives agonized over whether to scrap their regular schedule for the event. Either that or sandwich coverage between shows. Machine minds quickly began to calculate the cost.
Adam Kenton got the call at 2:50 from Fred Grimes. The police had just found Bishop’s handiwork, and they might’ve found him as well.
No one was sure of anything yet. Except a lot of dead bodies.
The Ashley Hotel for women. Between Park and Lexington on 61st. About five blocks from the St. Moritz.
The crazy bastard was trying to knock off a whole building full of females!
Kenton was already gone.
A quick cab got him to Park Avenue and he was on the street in minutes. It was bedlam. His press card got him through police lines and Captain Olson, whom he spotted on the hotel steps, got him inside.
“Is he still here?” Kenton shouted into Olson’s ear in the lobby.
“We don’t know,” Olson shouted back. “We’ve only been through the top floor so far. Five dead.”
Kenton’s face turned sick, the color draining out of him. “My God!” he mumbled. There were hundreds of rooms in the hotel and he didn’t know how many floors. That meant hundreds of women. “My God!” he repeated to himself.
“The inspector’s around somewhere,” Olson yelled above the noise. “We’ve set up a command post in the manager’s office. Over there.” He pointed. “Only go easy on him right now.”
“Why’s that?”
“His daughter lives here,” said Olson gravely, “and he hasn’t heard from her yet.”
In the crowded office Alex Dimitri sat barking out orders and talking on phones, trying not to think of his eldest daughter. She was a fashion designer, often worked in her hotel room. Her office hadn’t seen her since Monday noon when she left for some client meetings. She had taken a few things she intended to work on at home.
Dimitri said a silent prayer. He had already talked to his wife, assured her that Amy was safe and would call them any minute. Just as soon as she heard the news. Her room on the sixth floor had been looked into by one of his own men. She wasn’t there.
Meanwhile he had work to do… .
It was a little past noon in California when the news broke. John Spanner heard about it as he returned from a briefing of a new homicide division he had started. He rushed to his office and snapped on the TV.
In Berkeley, Amos Finch was doing the same thing, having heard the announcement on the radio. As he pondered what lay ahead, Finch had the craziest urge to race for the airport and grab the next plane to New York.
By 3:30 the thirteenth floor had been gone over by special weapons units trained to deal with such emergencies. They had found seven more bodies. Only then did the full horror of the disaster become apparent to all. Hardened police officers were seen near tears, others turned to stone. A dozen bodies butchered beyond belief And no one knew what lay below. There were still twelve floors to go.
As rapidly as possible the women were being evacuated from their rooms, at least those who answered. Police groups raced through the various hallways pounding on doors and herding emerging women into waiting elevators. They passed by those rooms whose doors remained shut. Chess Man could be in any one of them. Or another victim, beyond help. Their concern was to get the live ones out first. They would take care of him last, and forever.
At the lobby the frightened women, most wearing coats hastily donned, were told they wouldn’t be able to return to their rooms for the moment. Perhaps by evening—they would have to wait and see. Then they were asked to leave the hotel so the police could get on with their work.
On the twelfth floor three more bodies
were soon discovered, two in adjoining rooms at one end of the hall and the third several doors down. But a half dozen women were still alive, unaware of the slaughter around them. To Dimitri’s men it looked as if Chess Man had been forced to stop at that point by the arrival of police. When the eleventh floor yielded no new bodies the conviction grew that the madman had suddenly abandoned his plan on twelve. Which meant he was still somewhere in the building. Maybe. If he hadn’t left through a basement exit as the police entered through the front door. Or flew away in an invisible spaceship parked on the roof
Bishop had heard the sirens of course. Not having an invisible spaceship, he did the next best thing and blended into his surroundings. Scooping up his coat and bag, he raced down the fire stairs to Emma deVore’s room on the tenth floor, letting himself in with the key taken from her body in the early morning. There he waited until police shepherded all the women into the elevators. In the lobby he walked silently through the confusion and out the front door with a dozen other women. Newsmen were waiting for them but Bishop managed to keep moving, saying nothing, and they quickly lost interest. He didn’t linger on the block, walking rapidly to Park Avenue and around the corner. Eventually he slowed his pace and began to breathe easier.
He had done it again. Fooled them all.
At the Ashley the search went on, room by room. Over the next few hours police teams checked the entire building, including the top two stories again. Three more bodies were found, one each on the seventh, ninth and tenth floors.
But no Chess Man. Not in the rooms or halls or stairs, not on the roof or in the basement, not anywhere. He was gone. Like the wind, he was seen only by what he left behind.
What he left behind were eighteen dead. More than twice the number of Richard Speck’s victims for a single night.
By Reason of Insanity Page 63