Peggy found another light switch and this brightened the room a bit more, and she saw that it was a single bedroom with a small fridge and stove perched on a linoleum section of floor. She imagined that Park ate out a lot. But she hadn't time for wondering, she knew. She must search the place as quickly and cleanly as possible and get the hell out.
She began with a suitcase that had been set aside, and she was a bit fearful of its contents. She'd seen the movie Magic, and more than anything the thought of dummies and dolls coming to life to kill people sent shivers up her spine. If the dwarf were just that, hell, he could very well be inside the damned suitcase. She knew her thoughts were childish, but she'd seen the hairy dwarf, and he, or it, had not looked quite human. She pulled back the lid slowly, cautiously, her sense of touch registering the fact long before her eyes that the case was completely empty. Park must then have placed his things into the drawers to her right.
Peggy began a search there, stopping when she came to a paper notebook with pockets crammed with newspaper clippings, stories of scalping murders which had taken place in Montana, Idaho, Iowa, and Michigan. Most of the stories were photocopies, except for the Michigan ones. Peggy unknowingly staggered to the bed and sat down, her eyes and mind entirely focused on the evidence against Park.
Her mind became like a vacuum, taking in all the photos and headlines at once. She did not hear the noise in the rooms on either side of her any longer. She didn't worry herself with the possibility that Park might enter at any moment. She didn't hear the soft step of a man in expensive loafers as he peered from the blackness of the bath not four feet away, holding his breath, nor the dwarf who stood on the body that lay prone in the tub.
The man in the tub had the dwarf's large hunting knife plunged in his heart. They'd done their work and had been getting ready to leave when Peggy Carson arrived. It was only through sheer luck, the dark carpeting and the shadows of the place that she had not seen the splat of blood where the pair of brothers had dispatched Lt. David Park. This killing was not for hair, or scalp, or skin. This one had been for safety's sake, because Park, above all others, had tenaciously chased them across the country, never giving up, like a hound on a scent. This plan had been hatched by Ian and approved by Van.
The unexpected entry of Peggy Carson posed a new wrinkle.
Ian saw that she was absorbed in what she was reading, material they must turn to their own use and benefit now.
He stepped out silently, in slow-motion time, realizing she was armed and dangerous, as she had proven before, realizing also that it would be a struggle to keep Van from slicing her forehead and scalp where Ian had begun before, that he would want to finish the job started. But Ian had a far more fetching and possibly rewarding plan for Peggy Carson and the police, a plan that would screen Ian and Van long enough to get the baby scalp that Ian wanted before they must rush from this area where too much of their activity had come to light.
Ian had a handkerchief he'd doused with chloroform. Within inches of the concentrating reader now, close enough to feel the heat rising off her body, Ian struck, forcing the sleeping potion into her eyes, nose, and mouth all at once. He felt the kick and fight go out of her almost instantly, and in a moment Peggy Carson lay in his arms and the dwarf was straddled across her midsection, undoing her uniform, forcing a hand against her breast, cooing and getting excited at the touch of her skin. He examined the forehead and realized for the first time it was the same woman as that night in the alley.
Ian knew he was going to have to disagree and fight with Van this time.
"Let's do her right this time,” said Van. drooling onto his hairy chin.
"We can't, no ... no!” Ian whispered, pointing to the walls which were paper thin.
"This is too tempting,” Van whispered back, his long, uncut nails digging into the flesh of Peggy Carson's scalp. He then began to undo her belt and zipper, sniffing over her like a dog in heat.
Ian pulled him away from her, tearing out long strands of his hair to do so, he must tug so hard. “I said no!” It was hard to be emphatic and whisper at the same time, but Van was beginning to realize that the girl meant something special to Ian.
"Peggy's scalp stays. We don't harm her."
"Peggy?” he snarled at the suggestion, the big orbs glaring at Ian.
"I've got a much better plan for her."
"I want her ... I want to eat parts of her...."
"No! Not if you want the babies, remember the babies! The black scalp didn't work. Now we've got to try baby hair, like I said! If we kill this one, it'll only tell them we're still at large."
"No, no ... if we kill her, they'll still think he did it,” He indicated the bathroom where Park's body had been left.
"Be reasonable! You're always unreasonable when you ... when you're like this."
"I am being reasonable."
"No, no you're not. If Park scalped her, then how in God's name did she kill him with his own knife? Trust me, this time I know what's best for us both."
The grim, large lips of the dwarf parted in a lopsided smile and he nodded his head successively while getting ahold of his emotions. He did very much want to do the girl ... very much ... but something in Ian's voice told him that his brother was taking on responsibility and growing. “Yes, all right ... let's hear your plan."
"No time to tell it to you. Just help me bring Park's body back out here and place it right where you stabbed him."
"Oh, clever ... I begin to see...."
Dyer was incredulous. He didn't believe what Dean was trying to tell him as they sped toward Park's place. He didn't want to even consider the possibility that Park had anything whatever to do with the slayings—any more than he had wanted to believe Sid Corman had—and he didn't want to believe that Peggy Carson could be so stupid as to go after the man on such flimsy evidence, acting like Annie Oakley.
"Christ, Dr. Grant, it's crazy ... all of it! Why're we all focusing in on the department this way, like this perverted killing is something of an inside job? To my way of thinking, we should be focusing outward. To my way of thinking, these murderers are out there in the community, not in the department. Sure, Dave can be uncooperative and secretive, and he's been a real ass not to confide in me, his partner, about his true identity, but that hardly makes him a mass murderer. I mean, come on, Doctor."
"I'm sorry my investigation of his past got out, Frank."
"Yeah, well, sorry won't help if one of those two cops shoots the other when Peggy goes storming in, Christ."
"That's why I called you."
Dyer had killed the siren now that they were near their destination, not wishing to add to the chaos he expected to find on Park's doorstep. “I don't understand your job, Dr. Grant. I mean, you're a coroner, right? And coroners work with microscopes and slides, not guns and bullets, yet here you are, investigating people over the wires. That kind of stinks, you know that?"
Dean wondered if he should confess now to Dyer that Dean's contacts he, too, had been on Dean's list of people being surveyed by in Chicago. It wasn't the best of moments to do so. Instead Dean replied, “Everyone's suspect in a case like this, Frank, and you know exactly why we're all looking over one another's shoulder. Someone did take Sid's scissors to plant at the murder scene. Now, whether that someone is one of our scalpers or not, he's guilty of a crime. Besides, you know of the calls to Dr. Hamel, the contents of those calls."
"Park wouldn't have had anything to do with such a play."
"Who then? You?"
"Me? What the hell'd I do a thing like that for?"
"Sid fools around some, a lot, from what I've seen. You have a wife—"
"And kids, but you're clutching at straws here, doc. I'm not no goddamned killer, or liar, or the kind of man who would handle a problem like that by devious means. If you do a check on my record, like you did Park's, you might learn how I'd handle Sid Corman, if he ever went near my wife."
"Then you won't mind if I do just that—run a
check on your past?"
He glared at Dean. “You're something of a real bastard, doc."
Dean considered his point briefly. “You get as old as me, Frank ... see as much as me ... if you remain a cop for as long as I have remained a coroner, and you'll have people calling you a bastard, too, believe me."
"Bastard,” Frank Dyer muttered in repetition.. “Park ... he's a bastard, too, come to think of it. This working like James Bond, on his own, it ain't no good for nobody, and it doesn't inspire confidence in a partner, believe me. Suppose he is close to the killer. Suppose he's hot on his trail, and suppose the killer turns around and pops him. Where does that leave the rest of us? Some bag of shit we got ourselves here, Doc, a caseload of four dead by scalping and more elsewhere from what you say, a so-called investigative team that so distrust one another, nobody can tell what's what. Just the kinda business that let the Boston Strangler do his handiwork for so long without ever being detected. Nice going, one and all."
Dyer was right again, but so far as Dean could tell, the screw-up had begun well before his arrival, at the top level, with Chief Hodges. “I agree one hundred percent, Frank, and I'd like to make a pact with you now. No more secrets between us."
Dyer looked across at Dean to take his measure. “Okay, fair enough."
"You remind me a lot of a cop friend of mine in Chicago, Frank."
"Oh, yeah?” Tough guy, or what?"
"Smart guy who cuts through crap like a razor's edge. How do you size up Park?"
"I say you've got the man all wrong. I say what he told you was pure truth, but hey, I've been known to be wrong."
"Thanks for the qualified observation."
After returning Park's body to the living area and unceremoniously dumping him at the spot where it would be determined Peggy Carson had killed him when he'd attacked her, Ian cooly gave Van orders to help him wipe clean all traces of the dead man's blood in the bathroom. “The tiles, the bath, sink, floor, everything."
"Do it yourself,” said Van, nastily, “I'm going to look at the girl."
"Damn it, Van, we're doing this to keep you safe from harm, from men like Grant!"
"I'm not afraid of Grant or any of those bastards you seem so in awe of, big brother."
"Van!"
"And you're getting just a little too smart for your own good!"
"We don't have time for this, please. Oh, damn it, I'll do it myself."
He worked until nothing was left on any of the surfaces. Then he guided Peggy's lithe body over toward the corpse and saw to it that blood was smeared on her hands and clothing. He had worked with rubber gloves on the whole time.
Ian went out to Peggy Carson's squad car, pulled open a door, and taken the shotgun. He pointing it at Van, telling him he could riddle Van's entire hairy little body with the pull of a trigger and then really become the hero of the hour, having bagged both members of the Scalping Crew. Van's face blanched beneath the wolfman features. “You'd do that to me?"
"If you don't get off her and agree to my plan as it stands, yes!"
Van laughed as he got down off Peggy, his mouth drooling. “All right ... all right, Ian."
After some pleading with Van, they left her there, the two slowing only at the door to make certain no one saw them. The dwarf scurried out ahead for the safety of the car. They'd had to delay their hunting because of Park and his feeble blackmail attempt Park had been onto them for some time, but he hadn't wanted to bring them to justice. He'd only wanted a payoff, a large payoff, and he'd wanted to talk to the dwarf, he'd said. The bastard had gotten just what he deserved. Nobody talked to Van but Ian.
And now Ian knew the flaw in his deformed brother's reasoning, but he was having a terrible time convincing Van of it, convincing him that the victims of the scalpings should of necessity have been innocent, virginal, young, and untouched, that this would more likely please the Dark One than all the scalps they might bring from such as Peggy Carson, the redheaded bitch, and that whore from the park. It was imperative now that they find scalps of children. It just made good sense. Someone pure of heart and experience, a soul Satan would delight in winning over. The magic Van wished to work via His power and Ian's genes and Ian's hair could very possibly take hold if the elemental ingredient was a virginal boy or girl, an infant, perhaps, a so-called angel of God. So, why couldn't Van see-this and understand? No, he was too stubborn, too set in his ways, inflexible, self-important, arrogant. Why could he not accept the fact that the Dark One had for once whispered in Ian's ear, told him what Van was unable to fathom or didn't want to, about kids, about innocent little kids.
All Van could see was anger and rage at any slight suggestion, yet everything Ian did, he did for Van. It wasn't fair, none of it, for even if they were ever to succeed, there'd be no place left for Ian anywhere, he knew that. And he knew that when they got home tonight, Van would beat him, and he'd stand for it, stand for it as he always had.
"You see Park's car anywhere?"
"No, but it could be on the other side of the complex.” Dyer took a deep breath and tried shouting, calling Park's first name. “Dave! Dave, you in there? Dave? It's me, Frank Dyer."
This got no response, but suddenly a light went on and inside someone screamed. “Peggy!” shouted Dean, “Peggy, open up!"
The door was being unlocked from inside, and when Dean pulled it open, he and Dyer stood face-to-face with a wild-eyed, frightened Peggy Carson, who fell forward into Dean's arms. “He ... left me no choice ... came up from behind,” she said as he carried her into the room, coming to a standstill when he and Dyer saw what remained of Frank's partner on the floor. Dean had prayed they would get here soon enough to stop any bloodshed, and his predominating fear was for Peggy, certain that Park would do her harm. But here he was, lying in a pool of his own blood in the semi-dark of the tawdry hotel room that he'd been living out of since his move from Michigan. Dyer, under his breath, cursed several times while Dean made Peggy as comfortable as he could in a straight-backed chair in the corner, since the bed was littered with an array of guns. Judging from her empty holster, at least one piece in the arsenal was hers. But Dyer had died of a knife wound to the heart, from all appearances. Dyer went to his knees over his partner, disbelieving his own eyes.
"Damn it, you've killed him, Carson."
"Don't touch a thing,” Dean ordered Frank. “Call for Corman and bring my valise from the car, Frank ... Frank!"
One of the neighbors, having heard the disturbance, stepped into the doorway. It was the man Peggy had spoken to earlier, and he stared wide-eyed at Park, whose chest was a dried mat of blood, the hilt of a hunting knife protruding from it. “Holy shit, this one of those gags they play at parties?"
"Get him out of here, Frank, please,” ordered Dean, who looked up at the stricken eyes of Peggy Carson. “I could break your neck, Peggy, coming here like this."
"But I didn't do it, Dean ... I swear!"
Dean took her by the arms and motioned her to a chair in a corner. “Sit down before you collapse,” he said. Then he took in the room at a glance, analyzing it the way any policeman coming to the door would. On the bed lay two handguns, both Peggy's. Propped against a wall was Peggy's shotgun. Scattered and torn and tossed about the room were newspaper clippings and photocopies of news stories, and Dean, using his fingertips, turned one to read the headline:
TEEN FOUND MUTILATED IN FOREST GLEN WOODS.
Another used the word scalped. Dean then saw the scalpel at Park's side. Maybe they had the bloody Scalper after all. What a blessing, if it were so. There'd be no more such horrendous murders, no more need to go to sleep wondering if tomorrow the next victim would be found. He could go home to his wife and his own piled up work and spend Christmas, only a week away now, where he could feel in a Christmas mood, in the arms of Jackie, surrounded by a snow-whitened landscape outside their high-rise condo fronting Lake Michigan.
But there was much to prove before such fantasies could be made realities. Dean and
Sid would have to be more thorough and relentless on this particular crime scene than on any of the previous ones they'd worked together. They were about to set out on a course to prove beyond any doubt, through scientific investigation, that David Park, part Indian, had developed a murderous rage against people and randomly ripped from them their scalps.
First in Dean's mind was the question of where in this small apartment were the scalps? That, above all else, would tie Park to the killings. When Dyer returned, his face ashen, Dean put him to work looking through the closets and beneath the bed for anything resembling a container, from a shoebox to a leather pouch. As Dyer searched and Peggy Carson began to regain enough control to repeatedly deny killing Park, Dean removed the long bowie knife from Park's heart and placed it, blood and all, into a clear bag which he promptly sealed and placed in the valise. As he did so, he said, “Office Dyer, you will witness this evidence gathering for the record please."
"Yes, sure,” Dyer's voice was still shaky. Obviously he had not found anything in the way of a shoebox yet.
"The long knife is of the type Sid and I were agreed upon as the second weapon used on the victims of the Scalper, Frank."
"I just can't believe it was Park all this time..."
"There's a lot of evidence to point to it. Note that now I have the scalpel put aside."
"Got it."
Dyer went toward the bathroom, going deeper in his search. When he looked into the dark interior of the bathroom, he saw something hanging from the shower curtain. He thought at first it was a pair of women's pantyhose, but when he flicked on the light, he gasped and backed away several inches.
"What is it, Frank? Frank?"
"The redhead's ... hair ... sc-sca-scalp...."
"Had to be somewhere,” Dean offered, stepping over the body and joining Frank, staring at the very clean and nicely cured, long-haired scalp. “Only the one, huh? Nothing else?"
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