Killer Instinct

by Robert W. Walker

  She stood before the dead woman and she visualized his movements, each in turn. He first takes control of her. He must have complete control to tie her heels and her hands and to feel the rush of superiority he requires to look upon her as an object, a container housing the fluid he wants from her. He must use an injection, possibly a powerful anesthetic. Once she is incapacitated, he ties her and rips down the chandelier and uses the naked cords to tie his rope to and hoist her up over the area where her dining room table had been before the killer pushed it over to one side. He uses a chair, but he still must be rather tall and strong to support the dangling woman while he wraps the rope round and round her heels there, pulling tight against the wire supports.

  She put the chair next to the body and had Forsythe stand on it. Forsythe was six two. He had to reach to the very length of his arms to make the tie. Their killer, she reasoned, was even taller than Forsythe, perhaps six four or five. She jotted this fact down beside all the others she had learned about the killer, both from her lab work and from Otto's profiling team. The list was getting long, and for the first time, she began to see discrepancies between Kaseem's killer and her own. For one, Kaseem's man was only five nine. He'd have a near impossible time of placing the body in the position it was in, using only the chair.

  She informed Kaseem of this when he returned. He was instantly dubious.

  “How do you know he didn't use the table? Or a ladder?”

  “Marks in the rug, here,” she said, pointing. She had already had photos taken of the indentations. “They indicate the four-legged chair was used, and there are no others in the immediate area of the body.”

  “Just the same, my guy is very strong, a weight-lifter.”

  “It's not so much a matter of weight lifting as reaching.” She got up on the chair, saying, “I'm over six feet up, but I could never work that rope myself.”

  Kaseem chose to ignore the obvious. He was convinced that the vampire they were after was the same vampire he had encountered in West Germany. She chose then to ignore his ignorance and get on with her evidence gathering. This time, with Chicago's help, she had the latest in equipment for fingerprint finding and for dampness imaging, and the light generated by the reflective ultraviolet imager brought smudges and smears into incredible focus. The bastard's chosen the wrong place this time, she thought. Somewhere in this room he had left traces of his perspiration, and from that all she need do is establish his DNA.

  She worked through the night.

  At 2 A.M. she began to hear the first rumblings of another victim located in Indiana, on the outskirts of Indianapolis. Word had it that it was a young male victim, and that perhaps it had nothing whatever to do with the Zion killing; yet the victim was drained of his blood. It was yet another Tort 9, and it fell within the one-hundred-mile circumference of Chicago.

  She would have to go there in the morning. Joe Brewer brought her word that Otto Boutine would catch up to her in Indiana.

  # # #

  Jessica wanted to strike out at the unknown, unseen assassin. She wanted to rend his tidy little world apart, threaten him as he had never been threatened before. She more and more liked O'Rourke and Schultz's suggestion to taunt him through the newspapers, and be damned with caution. She wanted to do something—anything—before the bastard struck again. In the space of twenty-four hours two more bodies were found. He had stepped up his killing, increased his need for victims, for blood. Why? What had changed? Or was it that he now had, along with his killing tool, a brash new attitude that he could take it when he wanted it, whenever he dared; that in fact there was no dare to it? He was feeling so far beyond capture, beyond the law and human morality, that he was flaunting his newfound power. This is what he seemed to be saying to her. She was angry beyond words, so angry that she wanted to kill this horrible man at any cost.

  Brewer drove her back toward Chicago and the Lincolnshire Inn where she was staying, fairly close to the airport. She had intended to be flying back to Virginia the following morning, but now she'd have to prevail upon Brewer's people to get her out to Indianapolis, or hire a car of her own.

  She was exhausted by now and so declined Brewer's suggestion they get a bite to eat. He said he hadn't seen Otto in years, and wanted to catch up.

  “You'll have plenty of time for that with Otto when he meets us in Indianapolis,” she said.

  “I was sorry to hear about his wife.”

  “Yes, so were we all.”

  They were just outside the inn now. “Did you know her , well?”

  “No, not at all, really. Except for what Otto's told me.”

  “Was a time I thought she was going to marry me, but she chose Otto instead.”

  “I didn't know.”

  He managed a grimacy smile that turned to a frown. “Life deals us all body blows from time to time, but this one... could take Otto out. He... well, he really loved her.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then there's nothing to the rumors... 'bout you and Otto?”

  “Christ, Brewer, how goddamned long is the FBI grapevine?”

  “I talked to Otto. He's... he is in love with you. You know that, don't you?”

  She hadn't thought of the affection they felt for each other as love. She was unsure whether or not she wanted it to be called love, not at this time, and not with such suddenness. How did Otto know how he felt, his emotions in a complete jumble? She wasn't even sure how she felt. All she knew was that she liked it when he held her, when he had kissed her briefly, and when he had stayed overnight. She had liked how it felt to have him in the apartment. But was it love?

  “Otto and I are best of friends for now... best of friends and we work together. Does that settle your curious mind?”

  “I'm sorry if I offended you. Just wanted to tell you that I know Otto. I know he... that he's the kind of man who needs commitment and a real relationship and—”

  “Dammit, Brewer, I thought Chicago had a Dear Abby. I don't need to stand here in the cold and listen to advice from you about my relationship with Otto.” She stormed off, angry at Brewer, angry at herself, angry at Otto and the situation, but mostly angry at the Wekosha vampire, who, it appeared by the headlines in the newspapers in the lobby, had become the Chicago vampire.

  She picked up a copy and took it to her room. Schultz did quite a number on the killer. He had gotten a story placed that pictured all the alleged victims of the vampire killer, along with photos of their parents where this was possible. The story told primarily of the suffering of the families left in the wake of the killer's bloodletting. It was the sympathy-garnering story that Otto had approved, but as she read it, and as she thought about the vampire who slept peacefully somewhere nearby, she realized the story would gather in no sympathy from him.

  Her hatred for the creature was so great that she no longer considered him human. The fact he was human—the fact he was not a freak of nature or a predatory animal—only added to the man's despicable and horrible tastes and murderous proclivities; the fact he did what he did without rage, without insanity, but with a cold, methodical and calculated process always in mind... this made her wish he was an animal or a mythical underworld beast.

  EIGHTEEN

  Even before she got to Indianapolis, Jessica learned that a task force of hundreds of law enforcement officials had been set to work on the killer of the Zion nurse. Every conceivable lead, every telephone call, every scrap of information, was being pursued tirelessly, around the clock. No call was too absurd or fantastic to respond to. The only problem was that the calls outnumbered even the hundreds upon hundreds of police officials called in on the case.

  Joe Brewer had brought her up-to-date on these developments as they helicoptered to Indianapolis. He also had a lab report on the capsule found at the Zion death site. Oddly, the drug had turned out to be a potent dose of cortisone, the kind that could be had only through a prescription. Jessica knew that such a dosage was for no ordinary measure, that it meant the kill
er—if it belonged to him—had a serious disorder. This made her recall what Teresa O'Rourke had surmised about the killer.

  “What about a print? Anything?” She knew it was unlikely.

  “Not enough.”

  “A partial?”

  “More like a smudge. A few points of reference.”

  She knew this fact meant an unlikely chance at any sort of computer match. Long shots seldom paid off in real life.

  She returned to her thoughts about O'Rourke's uncanny assertion that the killer might well suffer from some nasty disorder of a serious physiological nature. She had to consult a medical book to determine the uses for such a dose of cortisone, and in the meantime, she asked Brewer and his people to keep this tidbit of information in the strictest of confidence.

  “In other words,” she said to Brewer point-blank, “let's don't let it get around like the stories circulating about Otto and me, okay?”

  “Christ, Dr. Coran, I've heard nothing but the best about you, really. I never meant to hurt you or to imply—”

  “Forget about it, Inspector.”

  “Call me Joe.”

  “Fine, I'll do that. So what's the word from Otto? Will he be waiting for us in Indianapolis, or what?”

  “Something's come up that'll detain him, but he promises to make it.”

  “Something's come up?” She was curious, but she doubted he knew any more than what he was told to repeat.

  But Brewer volunteered, “Seems they got a letter which he has reason to believe is from the killer.”

  “Really?” She tried to picture a scenario in which the killer could have gotten the late edition of the Chicago papers, read about himself and his heinous crimes there and then responded as Otto had wanted him to. No, it was impossible, given the state of the U.S. mails, and not even Federal Express was that good. Unless the killer was responding to stories he had read dealing with the Wekosha killing, stories that had been wired to every newspaper office in the country, but stories that had precious little information in them, especially about the nature of the brutal killings or the maniac behind them.

  She shared her thoughts with Brewer, who had had his share of dealings with brutal, sadistic killers over the years. Brewer was almost Otto's age. Joe told her that there was no second-guessing a madman, and that using the media to taunt a cold-blooded killer was a lot like juggling flaming knives, or toying with Satan, or worse, God. He did not entirely agree on the steps that Quantico was taking, and he flatly said that they might in effect be jeopardizing citizens in his territory. FBI headquarters was far from Chicago, and Joe feared that the Bureau sometimes forgot how easily innocent lives could be lost.

  Still, the present killing spree could have nothing to do with the story placed in the Chicago papers the night before. The last two killings had been perpetrated before the story was filed, if the Indiana slaying was done by the same man.

  Even before they touched down in a field across from the latest victim's house, she sensed that it was the same killer. Something about the house would have appealed to her killer. It was relatively isolated, and it had the look of a beaten-down little place. She wondered if there was something even in the homes of the victims that attracted the “vampire.”

  The view from the chopper revealed a broken-down, scavenged relic of a car in the rear, an old, tired shed, a weed patch where once there might have been a flourishing garden, some scattered barrels for burning refuse, the yard littered with trashy items, the grass in need of shearing. The house itself was a hodgepodge of construction, what had been a simple bungalow with an ill-conceived second-story addition. TTie Zion woman's place had had a similar, ratty appearance, old and tattered, with a porch that sagged below the men, some of whom were playing with the creaky boards as if betting on who could make the loudest squeak, when she came up the stairs, her presence silencing the talk.

  Some of the local cops in tight-fitting brown outfits, and one burly biker in particular, assured Jessica that she didn't want to see what was on the inside. Others mistook her for a reporter. But she flashed her FBI badge and stepped through, asking if the coroner had been in yet.

  He had, but they'd gotten word from the FBI to hold on any evidence gathering, and so they had. The coroner was busy enough that he didn't in the least mind the FBI interest, she was told.

  She stepped into the dark interior, steeling herself. She felt her backbone stiffen at the sour odors, now familiar to her. Like the Zion house, there was the distinct odor of mildew, rotten wood and decaying flesh. Walking into a corridor that had become a death trap to the young man they'd called Fowler was like walking into a gallery room created by the Devil, and on this wall hangs the Fowler hody, and beside it in the anteroom, the McDonell body, and in the drawing room, the Trent body followed by the Copeland shell. Lovely only to the killing mind, this satanic gallery of death, filled with its awful sights and sickening odors. For a moment, she felt all alone with the black shape in the dark, silhouetted against the stairwell behind it, where it dangled: Fowler.

  She could see the skinny-boy form of the body, hanging from the banister in the hallway that led to the second floor. “We got any lights?” she asked, and they instantly came up to reveal the ugly situation. The men were learning from Joe Brewer exactly who she was, about the fact she had been tracking a vampire killer since the incident in Wekosha, and that they had had another, similar case in Zion, Illinois, only the night before.

  “What's known about this young man?” she asked the crowd of policemen and investigators.

  “Not much,” volunteered one.

  “Dispatcher,” said another, heavier man with a notebook that he flipped pages in, “gay, hung out at a place called Shinnola on Fourteenth and Redding in the heart of—”

  “What kind of dispatcher? Trucks?”

  “Trucks, ambulances—”

  “Ambulances?”

  “Yeah, worked at St. Luke's Hospital. Was a good worker, so everybody there says.”

  “Anyone see him leave the hospital with another man?”

  “Negative.”

  She saw the familiar mutilation wounds and the lack of blood on the stairwell, the runner carpet, the wood floor and the walls. She saw the familiar hitching knot, the throat slash. It all looked on the surface like a ghastly replay, a flashback, a macabre d6ja vu.

  She called for Brewer who came nearer. “I'll need everything I brought in the helicopter, all the cases, all the equipment.” She had borrowed Chicago's imaging system, but even with the best equipment, the search over the body and premises would take hours. Once again, the killer was far out ahead of them, still free to do this awful thing again.

  Again she wondered what had precipitated the killer's sudden spree. Spree killing was not the usual serial killer's way. A spree typified the sudden snap, the leap from rational to irrational, and it typified the disorganized killer, but no amount of labeling or statistics could corner this maniac with a tracheotomy tube and a tourniquet, with his empty Pepsi bottles waiting to be refilled, with his vials of semen that he placed into his victim's orifices by hand.

  She wished it were Boutine with her now instead of Brewer. She wondered what had been so important as to keep Otto. She needed his support, his strength, his nagging questions.

  The place was like Wekosha in that there were too many cops freely roaming about. She had to ask Brewer to keep control of the place. She thought of what Otto had said about the killer's likely response to reading about the details of the killings in print, that it would excite him to some action which might give them a lead, however small. She silently prayed that the stories in the papers would have this effect, but some nagging doubt clung to the thought like a lamprey, sucking the life from the hope of the psychological profiling team. Whoever this guy was, she guessed that he wasn't going to “respond” as if he were a statistical symbol, that he wouldn't so easily allow them to push his buttons.

  Whoever this fucking maniac was, she thought, he wasn't
going to be run by any normal rules, even “normal” by deviant behavior “models.”

  “Standards.” Still, he remained a meticulous, careful bastard before, during and after he calmly took the life's blood from his victims. It made her wonder if the capsule found at the Zion murder site hadn't, after all, been planted there by the bastard, just to further confuse and confound them. Anyone who created cosmetic wounds to cover the true cause of death, anyone who intentionally faked both the sexual attack and the mutilation murder in so cool a manner, would find planting a certain drug at the scene child's play.

  The Indiana victim was a male, approximate age was placed at nineteen or twenty. Her thoughts were macabre: that the killer must have read somewhere, perhaps in a medical journal, that he could get five to ten more ml./kg. of blood from a man as from a woman.

  Around her she heard the investigators and Brewer discussing the matter.

  “One sick puppy, this one.”

  “Damnedest thing I've seen in all my years.”

  “What's he do with the blood?”

  “Could just be a copycat.”

  She'd know soon enough if it was a copycat killing. The straw cut to the jugular had not been in any newspaper, so if it was found in Fowler's jugular, as it had been in the Zion woman's, she knew that it was the same killer with his unique killing tool.

  The men around her continued to talk and she half listened in order to keep a foot in the world of the sane as she worked in the closest of range about Fowler's throat, taking the necessary section she required for the nearest scanning electron microscope. She learned this was at the university medical complex two hours away.

  Brewer was asking questions in rapid fire of the locals. “You check out all the asylums in the area?”